"So one day he found her crying,
coiled up on the dirty ground.
Her prince finally came to save her,
and the rest you can figure out.
But it was a trick, and the clock struck twelve.
Well, make sure to build your heart brick by boring brick,
or the wolf's gonna blow it down."
- "Brick By Boring Brick," Paramore (2009)
Alejandro
When November comes to central California, it sneaks up on me without New York's chill to come with it. There's only a few weeks left in our autumn quarter, but I have a sinking feeling that it's far from over.
"I can't," Lily whines, digging her palms into her eyes. "I can't do this right now."
"Yes you can," I say from behind her, hands not ceasing their kneading on her shoulders.
She's so tense all the time, both physically and mentally. She lets me unwind her with shoulder and head massages, but, for the life of me, I can't get into her brain and smooth things out there. She has a tendency to revert directly to this "all is lost" spiral when she doesn't immediately pick up what she's studying—the classic mark of a whiz kid facing adversity for the first time. That's a phenomenon I'm glad to not have experienced yet.
She inhales with a little sniffle, covering her face with her hand for a moment before picking up her pencil again. Lillian Bennett is so much smarter than this; having a conversation with her will tell you that. She speaks nature like a third language, having a large file in her brain for scientific names, ecological webs, and microbiology. But, for some reason, calculus is where her skills fall short.
Eve Montoya runs her class like a dictatorship, and, because it's already upper-level, she's not the best at slowing down or giving detailed explanations for those not picking it up. Lily's been to her office hours more times than I can count, but even those seem to be futile when it matters.
"The last test," I start, ignoring the part of my brain that says to stay away from the topic. "How did you do? You...never told me."
I'll admit that it shocked the devil out of me when she admitted she failed our first test, and that I wasn't expecting her to be so open about everything after that. But, right now, I wish she'd just let me in again so I could help her. We've taken three tests this quarter: one together and two alone. The last one happened last week, and I know we've both gotten our grades back.
"I passed."
Her answer is short but telling. I'll assume it was somewhere in the 70s—passing, but nothing to be proud of.
"Good." It's better than no improvement at all. "At least you're getting somewhere."
"Yeah right; I'm barely holding on to a C in that class." She leans back in her desk chair, and I can see her eyes close from above. "The final is gonna destroy me; I know it. My GPA will get screwed up, I'll have to retake the class...I'm resigned to my fate."
"You sure about that?" I ask quietly, knowing from our time together that she's probably just trying to convince herself of that. "What about your parents? How would they take that?"
Her eyes are pointed up at me when she opens them again: dark, angled, and rimmed in curled eyelashes. She takes a moment before she answers, clearly weighing how much of the truth she'll tell me.
"Best case scenario...they'll cut me some slack because it's just one class. I'm doing better in biology and chem, so—they might think calc is a fluke." Another pause. "Worst case scenario, they symptomize it as part of a bigger problem and bring me home for a semester or two. They'll worry that I'm getting bad again...that always scares the shit out of them. They'll do anything to stop it."
My heart drops for more reasons than one.
Would they really bring her home? They're overprotective, sure, and they only live a few hours away, but the thought is equally too hard to wrap my head around and too much to bear. Lily's an irrevocably determined young lady, but how many people really come back from breaks like that?
Even if this goes nowhere past friendship, I absolutely cannot lose her.
"Bad...again?" I murmur, voicing my other concern.
I know that she goes to therapy and takes anti-depressants, but what must have happened in her past to scare her parents so badly? So much so that they'd pull her out of her dream school for fear of it happening again?
She looks down, brushing my hands off of her shoulders and ignoring my question.
"I have a headache. I think I need to lay down."
I narrow my eyes as she walks around me and lays in the fetal position on her made-up bed. She has headaches often, so I don't point out the convenience of this particular one and just sit in her desk chair instead.
As I watch her eyebrows relax from their perpetually narrowed state, I think about our past few weeks together. We've grown remarkably close remarkably fast, and, two months ago, I would have considered my mission a failure since we're not dating yet. But now I know how short-sighted that was.
All my life, I've underestimated the value of having a good friend. Truly, I don't think I ever knew what that was before meeting Miguel and Lily. I've had Jordan by my side since we were born, but it's not like we made the conscious decision to be best friends. We just...were.
Although it feels wrong to say it, I know that Lily has taken his place. She's my closest confidante, a version of myself from an alternate universe, and we never get tired of being around each other all day. But it's even more than that.
