Page 58 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“She wants to take me to the casino for my birthday,” I told them one night over beef stroganoff. Dad chuckled and Mom frowned and both of them told me I wasn’t allowed to lose more than twenty dollars, but that’s all it took for my story to become rock-solid. That was usually key with my parents. By admitting a slightly bad thing, I could blind them to any other possibilities of misbehavior. And even if they suspected anything else, it was probably along the same line of things I could do now that I was turning eighteen—getting a tattoo or buying cigarettes. Sleeping with my married English teacher was so far off the radar it was laughable.
The rest of December moved like a freaking iceberg. Every day dragged out. My shifts at CVS were an endless line of customers. Tommy took me to the drive-in and tried to feel me up under my sweater. Portia got a cold and then gave it to me, with a sore throat and cough and everything. The only good part was Peter’s class, where I sat in front as always and pretended not to ogle his every movement. I chatted with Portia and Maggie and argued most of Peter’s lecture points, just like I always did. The only physical contact we had was when he collected homework assignments; he had everyone pass their papers to the front and then he walked along the front row picking up the stacks. I handed him my row’s papers and our fingers brushed. That was all.
One day, though, the week before Christmas, I was just finishing a text on my phone when the bell rang, and Peter immediately said, “Hattie!”
It was loud and everyone stopped talking to see what was going on.
“Yeah?” I hit send before looking up.
“Phone on my desk. Now. You can pick it up after school.”
I trotted my phone up to his desk, ecstatic about violating the no-cell-phone-in-class policy. I thought it was genius, finding the excuse to see me alone, but after school that day a whole group of sophomores had invaded his room to study for the MCAs.
He glanced up from the middle of the horde when I came in and said, “Oh, Hattie. Your phone’s over there. Leave it at home next time, okay?”
I nodded and grabbed it, completely deflated after spending half the day dreaming about a brush of skin, a murmured promise, or even a stolen kiss behind the door.
It wasn’t until I’d finished collecting books from my locker that I noticed the message. I had a new text, sent from myself, to myself, a half an hour ago.
“From her hair the heads of five crucified also looked on, no more expressive than she.”
Is this you? I keep looking, can’t help myself. Looking for you is my only sustenance.
Check your right front tire.
I practically ran out of the building, through the parking lot, and found a rectangular package on top of the tire, hidden from view in the wheel well and wrapped in gold.
I got inside the truck and opened it, making sure no one was watching me. It was a book, a hardcover edition ofV,by Thomas Pynchon—the book he’d wanted to get autographed the first time I stumbled on him in the chatroom. It felt like a lifetime ago. There was nothing written inside. He’d been careful not to create any link between us, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. He’d given me a Christmas present.
I smelled the wrapping paper and whispered it—“sustenance”—feeling as giddy as I ever had in my life.
I got another unexpected present, too. Gerald sent me a camcorder with a note in his swirly handwriting about hard work and dedication to perfection. Portia and I spent the last few nights before break performing our favorite movie scenes for the camera and it helped the time to pass.
Christmas was so strange this year. Although I didn’t miss Greg, exactly, it was weird not having him there, ripping open his presents and shouting his surprise or excitement. There was no one to dilute Mom and Dad’s attention. They sat on the couch blowing the steam off their coffee cups and watching me with that fake kind of happiness, the kind where you try to pretend things are normal, as I opened a big box that sat by itself under the tree.
My present turned out to be a suitcase, a gorgeous suitcase. It was compact and simple, with smart pockets and dividers inside and wheels that looked like they were made of titanium. They made a sleek whirring sound on the laminate floor as I walked it around and around the kitchen table.
“I love it,” I told them honestly and gave them each a big hug.
“If you’re going to be seeing the world next year, you’ll need to look the part,” Dad said and ruffled my messy bed-head hair.
Mom showed me how to wipe stains and dirt off it to keep the black material looking nice, and then she made me an enormous Denver omelet that I couldn’t half finish.
I packed the suitcase up immediately and set it in the corner of my room. December turned into January, and then on the morning of Saturday, January 5th, I put it in the passenger seat of my truck—where it looked absurdly out of place—and drove to the Crowne Plaza in downtown Minneapolis.
I was breathless as I knocked on the door to his room and when he opened it we both stared at each other.
“Hi.”
I just smiled instead of answering, not trusting my voice.
“Come in.” He stepped aside and gestured awkwardly.
There were lilies in a vase on the desk. I crossed over to them and touched one of the ragged-edged, white petals. “Nice hotel.”
“No—I mean it is, it’s not bad, but I brought those. You said once they were your favorite.”
Even though he seemed a little jumpy, he walked over to me. I let go of the suitcase handle and lifted one of the flowers out of the bouquet and smelled, closing my eyes.
