The Girl I Was Before (26 page)

By the time Eli and Casey are done with their food, I have his computer back to normal. I should really start charging him, considering the amount of money I’ve saved him.

“All set, man,” I say, sliding his now-working computer over to him on the coffee table.

“Beautimus,” he says.

I lean back in the dumpster chair and stretch my hands behind my head, pulling my neck forward. Eli clears away their trash before heading to the door, slipping on a pair of shoes without his socks. I don’t get how people can do that. It just makes shoes smell.

“Later, brothuh. I’m heading to Holly’s,” he says, showing us both the peace sign and then grabbing his bike from the entryway and carrying it over his shoulder out the door.

“Holly?” I ask, when the door closes.

“Some chick that works at the coffee stand. He’s been hanging out with her the last few weeks. She gives me free coffee. It’s cool,” Casey says, opening up a porn site on his laptop.

“Are you trying to see how fast you can get another virus?” I ask.

“Dude, that was only because I went to the questionable sites. This one’s legit. It requires a credit card and everything,” he says.

“You’re shit when it comes to money,” I laugh, leaning back again and shutting my eyes.

It’s quiet for a few seconds; I lift my arms and peer to my right over to Casey. He’s not looking at the computer any more. Instead, it’s on the table, and he’s staring at me with his arms crossed.

“Are you like this because Paige left?” he asks, finally.

“Like what?” I ask. He’s irritating me. I don’t even know why I came here.

“Like…an asshole. Like that,” he says.

I grimace. “Whatever,” I say, covering my eyes with my arms again.

“You really liked that chick, huh?” he says, standing and walking into his kitchen. He comes back with two beers, tossing me one. It’s early enough, so I crack it open and take a big drink.

“Yeah. I really liked that chick,” I say, my eyes letting the television fall in and out of focus. This show is really lame. “Why do you even watch this crap?”

“Because it’s funny to see people hurt themselves. Now focus,” Casey says, leaning forward, pushing his laptop closer to me.

“What is that?” I ask, as he pulls open a window for a dating website. I shut his laptop. “Don’t be stupid.” I wince, because it reminds me of the one time I called Paige stupid. I sink back into my chair and rub my eyes again.

“Okay, so do we want to look for someone
like
Paige? Or are we thinking we want to look for someone
nothing
like Paige?” he says. I pull my fingers away to make eye contact. He’s being serious.

“Dude, stop it,” I say.

“Oh I’m filling this out. And you’re going on a date. I don’t care if it’s a rebound date,” he says, typing. Shit…he’s typing.

“Casey, I’m not going out with some girl I met on the Internet,” I say.

“Why?” he asks. Still typing. He won’t fucking stop typing.

“Because…the same reasons why Paige moved out—why I’m not
dating
Paige,” I say.

“And those reasons are?” he asks.

Typing.

“Because I have Leah.” I say. He doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve talked. “Because I’m twenty-one. Paige was only eighteen. Not that her age matters, but no girl is going to look at my relationship résumé and think I’m a catch. That three-year difference looks like a decade, real fast.”

“Yeah, dude…people with kids are all dead inside and shit. Not allowed to be attracted to hot girls, bad in bed,” he deadpans.

“Okay, now fuck you,” I respond. I finish my beer and put my feet up. I’m going to be here for a while. As irritating as Casey is right now, it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

“You’re an awesome catch,” he says after a long period of silence. When I turn my head his direction, he’s looking at me. I laugh at his absurdity. “No, man. I mean look—you’re an excellent cook who can fix hard drives and hack into things.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m putting on my online dating profile,” I roll my eyes.

“Oh, wait…you know what? Yes! I’m adding that,” he says. He’s typing again. I grab the throw pillow from the floor and wedge it behind my neck and shut my eyes, slipping in and out of a nap to the rain sounds of Casey’s hunting and pecking on the keyboard.

I
pull
into the driveway at the same time as my mom and Leah. My daughter has had a day filled with play and fun. I hate that I’m about to ruin that. Maybe she’ll take it okay.

My mom’s eyes are locked on mine, trying to convey to me to play this one carefully. I’m not sure what options I really have, though, so I follow them both inside, carrying her Hello Kitty backpack filled with coloring books and crayons, hooking it on the back of a kitchen chair once we get inside.

“You know what Madison let me do?” Leah asks. She’s excited to tell me something; I can tell by the way she’s standing on her tippy toes, like she wants to get the words to me faster.

“No, what did she let you do?” I ask, scooping Leah up on my hip, and carrying her up the stairs. Maybe she’ll be so distracted by this story to feel sad about the news I’m going to give her at the top.

“She let me ride her pony,” Leah beams.

