Outcast

by Susan Oloier

  “I … I was…” I stuttered, unable to force out a lie or an explanation. It was lodged in my throat. All I thought about was Chad. I wanted to believe the whole thing was a dream. Maybe I had seen something that wasn’t there. Maybe I overreached. But the one thing I did know was that I betrayed him. There was no mystery there.

  “I feel sick.” I darted past my mother into the bathroom. I lifted the toilet seat and hovered over it. The blood drained from my face, leaving me ghost white and chilled, as I tried not to vomit. What had I done?

  I slept the rest of the weekend to overcome my hangover, and mainly my guilt. The phone rang. Chad must have called at least once. A part of me wondered if Jake phoned, too.

  When Monday arrived, and it was time to go back to school, I was consumed with dread.

  “Noelle, what happened to you?” Chad was panicked, a dust devil rushing to my locker. Instead of letting me answer, he rattled on. “God, I was so worried about you. I called your house yesterday, but your mom wouldn’t tell me anything. Where’d you go?”

  He grabbed hold of me, and culpability swept over me in a tidal wave. Genuine concern laid claim to his expression. I tried to read his eyes and what lay behind them. Was there a shade of deception? A flicker of guilt?

  “I’m surprised you even noticed.” I collected my books and closed my locker door. I threw down the gauntlet. If he picked it up, the jousting would begin.

  “Of course I noticed. Why wouldn’t I?” He picked up that gauntlet and engaged himself in combat. “You were my date. Shit! You’re my girlfriend!”

  I stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned on him. “Is that what we are to each other? Girlfriend and boyfriend?”

  “What’s going on?” He implored me with a look.

  I charged at him, attacked him even though he appeared fragile and vulnerable. I ignored the love in his eyes. “Trina. That’s what’s going on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The dance. I saw the two of you together, dancing close. Kissing. Don’t deny it. There’s still something going on between you. I’m not blind.”

  “There’s not.” He deflated like he knew he’d been caught. “It was a mistake—”

  I lopped off his explanation with the sharpness of my words. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Please, Noelle,” he pleaded. “It’s not what you think.”

  His fingers touched the tips of my own, but I pulled away. “Then what is it?”

  “She came onto me…”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Please don’t do that,” he said. “I tried to explain to her that…”

  “That what?” I felt my jaw clench.

  “That I love you, but she kept pushing. I thought asking her to dance would…”

  “Would what?” I pressed. “Would send a clear message to leave you alone? That you’re mine?”

  “I know how it looks.” Chad moved to touch me again, but restrained himself.

  “Yeah. Bad.”

  I stormed away, pushing through crowds in the hallway. I wanted to get as far from Chad as possible. I didn’t want to be confronted with the truth that maybe he was innocent after all. I was the guilty one. I was the betrayer.

  Since the fall-out with Chad, I had no choice but to go home. Without a car or a ride of any kind, I resorted to taking the city bus. I found consolation in cigarettes while I waited.

  When I entered the house, my mother and Father Timothy sat patiently in the living room, then rose when they saw me.

  “Noelle, may I have a moment of your time?”

  My mother never spoke graciously. She and Father Timothy each held on to one end of a secret, and I knew I stood at the heart of it.

  I stepped to the outskirts of the room, cautious enough not to roam into any landmines they set for me.

  “Father Timothy would like to speak to you about your recent behavior.”

  I said nothing. I only waited for them to continue.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Noelle?” Father Timothy offered. He knew I was privy to his secret habit and he to mine.

  “I’m comfortable right here.”

  Father Timothy breathed deeply, knowing his visit would be a test of his patience and faith. I figured he longed for one of those cigarettes.

  “Your mother tells me you’ve been demonstrating defiant behavior lately. She’s concerned about you and would like to get to the bottom of things.”

  I glared at her as though she was the one who recited the speech, not Father Timothy. “Did my mother tell you the reason I’ve been demonstrating defiant behavior?” My sarcastic tone was marked for my mother; Timothy just happened to be an innocent bystander.

  He cleared his throat. “She mentioned a few things.”

  “Did she mention that my father left because she was too difficult to live with?” I continued to direct my statements toward her. “Did she tell you that my sister got pregnant, had an abortion, and ran away to Chicago with a married man?”

  My mother’s eyes widened at the news about Becca. She tried to discern if I was lying just to hurt her.

  “Did she tell you that she won’t forgive her sister for something she did fifteen years ago because it goes against her beliefs? And did she happen to mention that the reason I am the way I am is because she is a total bitch?”

  My mother gaped at me.

  “Wait a second,” said Father Timothy.

  But I didn’t hang around to listen to his hypocritical lecture. Instead, I reeled around and headed out the door that I entered moments before. She infuriated me. She had the nerve to seek counseling for me when she was the one who so desperately needed it. No wonder my father moved on to another woman. There was no hope in my mother ever seeing that she was the source of all of our problems, and he knew it.

  My palms sweated and my legs shook as I walked up the driveway. The Honda was there, so I knew he was home. I felt less secure without the effects of the alcohol and marijuana.