On our "date" last month, we skirted around the topic of relationships. And, at dinner, I almost said it—that I want to be with her. I could have, but I didn't. For her sake.
As much as I try to deny it, I have a disorder. And dealing with it will be hard. I need to watch the moves that I make, because rushing into something that won't last will be disastrous for both parties involved. As much as my therapists tell me not to be embarrassed of being bipolar, I haven't told anyone but Jordan and my family. Am I hesitating on moving things forward because I don't want to drag Lily into it, or is it because I don't want her to find out and leave me on her own?
"Do you want me to go?" I stand again, facing her tiny figure curled up on the bed. "We can always finish the homework later if—"
"No." Her answer is sharp, cutting me off as she holds out her hand. "Keep talking. I...I like your voice. And God knows you could keep talking for hours without a break."
And then she curls up even tighter, making room for me. I take my spot at her feet more giddily than I should, slipping my shoes off and sitting criss-cross among her many stuffed animals.
Despite our rocky start, she actually prefers to have me in her room now: a pretty piece of furniture in the background while she does her own thing. Honestly, it's an honor to be a part of her scenery—as ingrained as the soft light filtering in through sheer curtains, the flower garlands hanging from the ceiling, and the Frank Sinatra she constantly plays while studying.
Not imposing enough to throw things off, but important enough for her to notice (and loathe) my absence. I like that balance more than I thought possible.
I comment on the nearing end of this quarter, the rest of my classes, and the people in them—stalling while I search for another topic to switch to. Should I talk about Thanksgiving since it's in two weeks? Jordan will probably drag me back home on the G5 if he has any say in it. Or maybe I could talk about the gravitational properties of black holes and put her to sleep instead.
My words pause when I notice the Sinatra song playing in the background. The corners of Lily's lips raise as she places a hand on her chest and hums along gently, obviously pleased by the selection. And, as it often does, my heart sends pulsating waves of warmth to every extremity of my body.
She looks...happy.
I'd give anything if it meant she'd stay that way.
"You...like this one?" I say, still trying to pinpoint the song. It sounds so familiar, but I'm no connoisseur of Sinatra—Jordan is the only person I know who can name more than three songs by him. But I don't need to think any longer when I hear the comforting ring of my hometown in the lyrics—New York, New York.
"It's my favorite," Lil finally answers, opening her eyes. "Well...it was my Nana's favorite, really, but...those kind of things get passed down pretty easily."
Of course. Lily's the youngest senior citizen I've ever met—a little old lady in every way but physical.
"Have you ever been to New York?"
My question is genuinely curious and completely innocent, but the look on her face tells me that I've struck a chord. Her mouth opens and closes a few times as her eyes turn to me, and, in a moment of resolve, she just sighs.
"Um...yeah. Believe it or not, I actually...I actually used to live there before we moved to California."
"What?" My interjection comes out louder than I intend it to, but I don't skip a beat. "And this just...never came up?"
"You never asked," she responds, closing her eyes again, and I take a deep breath.
Relax; it doesn't change anything now. More likely than not, the closest we've ever been is the same borough at the same time—if that.
"What borough?" I ask anyway, on a hunch, and her eyebrows jerk downward.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes!" I pull her legs into my lap, shaking my head. "It says a lot about you."
"Manhattan, okay? Doesn't matter where," she snaps, cutting me off before I can ask her what school she went to. "I hated it, and we left. End of story."
Her words are unusually final, leaving no room for me to prod further and still stay in her good graces. So I attack from a different angle.
"Well...what did you hate about it?"
She bites, to my relief, fingers rubbing circles on the sides of her head.
"The vapid conversations, the gossip, the two-timing, the excess, my dad's racist friends and family...it was too much."
For some reason, I hear my heartbeat in my ears. I remember the end of my senior year on the Upper East Side. I think about how many of the things she just listed were choking me as well. How could I possibly blame her for getting out before I could?
"Well...when did you realize that New York wasn't the place for you?" I say quietly, tracing patterns on her calf.
Silence.
"Do you..." she pauses, closing her eyes again with a curiously pained expression on her face. "Do you want me to be real?"
"Of course I do."
"Well...I...don't know exactly when."
Her voice is soft, barely audible over the new Sinatra song and her fan whirring away on the nightstand. She takes the time to pause the music and run a hand through her freshly cut hair, making me think that might be the extent of her answer. But she speaks again with another one.
"Somewhere between my first year of high school and my...my suicide attempt."
