The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  I think about it for a second. “A little bit, I guess.”

  I feel weathered, like a bike that’s been left outside for too many years. Although that has less to do with being older and more to do with losing my band, my boyfriend, and the boy I like, all in one fell swoop.

  “Finish your breakfast,” Mom says. “You still have to go to school, even if it’s your birthday.”

  I take a tiny bite of my pastelito. “Or you can give me the best birthday present ever and let me skip school.”

  “Sigue soñando,” she says. Keep dreaming.

  I’m not at all hungry, but I force myself to finish my breakfast. Instead of beautifying myself for school, I grab the cleanest-looking shirt from my floor and scrape a brush through the rat’s nest on my head. Who cares what I look like today? It’s just like any other day.

  After I put on my uniform, I examine myself in the mirror. I do look older. Not only older, but tired. Defeated. Sad.

  I’m sixteen now.

  I’m more than halfway to thirty. I can drive a car by myself . . . well, if I didn’t live in NYC and actually needed a car. I’m old enough to get married (with parental consent). I’m practically an adult. So why can’t I smile?

  This is a new year of my life, and in this new year, it’s time to stop letting others dictate my well-being. For weeks I’ve been wallowing in self-pity, straying further and further from how I used to imagine myself. For what? A stupid boy? A high school band?

  I make the decision, standing shoeless with my shirt half-tucked, that my sweet sixteen gift to myself is to be happy with me. Just me.

  At school Annie greets me with a perfectly wrapped present. The edges are crisp, and a little pink bow is tied neatly on top. Annie can wrap a gift like it’s her job.

  “You didn’t have to—” I protest, and she shoos my words away.

  “Yes, I did,” she says. “Open it.”

  I carefully unwrap the gift without tearing the paper, so Annie doesn’t scold me for ripping up her hard work. Underneath the paper is a small velvet box. I open it to find a delicate silver chain attached to a music note. It’s beautiful, not at all gaudy, and perfect for me.

  “I know you don’t like wearing jewelry,” Annie begins, “but I thought it was so you . . .”

  “I love it.” I blink back tears, embarrassed I’m getting so emotional over a necklace. “Thank you.”

  Annie helps me fasten the chain around my neck.

  “It suits you,” she says approvingly.

  I try to smile at my reflection in the locker mirror. The music note twinkles against my skin. It does suit me, and it’s not surprising that she knew it would.

  * * *

  At the first hint of spring, there is a mass exodus of Evanston students eating outside today, sunbathing on the lawn, uniform shirts lifting to expose ghostly white skin.

  “They say it’s your birthday,” Strand sings in a high-pitched falsetto when I lower myself onto the grass.

  Krina hands me a thin present, also perfectly wrapped. “Annie did it for me,” she explains. “I suck at that stuff.”

  “Aw, Krina!” I tip my head and place a hand over my heart. “You got me a gift?”

  “Shut up.”

  I open her present and it’s a framed cartoon drawing of me, with my eyes closed and my headphones on. Watercolor swirls and music notes circle my head.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaim. “You drew this? You can draw?”

  Krina shrugs, but she’s smiling. “It’s just a doodle.”

  “Isn’t she talented?” Annie says. “I told her she should go to art school.”

  Krina tears a blade of grass from the ground. “My parents would disown me.”

  It means something that even someone as fearless as Krina is scared to go against her parents. The two of us are completely different in so many ways, but we share more than I realized. She gets me in a way that other people don’t, and once I sift through her scary exterior and all the rumors that come with it, I start to get her, too.

  “You should come out to them first, then the art school thing won’t seem so bad in comparison,” Strand suggests with a grin.

  Annie throws a crouton at him and he tosses it back at her. It’s nauseating.

  I know I shouldn’t expect everyone to get me presents on my birthday. It’s spoiled, bratty, and entitled. Still, I’m disappointed not to get anything from Strand. Did he think Annie would get jealous? What’s more likely, knowing Strand, is that he didn’t remember my birthday in the first place.

