The Girl Page 3

  That was the year everything changed.

  Mom had always been a party person. Not raging keggers, but cookouts and dinner parties. She was almost manic about the planning and details. She loved entertaining, sometimes I think, more than me and Eve. Eve and I were never very close. The age gap between us left just that — a gap — between us. I wasn’t a great little sister. But mostly Dad made up for it all. It’s getting harder and harder to remember my parents’ faces, the sound of their voices. Life was good, right up until my dad went to prison for embezzling a massive amount of money from his job and a few days after that, my mother overdosed on Xanax.

  Eve says Mom couldn’t cope with the judgment. The looks. The questions. She had two children, for crying out loud, but that wasn’t enough to keep her with us. The courts awarded Eve guardianship of me, and then real life kicked in. But Eve didn’t want to be a parent. She wasn’t equipped. She treated me like a burden. It’s easier than you think to lose sight of what matters; I’ve seen it unfold many times in only sixteen years. Then the money ran out. And after that, the mountain and Holden happened. It wasn’t until then that I understood the depth of Eve’s love for me. Not until Nora saved us all. But that—that’s all history now. Yet, still, it didn’t make us close the way I read about sisterhood bonds in novels. Just another part of my past that I’d rather not dwell on.

  I roll out of bed, cursing the barely rising sun and the coolness of the floor beneath my feet. I need more sleep. I have three exams today. I need to be well rested. I make it downstairs to the couch.

  I just need a few more minutes of sleep.

  “Wakey, wakey,” a chipper voice says much too close to my ear. I swat my hand at the sound. “Ouch!” I open my eyes to find Eve holding a palm over her right eye. “You are violent in the morning—anyone ever told you that?” She laughs and sits down on top of my ankles. I try to squirm out of the way but I’m too slow.

  I clear my throat. “Am I late?”

  “Are you?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Ugh, what time is it?” I groan. She’s always messing with me.

  “Dear Lotte, don’t fret, it’s quarter of seven.” She stands and yanks the throw blanket from my body, laughing as she heads into the kitchen. I sit up and drag my fingers through my unruly hair. I trudge into the bathroom, shut the door and lock it—just in case Eve thinks today is the day to pull a prank on me. My mascara has smudged under my eyes and I look pasty, which for me, is not normal. It’s amazing what the lack of sleep can do to one’s body. I heave out a sigh before turning the shower on.

  Uncle Mike and Uncle Liam decided that I needed to do High School in the fancy private school where they went. I didn’t want to go, yet here I am. Maybe it’s just high school that sucks. Middle school was fun. I did track and art club. I took piano lessons. I soaked up and in everything this town had to offer. It all seemed so new then. So foreign and exciting. It was everything I craved after being sequestered from society on that mountain with Holden. I can’t pinpoint exactly when that changed. I don’t know when I became bored by the banal things my peers deem crucial to existence, but here I am. Bored and under stimulated. I want peacefulness and forests. I want real food and less screen time. I abhor admitting it, but I miss the lifestyle of living on the mountain with Holden. I tuck that thought away to discuss later with Dr. Richardson, my therapist, because I’m sure it will titillate her to discuss.

  Who the hell plans a party on a Thursday night anyway? Dumb teens. My thoughts are scattered and vast as I take the quickest shower known to mankind so I can rush out the door.

  I’m tested out. If I never have to take another test, I will be on cloud nine. I enter the cafeteria, hands in my pockets and the strap of my bag across the front of my chest like some silly pageant sash. It’s noisy and most of the tables are full. I look around, and decide to head for the food line. I shuffle forward like a prisoner, accept what the lunch ladies dish out, and walk slowly in the direction of some punk seated by himself. I’ve perfected the art of flipping a switch—robot mode, Dr. Richardson calls it—and focusing on the tedium while attempting to disregard the snippets of conversation floating around me. But sitting with Dallas might prove enjoyable.

  Setting down my tray, I smile. He places his elbows on the table and leans forward.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He smirks at me and lifts his chin. “Bold move.”

