By Tracy Sweeney
Living Backwards by Tracy Sweeney. ISBN 978-1-62137-186-1 (softcover); 9781621372141 (ebook).
Cover design by Elizabeth Jaeger.
Published 2013 by Virtualbookworm.com Publishing Inc., P.O. Box 9949,
College Station, TX 77842, US. ©2013, Tracy Sweeney. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from Tracy Sweeney.
Special Thanks
To my sister Lindsay – my first reader and my best friend. You made this possible.
To Carol – who scoured over every word with me. Eleventy billion times. You’re magnificent. Just saying…
To my Mom – for being an inspiration. Because you can’t have a little grace.
To Nina – I could never fully tell you how much your help and guidance has meant to me. Editor, therapist, superwoman, Meryl to my Albert. I love your hair.
To Sarine – you’re ridiculously talented. I’m lucky to have you around to tell me when something stinks.
To my family – for being patient and understanding when my fingers were flying over the keys and my head was in the clouds.
To Gina, Kim and Nicole – the best cheerleaders and best friends ever.
To my Chicks and Hens, my Put Gals and all of the countless pre-readers who cheered me on along the way – I tip my pink sparkly flask to all of you. You’re epic.
xoxo
Tracy
“I don’t understand you,” said Alice. “It’s dreadfully confusing!”
“That’s the effect of living backwards,” the Queen said kindly: “it always makes one a little giddy at first—”
“Living backwards!” Alice repeated in great astonishment. “I never heard of such a thing!”
“...For instance, now,” she went on, “...there’s the King’s Messenger. He’s in prison now, being punished: and the trial doesn’t even begin till next Wednesday: and of course the crime comes last of all.”
“Suppose he never commits the crime?” said Alice.
“That would be all the better, wouldn’t it?” the Queen said.
- Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
CHAPTER 1
Jillian
I learned an important life lesson at Carrie Picalow’s slumber party when I was just ten-years-old: Horror movies are awesome…until it’s time to go to sleep. Sure they’re fun for two hours while you scream with your friends, but the following eight hours spent squeezing your eyes shut and attempting to fall asleep are torture. I made a vow to stay away from horror movies from there on out, but it never really worked. If I knew there was a scary movie on, I’d flip by the channel to get a peek. If I felt particularly brave, I’d stop and watch for a few minutes with my fingers partially covering my eyes. Even though I knew I shouldn’t—even though I knew I’d be up all night staring at my closet convincing myself that there wasn’t a scary little girl or a deranged clown inside—I’d watch. I couldn’t stop myself. And just as I would have predicted, I’d spend the rest of the night huddled under my covers.
I got the same feeling every time I stared across the room at the computer on my desk. When I’d sit down and open up my browser, I wouldn’t just check my email. I wouldn’t check the weather or the local headlines either. No. Even though I knew I shouldn’t—even though I knew it would only irritate me—I’d do something worse than watching a horror movie. I’d log onto Facebook.
Thanks to the so-called geniuses behind Facebook, suddenly people felt compelled to broadcast every thought, idea or mindless observation in their head on a minute-by-minute basis. But the worst part was that I couldn’t look away. It probably wouldn’t bother me as much if I actually knew any of the people complaining about having to go to work or needing their morning coffee. I didn’t. Not really. My timeline was full of people whose names I knew—kids who went to my high school and lived in my town—but I wouldn’t call them friends. Sure, I remembered that I had chemistry with that guy, and lived down the street from that girl, but I didn’t hang out with them. Or anyone really. Now, over ten years later, I knew every detail of their lives.
Last week, Tyler Burroughs tagged our whole Reynolds High School class in his Twenty-Five Things About Me post. I couldn’t understand why he thought I’d be interested. I hadn’t seen Tyler in over a decade and I barely knew him then, so I could say without a doubt that I didn’t care that he was still a terrible driver and almost lost his license twice. I didn’t care that he went to Comic-Con and met Joss Whedon in the men’s room. Unless Joss was whipping out long lost Buffy footage, it didn’t interest me. But for some reason, I kept coming back. Facebook had become the horror movie I was destined to watch every day of my life.