Her words change the atmosphere completely, dragging it down so heavily that it sucks the air right out of my lungs. It's silent, and I sit up when I realize that, for once, I don't know my next step.
I'm not a wordsmith—not like Jordan. I'm good at streams of consciousness, quick banter, and keeping people on their toes. But I can't quote classic literature; I can't string together meaningful, well-crafted expressions that have the exact effect that I intend them to. I should tell her that I know how she feels. That, during my depressive cycles, I had briefly considered it without going so far as to actually try.
I don't—I can't right now, but my answer is still truthful.
"Lil, I'm...so, so sorry that I couldn't have been there."
"It's okay." She finally opens her eyes, but they're softer now: big and shiny. Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks again. "You're here now."
I inhale, looking up at the ceiling to ward off the tears and burning in the back of my throat that appear without my permission. I know the last thing she wants is a pity party, but shit. I know what it's like to hit those depths, and that's what makes her confession so jarring. She's sure as hell not dipping a single toe into them again on my watch. Not while I'm holding her hand to pull her up.
My words struggle on my tongue for a moment before finally marching out.
"Can I ask...what happened? To get you there?"
She looks up too, swallowing and nodding gently to herself before sitting up.
"I—I tried to do everything, to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Family stuff, and my brother being gone to college, and...busting my ass at school just to not feel like I'm getting anywhere. Being desperately in love with a boy that didn't love me back until it was too late."
Her voice breaks as a few tears, the first ones I've ever seen from her, roll down her cheeks. She doesn't even bother to wipe them away.
"I felt alone when the people I relied on were too busy to care, and it destroyed me. So we moved without telling anyone. I told myself that leaning on people too heavily was dangerous, that the only things I could rely on were my brain and my drive." She shakes her head to herself. "Now look where that got me."
I turn my knees so we're facing each other, then taking her hand and absentmindedly tracing her palms with my finger. She doesn't pull away, just sighing and looking down at her hand in mine. I keep tracing and tracing while searching for something to say, eyes glued to my work.
"If it's any solace, I know what you mean."
"How could you?" she whispers, voice wavering. "Everyone loves you; you're not alone."
I squeeze her hand tighter and my eyes shut, mouth going dry as I attempt to open it. I can do this. She was truthful with me, so I should be truthful with her.
"I'm...bipolar, you know."
My tongue is like lead in my mouth, attempting to flatten the confession as it comes out. That's the first time I've ever said it out loud, the first time I've ever admitted it to myself outside of my own head.
"You...are?"
She doesn't sound disgusted or scared, to my relief. And, when I open my eyes, she doesn't hop up and run for the hills like I'm halfway expecting her to. She's just...surprised, confused, curious. I can work with that.
"Yeah. I was diagnosed last March, but it's been going on for much longer than that. High school was a...tough time for me."
Her grip tightens on my hand this time, but I keep going.
"Really tough. I was popular back then, but people like you because you're fun, because you're rich, because you're good looking. They don't want to know that you haven't slept in three days, or that there's this empty hole gnawing at your insides for months at a time."
I let go of her hand, wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to settle into the rare vulnerability. I've been a peacock since the very first time I saw her, rattling around proudly in hopes that she'd see how beautiful and perfect I am. But now, for the first time, I feel like hiding.
"I was always, always surrounded by people. But I felt like the loneliest person in the world."
I don't know what I expect her to say or do, if anything at all. But, somehow, her reaction still manages to shock me. That adorable face crumples in an instant before she devolves into a fit of bitter weeping, like a child with a broken heart.
All of my own sadness disappears without delay, overtaken by concern. Is it something I said? Did I hurt her? Did I just ruin our moment?
She pulls it together remarkably fast, covering her mouth with a shaking hand.
"I'm so sorry...you're talking about your problems and I'm the one crying." She wipes her tears away, eyes puffy and cheeks red. "I'm sorry."
"Hey." I go out on a limb, taking her face in my hands and using my thumbs to rub the streaks from her cheek. "It's okay. We've both been through a ton of shit, but we have each other now. We're gonna be okay."
"Yeah." She stares up at me, zoning out for a moment before nodding her head. "Yeah, I hope so."
"I know I'm not in the position to be giving you advice, but there's something my therapist told me that I think would help both of us. It's something like...the key to moving on from all the hurt that the past has caused us is just...actually doing something about it. Building everything back, brick by brick, no matter how slow you go or how long it takes."
I finally un-cup her cheeks, but I'm already longing to touch her again.
"The answer to your problems is in the future, not the past. So stop dwelling on the bad times and keep rebuilding instead."