  “Excuse me?” I push my braid over my shoulder.

  “Sitting with me—the social outcast?” His tone implies irritation but I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it.

  “Yeah.” I sit in my chair less confident than just a moment ago.

  “So...it’s a bold move sitting at my table,” he says.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep from saying something off the cuff. I’m supposed to be trying to fit in. Making a friend.

  “Oh. Should I move?” I cross my arms over my chest and lean back a bit, silently wondering what crawled up his rear end and died today. I’m too spent to deal with this. It’d be easier to take my lunch to the quad and read.

  “Naw. Go ahead and stay but don’t expect to be Miss Popularity after this.” He pulls his wool cap down low on his brows and stares at his untouched lunch tray. I wrinkle my nose at him. Did I imagine last night? Did something happen after we parted ways?

  Whispers and snickers pointed in our direction start invading my ears. Frowning, I start pushing my food around on my tray. Too-cool-for-school Dallas pops ear buds into his ears and that about seals my mood. I pick the apple up from my tray, stand, and then storm out of the cafeteria. What an idiotic idea—thinking he’d talk to me in the light of day. A wave of sadness whips through me with gale force. It isn’t the first time someone’s pretended to be nice to me outside of school only to turn around and be a jerk at school.

  3

  Charlotte

  Dear D,

  Sometimes I think I can hear him. Or see Nora waiting for me, bowl and ointment in my hands. Her shirtless and facedown. But maybe it’s just a dream. Everything feels like a dream lately. I can vividly hear a scream piercing the air. It echoes once, harsh, across the peaks, and I feel a chill colder than any blizzard gale. Holden breathes deep and pins me with his black hole eyes. I freeze in my spot. He crosses his arms over his chest. He looks serious. Irritated. Dangerous. Then he grins. His boots make the porch boards creak. He stomps down the steps. I shudder and hurry into the cabin. Everything is silent again. I stand unmoving inside. The air feels electric around me. I don’t want to learn what happens next. I will myself to conjure a different image. One of my parents smiling faces but can never quite manage it. If Eve and I were closer, I’d talk to her about these things.

  I’m cranky and spent and pissed off about the whole lunch-room-Dallas thing when the bell rings. I shove my journal in my backpack, hoist it over my shoulder while clutching my copy of The Contradiction of Solitude like my life depends on it, and exit the school at warp speed. It’s Friday and my plans are limited, just the way I like them.

  “Yo, City!” Heavy boots slap the pavement behind me at a furious pace.

  I frown, irritated at the sound of his voice.

  Whipping around I shout, “Stop calling me that.”

  “Did you figure it out yet?” he asks, seemingly unfazed at my tetchy tone.

  “Huh?”

  “The nickname,” he says.

  I shake my head, still annoyed with him. “Oh, no.”

  He smirks and huffs out a breathy chuckle. “Then I’m not stopping. I’ll devise a new nickname when you figure this one out.”

  I scrunch my face into a sour expression and resume walking, without him.

  “Where are you going?” He jogs two steps to catch up to me.

  “Home, then work.”

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

  I slow a step but decide to speed up again. If he wants my tirade, he can jog for it. “Are you serious? What’s wrong with you? I totally tri
ed to be congenial and thought we could sit together and then you went all dark on me. Like I was a pariah. Like... ugh. There’s a word for this.” My voice is barely a mumble as I rack my brain for the appropriate word to assault him with.

  “Whoa. Sorry.” He grabs my bag strap and yanks me to a halt. “Charlotte, I’m sorry. I was protecting you.”

  “Protecting me from what?” I throw my hands in the air—rather dramatically—even for me.

  “The lemmings. Our classmates. I was trying to save your reputation.” He states the words as if it’s common knowledge.

  “Oh, but now it’s cool to be seen with me?” I retort.

  He gestures around. There are only a handful of kids within fifty yards of us. This fact only angers me more.

  “It’s not you. I don’t want them to treat you differently because you’re seen with me.”

