"One track mind, one track heart.
If I fail, I'll fall apart.
Maybe it is all a test.
Cause I feel like I'm the worst,
so I always act like I'm the best."
- "Oh No!," MARINA (2010)
Lillian
I'm so dead. I'm so, so dead.
I reach the door to our apartment after a ten minute sprint from Jordan's building, pulling my coat around the dress I wore for his party last night. My parents let me go because they trusted me—because they knew I was responsible enough to be home by midnight, sober, and in one piece.
But it's 10:34 AM—the morning of the next day, and I am incredibly, horribly, unimaginably late. We were supposed to have brunch with my grandparents today, so my screw-up is now ten times worse than if it happened just in front of my parents.
Maybe I could leave the country...yeah...I could take the Dawson's jet and fly to Mexico...I'm fluent in Spanish, I could do it. Or maybe I can knock myself out and pretend I was at the hospital all night. Anything but facing their wrath. How are they going to react? I've never done this before—I've never dreamed of doing this before. I'm dead.
I know they'll think I slept with Jordan. They won't believe, not even for a second, that I didn't—even if it is the truth. Even if I wanted to. They won't want to hear that I had one drink to dull the constant aching in my chest and fell asleep in his bed until morning. That I woke up with his arms around me and felt better next to him than I ever do at home.
I've spent my entire life trying to be perfect: the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect grandchild, the perfect...kinda-girlfriend-whatever. But it's getting so hard now; to keep up, or even just...keep going. I messed up. Who am I now that I messed up?
I place my fingers on the door handle, expecting to hear my parents arguing over me as usual, but all I pick up is quiet murmuring. That's a good sign...right?
I look down at my feet, finally pushing the door all the way open and letting myself in. Although the conversation was already hushed when I decided to enter, the silence goes deafening as I keep my eyes on the floor and close the door behind me.
"Nothing happened," I say quietly. "I just fell asleep on accident—I promise."
Everyone just stares at me: my parents sitting next to each other on the couch, Nana as straight as a board in an armchair, and Grandpa standing near the window.
And I wait.
I wait for someone to yell at me, or lock me in my room, or tell me off like I imagine parents do when their kid messes up. Like Jordan's dad does to him. But both of my parents just stand in unison, not saying a word as they meet me in the middle and hug me with enough force to squeeze out the breath I'm holding.
"Hell's bells, Birdie," my dad nearly whispers. "We were so worried about you. Are you...are you okay?"
"I'm—fine."
I'm not lying, but I'm so confused that my answer comes out strangely.
"I'm glad you're safe." My mom pulls my pink overcoat off of my shoulders, folding it over her arm as her eyes search my body for any ailments. "But don't ever do that to us again."
"I won't."
Another complete truth.
There's an empty pause, in which I remember that my black BodyCon dress is little more than a tight wrap from my upper body to the middle of my thighs. I pulled my hair back before making my mad dash here, and I'm starting to realize that that panicked decision might have been a little short-sighted.
My parents look at the hickeys on my neck and collarbones before glancing at each other in unison, and my face flushes painfully. Maybe I didn't go straight to sleep, but...it's too late to lie about it now. Grandpa clears his throat and looks away, and Nana gives a little squeak of disgust before doing the same.
My dad clears his throat and thumbs the side of his freckled nose awkwardly.
"So do we...do we...ground her, or something?"
I lower my chin at him, my bruised sense of self desperately needing them to punish me in some way, but he just shrugs in bewilderment.
"Well...she's not Zach, and we've never had to do this before, so—"
"I'll take care of it, Joseph," my mom says softly, placing a hand on my arm. "You take care of your parents."
Dad glances back at Nana and Grandpa, who are watching our sap-fest with thinly-veiled disgust, before nodding solemnly.
"I'll get rid of them."
He kisses my forehead one more time and gives us a wink before breaking away from our little group. Mom smiles slightly at his back, eyes softening, before starting to lead me to my bedroom. I steal nervous glances at her as we walk, waiting for her to flip the switch, but nothing changes in her calm demeanor.
Once we're back in my room, surrounded by pale blue walls and white, princess-style furniture, her hand lingers on the doorknob.
