CHAPTER NINE | GALE WEATHERS
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Sidney and I spend plenty of time staring at my bedroom ceiling.
Back home, my bedroom ceiling was covered with glow in the dark stars, something I've never grown out of and never bothered taking down, but I haven't brought them along with me. It's the one thing about my old bedroom that Xavier doesn't remember, even though it's been there for years, ever since before the pink era.
"Are you sure this doesn't hurt your neck?" I ask Sid, who's sitting next to me on the bed. While I have the luxury to lie on my back and stare up, she has to crane her whole head up to mimic me. "We've been doing this for a while."
Sometimes I wish she could talk, so I could know what goes on in that pretty little head of hers. I wonder how she feels whenever she has to calm me down, if she does it because it's what she has been trained to do, because she feels like she has to, or if it's because she genuinely loves me and wants to make sure I'm okay out of the goodness of her heart.
I believe animals are pure at heart, especially dogs, and projecting my insecurities onto a little puppy—who's not exactly little anymore, growing by the day—is more than unfair, but a girl has to wonder sometimes. She often shoots me looks of utter adoration and admiration and every doubt I have about her love for me immediately dissipates, but then there are those times when they come back with full strength.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Mom got me a cat instead. I don't think they're recognized as service animals anyway, but Sidney is getting too big to sleep on my lap or chest without smothering me, like it's even her fault, and she provides more than just simple emotional support. When I roll to the side to face her, she lies back down, turning her head to rest it on my shoulder.
"I know, baby," I whisper, against her fur. "I wouldn't trade you for anyone else in the world."
She yawns in response and a flash of guilt stabs me right through the heart, aware I'm the reason she was up for the majority of the night. Since I couldn't sleep, it left her on high alert as well, just in case she needed to calm me down, but it turned out to be nothing but my anxiety acting up. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, obsessing over my first day at UAS, obsessing over things that may or may not happen, and got little to no sleep, unable to quiet my erratic heartbeat.
My alarm is about to ring, too, but I have yet to find the strength to get out of bed and shower. I should, before I risk taking too long and end up missing out on Betty's offer to give me a ride to campus, but the bed's magnetism is far too strong for me to be able to fight it. It sounds like the absolute worst excuse in the world, but I'm exhausted from the pathetic sleep quality I've gotten lately, and therapy has also been strangely demanding. No one ever told me how tiring it is to cry for forty-five minutes straight, twice a week, yet here I am, dehydrated.
I don't want to follow Betty and Odette around campus like a lost puppy, but it's not like I know anyone else, and I don't feel brave enough to try and meet other people. There surely are extracurricular activities and clubs I can join if I ever feel like it, but I'm concerned about the roots I'll be growing in Alaska without knowing for how long I'll keep watering the plants. I don't want to get attached to people and places only to have to let them go after a year, maybe two, because I simply can't see myself growing old away from home.
This isn't where I belong. It's terrible and dramatic, but it's true, and I don't think it's either fair or beneficial for anyone if I start pretending otherwise. I don't want to stay, but admitting it out loud or acting on it aren't valid possibilities, as my parents would immediately argue I need to stay. Mom, in particular, has been nagging me lately about my future and career, when both of those things haven't found a high place in my list of priorities. Dad tells her she has it easier than anyone else, when all she has to do is post pictures on social media and promote trendy brands, which sparks a series of passive-aggressive comments between the two of them, and I force myself to stop listening. I don't want to be the reason behind yet another argument.
I can't think about the future when the past is the only thing I can focus on. I relive that night, over and over, and the little space I can find in my brain to dedicate to the future is exclusively about the consequences of every little decision I make, even those that seem unremarkable.
In my head, there's always someone plotting to hurt me, plotting to kill me, and I've told Doctor Albott I know I sound paranoid and self-absorbed, but I don't know how to stop. Dread follows me around everywhere I go, slowly creeping up my spine, and I'm overcome with a desire to stay busy all the time to keep my head busy, but nothing works. I've tried cooking, knitting, learning a foreign language, but there's always something that brings me back to hiding in a storage closet, being dragged by the hair, having my head slammed against a door in an attempt to knock me unconscious.
The memories are bad. The feelings are the worst part—when it's not terror or guilt, the ugly, overwhelming guilt, there's nothing. I sit there, numb to everything that's going on, completely disconnected from my body and reality. For a moment, the emptiness, the quiet are peaceful. Then, the emptiness is all there is, and it takes me almost an eternity to bring myself back.
My alarm rings. Sidney's ears twitch, but she doesn't lift her head on her own, only doing it when I gently move her away.