  I pressed the doorbell and waited. My heart beat an uneven jazz rhythm as I waited on the front patio. I distracted myself with the sunburned fern that stooped over in its pot. I needed to know if what happened meant anything to him. Especially since I had jeopardized so much over it. Had it been worth it?

  The door opened, and Jake stood in front of me. He left the screen door closed. He raised his eyebrows in a question mark. I immediately realized I made a mistake by going to his house.

  “Hey Noelle. What’s up?” He finally asked.

  I heard the laughter of girls in the background and knew I interrupted something. He waited for me to explain my uninvited appearance. I fought back the hurt that erupted inside of me. What happened between us was just an average Saturday night to him. I was another notch on his bedpost, a number to add to his conquests, an easy girl. To me, the night meant something because it had to, because I wasn’t one of those girls—the kind who sleeps around.

  “I just wanted to ask you if I left an earring behind.”

  I choked on my tears and hoped he didn’t hear the sob in my throat that begged to come out.

  “It was a black spangled loop,” I continued, grappling to hang on to the dying conversation.

  “Haven’t found it.”

  The screen door continued to separate us.

  “All right. Thanks.”

  I turned around, and tears immediately poured from my eyes. I stumbled down the driveway, waiting to get out of Jake’s range of hearing before I overtly sobbed. Giving myself to him was a huge mistake, one I feared I could never repair. If what I thought was true of Chad and Trina actually wasn’t, I made an unforgiveable mistake.

  I slumped in the stiff-backed chair of Ms. Sherwood’s office, studying the pictures on the bleach-white walls. Anne Geddes’ disturbing sunflower and butterfly babies hung in cheap metal frames. The leaves of the pothos plant snaked down the wall from the windowsill where it resided. Some of the vines were jaundiced from lack of wate
r. I plucked them off in my mind, a diversion to avoid the matter at hand.

  “I’m concerned.” Ms. Sherwood pressed an index finger to her temple. Like my mother, she possessed one of those secret buttons that assisted her in difficult situations.

  She and I sat alone in her office. I was excused from Physics to see her. She proved even more boring than Mr. Kohler, the instructor.

  “If this is about my grades—”

  “I don’t care about your grades, Noelle. You’re beyond the Dean’s list anymore. The only classes you’re doing well in are English and Art History.”

  She finally moved her finger and folded her hands on the desk in front of her.

  “Father Timothy mentioned your display at home.”

  Display meant rudeness, disrespect, anger. Rather than call it by its real name—honesty—she chose to mask it in flowery language. I straightened in my seat.

  “So. My home life is none of his business.”

  Sherwood refused to engage me in verbal combat. She avoided confrontation. She was a classic example of her field of psychology.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “My aunt’s.”

  “Are you drinking?”

  She jumped from one subject to another. It had to be some technique she learned in college.

  “No.”

  “Doing drugs?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Are you doing drugs?” she asked again more firmly.

  I wiggled in my seat. “No.”

  Frustrated, Ms. Sherwood closed the file in front of her. She moved from behind her desk and sat in front of it. It was a practiced act of dramatics. She did it to remove the doctor/patient element to our meeting.

  “Has your mother been abusive to you?”

  “She doesn’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”

  She tempered her voice. “Does she verbally abuse you?”

  With each question, she made me more uncomfortable.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She hates me. She’s never happy with the way I look or the things I do. She wishes I ran away and Becca stayed home. She’s always loved her more.”

  “That’s not true, Noelle.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Aunt P’s house was totally different from mine. She, like most of the students who attended Saint Sebastian’s, lived in North Scottsdale. She owned a two-story adobe tucked beside the mountain at Troon. With five bedrooms, four baths, and a pool, it was far too spacious for one woman. Her décor was strictly southwestern. Geckos, Aztec pottery, and Kokopelli coalesced to create a theme.

  She prepared a room at the back of the house for me, filling it with bath accessories and makeup. She knew I’d arrive empty-handed. Staying at her house was like vacationing at a posh resort: built-in patio bar with BBQ, indoor/outdoor fireplaces, a workout room. With all the luxuries, I still wished for home. I just didn’t want my mother to be there.

  On a Saturday afternoon when P was having her weekly massage, I decided to work on my English project. The doorbell rang. A deliveryman stood behind an enormous bouquet of roses. Two dozen, he said. So Aunt P had another admirer. Hopefully unmarried.

  I set the flowers on the glass table in the dining room and sniffed their sharp fragrance. I noticed the card had my name on it. From Chad. In the note, he apologized profusely for dancing with Trina. He begged for forgiveness and told me he loved me. Part of me felt a thrill. The other part sank with the memory of the dance and…after. I threw the card away, determined to tell Aunt P that they arrived for her without a note.

  I reclined on the sofa to continue with my reading when the doorbell rang again. Infused with irritation, I stormed to the door. When I opened it, Grace stood before me.

  “Hi.”

  I looked around her and noticed an older model Buick in the driveway.

  “My parents gave it to me.” She answered my questioning gaze. Her vehicle was a harsh reminder that I didn’t have one.