"Do you want me to make an appointment with Dr. McCory? To get you on birth control?"
"What? We're not—we're not having sex. And I know how it looks, and that you don't believe me, but—"
"Of course I believe you, Birdie. Of course I believe you."
She still seems a little dazed as she speaks, placing a dark brown hand to her forehead. My mom, despite being in her early fifties, never looks a day above 35. But, right now, she's actually showing her age. I'm not sure if it's the wrinkle in her forehead that she gets when she frowns, or the bags underneath her eyes she earned from waiting up for me, but she just looks...tired.
"Mom?" I say, barely loud enough for her to hear, and she finally snaps out of her trance.
"Yes?"
"Why aren't you mad at me?"
"Being mad is for dogs, sugar," she finally replies, taking my wrist and sitting me down on my bed. She comes down next to me a second later, still cryptically silent as she puts down my coat and traces the flowers on my baby blue quilt.
Tears sting the back of my eyes at my own frustration. I wanted her to yell at me, to tell me that I've broken her trust, to let me know that I really am as horrible of a daughter as I feel right now.
She's in enemy territory—has been for more than half her life—and her intensity reflects that. She's held my reigns for so long, always encouraging me to be the best, to do the best. To be flawless so no one can tell me that I don't belong because of where—or who—she came from.
I shouldn't have messed up. I can't. Why won't she just tell me that?
"I still think you should be...careful," is all she says next. "I know you think that you and Jordan aren't going to have sex any time soon, but you two are...intense. It can happen before you know it. And if you bring me home a grand-baby before you're out of college, then I will be angry."
She suddenly leans in to tickle me at her last words, making me laugh despite the tears threatening me at the corners of my eyes. And then she takes my face in her hands again, planting a kiss on my forehead before holding me to her chest. Her warm hands rub circles on my back before she speaks again.
"Lillian...you are smarter, more hardworking, and more talented than your father and I could have ever dreamed of. You're destined for more than I can even comprehend right now—I don't want you to waste all of that potential on something as...as trivial as a party gone wrong or a decision to be reckless 'just this time.' And I don't need to tell you that all it takes is one misstep to throw things off forever."
I inhale a little, still holding back my tears as I press against her blouse, and she kisses the top of my head again.
"But you're not perfect. And I hate to say that I forgot, but...you're so good at hiding it. You're going to make mistakes—your dad and I are expecting you to make mistakes. There's no shame in that. No reason to get angry."
A warm, salty tear finally slithers down my cheek at her words. I should be relieved that I'm allowed—no, expected—to make mistakes, but I liked it better when I was perfect. If I'm not flawless, then...what the hell am I?
I still wish she yelled at me. Grounded me until I'm thirty. Told me that I'm a moon-eyed fool, a stupid teenager—anything.
Anything but that.
~ 💖 ~
My dorm room is deathly silent, so much so that I can hear my heart beating like the steady pulse of a drum. I roll over, trying to go back to sleep again although I've lost count of how many times I've already done so today. My tongue is dry in my mouth. I should be hungry, but I'm not. I'm just tired.
Not again. Not again.
Unable to drift off, I slam back the comforter covering my head and pick up my phone. The clock on it says that it's 6:08 PM; the long shadows of the tree outside my window confirm that by stretching across the tile floor.
Just to humor myself, I go back on Canvas, find Professor Montoya's class, and check my test grade one more time to make sure the past day wasn't a nightmare.
58.
If it was, then I still haven't woken up.
She put in our grades for the brush-up exam yesterday—a Saturday—completely ruining my weekend at home with my parents. I sit up, inhaling with a little sniffle, and put my phone back down. My head hurts: a painful, squeezing sensation that doesn't cease with a nap or closing my eyes.
In the entire 13 years of my academic career, never have I ever failed anything, not even once. I'm an encyclopedia, a search engine, a problem-solver, a robot. I am not a failure. I get As, only As, with smiley faces and nice notes beside my grade. I know calculus like the back of my hand.
So why am I struggling so much? Why can't I get anything right anymore?
