"Control is what I've got, because I do with chance.
I don't wanna rule the world—
just wanna run my life."
- "Control," Janet Jackson (1986)
Alejandro
"I'm never drinking again," I think to myself for the millionth time, closing my eyes to ease the blinding headache I get from the morning sun. It was a dumb move to pick a seat by the window if I'm going to come to class hungover every Monday, but hindsight's a bitch.
Or is it karma's a bitch? Hindsight's 20/20? Something about foresight?
Hell if I know.
"Mrs. Stewart will be back by Wednesday. Your research papers are also due then, but those'll come in to me. For all you procrastinators out there, I suggest you start yesterday, because your parents aren't paying 80,000 dollars a year in tuition for you to fail freshman chem."
Ms. Carr, a student teacher and our chemistry professor's assistant, breaks into my grogginess with a slightly louder tone as she ends class. I wince at her voice, eyes still closed, as everyone around me groans in response.
Oh, God damn it. I was supposed to work on that this weekend, but I was busy doing...other things the whole time—it's why I have a hangover right now. A few days ago, all I cared about was trying to escape. But, right now, the only thing on my mind is how much I'm screwed.
I open my eyes one at a time, trying to push down the nausea I've been feeling since this morning. Jordan notices me, wordlessly handing me a water bottle as he types on his phone. I take it and realize how extremely dehydrated I am when I start drinking, but I still have enough pride to not thank him or notice the smugness on his face.
The bell rings, making me flinch again, and I close my eyes once more as everyone starts packing up. Maybe I should skip the rest of the day. Jordan and I have the same schedule, so he could take notes, and I don't think we have anything due today. I'll tell Paola that I'm sick, or something...but then what? I still have a report due in two days that cannot possibly be done in that short of a time.
I hear Jordan stand from the desk beside me, only opening my eyes when he places a hand on my head and pushes it to the side. He leans down to look at me, and, even though I glower back at him, his words show how unintimidated he is at me in this state.
"If you want to be valedictorian, then you should probably quit coming to every other first period hungover or high." He pats me twice on the shoulder. "That'll help."
I flip him off as he leaves, massaging my temples before slowly getting my things in order. By the time I stand, the classroom is empty save for me and Ms. Carr. I know Mrs. Stewart is a stickler about extensions, but I have a 100 in her class—who's to say her assistant won't cut me some slack?
Here goes nothing.
"Ms. Carr?" I say as clearly as possible, not letting my hangover show.
She stops shuffling papers, lifting dark eyes at me when I get her attention.
"Oh, Alejandro...what can I do for you?"
"Um..." I pause, trying to decide whether I should skate around my point or get right to it. "I was going to work on my report this weekend, but something came up and I...didn't get to. It was important, I promise, but I think I need an extension."
Her face doesn't change, and for a moment I'm sure that she's going to tell me no, but her response still leaves me guessing.
"Something came up?"
I nod, ignoring the pain in my skull.
"My abuela was in the hospital." Think, Alejandro, think. "The medication that she was on lowered her blood pressure too much, and she had a stroke. Life comes at you fast—the best laid plans, you know?"
Nice. If I get any better at lying, maybe I can fool myself.
Ms. Carr grits her teeth, eyes ticking back and forth, before nodding.
"Okay. On my desk next Monday."
"Really?" I utter instantly, not believing that she gave up that easily. I might be giving myself away by doing so, but Mrs. Stewart once refused an extension to Jordan when he broke his wrist the day a project was due. If she gives me an extension without me coming back from the dead first, then Ms. Carr is fighting a monster for me.
"Really." She shrugs. "You're right about the best laid plans. I mean...I graduated in the top two percent of my class, moved to New York City, went to Columbia, and dreamed of making a difference in the lives of the millions of kids here. Now I'm twenty and in an unpaid internship where I yell at rich kids all day. Life does come at you fast, but...that's just part of being an adult."
I open my mouth for a moment before I know what to say, but I still quickly fill the silence she leaves.
"Thank you for the slack, but...I don't know anything about being an adult. I'm fifteen—I'm just a stupid kid, I mean...look at me."
I gesture to myself before realizing once again that I'm giving myself away. One corner of her mouth raises, but she doesn't call me out on it.
"You're not stupid, and you're not a kid, Alejandro. Hell, you're more mature than three-fourths of the staff here, and they're old as sliced bread."
I blush unexpectedly at the compliment, wondering how she could possibly know the exact way to stroke my ego.
When I don't respond, she sighs and shakes her head.
"I know you're lying to me, Alejandro. And you're a scary good liar, but I'm an even better one."
I tense at her words, virtually seeing my extension and grade go down the drain, but she places a gentle hand over mine as it's balled up on the desk.
