Page 6 of I Blame the Rival

A girl named Lacey.

For the past year, Silverwood’s one and only therapist has done her best to get me to open up, to share the horrors of my childhood so we can fix the damaged pieces inside of me. Karen went through every trick in the book, even letting me bring my sketchbook to our sessions so I can try and communicate with her that way. Nothing seemed to work until I met her.

A girl named Lacey.

When I first saw her writing, her resilient response to my dark question, it felt like I was being seen for the first time. Finally, I had found someone who understood what it was like to walk on the dark side and come out a little bit shattered.

It’s not Karen’s fault that our sessions are unproductive. She just doesn’t understand that not all broken things can be fixed.

But Lacey does.

Pulling out the sunshine tissue from my pocket, I let it unfold out in front of me. The bold letters of today’s quote scream back at me, but I pay the words no attention as I flip it over and pull the pen from my sketchbook.

Pretty is not normally what people say when they find out my name, but yes, I do like to draw. I find sketching helps relieve some of the pressure inside me.

I carefully fold the yellow tissue and bend down to tuck it between the rocks in the flowerbed outside of Karen’s building. Originally, I started leaving my thoughts as a way to amuse myself after the emotional garburator these therapy sessions put me through. Eventually it became a sort of solace. A safe space to leave my lingering questions and inner demons after Karen’s intrusive line of questioning.

Now, I look forward to these sunshine tissues. Reading Lacey’s responses has somehow become the motivation I need to get through the hard days. The days I feel more broken than normal.

Clipping my pen back onto the ring binding of my sketchbook, I tuck it under my arm and walk back down the gravel path. The beige building that holds Karen’s counselling sessions sits on the far edge of Silverwood, the very tip of the small town I grew up in. The main street can be seen from the nearby parking lot, the mom-and-pop shops and the little boutiques running along a road that has four streetlights and two stop signs.

The bottoms of my sneakers have just hit the rough edge of the concrete parking lot when a red hatchback pulls in. My shoulders tense when I register who’s sitting in the passenger seat, the platinum blonde hair telling me Silverwood’s biggest rival has arrived.

Stella O’Brien hops out of the car with a tight smile, her dainty features and lean frame a polar opposite to her fierce personality. Like me, Stella’s older brother is well-known in the lacrosse circuit except hers shines in a positive light. Mighty Mo helped lead his team to four consecutive championships while Vector became known for putting his opponents in the hospital.

I’m not surprised that students from Taber University wind up in enemy territory. Given the small size of both university towns, Karen is the only certified therapist within a 100km radius.

What is surprising, however, is that someone like Stella attends therapy. From what I’ve seen, her family lives and breathes competition and success, and that type of personality doesn’t normally leave much room for mental health.

Guess you can never tell though.

I shift the sketchbook under my arm, hoping to make it past her ride without being spotted. Hunching my shoulders to hide my face, I’ve almost made it to the sidewalk when the driver’s door opens and a familiar face gets out.

My hurried steps falter when I register the blonde fauxhawk attached to the guy walking around the vehicle to give Stella a hug. I stare, watching Taber’s old lacrosse captain whisper something in her ear that makes her laugh.

He’s okay.

Blood roars in my ears as I change course and start walking towards the couple. There are so many things I want to say to him but I don’t know if I’ll be able to say anything at all.

I’m so focused on the uninjured captain that I don’t notice Stella’s glare until I’m ten feet away. I freeze, heart pounding, as I take in the venom in her eyes. The accusations are right there, reflecting back at me through someone else who was hurt by my brother’s actions.

It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t me on the lacrosse field that day. My last name holds me responsible.

Cody turns his head and I quickly duck mine, not wanting him to see me for what I truly am. Pulling up the hood of my Sabers sweater, I turn away from my demons and start the long trek home.

“Your boss called. He needs you to take the late shift tomorrow night.” Vector glances at me from the kitchen table, “I told him you were free.”

Rainwater drips from my hood onto my face while a puddle starts to form on the floor. I’m completely drenched, the thick cotton of my hoodie no match for the downpour that started halfway through my walk home. I pull my sketchbook out from under my t-shirt and assess the damage.

“Did you hear me? I said you could work tomorrow night.”

I nod, flipping through the damp pages. Most of the ink got smeared or bled right through the page, destroying the sketches I had completed the week before.

Frustration burns through me as I toss the ruined book onto the kitchen table. The number of hours I spent filling those pages are all gone. Destroyed, ruined, because of a simple walk in the rain.

The moment you think you have something good life steals it away.

Or someone else ruins it for you.

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