One of my legs slips out of my bed, the second reconsidering, before I finally force myself to get up. I made the trip back from Pismo Beach this morning, my mom and dad loading me up with leftovers and words of reassurance, but my bed called me the second I set foot on campus. I won't waste away in solitude because I'm too weak to get up anymore. I refuse to go down that road again.
I pull on the black Clemson t-shirt and grey sweatpants that I stole from my brother—an outfit so loose that it hangs off of my frame like drapery. Then I shake my hands vigorously in my hair to make the curls stand up after being smashed down all day, slip on some athletic slides, and open the door.
It scares me how much I want Jordan right now. He'd probably tell me in his saccharine, patronizing Jordan-voice that I'm not perfect—and that it's okay. But that wouldn't help...not when he couldn't care less about the academic prowess of his future housewife. I know he thought—thinks—that my intelligence and drive are a waste, that there's no point in studying if my future were to consist of picking out flowers for the garden or parading our babies around Manhattan.
He's the wrong person to ask for an ear. But with Cleo still getting her hair braided in Oakland and my parents on the way home, I don't know where to turn.
As I walk down the hallway, I have no idea where I'm going. All I know is that I'm getting away from my pit of self despair; I've had enough experience with that place to know I want nothing to do with it. The slap of my slides is grounding, the cold air and bright lights waking me up completely.
I did everything right. I finished Montoya's homework the day she assigned it, asked questions in class, went to her office hours, studied like a maniac for two weeks straight, and still failed miserably. It's not like the exam covered anything new—it was just a refresher of basic calculus, a way for her to gauge our skills before we get into the real material. "An easy-A," she called it. "A no-brainer."
I still remember staring at the paper, knowing that I've seen this before, but not being able to recall anything past that. How to do anything.
What's wrong with me?
I knock on the wood door of Alejandro and Miguel's room, not knowing for a second why I'm here. For a moment, I consider turning around and taking off running, but it cracks open before I can.
Miguel appears in the doorway, as sunny as ever, and I can only see a glimpse of Alejandro spinning bored circles in his desk chair behind him. But, before I can say anything, Miguel gasps in horrified recognition and slams the door right in my face. I lift my fist to knock again, thinking better of it, before putting my ear to the door because I know they're in there.
"Dude, I swear I'm not lying, that's definitely her..."
"No fucking way..."
"Dead. Ass. She's standing out..."
"Well did you tell her to come..."
"...why would I do that?"
"Shit."
After a quick, hushed conversation of which I can only decipher snippets, I can hear vague movement: drawers being slammed, chairs scooting, and footsteps. After thirty seconds, the door opens all the way and I'm staring straight into Alejandro's chest.
"Hell has officially frozen over," his voice purrs, pleased, and I keep my eyes on his high school track team t-shirt before slowly raising them.
"Hi."
"Hey." He smiles, resting his shoulder against the frame of the door. "I thought you said you went home?"
"Oh, I did—I'm just...I'm already back."
My words stumble, not knowing what to say when I'm not giving him insults in disguise or heckling him about calculus.
"Oh, okay," he says quietly as ever, playing along. "I just got off a flight a few hours ago too, but...I'm glad I got back when I did. Wouldn't want to miss this piece of history."
"A flight?" I echo, confused. I didn't know he was doing anything important; he kept texting me and answering my calls like it was nothing all Friday and Saturday.
"Oh yeah, Cabo. I turned nineteen yesterday, so...I went to the beach to celebrate."
He shrugs, not picking up on the absurdity of leaving the country for one weekend in the middle of the quarter.
"Oh, wow..." I utter, suddenly connecting the dots. "Happy late birthday."
I know that yesterday was October 2nd, a date I remember by heart as Jordan's birthday. But it's not like I have the ability to contact him and wish him a happy nineteenth when I went out of my way to lose his number. And, even if I did remember that it was Alejandro's birthday, too, there's no reason I should know that.
"Thanks."
He's still grinning, but I'm sure that he's getting impatient.
I look down again, folding my hands and embarrassed now that I'm here.
"Um—what did you make on the brush-up exam? She—she put the grades in yesterday."
"100. Why?"