  “So are we watching the Battle this weekend?” Krina asks me.

  I’m surprised to hear anyone mention the Battle now that Debaser is no more. I thought that, together, we would all pretend the Battle of the Boroughs didn’t exist. All three of them turn to look at me, like the decision rests in my hands.

  “Still grounded,” I say. Right now I’m thankful to be grounded, because I’m not sure I could stomach a whole night of what might have been.

  I also don’t want to face an outing with Strand and Annie. Eating lunch with them is hard enough on me. I keep imagining what they’re doing in private, and as much as I try to be happy for them, I’m only human. It sucks even when it’s in my imagination.

  “We have to go,” Annie decides. As usual, what I say is of no importance to what she wants to do. “Your parents will definitely let you for one night. It’s your birthday, Vi.”

  “Yeah, Cutlet.” Strand is already taking her side of things. “It’ll be fun.”

  It’s interesting, this newfangled definition of fun, because it seems a lot like torture.

  * * *

  As the day goes on, I hide my birthday-girl status. It’s not something I like to draw attention to. There’s usually singing involved, or a teacher asking me in front of the entire class what my plans are, or something similarly embarrassing.

  When I get to my locker near the end of the day, though, I’m struck by a confusing sense of disappointment. My birthday is practically over. I thought sixteen would be a bigger deal, but it’s really any other day in my boring existence. Is this going to be my life from now on? A continuous string of disappointing events?

  I shut my locker door after I pack up, and Strand is standing there. Like he was magically conjured by my mind. Happy birthday to me.

  “You need to stop doing that,” I tell him, zipping up my backpack. “Popping up out of nowhere. . . . It’s creepy.”

  He taps the tip of my nose with his finger. “You should be more observant.”

  God. He is both unbearably beautiful and consistently annoying. It’s a confusing combination.

  He leans against my locker. “Wanna get out of here?”

  “Out of here? Like, out of school?” I can’t entirely tell if he’s kidding.

  “Out of school, yes. What do you have next period?”

  “Study hall.” With Annie, but I don’t mention her name to Strand.

  “They don’t take attendance, you know.”

  I look furtively from side to side, like Principal Tishman has spies stationed around the building. “But . . . how do we . . . ?”

  “Come on.” Strand grabs my hand before I can finish. He leads me out of the hallway, down the stairs, and out of the building. So simple. No overthinking, no second-guessing. Strand just does.

  The burst of sunlight is jarring when we step out the door. My eyes are still in cloudy winter mode. I’ve never skipped a day of school in my life, but if there’s any day that demands skipping, it’s this one. It’s too beautiful to be trapped inside a classroom.

  “Strand, wait!” I whisper as we near the front gates. I yank my hand out of his grasp. “What about the security guard?”

  “You mean Rip Van Winkle over there?”

  Sure enough, the security guard, enclosed in a glass booth behind the gate, is slumped over in his chair. His chest rises in slow, sleepy breaths.

  “Point taken,” I say. “So we . . . we just leave?”
>
  “Yup.”

  “We walk right out, huh?”

  “Correct.”

  My legs freeze in place. I picture the security guard jolting awake as soon as we enter his line of vision. I imagine heavy handcuffs slapped onto my wrists. Phone calls to Mom and Dad. Suspension. Or worse, expulsion. Good-bye, Harvard.

  “Cutlet.” Strand’s face appears in front of me. “Don’t do that. Follow me.”

  So I do.

  We walk with purpose as we exit the school. Surprisingly, no one gives a second look to two teenagers in uniform wandering outside in the middle of a school day.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I say when we’re a safe distance away from Evanston. “I’m skipping school. I, Victoria Cruz, am skipping school.”

  “Congratulations, Cruz. You are officially a badass.”

  It feels good to be a badass for a day. Unfortunately, my anxiety levels are too high to ever do this again.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, keeping rhythm with Strand’s long strides.

  “Central Park?” he suggests.

