Page 24 of Little Lies

“What’s that, Lavender?”

“That time I got locked in the closet. I’m sure it’s symbolic, or some living metaphor for my deep-seated trauma or whatever—like the closet symbolizes my powerlessness and the feeling of being trapped.” I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, bits of memories filtering in—ones that aren’t related to the time I got locked in the closet. I always recognize them when they come. Sometimes it’s a sound and sometimes a smell, like dirt and metal and gas and watermelon Jolly Ranchers. “I felt like that today,” I continue, “when I was trapped in the car with Kodiak. Powerless and insignificant.”

“How did he make you feel insignificant?”

I sigh, debating how much truth I want to share. “He said I hadn’t changed at all.”

Queenie tucks her hair behind her ear, wedding ring glinting in the sunlight from the window behind her. “And how would he come to that conclusion during what you’ve said was a five-minute drive home?”

I keep my hands clasped in my lap to hide the damage to my palms. The upside of a video session is that she won’t see what I’ve accidentally done to myself. I don’t want it to raise red flags, or for my parents to come to the conclusion that this is already too hard for me. “I refused to speak to him and told him he didn’t deserve my words because all he’d do was twist them around.”

She chuckles softly and smiles. “Well, that doesn’t sound anything like the Lavender who was locked in the closet, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” I’m definitely not the helpless little girl I used to be. But the state of my palms tells me she’s still inside, and I don’t want to go back to that.

“Maybe Kodiak is projecting, and it’s not you who hasn’t changed, but him.”

“Maybe.” I don’t really know if that’s true or not.

I’ve learned a few very important things since the night Kodiak found me trapped in the closet when I was nine:

The path of least resistance might be more alluring, but it certainly isn’t always the best choice.

Dependency goes both ways, and I developed a very strong, very unhealthy dependence on my brother’s best friend.

That event triggered a savior complex in Kodiak that only got worse over the weeks and months that followed.

I didn’t realize at the time how destructive that would prove to be, or how much damage needing one person could do—not until I was forced to relearn how to manage my own fears.

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Day two isslightly better than day one, primarily because I’m able to avoid Kodiak. And I have a three-hour evening class I’m excited for.

I had an opportunity to pick an additional elective, and there were lots of cool courses, so I chose an English course that focuses on myth and folklore. I’ve always loved fairy tales, and I figured a semester reading about gods and spirits would be awesome.

I climb the stairs, confused that the class is not in the Arts Building. But maybe they ran out of room or something. I find the classroom and search for one of the left-handed seats. It’s really annoying when righties sit in them, because there are so few available in most lecture halls. Luckily I’m able to grab one in the back. I hate sitting near the front because I feel like the professors are more likely to call on you. Even if I do know the answer, I always end up stumbling over my words.

There are still about fifteen minutes before class starts, so I pull out my laptop and log into my email account. I had some issues with it because they’d used my middle name instead of my given name for my email address, but I finally managed to get it sorted out yesterday. This means I haven’t had a chance to connect with professors yet, but I have my schedule and most of my textbooks, so I’m feeling pretty okay about things. Was it stressful getting it sorted out? Sure. But I managed all by myself without having any kind of panic attack, so that’s a win.

After a few minutes, the professor ambles in and sets up his laptop. The screen at the front of the class lights up and the course code appears, along with the name of the class. And it’s not an English class at all. I pull out my schedule, feeling suddenly hot because it’s obvious I’m in the wrong building, or something has gone incredibly awry.

I check the code on the screen against the one on my schedule. They match. I quickly log into the course calendar, positive there must be some kind of mistake, even though it’s clear there is not. I assumed that anything starting with anEwould be an English course, but I see now that I botched the registration, and I’m sitting in Intro to Macroeconomics—which is basically another form of math, and my least-favorite subject in the entire history of the universe.

Both of my parents are good at math. My mom is a math wizard. She was actually a mathlete in high school and won all sorts of championships. My dad built her a math-trophy shrine in our basement. She can do triple-digit multiplication in her head. And my dad may not be a super math genius or anything, but he’s good with numbers and has a freaking degree in English and another one in kinesiology.

My oldest brother, Robbie, is studying to become a botanist, and he’s currently on a fellowship in Amsterdam. He’s planning to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and work in medical marijuana research and development.

Maverick is probably the most like my dad. He’s studying kinesiology, but he’s already been drafted. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll ever play in the NHL according to my dad. Some drafted players never make it.

River is ridiculously smart and tries at nothing. Unlike my dad and Maverick, he has zero interest in playing hockey. Well, that’s not exactly true. I think he likes hockey, but he decided he wanted to play football instead, maybe so he wouldn’t have to compete with Mav.

And then there’s me. I’m decent at school, but I always had to work harder than everyone else to get the same kind of grades. My anxiety doesn’t help the situation. And I suck at pretty much everything with numbers that isn’t measuring fabric, so the fact that I’m sitting here is a big old punch to the tit.

I grumble profanity under my breath.

“Excuse me?” the guy in the desk closest to me asks.

I give him what is probably a horrible grimace and motion to the empty seat between us. “Sorry. Just talking to my imaginary friend.”

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