He looks genuinely confused, pricking me even further. Of course he's beaten me at everything for as long as I've known him, but learning that he made almost twice my grade isn't really what I needed right now.
"No reason," I choke out.
Silence.
"Well, thanks."
I turn, making my getaway and cursing myself for even coming here, before he speaks.
"Wait—Lillian."
I stop against my better judgement, turning again.
"Yeah?"
"Do you..." he pauses, gesturing to his room. "Do you want to come in?"
I freeze at the proposition, my next words already grasping for excuses.
"You aren't...busy, or anything?
"No, not at all. Miguel's forcing me to watch Big Time Rush from start to finish, so...a rescue would actually be very appreciated." He scoffs, long lashes batting down as he closes his eyes. "My offer still stands. What do you say?"
Hell no.
"Yes," my mouth says without permission from my brain, and, before I know it, he's leading me inside with a gentle hand on my back.
My eyes take everything in, from the obviously professional interior design to the planets, stars, and model rocket ships hanging from the ceiling on Alejandro's side. Old photos sit on his dresser beside a well-loved dinosaur plush, and vinyl records, retro space posters, and a Colombian flag hang on the walls.
I don't know why, but the evidence of his personhood kind of startles me. Alejandro Molina has a life and a past of his own: hobbies, interests, and memories outside of being the villain in an invisible girl's story.
Miguel's side is just as telling, covered in soccer trophies, pictures of him surfing at the beach, and a collection of stuffed animals that he probably isn't keen on showing off.
Warm, personal, and immaculately clean, it's not what I expect from two teenage boys. I don't know what I did expect in the first place, but this certainly isn't it.
"Your room. It's nice."
The compliment tastes like vinegar, but I didn't come here to lie. Alejandro grins again, the expression warmer than the orange sun setting outside.
"Gracias, maní."
"Peanut?" I repeat, recognizing the nickname, and he lowers his chin a little.
"¿Hablas español? [You speak Spanish?]"
"Claro que sí; quería aprender. [Of course; I wanted to learn.]"
"Ay," he chuckles, passing me with a whiff of cologne. "I guess I do have to watch what I say around you, then."
"Why start now?" I get a little of my nerve back, turning to watch him plug in an electric teapot by his refrigerator. "I kind of like hearing you narrate your inner thoughts."
He gives me a look that can freeze fire as he stands again, but his amber gaze is still playful. And is that...a little red on his cheeks? Did I actually manage to embarrass the Alejandro Molina?
"Are you blushing?" I ask, just to check, but I know he'll lie no matter what.
"You have bad eyes." He gestures to my glasses before he turns around again, giving me his back. "Do you want tea? I have jasmine and chamomile."
Deciding to drop it, I sit in his desk chair and massage my headache.
"Yeah. Jasmine is fine."
He prepares two mugs, one solid black and the other in the shape of a cactus, before leaning against the windowsill as the water heats up. The orange glow of the setting sun loves him, bathing his ethereal features and turning his amber eyes a brilliant gold. We're wearing almost the same clothes: a t-shirt and sweatpants, and I'm a little taken aback at the sight.
Even dressed down, he's still mind-bogglingly gorgeous. Although I'm aware that he just happened to be blessed with stunning bone structure, great genes, and lots of money with which to maintain his appearance, his effortless beauty makes me realize that I probably look like a walking fright. And I wish that I had put on a different outfit, or my contacts, or at least a little makeup.
"You're not gonna ask me why I'm here?" I pipe up, tearing my eyes away from him, and I see him tilt his head in my periphery.
"No. If you want to tell me or not, that's your prerogative."
I look around, realizing that Miguel has slipped out without me even noticing. Should I tell him? If I don't, then...what did I come here for in the first place?
As his eyes bore into me, I figure he'll find out sooner or later.
"I bombed Montoya's test. Like—bombed it." I close my eyes, not wanting to see his face. "It's my first time failing anything, really. You wouldn't have to worry about that; you're...perfect."
"Yeah right," he whispers, suddenly beside me.
I jump, not expecting him to cross the room so quickly when my eyes were closed. And, once I look up at him from my chair, he shows me his hands—he slipped off his trademark gold rings when I wasn't looking.