  Central Park is only a couple blocks away from Evanston, yet despite its close proximity, I rarely go. I’m always rushing to get home from school. I’ve never actually been inside the park, only around the periphery.

  When I say this to Strand, a determined look crosses his face. “How is that possible? You’re a New Yorker!”

  “Yes, but I live above Harlem. We have our own parks.”

  “Still unacceptable. Sorry.”

  He takes me to Strawberry Fields first. We stand over the John Lennon memorial, a black-and-white mosaic with the word IMAGINE at its center. We’re quiet for a moment. I look around at the tall elm trees surrounding us, at the fork in the path when you pass the memorial. I remember that John Lennon quote: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” I’m suddenly very, very glad I skipped school to come here with Strand. Maybe he’s reading my mind again, because he catches my eye and we both smile.

  “Not my favorite John Lennon song,” I say when we continue walking.

  “Mine either. I mean, hello? ‘Instant Karma’?”

  “Or ‘Mind Games.’ ”

  “ ‘Jealous Guy.’ ”

  “I miss him. Isn’t that weird? To miss someone you’ve always known as dead?”

  “No. I think it’s worse, in a way, to always know them as dead. We never got to live in the same world as they did. All we know is their legacy.”

  Strand drops his gaze, and I wonder if he’s thinking about his mom. I try to steer the conversation back to a safer topic. “ ‘Imagine’ is still a good song, though. It’s not his fault it’s overplayed.”

  I stop talking when I see the Bow Bridge in front of us, a series of interlocking circles stretching over Central Park’s lake. I’ve never seen the bridge before, outside of movies. It’s iconic New York. Strand’s right. It’s unacceptable that I’ve never done this.

  “Let’s go!” I say to him. Struck by a sudden burst of energy, I run up the bridge’s wooden planks. I reach the center and he’s a few feet behind me.

  “Jesus, you’re fast,” he says when he catches up. I don’t point out the fact that it’s been almost six months since I quit cross-country. I consider myself out of shape at this point.

  “Look,” I say. I point down at the lake below. “Isn’t it beautiful?” The water is a shimmery reflection of trees and buildings. I wish I could hold on to this moment so I could revisit it over and over. The smell of fresh grass, the warmth of the sun, the way the entire city surrounds us.

  “You’re so excited right now,” Strand says, looking thoroughly amused.

  “I totally am.” We’re standing next to each other, arm against arm. Only the two of us. Away from Evanston, from the band, from my family. I feel the familiar electric tension crackling between us. I can’t have electric tension with my best friend’s new boyfriend, but he’s like a lightning rod.

  “I got you something,” he says, and my heart flip-flops in my chest. I try not to betray my emotions through my face.

  Strand remembered my birthday.

  “Is it a pair of tights?” I joke.

  “Do I look like Captain Hair Gel to you?” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a palm-sized box tied with a silk ribbon. He hesitates for a second before handing it to me.

  I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling. “You bought a box and a ribbon? How crafty of you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Open it.”

  I untie the ribbon and slide the lid off the box. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I’m surprised to see a small flash drive sitting inside. Written on the label in Strand’s chicken-scratch handwriting are the words KNOWING VICTORIA.

  “It’s a playlist for your collection,” Strand explains. He rubs his hands together, then sticks them in his pockets. “I know it’s cheesy.”

  “It’s not,” I say, swallowing a lump forming in my throat.

  “I’ve worked on it for a while. It’s made up of songs that remind me of you. Some from the band, some random ones. It’s a little long . . .” He looks out across the lake. “Turns out a lot of songs remind me of you.”

  I close the box and put it in my blazer pocket. I don’t have the words right now. This is everything, this gift, and as much as I wish it didn’t change my world, it kind of does. I can’t pretend otherwise.

  “You hate it,” Strand says. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

  “Will you shut up already?” I reach out to give him a playful push and he grabs my wrist to stop me. Still clinging to my wrist, he looks at me in a way that I can’t fully interpret. A way that he shouldn’t be looking at me.