"But you don't have to lie to me; I have your back. I haven't been doing this for long, but I know brilliance when I see it. You're the brightest student we have in this whole grade—I don't need a lab report to tell me that." She squeezes my fist. "I want you to stay at the top of your class because you belong there. So if you need a lucky break every now and again, I'm more than happy to give you one."
I look down at her hand over mine, vision swimming for more reasons than one, before I lift my eyes to her again.
"T—thank you."
"Making sure students succeed is basically my job," she answers in a clinical voice, removing her hand.
I step back to get to my next class, her last sentence making me wonder if I just imagined that whole conversation. When I turn toward the door, I touch the hand that she covered and examine it. Does she really think that I'm an adult, that I'm mature beyond my years instead of the impossible teenager everyone keeps telling me I am? Or was she just being a friendly teacher? Doing her job?
"Emergen-C," she says suddenly, making me stop in my tracks and face her again.
"What?"
"Emergen-C tablets. No one really thinks about them, but...they do wonders for hangovers."
My blood runs cold and my face turns warm in embarrassment, wondering if she's going to lecture me like my English teacher did a few weeks ago. But she just smiles at my shock, sending me off with a little wink.
~ 🖤 ~
"Let's revisit the topic of grooming."
Dr. Suzuki opens her laptop, and I keep my eyes on the clock ticking away above the door.
"For what? I already told you everything that happened; I don't see what harping on it is going to do but...bring up old wounds."
"Old wounds, sure, but festering ones," Dr. Suzuki answers calmly, not giving in to my aggression. "The situation with you and your teacher ended not even a year ago, and it was going on for years before that. The kind of impact that can leave on you cannot be understated, even if you can't see that now."
I close my eyes, rolling them underneath my lids. Dr. Suzuki has been glued to the topic of Sarah Carr ever since my first off-handed mention of her a few months ago. I know that she's a professional, and that the relationship in question must have some significance if she constantly goes back to it, but sometimes I wish she'd just leave it alone.
Things with Ms. Carr were fine for three years: she helped me stay afloat grades-wise as I was distracted by the highs and lows of my disorder. We were friends—or at least I thought we were. But she wanted more from me than my friendship if she was going to help me stay valedictorian. Things were fine until they weren't anymore.
"Okay." I throw my hands up in defeat. "Grooming. What else about it?"
"Well, you're already aware of the baseline definition and aspects of it. But I want to focus on your side of the story in this rather than just looking at it as a case study."
Dr. Suzuki lifts her glasses back to the top of her nose, looking for my permission to continue, and I nod to give it to her. She inhales, settling into her seat.
"Of course, you were the minor in this scenario, so none of the blame falls on you—I want to underscore that as much as I can. But, if we decode the reasons why you were so eager to pursue a relationship with Ms. Carr, then maybe you can learn some important things about yourself."
"Okay," I say quietly, trying not to let on my intrigue. "But I can't tell you why I did it; it's almost...impossible to walk it all the way back like that."
Dr. Suzuki dips her head to acknowledge my concern, then looking at her notes and asking me a question that catches me off guard.
"You have a very close relationship with your mother, right?"
"...Yes," I start, confused. "But I don't see what that has to do with—"
"What is it like?" she interrupts, a rare behavior for her. "Were you two always like that?"
I pause to acknowledge the absurdity of where this conversation is going before answering anyway.
"We always have been. She had me so young...it was like we grew up together. Everyone else I knew barely talked to their parents, but we were always, always together, since I was a baby in her arms." I grin fondly, remembering all the experiences we've had together. "It was cool, having her as a friend and a mom at the same time. She never talked down to me, or told me that I wouldn't understand something because I was too young. It meant a lot to me when I got older, that she never treated me like a stupid child. She treated me like—I don't know—like..."
"An adult," Dr. Suzuki finishes softly, not a question but an answer. "Were you used to people treating you like an adult? Being around other adults?"
"I guess so. You know, people would always tell her how mature I was. How well I could hold a conversation." I think about all the important people she let me meet from the time I was young: designers and CEOs and fellow supermodels. How much she must have trusted me to let me around them. "It made me feel like I was somebody—my own person. I was so used to being in her shadow that I wanted to be important on my own more than anything else."
"Do you think that...maybe...your vulnerability to involvement with older women might have something to do with that...longing to feel important? To be treated by other adults the way your mother treated you?"
Dr. Suzuki's words hang in the air, and it takes me a moment to realize what she's insinuating. There's no way on God's green earth any of the responsibility for what happened is going on my mom.
"Leave my mom out of this," I growl lowly, voice barely audible over the fountain running in the corner and the ticking clock.
