by Sandra Block
“Did he help you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s giving me an advance at least.”
“Phew,” she says and turns back to her monitor. “He’s a good guy.”
“He is,” I say, but I don’t expound on this, so she doesn’t hint at how I should be dating him instead of James.
An email pops up on the corner of my screen, with an address I don’t recognize, titled “Did you enjoy it?” My finger hesitates, but I click on it.
You like playing games, Dahlia?
Because we like playing games too, like we did with you that night.
And we never lose.
Chapter Forty-Three
Five Years Ago
I go back to school, but it doesn’t work. Everything feels wrong.
I don’t want to kill myself anymore, but I still can’t concentrate. The drugs are taking the edge off life, but they are also taking the edge off my brain. I can’t sit through Civ Ed anymore, and honestly, the whole thing just seems like a waste of time. The same refrain keeps running through my mind.
“Who cares?”
As the lecturer drones on about the creation of civil liberties: Who cares? When Quinn suggests I try the hot yoga place across the square: Who cares? When Daisy asks which library we should hit, Winthrop or Widener: Who cares?
I don’t care.
I don’t care about going for ice cream. I don’t care about reading Herzog, except to wonder how such a self-involved, entitled, scatter-brained male became part of the literary canon. I don’t care about going to a party because fuck that. I don’t want to get high or get drunk or lose any control over anything ever again. I am not myself, or my old self anyway. I’m not even sure who she was anymore.
I see the social worker woman on the card, Rae-Ann. Her place is pretty run-down, but it’s near campus. She’s nice enough, offers me tea like a hundred times. I don’t have much to say though. No, I’m not suicidal. But no, I’m not happy either.
I meet an old friend for coffee, a cast-off freshman roommate. She says, “You seem different somehow,” her head tilted and a fake smile on her face that I want to slap. When I ask her how, she won’t say. But I know what she’s thinking. She won’t admit that she doesn’t like this new Dahlia. Dahlia 2.0, angry Dahlia. She isn’t quite as airy or likable as the old Dahlia. And she’s right. I am different. Pretty Girl is dead and she isn’t coming back. And angry Dahlia doesn’t give a fuck what you think about that.
The only one who understands me is Eli, who’s back at school at BU, feeling like a “turd in a punch bowl,” as he put it. We talk on the phone every night, which is my only anchor to sanity right now. I tried to call Jeri, but her mom told me she’s back in the hospital.
It takes me a month before I admit that it isn’t working. I am lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, realizing that I am tempting fate. Maybe it won’t happen today, or tomorrow, but soon. I’ll be dreaming about pills again, searching out train routes and standing too close to the subway platform. And I don’t want to go there, ever again.
So I call my mom, who answers right away.
“Hi, honey. Is everything okay?” Her voice is worried, which makes me feel awful. She is probably waiting for this call at all times. Always on high alert.
“I was thinking,” I say. “I want to come home.”
Chapter Forty-Four
James
“It’s got to be them,” Dahlia says.
As we walk out of work, I zip my coat up all the way against the cold. The wind lifts a light layer of snow off the sidewalk. “Yeah.” I’d say more, but I’m trying to think about what to do.
“You’re sure you couldn’t find it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. They encrypted it.”
“Can we ping it or something?”
“No. That’s for a cell phone.” I don’t mean to sound negative, like when people love to shoot down my suggestions at work. But I really don’t know what else to tell her. “Maybe Snyder could help?”
“Maybe,” she says, but it sounds like she’s saying no.
We keep walking. I open the door to the parking garage, which always smells like urine. I’m giving her a ride home so she doesn’t have to take the T. “How do you think they know?”
Her boots slap against the concrete. “I assume Cary G told them.”
“Because of the video we sent to his girlfriend?”
“I’d say.”
I point to the stairs, because the elevator takes forever, and she nods. “So, what do you want to do?” I ask, as we start up them. I usually like to take the stairs two at a time, but not with other people, because that’s rude.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean…” I wait for her to catch up. “Do you want to keep going? Or no.” She doesn’t answer and our footsteps are out of rhythm. “Because we don’t have to.”
“Of course we do,” she says. “So they played with my bank account. Big deal.” Then she puts on a scary voice. “And we never lose.” She lets out a laugh-snort. “Guess what, bro. You’re losing this time.”
“Okay,” I say and don’t push it. Identity theft can be a big deal, but she didn’t want to hear about that. And Dahlia can be pretty stubborn. We get to the third floor, and I see my car all the way at the other end.
“It just gives me more incentive, in fact,” she says, her breath a bit short. “To get that cigar box. Shut those guys down.”
But her getting the cigar box worries me, because that means going to the Hawk Club, so I change the subject. “So, you were talking about something Eli said. About ISIS or something?”
“Oh yeah.” Her voice cheers up some. “It was just an idea, but…if we can hack into his computer, maybe we can make it look like he’s got connections with terrorism.”