  I felt uncomfortable inviting her inside. Not because it wasn’t my house, but because we hadn’t really spoken in six months.

  “Your mom told me you were here.”

  She knew nothing of what happened in my household. I knew curiosity held a strong hold over her about my new living arrangements.

  “I feel badly about what’s happened between us. I thought maybe we could be friends again.”

  “What about Trina?”

  “Don’t say I told you so, but…”

  “Want to come in?”

  Grace cocked her head to the side then proffered a smile. So Trina screwed her over. I knew it was coming. Just as I would always be Doctor Freckle, Grace would always be Geek ‘N Stein. Like Trina said, it didn’t matter how much we changed.

  We sat on the patio and talked. It took Grace a long time to see Trina for who she was, but it finally happened.

  “What’d she do?”

  Grace wiggled in her seat. “She said she didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

  “So you ran back to me?”

  “I’m sorry.” She paused, taking in the surroundings. “Why are you living with your aunt?” she finally asked.

  “A lot’s happened.”

  The holidays. Chad went to great lengths to prove he did nothing wrong. He apologized, he sent flowers, and he even copied a poem by D.H. Lawrence. As I lay in the canopy bed, I opened it and read. Before long, I had it memorized.

  A White Blossom

  A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower

  Leans all alone above my window, on night's wintry bower,

  Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain

  She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain.

  It was a poem of first love. One pure. One that sin cannot stain. But my sin had stained and tainted and ruined everything. My heart blistered with what I had done to him.

  He signed it break a leg, Chad, which made me ache all the more for him. I knew deep down that what happened between Trina and him was not as it seemed. But I had let my jealousy jump to conclusions. And now I was afraid everything we had was ready to shatter.

  I read the poem over and over again, then tucked it in my journal and fell asleep. I was too tired to think about losing him forever. Because as soon as I confessed what I had done, that’s exactly what would happen.

  Becca emailed that she was coming home for my birthday and for Christmas. She wanted to reconcile with our mother and encouraged me to do the same. She could resolve things all she wanted. I planned to avoid the woman. I did promise to meet Becca at the airport and take her to the house. I gave her dad’s new phone number. She planned to meet him and his new girlfriend, Sheena, the day after Christmas. Sheena. What a name! Sounded like a washed-up movie star or a pet Chihuahua. I had no intention of ever meeting her.

  Chad gladly volunteered to take me to the airport on Christmas Eve, my birthday. He seemed thrilled that I finally talked to him. My conscience splintered with guilt about the night with Jake. I bottled the memory and tried to throw it away, but it kept resurfacing.

  “God, Noelle. I thought I was going to lose you. What happened with Trina—”

  “I know,” I said, sick with guilt. “You already told me.”

  “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?” he said, turning those eyes on me from the driver’s seat.

  “Right.” I looked out the window to hide my shame.

  It was one mistake, I told myself. One that would never happen again. There was no reason he had to know. It would kill me to tell him. Kill him to hear it.

  He picked me up at P’s in the afternoon. With so much going on, I forgot to buy Chad a Christmas gift. P was at a Christmas Eve brunch at the country club, so she couldn’t give me a ride to the mall. I struggled with ideas, and then it came to me. Oxygen. I wrapped the CD in fancy blue and white paper and attached a bow.

&
nbsp; During the ride, Chad continued to thank me for giving him a second chance. The guilt intensified.

  “Dancing with Trina was a mistake,” he said. “She was pushy. But I should have stopped her sooner. I was wrong.”

  “I know, okay?” I snapped, then quickly grabbed for his hand to reassure him.

  He had his explanations. But what was my excuse for sleeping with Jake?

  We arrived at the terminal early and waited in the coffee shop.

  “I’m sorry,” I offered.

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  I removed the gift from my purse and handed it to him.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  He opened it, seeming to relive the memory of that night in the record store when he first asked me out.

  “This is yours.”

  “Ours,” I said, suddenly sad. “It’s your turn.”

  Chad reached in his jacket and handed a wrapped gift to me. I never expected a present from him. I was happy enough to get a ride to and from the airport. I was afraid to unwrap it, knowing I deserved nothing from him, especially forgiveness.

  “Happy birthday!”

  It was a book of famous artists. I leafed through the pages, glancing at the replicated paintings. It was amazing.

  “I know how much you like art.”

  I flipped through the book, stopped when Hopper’s The Automat caught my eye. It was a woman sitting alone in isolation. Like me.

  I wished I could travel back in time and mend what I had undone. It was a tragic error, one that I replayed over and over in my mind. Guilt consumed me. I justified my actions by reminding myself of what I saw at the Homecoming dance. Had Chad only refused to dance with Trina none of this would have happened.

  I needed to confess, to finally be honest. But as I stared into Chad’s face, outlining the dimples that pierced his cheeks with concern, encircling the iris of his watchful eye, I said nothing. Silent tears shimmied down my face. Once an expert, I was now unable to lasso my emotions.

  “We better head over.”

  I knew a time would come where I would have to tell him, but not then.