  He’s not letting go, either. Not that I’m putting up much of a fight.

  There are a million reasons why I should pull away. Among them is the very big reason that is Annie. My best friend. When I look at him, though, all these reasons fade away, and, in one moment, I do something I never thought I was capable of doing: I go after what I want.

  I kiss Strand, yanking on his collar to pull him toward me. Right in the middle of the park, surrounded by New York City.

  For a good five seconds, I don’t care about my list of reasons. I’m like a hungry child who finally got into the cookie jar. I want to devour those cookies, every crumb. Strand’s lips are even softer than I thought they would be, fuller and stronger than Levi’s. We kiss against the bridge, and I tug on his hair, pressing my body against his. I feel the kiss all the way in my stomach. Kissing Levi was never, ever like this.

  Then my brain catches up with my mouth.

  “Oh my God,” I say, pulling away from him. I reach my fingers to my lips, still tingling from contact.

  His expression reflects my shock. I mean, I’m Victoria Cruz. I don’t throw myself at pretty guys with inviting lips and thoughtful playlists and histories of breaking hearts. When Strand doesn’t say anything, I fully realize what a huge mistake I’ve made.

  “Pretend it never happened, okay?” I say before he can speak. “Promise me.”

  His voice finally begins to work. “Victoria . . .”

  “Promise me,” I repeat sharply. “Unless you want to ruin everything.”

  Strand inhales and presses his lips together. The lips that were just on mine a second ago. “That’s what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really.”

  What does he want me to say? That I’m another helpless groupie, falling for someone I can’t have?

  “That’s what I want,” I say, examining my shoelaces. One look at his face and I’ll pass out. Or attack him again, since apparently I have lost full control of my faculties.

  I can feel him deflate next to me as he says, “Then I promise.”

  With that promise, I break into a run, leaving a confused Strand in my wake. The gift box thwacks against my hip with every step, a continuous reminder of my humiliation. My only solace is that the kiss happened here in Centr
al Park, away from any witnesses that would report anything to Annie.

  As I race home I think about a lot of things: how horrible I feel, what led to my moment of weakness, how many people might have seen what happened. But the one shameful thought that overpowers all others is the one thing I know for sure: Strand kissed me back.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “SATELLITES”

  —MEW

  I refuse to listen to the playlist. I shut the flash drive away in my underwear drawer and take three steps back. There must be some hidden voodoo magic in that playlist. That’s the only possible reason for why I would ruin a friendship over a boy.

  I need to tell Annie.

  This isn’t something I’m looking forward to, but it’s something I have to do. For one, I can’t keep a secret this big. How can I sit across from Strand every day at lunch, chewing innocently on my pizza like nothing ever happened? That would be an Oscar-worthy feat, to pretend a kiss like that meant nothing to me.

  I’m a terrible friend. Scratch that, a terrible human being. The worst part is not that I kissed Strand. Kissing Strand is a mistake I can rub away. The worst part is that I liked it. That it will probably be the best kiss of my life, and I can never have it again. It must be the whole forbidden love aspect. There’s no way kissing Strand under normal conditions could feel that good.

  How do girls function in everyday life after kissing him? How do they brush their teeth and tie their shoes without becoming overwhelmed by the memory of those lips?

  I get the groupies now. I am deeply, spiritually connected to them. Even though I still find most of them intolerable.

  And there’s still the fact that Strand kissed me back. There was passion behind it. It wasn’t like Levi and his textbook precision. The way Strand kissed me, I could almost swear it meant something to him, too. And if it did mean something to him, shouldn’t Annie know that?

  I can’t believe how stupid I’m being. It was one kiss. That’s all. I kiss Strand once and turn into a mindless idiot. Meanwhile, Annie experiences touching his hair, holding his hand, kissing him every day. This is the difference between Annie and me. She realizes what she wants, and she gets it. I shrink from what I want, and by the time I decide to take my chance, it’s too late.