As we approach the car, I think on the surface that the concept is workable. “If we can get in, we could do some things. Put some jihadi searches in. Siphon off some funds. The big question is still the hack.” I chirp open the door.
“Did your friend have any advice?” she asks, opening her door.
“Which friend?” I ask, climbing into my side.
“The girl from Dungeons & Dragons?”
“Oh.” I hold back a beat of anger. “No help there.”
“Too hard?” she asks.
“No, it’s not that,” I say, turning on the car. “I explained the idea behind the hack, a bit. That we were punishing him for a past wrongdoing, without getting into everything, and she said she couldn’t help. On principles.”
Dahlia sniffs at this. “Huh.”
“Yeah, I thought that was pretty annoying too,” I say.
And she looks at me with that smile. It’s my favorite smile. It’s soft and hard and smart. Like it was meant just for me.
“Are you doing anything for Christmas?” I ask. I don’t even know why. I think that smile loosened something in my head. But truthfully, I’m hoping, just a little, that we could spend it together. Even though I’m sure she’s already doing something else.
“Not sure.” Dahlia leans back in the car seat, extending her neck. She has the sexiest neck. I think about kissing it all the time. “Mom wants me to go to Chicago, and Shoshana wants me to go to California.”
I start backing up the car. “And what do you want?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “I’m thinking of staying in Boston. Though even Eli won’t be around. He’s going to some B and B with Brandon.”
“Oh.” We are quiet for a bit, and then I swipe my badge and the gate lifts. “Would you want to come to my house?”
She is quiet, and as I exit the parking lot, I feel myself holding my breath. I haven’t checked with my mom, and Dahlia will probably freak out and run as far as possible from me. But after a few more se
conds, she says, “Yes.”
She curls a strand of hair around her finger. Light lavender, where it fades at the ends. I love the color of her hair on the ends.
“Yes,” she repeats. “I would love to.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Five Years Ago
My mother gasps when she sees my arm.
It is a bit shocking, but I love my tattoo.
It’s the one thing I’ve managed to accomplish over the last couple of months in Cambridge. Ink. It was like therapy. My tattoo artist, Clare, asked why I wanted a tattoo. I told her that I wanted to take my body back. And she said “Cool” quite simply, and that was that.
We talked. Well, I talked, and she listened. It hurt, sure, but I really didn’t mind. It was my idea. My pain. And while she etched survivor on my arm and surrounded it with darkness turning into lightness, I felt better. Tattoo therapy, maybe. It was better than that Rae-Ann woman anyway, who just drank tea the whole time.
I don’t try to explain any of this to my mom.
“Your…your…” she stutters, pointing at my shoulder.
“Let’s not get into it, okay?” I say, grabbing a duffel off the offending shoulder.
“Okay,” she says reluctantly. She grabs a tote bag. “You can always get them removed. Dr. Altman does those all the time, he told me. Tattoo removals.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, thinking how that’s never going to happen. I am a survivor. I’ve earned this fucking tattoo.
“I made your room up,” she offers, as I step into it.
“Great,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I should feel relief, but I don’t. More a sense of failure, defeat. The Dido poster above my bed is cringe-worthy in its earnestness. The bedspread looks faded and childish. There’s a neat stack of high school books.
Juvenile. I feel juvenile. Like I’m regressing.
My dad steps into the room, rubbing the bald spot on the crown of his head. “Hey, honey.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He is looking at my desk too, like it hurts to look at me. He doesn’t know how to talk to me since it happened. It seems he liked Pretty Girl better too. When he finally turns to me, he spots my tattoo and actually staggers back a step. “What is that?”
“Oh, this?” I examine it like I just noticed the ink enveloping my arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom shaking her head in warning to him.
He huffs in disgust and turns around to leave.
“So, that went well,” I say when he’s halfway down the stairs.
My mom purses her lips. “It’s going to take adjusting, you know. It’s going to take some adjustment for all of us.”
“Yeah, I know.” It’s no picnic for them either, I’m sure. Me being home, tattooed and not exquisitely happy.
“Have you eaten?” she asks brightly.
“Not really.”
“I could make you a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Oh yeah.” I unzip my duffel. “That would be great.”
She waits a second, leaning on the doorframe. “Once you’re settled, we can talk about you looking for a job, or signing up for some classes.”
“Uh-huh.” I open the drawer with a familiar squeak.
“I got some brochures. Northwestern has some night classes.”
“Uh-huh,” I repeat, balancing a pile of clothes in the crook of my arm.
“Well,” she says, appearing to get that I don’t want to discuss this right now. “I’ll go make that sandwich.”
“Great, thanks.” And as she leaves, my text buzzes in my back pocket.
S’up girl?
It’s Eli, thank God. I collapse onto my bed and push the button to call him. Eli, the only one who seems to understand me right now. Who never knew Pretty Girl, and probably wouldn’t have liked her much anyway.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he answers. “How’s the Windy City?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. Bit of a rocky reunion.”
“Yeah, sucks being home.” He sighs into the phone. “Still, it’s better than being in that shithole of a college.”