  My brain struggles to understand how he thinks that being seen with him will affect my lack of popularity in any way. He should be more worried about the reverse; of being seen with me.

  “You’re kinda stressing me out, Dallas. I’m sorry I tried to sit with you today, okay? My bad. I will go back to reading outside—alone.” Stifling a sigh, I keep trudging along.

  “You’re always reading,” he says, and plucks my paperback from my hand.

  “Hey, don’t bend the pages,” I squeal. He only laughs at me. That same laugh from the other night that soothes something in my brain.

  “What’s so great about reading anyway?” he asks, staring at the book like a foreign object.

  I snatch the book back from him and inspect the spine for creases.

  When I’m sure he didn’t ruin my book I huff and say, “Here on Earth, I'm broken. Sort of lost and frigid and dwindling. But here, I tap the paperback. Here I'm something else. Something better.”

  He stares at me in a way that makes me feel… something, I just don’t have a word for it—yet. My belly clenches and my chest heats while I struggle not to begin fidgeting.

  “Sometimes I feel like an alien in my own skin. Like I’m not supposed to be here. That life is a punishment of some kind. Especially when I pay attention to just how boring our lives are. Not ours, but like, humans in general,” he says quietly.

  I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. When did the air catch fire? There’s something between us. An ease. Camaraderie. Kismet. One stupid comment from him and suddenly I understand him.

  Because we’re the same.

  The words tumble from my mouth before I have a chance to filter and edit them.

  “There’s a word for that. Monachopsis.” His eyes narrow slightly; he thinks I’m weird. My mouth keeps right on going despite the bubble in my gut, “I hate normal. I crave adventure and challenge and authentic people. I can’t stand the kids here. They don’t understand anything real.”

  His head is nodding at a furious pace. His mouth, curved upward in an effortless smile. Eyes crinkled and glinting in the spring sunshine. He’s beautifully tragic. Just like me. He’s still walking with me. Following wherever I’m going. And I realize I don’t know where he’s supposed to go.

  “I’m this way,” I say, pointing to a path through the park along the river.

  “I’m not, but I’ll walk with you,” he says, and then cautiously, “if that’s okay.”

  I nod.

  We’re on the cusp of summer. That strange time of year where Mother Nature plays tricks on you; giving you one glorious, hot, sun-filled day followed by a dreary, chilly mess the next. Those glimpses of summer make you want to shirk your responsibilities. Tilt your head to the sky and soak in the heat of the sun on your face. There’s a feeling of urgency to get out and make the most of that perfect weather, knowing that tomorrow is not guaranteed. It means the school year is almost over too and sometimes in my head I imagine that everyone’s lackluster behavior—the phoning it in on assignments, the skipping school, the irritated teens clustered together on a humid sticky school day—is instinct, animalistic at best.

  Teenagers are lazy lions and lionesses who should be lounging by the water and napping. And God forbid you interrupt that cycle with something as trivial as say, school, you’re just begging to be snapped or pawed at.

  “Social media?” I ask, in the middle of our silence. It just sort of blurts out as something to break the silence.

  “Meh. A post is just a narcissistic reminder. People just want to remind other people that they’re still relevant—still cool. So no, I’m not on it,” he says glancing at me.

  “I have IG, but that’s it. I like pretty pictures,” I tell him. “Music?” I ask.

  He nods. “Anything chill or road trip worthy,” he says.

  “Example please.” I shift my backpack straps while we duck under a low-hanging branch along the river path.

  “Oldies, anything from the seventies or sixties really.” This surprises me. I pictured punk rock and mosh pits for him. Maybe I’m as bad as all the rest of our classmates in the judgmental department.

  “Okay, um, movies or books?” The wind picks up, blowing errant wisps of hair from my braid loose. They stick to my lips and I brush at them.

  “Movies,” he says, and puts his hands up in mock defense, “don’t get angry.”

  I stop walking. It takes him a second to realize I’m not next to him and halt.

  When he looks at me I say, “I’m not angry.”