“Did she?” I ask. Great, now she’s going to want a real pony.

“Uh huh! And I fed it a carrot. And then we watched it poop,” she giggles. I laugh with her, not letting myself look at the closed door across the hall from me.

“Well that sounds like you had a pretty good day,” I say.

Leah nods.

“I have to tell you something, and I want you to remember that today was a really good day. And…when I’m done, I want you to know that there’s a present for you, okay?” Thank god Paige left a present.

“Present?” Leah says. Her front teeth are larger than the rest, and it makes her lisp her
S
’s. It’s may be my favorite sound on earth. I’ve recorded her saying the seashell thing a dozen times.

“Yep,” I smile. It takes work to hold it in place, because telling her Paige is gone is like going through it all over again—and it makes me so unbelievably sad.

“You know how Paige came to live with us because she really needed a place to go?” I start. She’s smiling at me for now, and nodding. “Well, her sister needed her to come live with her again. And she needed her just as much as Paige needed us for a while.”

She did need me. For a while. And I know she loved me somewhere in there.

“She’s not here anymore?” Leah asks, her bright smile falling. She’s looking at the closed door, her hand picking at the bottom of her dress.

“No, sweetie. But…” I walk her to her room, opening the door so she sees the gift on her bed. “She left something for you.”

Leah looks up at me for permission to go to her gift. I tilt my head toward her bed, urging her on. She walks toward it tentatively, pulling the letter out from under the ribbon that I tucked back in there after reading it earlier today. She holds it up for me to read to her, so I do. She likes that Paige calls her a princess. I like it too. It was a nice touch.

When I’m done reading, she has a faint smile on her face, and she pulls carefully at the lid on the perfectly-square pink box, almost peeking inside, afraid to see it all too quickly. She catches a glimpse of something she recognizes, then pulls the lid away, tossing the few sheets of tissue paper out of her way too. What she holds up is a very tall, very pink, very expensive-looking high heel. They’re the exact shoes Paige was wearing the first time she met Leah at the stairs. My daughter loved her then.

I think maybe I did too.

She reaches into the box for the other one, next working her fingers on her sandals, kicking them away and putting her feet inside Paige’s shoes. Her feet swim in them, but she stands and slides forward a few feet along the carpet, scooting in a circle so she can face me. Her smile—it lights up the room.

It lights up the emptiness in my heart, too.

And again, I have Paige to thank for that.

P
aige

T
hank god they switched rooms
. This is the room I started in, and I didn’t want to be somewhere totally new…again. Nate felt guilty having the bigger room, so he talked Ty into moving back. They’ve repainted everything white, too. Cass said the floor’s resident assistant got in trouble for letting them paint in the first place.

I like the white. It’s clean—like a fresh start.

It’s been a week. I don’t think time has ever moved so slowly. Every morning, my routine is the same. I wake up before Cass and Rowe. I shower. I dress. And then I spend an hour hiding out in the hallway surfing the Internet, obsessing over Twitter, looking for a sign of anything more than what’s come out.

That one story is still the only one that comes up. I know Chandra left campus. Cass said she thinks she took a medical withdrawal. I suppose that looks better on a college transcript than a forced trip to rehab. I hate that she was allowed to take a medical withdrawal. I’d rather see FAILURE stamped on her files. I’m spiteful when it comes to her—and I’m okay with that.

My video hasn’t seemed to spread any farther either. Most days, I look for that first. I care about me more than her. I’m okay with that, too.

You would think that I would grow less worried over becoming a viral hit the more time that passes, but I don’t—I worry more. I feel like the longer it takes to leak to the world, the more bang it will have when it does. But it seems that I’m just not worth going viral. I wish I could have predicted this would happen before I had a very honest and frank discussion with my father on Monday. Houston never cashed my check for the first month’s rent, which means money that was supposed to come out of my checking account never disappeared. My mom freaked out, so I lied.

I told her I moved from the sorority back to Cass, since they weren’t happy about me moving out in the first place, and the transfer messed up my payment, so it would come out later. But my lies were getting confounded—too many to keep track. Eventually, my father put together that there were holes in my story—time that I couldn’t account for, periods where it seemed like I was homeless. Rather than tell him I lived with a man, one who fathered a little girl in high school, I decided it was better to switch his focus to Chandra and the video.

My dad went on a cyber-bullying mission, wanting to file a formal complaint with the university for allowing such activity to happen. My mom—she just cried—disappointed that I would let myself be in a video “like that.” No matter how many times I explained that it wasn’t
really
me, she didn’t understand. I guess parts were actually of me, so she might as well be disappointed.

I’m pretty disappointed in myself, too, really.