She whines quietly, thinking I'm rejecting her, but she won't be alone all day, thanks to a quick Google search that informed me I'm allowed to bring her along. Betty doesn't mind, but I'm more concerned about Odette's reaction to Sid's presence. She's only had to share the room with her for a few hours at a time, not for most of the day, but I'm not leaving Sidney behind. I don't think I'll be able to get through a full day of college without her around, so I even dedicate a few moments of my morning routine to practicing a speech to tell Odette Sidney and I are a package deal, like she and Betty are—supposedly—and her presence isn't negotiable.
"We're getting through today, you and I," I tell Sidney, as I search through my closet in search of something to wear, something that doesn't immediately scream I don't belong here. Just because I feel that way, it doesn't mean everyone has to know. "It's you and me, girl. Even if there's no one else, it's going to be you and me."
She opens her mouth, tongue hanging off the side, and rolls around on the bed to lie stomach up, tail wagging violently against my pillows. With a small chuckle, I bend down to cup her head between my hands and press a quick kiss to the tip of her wet nose.
"You're my favorite Final Girl," I add. "Just so you know. Don't mess with the original, right?"
She licks my nose. I take that as confirmation that she understands my stupid horror movie references.
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The real world isn't filled with Ghostfaces, Michael Myers, or Freddy Kruegers. The real world is filled with real people who are capable of committing heinous acts, people who stare at you on campus, people who whisper about you like you're a minor celebrity.
The real world sucks. In fiction, at least you get to identify tropes and figure out what awaits you, but here you're a slave to uncertainty and the unpredictability of human beings. Somehow, you can always tell who's going to make a snide comment about you bringing a dog to college, or who is going to bump against your shoulder like you're not even there.
In the real world, it's hard to figure out which of those scenarios is worse—the mortifying tragedy of being seen and perceived, or the loneliness of being invisible to your peers.
My lectures are utterly agonizing.
I'm surrounded by far more people than I'm comfortable with. UAS is much smaller than the University of Chicago, but it's just as suffocating as any other crowded place. They leave me alone during lectures, worried about listening to the professors, while I stare down at the list of textbooks required for each course and gulp, wondering how in the world I'll be paying for all of this. My tuition isn't cheap, even with my parents paying for it, but there are so many other things to spend money on that it makes my stomach turn.
"Remember you can order your textbooks online," my World Literature professor says. She's such a tiny woman I can barely see her from where I'm sitting, and I've chosen a seat right in the middle of the lecture hall. "Your courses have assigned textbooks, so you just need to select your degree and choose the course number on the website to order them. Financial aid students will have exclusive discounts, of course . . ."
I make the mistake of looking up all the textbooks I'll need for the fall semester and feel faint, paralyzed in place. My panic momentarily makes me consider asking Xavier if he'll let me help him with the bar for some extra money, but, realistically, I know I'd never be able to do it, even if he wasn't working late shifts. Sidney would never be allowed behind a counter, as it's a safety hazard, service dog or not, and I can't do anything without her by my side.
I massage my temples as she discusses the syllabus for the term. It's a lot more work than I'm used to, with so many evaluation moments I worry I won't be able to keep up with my classmates' pace, with them typing so quickly on their keyboards. We'll have to answer questions about poems, something I've always loathed; poetry is far more subjective and personal than regular prose, and limiting a poem to a singular, universal meaning feels reductive.
The girl sitting next to me audibly gags when the professor mentions we'll be analyzing Neruda, along with other poets, like Emily Dickinson, and she complains to her friend that it feels wrong to mash them all together like that. Then, her hand shoots up and she sits impossibly straight, shoulders perfectly squared.
"Yes?" the professor asks.
"Will we be studying Sappho this semester?"
"Is it in the syllabus?"
"No, but—"
"There's your answer. As I was saying—"
"How is that fair or appropriate for the women taking this course? We can study Bukowski and Neruda and all their chauvinistic messages, but not Sappho?"
With a deep sigh, the professor removes her glasses. I sink into my seat hoping my laptop manages to hide my face just enough for her to not notice I'm there. "The main purpose of this course is for students to be able to develop critical thinking, writing, and analysis skills through the study of literature from different cultures and different time periods. Occasionally, that will involve analyzing literature that would not be morally acceptable according to our current views, but it's all part of the objectives I've written down. Critically analyzing literature means viewing it through the lenses of the time period it was written in, and how it may be perceived nowadays, be it because of the former moral compass and political agenda or because of the authors themselves. It doesn't mean anyone here will condone discriminatory behavior in any way shape or form. These books were influential in their own way—"
The girl's friend raises her hand as well. "With all due respect, professor, is it really possible to separate the art from the artist when it's something that came out of their own head, molded by their beliefs? If an author routinely proves to be a bigoted asshole, how can we say it won't be scattered all over the books they write and pretend not to see it for the sake of nostalgia?"