I blame my best friend Danielle who practically forced me into creating a profile. “Everyone is on Facebook, Jillian,” she informed me. “Even my papa. Don’t you want to be cooler than my papa?”
I couldn’t argue with that logic so I gave in and joined the world of social networking. Now thanks to Danielle, I was able to view people I barely knew discuss high school parties I hadn’t been invited to, dances I’d never attended and places I’d never been.
It really wasn’t her fault. High school was different for Danielle. We went to the same school, but we didn’t exactly run in the same circles back then. She was popular and outgoing, and I was…well…mute.
Looking back now, I didn’t have a lot in common with that girl anymore. People change. And in my case, for the better, I think. I left the shy me back in the school library, eating lunch alone and chatting with the librarian because everything was different once I left Reynolds, Washington, for New York City.
It was during Summer Freshman Orientation at NYU that I ran into Danielle. Literally. I was walking through the quad daydreaming when I nearly plowed over what I thought was a small child. My backpack and papers went flying in the air, and I landed flat on my ass.
“Jillian Cross!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? How did I not know you were going to NYU?”
I winced from the pain in my behind and looked up into the pale blue eyes of Danielle Powers. Danielle was someone I had occasionally said hi to, but it was never much more than that. She was in my World Lit class senior year, she was exceptionally perky, and after bouncing off her, ridiculously sturdy for such a small little thing. With her button nose and short, stylish bob, she reminded me more of a cartoon character than an actual person.
“Danielle, wow,” I stammered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I didn’t know anyone else from Reynolds would be here.”
“This is fantastic! Do you have a room assignment? We need to change it. You have to room with me and Megan.”
Megan Dunn, Danielle’s best friend, was practically an amazon—tall, beautiful and fierce with long, flowing blonde hair like the supermodels I envied as a kid. Megan was stunning, but she scared the living crap out of me. Although every guy in our class would seem to lose control of their motor functions in her presence, Megan never seemed to care. She actually always looked like she wanted to kick someone’s ass. Rooming with her sounded scary, but if I truly wanted a change of pace—a new life—I felt like I needed to say yes…and then make sure she didn’t want to kick my ass.
There was something about our friendship from the beginning; we just clicked. I wished I had known that in high school because it felt like we were destined to be best friends. Danielle pushed me to break out of my shell and live instead of watching life pass me by. And Megan, not so fierce after all, could always see through my bullshit and set me straight. She became my rock.
So when we headed
back to Washington after graduation, Megan found an apartment in Seattle near an Irish pub that serves amazing nachos. It was only a couple hours away from Reynolds so that was useful, too. Danielle worked long hours as the co-owner of an interior design business. Megan scored a position at one of the area’s most prestigious art galleries, and I spent my days researching ways to remove stains from household furniture and water rings from wood tables for Homegrown Magazine.
Looking back, it was hard to imagine how I survived without them. Knocking Danielle over in the quad that day changed everything for me. I probably wouldn’t have been on a first name basis with the school librarian if I had figured out how great they were a lot sooner. Although Judy was lovely and her book club friends were very nice, they were kind of geriatric and not a lot of fun on a Saturday night. I would have given up the pass on late fees in exchange for the memories Danielle and Megan had of high school parties, dates and proms.
It was Danielle’s belief that I should make up for lost time. After insisting that I set up a Facebook account, she then decided that we actually needed to see these people in person. I nearly had a heart attack when she announced her plans for an informal high school reunion. I suddenly felt the need to retreat to the closest Reference Room for comfort.
“Jillian, I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. You have us now,” she reasoned. “And this is your chance to show all of the people who never got to know you how awesome you are. Plus, you’ll get another peek at the Reconstruction of Sarah Spellman.”