"Are you finished building?"
Her question isn't a "gotcha," but one that sounds completely sincere. I wish I could lie and say that I have, that all she had to do was look to me for answers. Yet I'm probably a bigger wreck than she could ever be.
"No. No, not even close."
And then we just sit in silence for a moment, soaking in each other's presence.
We're almost there—toeing the line between friendship and something more. But we're not two squeaky-clean hearts ready to give our all to each other without thinking about the consequences. Do I want to handcuff her to me for the long haul, to risk her happiness just to preserve mine? I wish I could give her the world, promise her a future with me that has nothing but smooth sailing ahead, but I just can't.
I will do anything, anything for her—I don't care if that makes me naive, or impulsive, or downright unreasonable. And if that involves keeping my feelings at bay, then I'll happily clam up for as long as she needs me to. Even if that's forever.
I hear her sniffle shakily in my daze, and her hand rests on my shoulder a split second before I even realize that she's at my side.
"Thank you for being here. And for helping me," she whispers, leaning her head against my arm. "But the problems I have now...I can handle them on my own."
"I know you can." I lean my head on top of hers, closing my eyes in resolve. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
~ 🖤 ~
"Dr. Montoya?"
Even though it's her office hours, I knock cautiously on her door. She looks up at me, lifting her glasses to the top of her head and waving me in. I close the door behind me, rubbing my palms on my shirt.
"Alejandro, right?" she murmurs, going back to typing on her computer for a moment. When she notices my hesitance, she rolls her eyes. "You don't see people that look like you every day."
"Well, yeah—" My gaze drops to my feet when I find myself pausing, something I'm not used to at all. But she's staring a hole into me, just like she does in class. "Yes. That's me."
She puts her elbows on her desk, folding her hands together and sighing.
"You've sat in the front row for months—I've never seen anyone that eager look so spooked when I recognized them." She runs a hand through her shiny blonde hair, pushing it over her shoulder. "What do you need?"
I inhale, holding my breath in my chest for a moment before finding my nerve.
"I don't know if this is allowed, but...I'm kinda here about another one of your students. Lillian Bennett? She's my partner, sits to my left?"
She opens her laptop again, presumably looking her up before lifting her eyebrows.
"...Right."
Both her pause and her expression tell me all I need to know about the grade she's probably seeing, but I pretend not to notice and keep going.
"I'm a little...worried about her. She's not doing that great, and she's having a pretty hard time with the material without me around. I'm sure this isn't...a normal request for you, but...if there's anything I can do to help her, or a way you could step in—"
"You have a stellar grade in my class—one of the best I've ever seen," she interrupts, blue eyes locking with mine. "Trust me, her missteps will in no way hinder you."
"Well, yes, but—" I start, but she interrupts me again.
"But what?"
"I think something's wrong. And I don't know what to do."
The words roll off my tongue easier than I thought they would. I've been thinking it in the back of my head since she failed our first test, but our little heart-to-heart yesterday really concerned me. If she bombs this class, what kind of spiral will that send her into?
"She comes to my office hours every week. Total sweetheart and super cute; I see why you like her." Montoya gives me a feline grin before dropping her glasses over her eyes again. "But shouldn't she be telling me this?"
"She should." I don't break eye contact anymore. "But she won't. She's too proud."
"That sounds like a problem for her, Alejandro." She shrugs, resting her chin on the top of her hand. "I can't help someone that doesn't want to tell me what's wrong. Even having this conversation is pushing it—what do you even propose I do about this?"
"We take the final alone, and that's when she struggles." I train my gaze on her, using my mom's demanding voice that leaves her perfectly straightforward words up to interpretation. "She's working harder than she's getting credit for."
"Oh?" Montoya titters, her interest mocking as she looks down at her laptop. "So it's the final she's worried about. Smart girl—people never stop complaining about how heavily it's weighted."
"She works on your class almost every day," I say plainly, trying not to let my desperation slip into my voice. "She works harder than I do. I know that you don't do extra credit, but—"
"How about I do you one better?" She interrupts me yet again, leaning forward in her chair and folding her arms on the desk. "You care about Lillian, I assume? I mean, if you didn't, you wouldn't be here asking me to cut slack that you know I don't give."
I just lift my eyebrows at her, giving her all the answer she needs. If she wants to play superiority politics and mind games, then she certainly met her match in me.