"I'm trying to unpack things here, Alejandro. I'm just doing my job." Frustratingly calm and non-confrontational, Dr. Suzuki shows me her palms to diffuse the situation. "You wanted people to see you as an adult. To think you were important without your mom to make you important. Ms. Carr saw that, and she used it."
I scoff at the assertion, but her next words are stern, like she's chiding me.
"Alejandro, you won't learn—or even recover—from all this if you keep lying to yourself about what happened."
"I'm not lying to myself!" I shoot back, voice raising against my will in defense. "I know what happened because I was there. I'm not a victim of anything."
No matter how much my therapists or my family tells me I am. The word makes me feel weak, helpless, like I don't have any control over my situation. People don't do things to me without my permission—I'm better than that. I did this to myself. Control, I'm in control. I'm in control.
I hate the feeling—being cut open on a table for her to see like this. I'm not some case study, some air crash disaster to pick apart and analyze so it won't happen to anyone again. I don't run on formulas, and I will not be explained.
"A student teacher—someone in a position of power and five years older than you were, mind you—made you feel like she was the only person you could turn to when things got hard. You were manipulated, and that's okay. It doesn't make you weak, or naive, or stupid. It's not your fault, Alejandro."
Her words seep into my soul, scratching an itch that I didn't know I had. Hearing a professional tell me that what happened wasn't my fault—it should make me feel better. But it just makes me angry.
"She wanted me, and I wanted my grades back. We both got what we wanted, we both played each other, that's how games work!" I stand, not wanting to have this conversation any more, but my feet stop me from walking out. "And I was eighteen when we first had sex. I was an adult."
"You were a teenager," Dr. Suzuki whispers, sounding a little hurt on my behalf. "You still are."
There's a long moment of silence before she gently gestures for me to sit down again.
And I do.
~ 🖤 ~
"Are you sure your parents aren't jealous that I kept you for an extra day?"
I watch Lily stir her mug of hot chocolate, running a hand through my freshly washed hair.
"If it makes you feel any better, I told my parents that I'm staying to keep Cleo company." She grins, picking up a can of whipped cream and spraying a generous amount into both of our flower-shaped mugs. "They'd never tell me that I couldn't have a sleepover with a boy, but...I don't want them to get all nervous for no reason."
"No reason?" I echo, tucking my legs underneath me in her large beanbag. "What, I don't count?"
"Let me see your nails."
Her non-response is answer enough as she walks over to me, and I roll my eyes before raising a hand of five penguin-painted nails to her.
Since it's the Friday before Thanksgiving break, the dorms cleared out before the sun even went down. I assumed that Lily would join Miguel and Cleo in speeding home as soon as possible, but she surprised me—offering to stay until Jordan and I leave to spend the first half of the break in Malibu. But, as a condition, she mandated that she and I have a "real" sleepover: ordering pizza, watching movies, doing face masks, and, to my chagrin, painting each other's nails.
I told her that I wanted black nails if anything, but, after she grumbled at me for being basic, we compromised on adding what she considers my spirit animal. According to her, penguins and I share our favorite pastimes: chattering and preening.
"You do count." She finally answers my question, giving me a mug and taking my other hand. "Just not in the ways that would make them nervous."
The sensation of warmth that I've come to associate with her pulses through my veins at the contact, even as her eyes stay glued to my nails.
"Have you ever had a sleepover with a guy before? I mean—had guy friends close enough to even do that?"
"Just my ex," she responds, picking up her mug before sitting next to me on the beanbag. "But he'd never let me paint his nails."
A spark of unfamiliar jealousy snaps through my mind, leaving me a little disoriented.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
Lily tilts her head in thought while she buries us in blankets, side pressing into mine.
"He's my ex for a reason."
She covers her almost-smile with a sip from her mug, so my lips turn up into one for her. Lily is remarkably cryptic about her feelings toward me—or lack thereof. But, every once in a while, she'll go and say something like that: insinuating that she imagines our relationship evolving past what it is right now.
I don't miss that quips about her ex tend to arise when our conversations go there, though. He obviously still has some kind of effect on her—so much so that she can't see me romantically without thinking about him. It makes me nervous, having to upstage a years-long relationship, even though I've never seen the dude in my life.
"Alex?"
Lily's voice cuts into my thoughts, and, when I return to her, she's angling her head to look up at me.
"So what do you think?"
"I'm sorry...what did you say, again?"
I shake my head to right my train of thought, and she gestures to the TV.
"I said—what do you want to watch now? We've been through Virunga, Rosemary's Baby, and that PBS episode about the otters. I think it's your turn to choose."