My indiscretions have taken the focus off my sister and her MS, which is maybe the only silver lining thus far. Cass has had to endure daily calls on her health from one of our parents ever since we stepped foot on this campus. When she relapsed over the holidays, those calls became twice-daily routines. But for the last week, every time one of them calls, they ask to talk to me. My father is itching to sue someone—I think it’s part of being a lawyer; he craves litigation. As long as that video stays hidden, and my name stays out of the newspaper, though, I should be able to avoid having nightly legal debriefs with him.

“You’re up early,” Rowe says, cracking the door open and spotting me sitting in the hall. She startles me, and the coffee I picked up from the stand downstairs spills on my lap.

“Shit!” I say, setting the cup aside and wiping the drops onto the floor.

“Sorry,” she says, recoiling a little. I scare her. I don’t mean to. Intimidating her—that used to be a goal. But not anymore. It’s a habit I need to break.

“It’s fine,” I say, keeping my eyes on my screen. I don’t hide what I’m looking for. Rowe and Cass know about the video. I told them before I called Dad. I needed reinforcement. They don’t know that I’m the Chandra-whistleblower, though, but at this point, I don’t really care if they find that out either. I just feel like it might be better for my sister if she’s in the dark. Cass had the most to gain from Chandra being gone.

Rowe slips out the door, shutting it quietly, then slides her back along the wall so she’s sitting next to me. Her nearness makes me uneasy—mostly because I haven’t been very good to her. She’s the only one who seems to sense there’s more to Houston than a casual friendship. She hasn’t verbalized it, but I notice the looks she gives me. Rowe is very observant, and I hate that she senses this about me, but it makes me love her, too…just a little.

She’s looking at my screen, watching me type in my name and scroll through news sites. I keep my eyes on what I’m doing, but I’m trying to think of something to say to her. That’s the biggest problem—when I’m alone with her, I don’t know what to say. We have nothing in common.

After a few minutes, she slides a pink heart on top of my keyboard. It’s made of paper, and one side is a little larger than the other. I can tell she cut it out herself, and there’s a handwritten note scribbled on one side. I put my finger on it and slide it into my lap, glancing at it but not really reading in front of her.

I turn to the side to make eye contact, the side of my mouth curling up for a faint smile.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

“You’re welcome,” she says, just as quietly.

It’s Friday. Valentine’s Day. And Rowe and Cass have plans with Nate and Ty tonight. There was a pathetic invite thrown my way, to be the
fifth
wheel on their double date. Pity—it’s come to pity. What’s worse…I’m actually considering meeting them at the bar. The thought of trying to get a cute guy to buy me a drink sounds like a good challenge for my ego.

When I moved back in, nobody asked any questions. Ty only asked if he could still call Houston for poker. I told him that we were fine, still friends. I just didn’t want to live with him any more.

Friends.

I miss my friend.

Rowe stands, her legs pausing next to me. I can tell she’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something more. But per usual, I have nothing to say to her, so I take a long sip of my coffee, pretending it’s hot; it’s lukewarm at best. When she finally slips back inside our room, I let out my breath and look at the closed door between us.

My classes don’t start for another two hours. When Cass wakes up, I’ll move back inside, maybe change what I’m wearing. I think I deserve to dress pretty today.

Closing my laptop, I slide the lopsided paper heart on top, twisting it in a circle with my fingertip. I eventually give in, and turn it over to read Rowe’s note to me:

I wipe the tear before it falls, then fold my only Valentine in half and slip it into the small pocket of my wallet behind my driver’s license.

My homework done for the week, I spend a little time sketching out drawings in my notebook. I’ve started drawing ideas for Leah’s room. I know I’ll never be able to do anything with these drawings—but it makes me feel good to pretend. The one I’m finishing now makes her room look like a castle.

She would love it.

My sister’s alarm sounds, so I get to my feet and move back inside the room. She’s out the door for running without much conversation, and I’m glad. I’ve had enough conversation for the day through the two sentences Rowe wrote on paper for me. Those words—they said a lot.

Rowe keeps her headphones on for the few minutes we’re both in the room together; she doesn’t say anything more than “bye” when she finally leaves for class. I pull out my yellow dress. It’s vintage. And wearing it always makes me feel stronger. I think today might just call for a little throwback muscle.

My hair pinned up, I leave our room before the lunch hour, walking slowly to my first class, stopping at the grocery stand in the center of campus for a fruit salad. I’ve been eating from this stand for five days, because I’m a big chicken. I know if I go to the store, I’ll see him. And if I don’t see him, I know I’ll feel sad that I didn’t.

I’m already torturing myself in enough ways. At night, I go to the library and sit near the window. I pretend I’m studying, but really—I’m only waiting.

