"Someday, you'll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again."
—C.S. Lewis
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CHAPTER THREE:
For The Sass.
How I made it through that day was a mystery to me. I spent the rest of the day wary and jumpy. As if my heart was about to come out of my mouth any minute. And because I'm one of those people who count every second until they'd be free to leave this prison temporarily for the joys of food and Wi-Fi, the day dragged even slower than usual.
And here, sitting on the comfortable yet old sofa of my living room with Mom at work and Mia still in school after what has been a pretty horrible day, I felt like my heart was going to explode. It hasn't decelerated much since lunch. I'm still shaking, and I've been biting my nails non-stop.
My parents abandoned me when I was nine years old. I couldn't get that out of my head. It was already bad knowing your father didn't want you or your family. I can't imagine a little kid coming home and never finding his parents again. I can't imagine what it must have felt like— what it must feel like now when you more or less have a mind of your own, and you can see things from your perspective.
I jumped from the couch as the front door opened, and Chris came in. My expression had to more or less resemble a ghost because Chris stopped looking at her phone and raised her grey eyes to my face. "What happened?"
I moved aside, and she grabbed me by the shoulders. "What happened?"
"Chris, someone found the letter I wrote a couple of weeks ago," I choked out.
"What?" she asked, her eyebrows coming together. "What?"
"Someone found it, and now my letter is gone, and now anyone can know what I wrote in it," I explained. I ran a hand through my hair. "This is bad, Chris. This situation is very, very bad."
I had a feeling he didn't tell many people what he wrote. I wasn't in the business of telling them. They could keep secrets, but, like me, I think it was kind of very personal. I didn't want to be boasting about it. All I hoped was that he took the same role.
"Okay, just calm down," she told me. Chris looked around the room for a few minutes, her expression anxious. I knew this expression too well. "Okay, don't kill me, but—"
Yes, I had seen this coming.
"—why is it very, very bad?" she asked in a small voice.
Meet my best friend, Christina Davids. Who I wanted to choke right now.
I looked at her, perplexed. "Come off it, Christina!" I roared. She jumped at my tone. "'Write something no one else knows about you' 'what's the worse that can happen?' "
She sighed and scowled at me. "Isabelle, I know you well enough to know you haven't done anything bad like robbing a bank or something. The worse that's happened to you was all the crap with your dad. It was pretty horrible, but it wasn't your fault, honey."
I looked at her dumbfounded. Another knot in my throat because she didn't know all about me. But she was almost right. "Right," I said in a small voice, not meeting her eyes this time.
"Now," she sat down on the sofa opposite me, taking off her Toms and putting her feet up on the coffee table. "Explain. What, where, when, and how."
"Okay," I sighed and crossed my legs on the sofa. "First of all, two weeks ago, I left the damn letter in a copy of Pride and Prejudice that seemed to belong from that point in time.''
Fifteen minutes later, when I've finished my retelling—I left out what the letter specifically said— mainly because then I'd have to explain my other half. Chris just nodded absentmindedly. She seemed to be thinking hard about something.
"We don't know who wrote it?" she asked cautiously.
"No," I shook my head. "Unless you could somehow tell me who wrote it and get many complications out of my head."
"And he claims you don't know who he is and vice versa?" A pause. "Are you sure it's a guy?"
"Yeah." I nodded. I noticed this bizarre edge in her voice. "Why?"
"Are we sure about this?" she asks again, ignoring my previous question.
"I'm 99.9% sure about this, Chris. Why?"
"Because," she looks up at me and smiles a mischievous smile. "You, my dear, are going to find out who this guy
is."
I just stared at her, unable to say anything more than an "Excuse me?" I swear she was going crazy.
"You heard me," she replied.
"What did we hear?" Jessica's voice asked, tapping my shoulder. I turned around and saw her just standing there, and then I shrieked.
"How did you get in?" I asked loudly, jumping back and clutching my chest in an attempt to control my heartbeat.
"Through the front door," she shrugged and sat down. I looked at her in amazement and a little terror. Her eyes darted from Chris to me. "I got the SOS message. What happened?"
I groaned and hid my face in a cushion.
"A guy found the letter you both made me write. Someone whom I do not know, and now this person over here—" I jerked my chin at Chris, "—wishes for me to be acquaintances with him."