I just close my eyes in response, taking a sip.
"Doesn't matter. I can't really focus, anyway."
"Are you tired?"
"No, maní. I just have a lot on my mind."
"Okay," she says tentatively, fingers tapping on her mug. "Like what?"
Like I don't want you to leave me. Like I don't know what's wrong with your brain or your memory, but you deserve to pass. Like I'm sleeping with our calculus professor to make sure you do. Like I'm starting to think that what I'm doing now, no matter how justified and in control I may be, could just be a rehashing of juvenile history. Like how awful it makes me feel.
What I'm doing with Dr. Montoya is different, though—we have terms, a designated stop date. She didn't pressure me into it; I participated willingly, and I basically started it.
I love having sex—it's something I'm good at, something I enjoy. I can't cross that bridge with Lily no matter how much I yearn, but, for some reason, it doesn't frustrate me. Not mentally, at least. In fact, I like that she refuses to see me in that way, that she's incapable of considering me a commodity like everyone else does.
So what the hell am I doing?
"Finals," I finally lie, taking another sip to stall. "And Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving?" she echoes incredulously, and I nod with theatrical dread.
"Everything you've told me about your parents—for some strange reason—gives me the idea that they might not...like me. Especially if they've Googled my name before."
"Well..." Lily sucks in her cheeks, not even bothering to entertain the idea of otherwise. "It's okay. They may not like you, but they're gonna hate Jordan. You'll get some reprieve."
"Jordan?" I utter, multiple questions at once.
Jordan and Lily don't even know each other, and she's never seemed to be too fond of him from afar. Yet she suddenly invited him, basically a stranger, to her house for Thanksgiving? Is it for my sake, or is there something they're not telling me?
And then, on the other hand, why in the world would her success-obsessed parents hate Jordan of all people? He's a near-billionaire of good breeding, cultured upbringing, private school education, and impeccable social manners. Like me, he's pretty and wears his status in subtle ways—packaging so attractive to parents and girls alike that his more unsavory qualities go unnoticed.
"Oh yeah, I invited him," she adds uselessly, looking down. "I just...figured it might help if you don't feel so outnumbered around my family. If you had someone in your corner."
I lift an eyebrow to tell her I'm onto her, not knowing whether to take her words at face value or not. Lily's not a deceptive person; if Jordan was anything to her, she'd tell me. Right? Jordan is more secretive when it comes to things like this, but I claimed Lily months ago—he should know to stay away.
"...Cool."
I look up at the jungle of vines, string lights, and garlands hanging from the ceiling, just so she won't see the suspicion in my eyes.
Lily's not stupid, but, when it comes to Jordan, no one is invincible to his will. What is he getting involved with her for? Maybe she's just being friendly to him...I did say that they'd like each other, after all. But, judging by his behavior when he first met her and his stray comments here and there, I don't think Jordan wants it to stop at that.
Maybe he's puppeteering her, making her think that something was her idea when he really goaded her into it. I've had him do that to me quite a few times, and I'm the best at looking out for it. What if Lily's getting into something without knowing the half of it?
I snap my eyes back to Lily's small dorm TV when she puts on another PBS episode about orcas—her favorite whale.
You're completely ridiculous, Alejandro. Paranoid and ridiculous. Lily's my friend—I don't own her—and I can't be mad if she clicks with Jordan in the same way. How can I possibly be jealous when I told them they'd work well together? And Jordan's my best friend...I should be ashamed of myself for mentally accusing him like that.
Lily leans her head against my shoulder as the night wears on, but I know better than to point it out. And, by the time I've successfully talked myself off of my own ledge, the credits to the documentary are rolling and Lily's asleep on my arm.
I sigh, gently removing the empty mug from her hands and standing. I move as slowly as possible, but, as soon as her cheek leaves my shoulder, she jerks awake.
"Wh—what time is it?"
"Just eleven." I pick up my mug as well, keeping my voice quiet so she can go back to sleep as easily as possible. "You can jump in bed—I'll wash these and turn everything off."
"You can take the bed. I'll stay here."
She gives a cute little stretch before retying the satin scarf that holds her pin curls in place. I glance at her over my shoulder as I wash, scoffing.
"You want me to take your bed? I'm fine with the beanbag; I swear."
"Your legs are too long for the beanbag," she mumbles quietly, turning over to crawl further up after grabbing her pillow. "You're gonna wake up with them completely numb and then be cranky about it all morning."
"Are you sure you don't have the wrong guy?" I cock an eyebrow at her once more as I start rinsing. "I barely need to sleep, and I don't get cranky."
She lifts her head, mortified expression telling me that she does have the wrong guy, before she quickly face-plants into the bean bag again.