He never comes.

He’s probably avoiding this place for the very reason I’m coming here.

Us.

I saw a group of Spanish students meet yesterday, and I was hopeful. It’s his second semester, and Houston is really quite awful at the language. But they worked in a group for an hour, and he never came.

I’m sad every time he doesn’t. And relieved.

A little pathetic.

My classes feel like a review, more than usual. Probably because I’ve done nothing but work ahead. I suppose my parents would be proud of my focus on academics. Of course, right now they’re kind of busy being shamed by my porn stint—however fabricated—so…

When my last class lets out in the late afternoon, I pass the library and pause at the steps, letting my backpack fall to my feet so I can lean forward on the railway and scan the expanse of windows. It’s the same every day. The same
people
every day. And it’s never him.

I usually come back later, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and I have a date with nobody—wouldn’t want to be late for that. I make my daily trip early. I won’t stay long. An hour. Maybe less. But if I don’t come, I’ll feel like I’ve missed him. It doesn’t matter that he was probably never here.

Slinging my bag over my arm, I throw my shoulders back and enter the library the same way I have the last four days—like I’m fine, like everything is fine. My heels are harsh on the concrete floors, and I notice a few girls look up from their books and scowling while I walk by. Lowering my eyes at them, I stare back, putting a little more force into each step.

Get over it; they’re shoes—and they make noise when I walk. Fuck, I’ll be on the carpet in a second.

I round the corner and move to the back, to the window desk I’ve now claimed as my own. As I come closer, I notice there’s something on the desk. It’s a book, and there’s a sticky note on it. I stop and look behind me, then peer down an aisle to see if someone is around. The desk really isn’t mine, but seriously, who would sit here on purpose if they didn’t have some crazy-ass ulterior motive like I did?

Nobody is around, and after I wait for a few seconds, I decide it must just be a book someone forgot to reshelf. It’s not like I need the desktop to study. I couldn’t possibly review another note. So I pull the seat back, then push the book to the edge of the desk, stopping when the words on the Post-It note catch my attention.

I turn my head, my heart racing in my stomach. My throat is instantly dry. Leaving my bag at the foot of the desk, I pace up and down a few of the aisles in my lonely corner—again, my search coming up empty. I’m alone.

Nobody is here.

But he
was
here. Houston was here. The book he pulled is Grimm’s Fairytales. It’s one of the older copies from the lit section of the library. I flip through a few of the pages, noting the violent illustrations; the bleak look for every story—the way these fairytales were intended. Then, a spark of color in the middle catches my eye. It’s another note, with a lot more writing on it, taped to the opening page of Rapunzel.

T
his is
the only one I know of that has a tower. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this quite right, but you tell a better story than I do anyhow. Rapunzel…or let’s call her Princess P…is locked away in her tower, waiting for her prince to save her.

Tired of waiting, she learns to fight on her own.

When the evil witch comes to give her dinner one night, the princess has become so ripped she throws the witch out the window. The witch lands on the prince, who is really too late in coming to her rescue at this point, and seeing him as such a failure has completely turned Princess P off anyhow.

Having worked out so hard—and taken so many natural-growth hormones, which of course the bluebirds flew to her through her window—Princess P finds her hair has now grown long enough to reach the ground outside her window. She conveniently finds scissors in her tower room, cuts her hair, and braids it into a kick-ass ladder, upon which she climbs down, stepping on the bodies of the witch and the failed prince as she passes.

The end.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s nothing like the version you told. But the point is I miss you, and no one should go without feeling loved on Valentine’s Day; so consider this me loving you still. And if this isn’t who I think it is, the person I’ve seen here, by the window, every night this week, then feel free to pretend this was meant for you, because now I feel really bad telling you it’s not.

Sincerely,

The failed prince

I
’m laughing
. Out loud. There’s no one near me that would ever hear, so I let myself laugh, and maybe cry a little. I peel the sticky notes from the book and fold them to go along with my crooked heart in my wallet. I flip through a few more pages of the book and chuckle at the real, very sad ending of Rapunzel, which results in basically everyone’s death, then put the book on the return cart parked nearby along the wall.

Knowing there is no longer a reason for me to be here, I lift my bag and leave the library, my heart pulled in two directions—between selfish and selfless. For the first time, I have something I can talk to Rowe about, and I really think she might be the only one who will understand.

When I get back to our room, everyone is inside, so I look at my phone to check the time. It’s not quite five, and I know they weren’t planning on going out until late. But I am glad Rowe is here now. Maybe she’ll have some time to talk.

I walk in behind her, ready to tap her shoulder, but glance at our small television, which seems to have everyone completely captivated.