After going to a less-than-reputable surgeon for a breast augmentation, our former classmate’s boobs were now crooked. We didn’t run into her often—only every now and then—but when we did, I couldn’t help but stare. The asymmetry was almost hypnotic. Like if you looked at them long enough, maybe they’d realign. That’s what you get for buying a plastic surgery Groupon.
“As much as I’m just dying to see Sarah’s bad boob job again, it’s not enough to get me excited about a high school reunion.”
“You can always bring Joan,” she replied.
Danielle knew my weaknesses well. Joan was my beautiful, pink rhinestone flask, a gift she had given me for my twenty-first birthday. Joan was my savior. Danielle named her after she caught me talking to myself one night in the midst of a particularly rough evening with Captain Morgan. Like Joan of Arc, I had been hearing voices, too. My voices, however, were alcohol-induced and coming from a pink, sparkly inanimate object. C’mon Jillian, you deserve a break. C’mon Jillian, you know you think he’s cute. C’mon Jillian, you love this song. C’mon Jillian, it’ll be fun.
It had been one of those typical drunk college girl evenings where I threw myself at a guy in my Philosophy class, danced on a table, fell off said table, twisted my ankle and ended up getting carried back to our suite by some burnouts who reminded me of Beavis and Butthead. When Danielle came home, I was pouting while nursing my throbbing ankle.
“It’s not my fault!” I cried, defensive under her condescending stare. “My good old buddy Joan wanted a shot at Mark Jensen. I mean have you seen that boy’s—”
“Jillian, honey, I’m so glad that you’re letting loose and enjoying yourself. Truly, I am,” she began carefully. “But it’s time to ease up on the cocktails once you start chatting with your flask. Talking flasks are not cool. Okay?”
But the truth of the matter was that I had more fun when Joan got me into trouble. I had spent so much of my time hiding in the library in high school. I wanted to go to parties and dance on tables and kiss cute boys. Joan helped transform me from the quiet girl who ate lunch in the library by herself to the charming and mildly-alcoholic woman I was today. And I liked that.
It had been Joan’s idea to go to the party that night. C’mon Jillian, you deserve a break. It was Joan’s idea to jump on top of Mark Jensen and shove my tongue down his throat. C’mon Jillian, you know you think he’s cute. It was Joan’s idea to dance on that table. C’mon Jillian, you love this song. And it was Joan’s idea to tell Beavis that I’d go to Laser Zeppelin with him the next weekend. C’mon Jillian, it’ll be fun. Unfortunately, in that case, Joan wasn’t right.
But even now, years later, Joan still had my back. Uncomfortable work function to attend? Trusty flask in my purse. Stuffy interior design conference with Danielle? Flask in my purse. Football game with Megan? Flask in my purse. No, Joan didn’t actually speak to me, but she always heard me when I needed her.
Sitting at my computer with a glass of wine by my side, I read through my timeline again. There was a message from Sarah Spellman in my inbox.
Danielle told me that you’ll be at the little soiree on Saturday night. I completely forgot that you even went to high school with us. Isn’t that crazy!? I always think of you as Danielle and Megan’s roommate. I’m sure we’ll have time to chat about good old Reynolds High on Saturday. Kisses.
God, I really hated Facebook.
CHAPTER 2
Jillian
I heard them entering my bedroom attempting to be quiet as soon as the door creaked open. It was a weak attempt because there wasn’t much that was subtle about Megan or Danielle. I wanted to open my eyes and kick their asses for waking me up so early on a Saturday, but it felt as if someone had inserted a skewer right into my eye socket and stabbed my brain. The pain radiating from my eye throughout my entire skull was excruciating. My mouth was dry and my stomach was lurching. I quickly tried to remember what had taken place the night before and why someone would try to murder me in my sleep. Then I remembered the bottle of wine I opened to drown my Facebook sorrows. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Jillian, you little tramp,” Megan, master of subtlety, shrieked. “You were cyber-stalking on Facebook last night!”