"Shut up; I'm sleepy."
"...Whatever you say, maní."
So her ex was fond of his rest—just like the absolute grouch-fest that is Jordan on a few hours of sleep. And he's tall, too. Oh, shit...is he taller than me?
Nope—not doing this again. I am not talking myself in circles over a dude that doesn't even know I exist.
I dry the mugs, return them to their shelf, and turn off the string lights. And, when I pass Lily and give her a small pat on the back as a good night, she's too far gone to even respond.
The warm, floral sheets of her bed welcome me, and, after I relocate nine stuffed animals to the dresser, I settle in for the night. Sleep comes and goes for who knows how long, but, every time I wake, I make sure to scoot closer to the wall. Just in case.
"...Alex? Are you awake?"
Lily's voice is almost undetectable, getting lost in the stillness of the dark room. I don't respond, already knowing that she'd prefer if I didn't, and I hear her stand. I assume that she's cold and planning to climb up without waking me, but I hear a bottle of pills shake—probably the ibuprofen that she's become so familiar with in the past quarter.
She doesn't call me again, instead returning to the beanbag in silence. I don't go back to sleep, though—something tells me to keep an ear pricked in her direction. Every once in a while, her breath catches and she shifts in obvious discomfort. I refrain from talking to her just in case she'd prefer if I didn't, and it takes at least ten more minutes before she speaks again.
"Alex?" Before I know it, her hand rests on my shoulder. "Alex, can you wake up? Please?"
I flip over as soon as she asks me to, trying to make out her face in the scarce moonlight. I can tell that her features are twisted in pain, and, when she sniffles, I realize that the spots of light reflecting on her cheeks are...tears.
"God, it hurts." Her voice is so small, so defeated—wavering as she places her hands on the sides of her head. "I'm sorry I woke you up; I...I'm not having that great of a time right now, and I like being with you more than I like being alone."
"Oh no," I murmur, heart squeezing in concern even as I register pleasure at her last sentence. "Is it your head?"
She just nods, not removing her hands, and I pull the covers back.
"Come on. And don't apologize for waking me up. If you ever need me, please do."
She's freezing when she slides underneath the sheets, but I ignore her ice-block feet as I take her tear-streaked cheeks in my palms. It's standard procedure—nothing I haven't done before—but the fact that we're in a twin-sized bed together makes me hyperaware of my every movement.
"Show me where."
Lily just gestures to her entire head before her hand rests on top of mine, and, even though my heart does a somersault in my chest, I begin to circle my thumbs between her narrowed eyebrows. She whimpers with every bit of pressure, making me even more worried for her as I work.
"I know, I know," I whisper to soothe her, but I don't, in fact, know.
Migraines are nothing new in her book, but they've never brought her to tears before. At least not in front of me. It makes me feel so powerless—watching her pain without being able to make it vanish with a simple touch. But her painkillers evidently kick in, and, ten minutes later, she's asleep between my hands.
I sigh inaudibly, wiping the drying tears from her cheeks.
This isn't normal. People who are just friends and nothing else don't cuddle and massage each other to sleep. Granted, she was half-asleep and delirious from the pain of her migraine—I doubt we'll even mention this when the sun comes up. But it's a clear sign that the trust and mutual longing is there for the both of us. The only thing left in the air is when—if—we'll admit it.
I wish I could say that the future of my relationship with Lily is solely in our hands, but I just can't. Not when she's still so influenced by her ex and now Jordan in the—
Stop. Don't.
I catch myself before I fall into another spiral, closing my eyes as if that'll clear my mind enough to induce sleep. I'm not letting Jordan get into my head, not letting a hyper-fixation on a desired outcome drive me crazy like I usually do.
I have a bad habit of deluding myself into thinking something—so much so that I can end up burning everything down without a shred of evidence to back up my decision. I really, really like Lily. I might even...I might even like her more than that. And if I don't stop sending myself on ridiculous tangents, I could lose a grip on my feelings for her before I realize it.
There's no conspiracy going on. I like Lily. She likes me. The rest is up to us...and only us.
I run a thumb over her cheek before starting to remove my hand, but hers stays on top of mine—subconsciously refusing to let go. So we stay like that until I fall asleep: facing each other with our legs tangled and hearts beating in unison. For some reason, I feel so many unexplainable things that I want to cry, too: currents of understanding and fondness that are clear through a haze of tire.
Okay, so maybe I might be a little in love. But, for the first time, I feel completely in charge—over my actions, over my feelings, over my future. Rather than having my Sarah Carr, Jordan, or Bipolar 1 disorder at the helm of my life, I'm steering my own story.
And I'm in control.