"Adorable," is all she whispers to herself before returning to me. She's ten years older than me, give or take, but talking with her feels like I'm back in high school. Battling ambitious rich kids itching for my spot on top with everything but my hands. "You say that she's a hard worker, and that she'll go far to succeed, but...
A pause that chills the air.
"How far are you willing to go for her?"
She stuns me for a moment because of where my mind immediately goes. But she can't be—
"What do you mean?" I ask instead, not letting my apprehension show.
"How old are you?"
She answers my question with a question of her own, already telling me what I need to know.
"Almost twenty."
It's a white lie—I do that often when it comes to my age. But it certainly sounds better than straight-up nineteen...especially if I'm catching her drift correctly.
"Then I think you know what I mean."
At her words, I look down at her left ring finger. Empty.
"Maybe." My stomach turns, but I keep a straight face. "But I don't see what this has to do with our conversation at all."
It's a leading statement, and she knows that. But she goes along with it, revealing her terms.
"Extra credit could work for Lillian, but I have a reputation to uphold—and if I give it to her, everyone will want it. So how about we keep it off the books? How does a low A on the final sound? If she's working as hard as you say she is, it shouldn't be far off from what she'd get herself." She tilts her head, picking up a sticky note and writing a series of numbers on it. It takes me a second to realize that it's her phone number from upside down. "She won't even have to know about it. Everyone wins."
Then she tears the sticky note, holding it a foot away from her face. Christ, she's gonna make me reach for it.
"If you don't make good on it, I'm reporting you." I threaten her as I take it, softening the impact of the power play. "We both know how universities like to make an example of people who step out of line."
Her eyes narrow, picking me apart, but then she smiles to show that I don't scare her.
"Well I guess we just won't let it get that far, will we?"
"That's up to you, and only you."
I set my jaw, standing up taller even though I'm towering over her in her seat. I may have been...outmaneuvered before, but this time will be different. I'm calling the shots here. I'm in control of this, goddammit.
"I have nothing to lose. No one expects anything out of me—in fact, I have a dozen people just waiting for me to fuck up so they can swoop in and clear whatever path of destruction I leave. I know from experience...they'll erase anything I do if it would reflect badly on them. And that includes you." As I talk, I feel Jordan creeping into my domineering head tilt, into the steely burn of my gaze, into the calculated coldness of my voice. "I promise you...you'll be touching permanent unemployment before you ever touch me. And if you bring Lillian into this, I have all the time in the world to make you regret it."
Montoya just digs her short nails into her palm and tosses her eyes in boredom.
"Big words. But how do I know that they're not just that? Words?"
"Fuck around and find out," is all I say—straight and to the point.
"Oh-ho-ho...you are a mouthy one!" Her response is genuinely charmed as another smile spreads across her face. "But that's okay—it's what I like about guys your age. All the arrogance in the world without any experience to knock you down a peg. As a female engineer in her thirties...I guess I admire that blind confidence."
I just stare at her, not sure where we stand on this conversation, and she clarifies with a small exhale of a laugh.
"I don't have anything to gain from crossing you—even if you are bluffing. I just see what I want and I go for it, no matter the risk. I think we're alike in that way." She jerks her head in the direction of the door. "Now go. Before I change my mind."
I want to tell myself that we're not alike, that I'm better than her, but here I am. Prodigal intelligence makes people like Lily: hardworking, inquisitive, thirsty for knowledge. But it also makes people like Montoya, like Jordan, like...me.
Maybe I haven't changed at all, despite my efforts. But is it different if I'm doing it for someone else, someone that I really care about? If I'm justified in my actions?
Doesn't matter. My mind is already made.
"Have a good day, Dr. Montoya," I whisper with unabated malice, holding the post-it note up at her between my middle and pointer finger as I leave.
"Good talk," she answers, looking up as another student peeks in through the window in the door.
The weightless note feels like iron in my hand as I push past the other student and into the hallway. My brain is screaming at me from a thousand different directions, telling me that I should be better than this, that I'm in over my head, that I really am nothing but a pretty face.
But I keep a straight face as I walk, pushing down the bile that rises in my throat. I'm doing stunningly well in Montoya's class, but not well enough for both Lily and I. She works so hard, and it's so unfair, but life is nothing if not a cesspool of screw-overs. You just have to play the game, something I'm remarkably good at, and I'm more than willing to do that for her. What other choice do I have if I don't want to lose her?
It's an evil, I almost hear my mom say. But it's a necessary evil. The trick to getting what you want is recognizing what those are.
Brick by brick, Alejandro, no matter how hard it is. Brick by brick.