"Can I touch you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your head. You have a headache, don't you? Let me help."
Weirdo.
We've only known each other for a few weeks and he's doing this? However, since I have been holding my head since I've stepped foot in here and shouldn't be turning down help, I ignore both the absurdity and my disdain.
"Fine."
As I turn around wearily, I see the beginning of a slight smile grace his lips when his fingers lift to reach into my hair. He explores it more gently than I thought possible, fingertips tracing delicate circles on my scalp. I knew plenty of girls in high school that craved his touch, and I can see why. He's got skills. No longer fighting it, I close my eyes as he speaks again.
"I'm not perfect." He's so quiet, his voice like a melody lulling me back to sleep. "But people sleep better at night if they think I am."
I just sigh in response. His fingers and the patterns they trace—they remind me of Jordan's touch. It makes me homesick, in a way: longing for a version of someone that doesn't really exist. But Alejandro's hands are warm in comparison to Jordan's, which, like every other part of him, are characteristically cold.
He continues for a few more minutes, only backing away to fill our mugs with teabags and hot water. Then he moves Miguel's desk chair in front of me, sits down regally, and hands me my steeping tea.
"So...you're here about the test."
I open my mouth to ask for sugar, still wanting to avoid the topic, but he raises a couple of packets between two fingers before tossing them to me.
"Anyway...I'm flattered, but...why did you want to talk to me, of all people? You're so close to your parents—are you afraid of what they'll say?"
"I'm not afraid of what they'd say; they already know." I look down into my mug, watching the amber brown of the tea leech into the clear water. "They didn't make me feel any better, though—they just told me that everyone messes up when they're adjusting. I'm sure it was the right thing to say, but...it wasn't what I wanted to hear."
"Well what did you want to hear?"
"I don't know," I respond, eyes cowering from his intense gaze. "I think I wanted them to be angry—angry with me, or angry at me...I don't think it would matter. I'm just tired of everyone telling me that it's going to be okay when I'm angry, too."
"Angry at what?" he asks carefully, lifting a manicured brow.
"I'm angry at—" I pause, dumbfounded by his simple question. "At Montoya, I guess. I've had better teachers, that's for sure."
"No, that's not it," he mumbles to himself, making my eyes lift to his.
"What?"
"You're not angry at Montoya, maní. You're angry at yourself."
He runs a hand through his glossy waves, tousling his perfect hair into a more human state.
"I know because I'd be angry at myself, too. We're not as different as you think we are—valedictorians, perfectionists...proud to a fault. But you don't see what everyone else sees when you look at yourself. I already knew that much."
"Well...how could I not be angry at myself? I worked so hard just to get here, and then I screw it up on the first chance I have to prove that I belong?" My voice sounds like a little girl's, on the verge of breaking as I look down again. "But I know...I know being angry won't do anything about it. So you don't have to tell me that."
"I'd never tell you that," he murmurs, his voice maddeningly comforting. "It's okay to be angry. You're upset, and you deserve to be upset—I'm not gonna force you to think otherwise. But I will let you in on a secret."
He stands, plucking the teabags out of both of our mugs and leaving me in the suspense he so enjoys making me endure. I hear the sound of the teabags landing in the trash can, and, not a split second later, his hands are on my shoulders and his mouth is just an inch from my ear.
"All of your emotions are important. It's okay to stew in them for a while instead of trying to turn them into something different. And, sometimes, anger is a good thing."
His warm purr sends a jolt from my core to the ends of every extremity on my body. That's the first time anyone has ever told me that so...so straight-up before.
Spending most of my life as an accessory to Jordan, I bottled up every bad emotion—my sadness, my anger, my discontent—all in the name of being more pleasant. Of making myself smaller. Even with my old therapist and now Dr. Suzuki, I guess I'm still forgetting that I don't have to do that anymore.
My breath skips a beat for more than one reason, the hair standing up on the back of my neck, and I hear a small scoff before he appears in front of me again and takes a nonchalant seat with his mug in hand.
"So you failed the test. There's nothing you can do about that now, is there?"