I slowly pried my eyes open and felt around my head searching for the skewer because I was still not convinced that something so yummy could inflict so much pain. It wasn’t until I saw the empty bottle next to the computer screen that I finally could admit that I had the hangover of the century…or of the week. Whichever.
As if they weren’t already loud enough, I heard Danielle squeal.
“Luke Chambers, Jillian? You were cyber-stalking Luke?” she asked incredulously. “Where the heck did that come from?”
I blanched. Where did that come from? I barely knew Luke Chambers. Definitely not a circle I ran in. In high school, Luke was all leather jackets and motorcycles—the embodiment of a modern day James Dean. He certainly wasn’t known for hanging out in the library with quiet coeds and their elderly librarian buddies.
“I was not,” I countered, sounding more like a guilty toddler than I’d like. “You’re out of your mind. I probably saw his profile and got curious.”
“I don’t know, Jill,” Megan added cautiously. “Looks like you sent him a Friend Request. I guess you weren’t stalking. You were definitely fishing.”
Immediately, I was pissed. I had been physically assaulted by a yummy yet dangerous bottle of chardonnay, woken up ridiculously early on my day off and then accused of some imaginary crush.
“Too bad Luke can’t make it to the reunion tonight,” Danielle offered. “He emailed me last week. He owns that bar downtown that his cousin used to run. His cousin moved back to Canada and Luke bought it. I guess it’s busy and he can’t take a night off. I’m glad he’s doing well, though. He always seemed kind of lost in high school.”
“Sorry, Jilly,” Megan cooed. “Looks like you’re going to have to set your sights elsewhere. Unless Luke has a talking flask, too. Maybe we can get your flask to convince his flask to come to the reunion.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve had your fun,” I finally shouted. “Now kindly remove your asses from my room.”
“See. I told you she needs a boyfriend,” Megan muttered under her breath. “So cranky.”
“Actually, we just wanted to tell you we were running to the mall to get a few things for our outfits tonight,” Danielle explained. “I’m not going to drag y
ou along, but I’m going to ask that you wear what I buy you.”
Danielle had also decided that it would be fun to dress like it was 1999. Seriously. I knew she wanted to get me into one of those ridiculously tight t-shirts and some low-rise jeans, but in reality, I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing something like that in 1999. But reality never stopped Danielle. She’d win, so why fight her? As long as I was spared from her version of retail therapy and could stay in bed, I was happy.
“Fine. I will comply with your wardrobe suggestions. But now, Posh,” I motioned to Megan, “please take Scary over here and leave me and my hangover alone.”
Unfortunately, though, after my roommates left the apartment in search of outdated attire for the reunion, I wished that they were back distracting me. Instead, I was left alone with a splitting headache and the certainty of my impending doom.
Once it was clear that my plan to sleep in late was ruined, I tried putting the reunion out of my head for a bit. I checked email, took like five Tylenol, cleaned the kitchen, called my only other high school friend Suzanne, and did my laundry. But after each task my eyes would automatically dart over to the computer. A glance wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? Logging onto Facebook, I checked the timeline.
Sarah sent a virtual teddy bear to Tyler. Who comes up with this stuff?
Suzanne sent me a round of drinks. Now that is thoughtful. Cheers, Suzanne.
Luke Chambers accepted my Friend Request. Well hello, Luke.
I clicked on his profile. The tiny picture appeared larger and…beautiful. The shot was black and white. Luke wasn’t looking directly at the camera. He was laughing, his cheeks pulled into a tight, open mouthed grin with deep creases in the corners of his eyes. He was stunning. It looked like he was behind the bar—his bar, I guessed. I didn’t remember him looking like that in high school at all. I decided that I needed to make a trip to his bar soon, and if Luke looked anything like his picture in person, I might just request his assistance getting home.
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