I laugh. “Harvard is many things, but I’m not sure I’d call it a shithole.”
“Hey, I’ve been there,” he says, laughing too. “It’s a shithole.”
I can tell he’s trying to cheer me up. “When were you there?”
“Couple times. My friend Hank goes there, from high school. Place is snobby as hell.”
“I suppose.” I think of Daisy, who is the picture of privilege but is not snobby. And Quinn, with her shaved hair and black clothes, who isn’t snobby either. I miss them. I miss school too, but at the same time, I can’t stand to be there. I don’t know where I belong anymore.
“I just hope,” I say, giving voice to the doubt screaming inside my head, “that coming back here wasn’t a terrible mistake.”
Chapter Forty-Six
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Bruinsblow: Wanted to talk about the Dahlia situation
Desiforever: None of us are worried about this, Drew
Bruinsblow: Well you should be.
Holts: Any word on Graham?
Bruinsblow: Looks like he’s fucked at the moment.
Holts: Literally or figuratively?
Joe225: Hahaha
Mollysdad: Dude, that seriously isn’t even funny
Bruinsblow: Turns out he got busted for possession before, a couple times. So the judge is being a hard ass. Giving him ten years.
PorscheD: Fuck me
Holts: Again, just might happen
Taxman: So, what did you do to the girl?
Bruinsblow: Stole her ID
Desiforever: What do you mean? Stole her ID?
Bruinsblow: SS #. Cleaned out ALL her accounts.
Joe225: Isn’t she a paralegal or something?
PorscheD: Yeah, she’s poor as fuck anyway
Creoletransplant: That doesn’t seem that scary, Drew
Bruinsblow: Wait until the creditors start calling her.
Joe225: Oooh, reaaaaalllyy scaaaaaryyy…
Bruinsblow: Fuck you I don’t see anyone else volunteering here.
Holts: That’s because none of us actually care.
Bruinsblow: You’re on that tape, asshole. You should.
Holts: And yet I don’t.
Bruinsblow: Anyway. I’m turning up the heat. I’ll do more if I have to.
PorscheD: Such as what? Send a bag of dogshit to her house and light it on fire?
Mollysdad: OK, *that* was funny
Bruinsblow: Ten years for Graham, guys. Think about that.
PorscheD: Yeah. That does suck.
Desiforever: You want to turn up the heat? You got to do more than steal her fucking ID
Bruinsblow: And what do you suggest, Vihaan?
Desiforever. You send her a message. A real message this time.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Dahlia
“You still smoking?” I ask.
Daisy scrunches her nose. “Trying to quit… Can you smell it?” She sniffs the sleeve of her merlot-red sweater. “Don’t tell Parker,” she says with a pleading look.
“I won’t,” I promise. Especially because I never see the man. I put my tea down at the table. I never drink tea, but I was somehow in the mood. Maybe Rae-Ann is having an effect on me. “So, any reason for our tête-à-tête?”
When she called on a Saturday morning out of the blue for coffee, I figured she’d be announcing her engagement.
She shrugs. “Not really. Just wanted to see you before the holidays hit and all that.”
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I ask. I take a sip of tea, burning my tongue.
“Going to Parker’s.” She sips her coffee as well. “You hanging o
ut with Eli?” she asks with a note of resignation.
“No. Going to James’s house,” I say.
“Oh yeah?” She lifts her eyebrows in inquiry.
“It’s not like that,” I say. Though I don’t even know what it’s like. “More as friends.”
She nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. I try another test sip of my scalding tea, and decide to take the lid off. A plume of steam moistens my hand.
“So,” she says in a change-the-subject way. “How are you doing?” she asks, her focus on you overly intense.
“I’m okay,” I answer, with my usual reserve. But then I realize it’s actually true. Even despite the concern over my money situation. Despite being notified about ten credit cards that I didn’t sign up for, I’m okay. I’m taking charge. I’m better than I’ve been in a while.
“Good,” she says. “Oh, I did talk to my friend Lincoln by the way.”
I blow on the tea. “Who’s Lincoln?”
“My friend from work. Red Sox obsessed.”
“Oh yeah.”
“He never heard of Javier Ramirez, but he’s going to research.” She sips at her coffee as the music changes to a flamenco guitar. “He said he loves a good challenge.”
“Great.” We sit a minute, listening to the music. Out the window, snow is starting to fall in diagonal pellets. “There’s one other guy I still can’t identify though. The redhead.”
“Huh,” she says. “I don’t remember that one.” She frowns in apology. “I mean, it was hard to watch…you know.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s okay.”
She sips her drink again, thinking. “There was one redhead I knew though. A year younger than us. Henry something.”
“Don’t remember him.” Again, Daisy knew everyone, so it’s not shocking that I don’t.
“I think he went to some Hillel thing with you?”
I wasn’t that active in Hillel, and I don’t remember any Henrys there. “If it’s even the same redhead,” I say.
“Right,” she answers.