"Well—"
"Lillian."
"No."
"That's what I thought. So I have an idea." He pauses to drink some of his tea, letting my dread sink in for dramatic effect. "The second test is a partner exam—we'll take it together. So I'll help you study, and we'll ace that son of a bitch no matter what."
"And what's in it for you?" I ask wearily, knowing enough of him to be suspicious.
Confirming my hesitation, he gives me a nonchalant shrug with a terrifyingly coy smile.
"If we both get an A...you have to take me out. And since your grade is on the line, you won't throw the test to get out of it."
"I take you out?" I repeat, confused in more ways than one. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"
"Welcome to the 21st century, maní." He takes his mug from his lips, gesturing with a hand to signify the entire state. "And you live here. You're gonna make the New Yorker plan a night in California?"
I give him my best "screw you" look, but I hold out my hand to shake because I'll do anything for an A at this point. There are worse payments that I could be forced to make.
"Good." He takes my hand, squeezing it back. "It'll just be two friends hanging out. Totally innocent."
"Of course."
I inhale, drinking a little of my tea and realizing how good I actually have it. He's brilliant; he aced a test that I failed miserably, and yet he wants to help me—the girl that's hated him from a distance for years. He's been nothing but good to me, and yet I still hold that stupid grudge. I don't deserve this.
"I'm sorry," I squeak out, like a mouse. When he looks at me again, confused, I work up the courage and humility to keep going. "Sorry to bother you, to be a burden, everything. I know you're not used to making mistakes, and that I'm dragging you down, but—"
"My nudes are online," he says suddenly.
Silence hangs in the air for a painfully long moment, and I finally find the words—or word—to break it. A word I seem to say twice as much when I'm around him.
"What?"
"I was over 18—it's legal. And I was fucking this chick who was at NYU for photography, so they were high production quality, obviously. Maybe I didn't mean for more than a few people to see the pictures, but I'm not really ashamed of them at all." He exhales gently, his words confident even though his red cheeks tell a different story. "But, ashamed of them or not, it got out of my control fast. And you said that I don't make mistakes, so I'm proving you wrong."
I still can't find anything to say, so he elaborates with a hand behind his midnight hair.
"Senior year, someone I knew—doesn't matter how I knew her—tried to blackmail me with my nudes to make me do what she wanted. I had to either give in or spend the next few years wrapped up in lawsuits and begging all these websites to take them down. So I said 'fuck that' and posted them myself."
"...you what?"
"Yeah, it was a big thing back then; everyone in my grade saw them. But at that point I couldn't count on three hands how many people had already seen me naked, so...what was a few thousand more, right?"
"You're kidding," I finally manage, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time, but I know he's telling nothing but the truth. I obviously wasn't around for this, but the thought of him violating himself just to spite someone that wanted to do it without his consent is the most Alejandro Molina thing I can think of. "That's...awful."
"Oh yeah," he chuckles, nodding. "Do you want the link? I'm a work of art."
"No thanks," I answer quickly, and he tosses his eyes.
"Your loss."
There's a moment of silence as we both size each other up, drinking our tea. I don't know what to possibly say after that, and my natural awkwardness trips me. I look down at the mug that he gave me—it's the cactus one, so cheesy that I barely believe he owns it.
"Why did you give me the cactus mug? Am I special, or something?"
"Kinda." He closes his eyes blissfully, inhaling. "I went to Target for the first time with Miguel, and I bought it on the off chance that you'd end up here when we were studying. It reminded me of you."
"How so?"
"It's cute. And...prickly."
He smiles at me a little, and my gaze immediately falls to the floor. My heart—it's doing the thing—thumping longingly in my chest like it only used to when I was around Jordan. This isn't good at all. This has to stop.
"Look...I just told you about my nudes to make you feel a little better about fucking up every now and again." He leans forward, pushing one of my short curls back off of my face, and I let him. "You failed one test—the first one. I've posted my own nudes, almost gotten expelled, nearly killed myself on accident a few times...you don't know the half of it. So don't apologize to me about making mistakes, Lillian Bennett. I promise I'll outdo you."
Good thing he always does.