The lecture hall goes fully quiet, when it was filled with whispering mere moments ago. Everyone stares at the professor, leaning forward in their seats in anticipation and disbelief—I know I am, as I could never speak to a professor like those two just did—but, after a particularly long moment of silence, she simply smiles.
"Thank you both for your input," she eventually says. "That's exactly the type of questions I want these lectures to raise. Can you really separate the art from the artist in something as personal as literature? No, don't answer now," she asks, as multiple people raise their hands to answer. At least things are still civilized enough to stop people from interrupting each other as they start screaming to be heard during a debate. "This will be the first essay I want you to write. I'll need you to submit your essays online and on paper, two weeks from now." She folds her hands in front of her. "I look forward to working with all of you this semester. You seem like an interesting group of kids."
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"Girls, for a split second there I almost forgot how exhausting college is," Betty comments, during lunch. We sit at the Lakeside Grill, their favorite choice of a place to eat, which isn't nearly as crowded as the café. "I have a meeting with my advisor right before Research Methods and, let me tell you, I feel like I've never been so tired in my life."
"You've been sitting in lecture halls all day," Odette points out, mixing her rice bowl. The avocado pieces easily stick out in the middle of all the white. "How can you possibly be tired? You haven't even been running errands."
"It's just a change of pace, that's all. Not all of us have someone to watch over the house while we're gone."
Odette shoots her a pointed look and I quickly focus on my burger, slipping a fry for Sidney, before I'm dragged into the conversation. Things between them haven't felt fine ever since that day at the public library, but I don't know either of them well enough to be able to accurately tell what normal feels like when it comes to their relationship, so I've refrained from making any comments.
Part of me wants to tell them about my day, how I'm holding up, how I'm managing to adapt to this new context, but I'm not entirely sure they want to know or even care. They mostly seem preoccupied with their own lives and relationship with each other—package deal and all—and I can't help but feel like I'm intruding a little bit. Maybe it's always been just the two of them and, suddenly, there I am, ruining a perfectly good friendship.
"Are you going to the Campus Kickoff?" someone asks. When we turn our heads, we find the two outspoken girls from my World Literature class, both of them holding piles of flyers. They set three of them on our table. "We're in the organization this year, and there's tons of fun stuff planned. We'll have all these booths, we'll tell you all about the clubs, and the plans for the school year. It's only in September, but it can't hurt to be prepared beforehand, right?"
"Also, this is Nadia," the second girl says, the one who came up with the subject for our first essay, and points to her friend, "and I'm Claudia. We get involved in campus activities a lot, so, if you're interested in college life, you'll probably see us around quite often. Either way, we really hope you'll be able to make it."
Claudia hands me a flyer she doesn't give to either Betty or Odette, and I'm almost scared to see what it is. When I flip it around, it's decorated in yellow and purple, two horribly clashing colors, but it also tells me it's about an awareness event held in the first week of September.
"Wendy, right?" she continues. I look up at her and her flaming red hair, even more vibrant than Betty's. My stomach is turning so violently I feel I might throw up, but I force myself to swallow the nausea and nod. "I don't mean to intrude, but try to stop by. I think it will help."
Once they walk away, Odette cranes her neck to read the flyer. "Some nerve."
"What is it?" Betty asks. She shows her the flyer, and they both turn to me. "Are you going?"
"It feels invasive," I retort. The flier reads SO YOU'RE TRAUMATIZED. NOW WHAT?, as one of the subjects they'll be discussing during Suicide Prevention week. It's sponsored by the Psychology department, so it can't be too bad, but I'm not sure I'm ready to expose myself and be so vulnerable in front of countless strangers. "I don't know."
"You don't have to go," Odette points out. To my surprise, her voice is significantly warmer now. "They do this every year, so I assure you it's not specifically because of you, but . . . you know. People know who you are. I know it's not for a good reason, but here you are. I agree it's a bit disrespectful and invasive to simply walk up to you and drop this horrendous thing on your lap, but maybe it will be a good thing for you. Maybe you'll be able to find people who . . . who understand."
I yank the flyer from her hand and crumple it into a ball. "They won't. Don't bother."
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