  “I know. You’re lost, there’s a difference.” When his eyes lock onto mine, I get this little nut in my belly, hard and dense. My cheeks grow warm and pink, and the desire to look anywhere but him is overwhelming. I’m not insecure, it’s more instinctual to be submissive—demure. To fall in line with my subconscious idea of what a woman should look like, act like, to be alluring. I swallow thickly in an attempt to keep my cool.

  “Pools or lakes?” I ask forcing my eyes to stay on his.

  He grins and reaches out for my hand. “Lakes.”

  I let him take it. His palm is hot and a little rough, like he uses his hands often, and I wonder doing what. He tugs me along the path until we reach the little clearing by the riverside where you can sit. He drops my hand, followed by his string bag, and motions me to come to the water's edge with him. I glance at my watch. I have to be at work in an hour and I have loads of homework tonight.

  “City,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. I raise a brow at him. “Has anyone ever told you you're real serious?” I suck my bottom lip between my teeth to stifle a smile.

  “Have fun. Come on. Let loose. Whatever timeline you’re calculating can wait for another fifteen minutes.”

  Laughing, I let my bag fall to the ground, kick off my sandals and take a seat next to him.

  “I’m not really serious. Only at school. I swear,” I say.

  “Uh-huh, and at home you’re what? A party animal?” he chuckles.

  Making a face at him, I say, “No. But I’m happy and relaxed at home.” I dip my toes ankle deep into the rushing water. It’s frigid, and likely will be for another month. Sucking in a sharp breath I yank my feet out of the water.

  He kicks his feet in the arctic liquid. “I guess I should get to know at-home-Lotte then.”

  “You’d be the only one from school to accomplish that,” I snort.

  He side-eyes me. “Is that a challenge?”

  I smile and shrug. I don’t know if it is. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing sitting here with Dallas anyway. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” he asks.

  “Are you just… you, all the time? Everywhere?” I ask.

  Dallas digs out a pebble and tosses it into the river. The plunk sound barely audible over the rushing water. He shrugs. “I don’t really have a home. So I guess, yeah, this is just me all the time.”

  “Not all the time,” I tease. He shoots me a perplexed look. “You were downright dicky at lunch.”

  “Dicky? I was sparing you,” he states again.

  “Earth to Dallas, maybe you haven’
t noticed, but I’m the social pariah. There’s no way your reputation could tarnish mine.”

  His face screws up so unnaturally that it’s comical. “People love you Charlotte.”

  My forehead wrinkles as my eyebrows spike upward. “Are you nuts?”

  “You always have a sweet smile on. Kind eyes. You’re never mean to anyone—Mike excluded at the party. You hold doors. The list is endless. People want to get to know you.”

  I draw in a deep breath. He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right. “Maybe. But they also want to get to know me to find out all my dirty secrets. What’s the survivor of The Tutor really like behind closed doors type of thing. Does she have issues, how about scars? I’ve been burned by it already.”

  “Ahh, yes, the fake friends epidemic of high school,” Dallas says, looking bored.

  I laugh loudly at his terrible joke, and realize I’m having fun. With a classmate. I’ve felt so ostracized for so long now that I’d forgotten what it can feel like to have a friend. There is a persistent buzz beneath my skin. Excitement that clings in the air around me.

  I check my watch. I need to get going or I’ll be late for work. Poop.

  “I have to go,” I say, tugging on my sneakers.

  “Right now?” he asks. His eyes are such a clear golden hue in the sun that I feel like I could stare at them all day.

  “Yeah. Work,” I say.

  “Can I have your number?”

  I blink a few times, new to this situation, and suddenly flustered.

  “Uh, yeah, okay.”

  I sweat out seven pounds in water weight just giving him my number. His big thumbs hunting and pecking on his screen as he inputs what I tell him. Will he call me? Are we friends now? My body tightens with anticipation and uncertainty, but then he smiles up at me and it all sort of simmers away. Cinnamon soap and sweat scent linger in the air as I walk away beaming like a fool.