There was another pause, this time from Jessica. "Um...why not?" she said quietly.
Great.
"Not helpful, Jessica!" I snapped at her.4
"Look, Bells," Chris sighed. "The boy in question took the time to write back a letter. That's hidden in a book—a book, woman. Now, the three of us know boys in school are either idiots or douches or both. They don't talk about books. They're also testosterone-filled bags that just care about having sex and partying. Or else a combination of all the above. The three of us also know that the one who found that could have easily laughed and shown the letter to their friends' (aka, testosterone-filled bags) who would have spread the news like wildfire. That didn't happen." She began pacing around in my living room.
"Seriously?" Jess asked in amazement, looking at me with wide eyes. "He took the time to write back from something in a book? An old book?"
"He did!" Chris retorted, pointing at the ceiling as if she had just discovered something genius.
"So you just want me to write back because of that?" I asked indignantly, and she stopped pacing. "Because he seems likable? It's a letter!"
"She's right. Chris is," Jess whispered from behind me. I fixated my eyes on her.
"Excuse me?" I may or may not have been throwing daggers out my eyes.
"Bells. If this is a boy we're talking about—" she began. I cut her off.
"We don't know what he could do with the letter," I reminded her.
"Show it off to his friends. As Chris pointed out. Idiots, Jessica. They don't care."
"If he wrote back, maybe he does," she contradicted. "You sent that two weeks ago, Bells. I think we would have heard about it by now. Something can't keep quiet in that place for a long time. It hasn't happened."
"Not helpful, Jessica," I muttered bitterly, leaving it there. I sat crossed-legged on the couch, also crossing my arms across my chest. I didn't know what to hope when I told them, but it was most definitely not this.
"This could be the start of something new...." Chris sang.
"This isn't funny!" I barked.
"It is kind of funny if you're watching from the sidelines," Jess told me, stifling a laugh behind her hand. "Also kind of cute. But back to the point; what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I rubbed my temples. "Look for professional help?" I joked, and Jess laughed. I frowned.
I could.
***
"Come in," the voice I'd heard for ages beckoned me inside.
Mr. Langley sat in a chair behind his mahogany (That's Mahogany!) desk. He smiled when he saw me. I always found that smile reassuring— it reached his eyes every time.
"Ah, Isabelle," another smile. "Come on in."
I didn't need to be told what to do. I sat down. The office was small, with a window behind Mr. Langley's desk and a small artificial plant in the corner. I haven't been here in almost six months, yet it's familiar. Routine.
"Before you ask what I hate for you to ask," I began while a corner of the school's counselor and my old psychologist twitched upward. It wasn't the first time I did this. "I feel anger. And confusion. And somehow, between both of them, I feel the excitement." I told him truthfully. "And I hate it."
Mr. Langley is the school counselor. And my psychologist for about four years now. Dr. Laura Griggory used to be my psychologist when all the crap that happened with my family was happening. But he's an old friend of my mom, an old friend of the family, so I've known him my whole life. It's better.
"There's so much stuff you can hate at once, Isabelle," he told me while fighting off a smirk.
"You don't know me well enough," I remarked.
"Isabelle, I've known you since you were a little girl," he reminded me, taking off his square glasses and rubbing his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Are you seriously asking a hateful teenager that?" I raised my eyebrows.
"You haven't changed a lot since you last entered this office, have you?" he asked.
"Not much," I shrugged. I dislike change—that's part of the reason why I used to see a shrink once a week. "But, being a not so typical everything-is-wrong-with-my-life kid, I sometimes need to talk about stuff that my mother would accuse me of blowing out of proportion or that my friends would call me paranoid of," I said honestly.
There was a notepad in front of him, a pen atop of it. Untouched, I noticed. It made me feel comfortable. Mr. Langley never wrote notes regarding our sessions. This detail meant this conversation would not reach my mother's ears. As much as I love her, I can't tell her everything. She's too strict and stubborn, and most of the time made me feel worse whenever I told her my problems.
"Go on," Mr. Langley said calmly.
I sighed and looked down. "I told a stranger about my anxiety and panic attacks," I said, referring to the topic I'd prefer not to mention out loud.
"You did?" he asked in surprise. I looked up and saw a crease between his eyebrows.
"Yes," I gulped. I hated feeling nervous. "Chris kind of dared me, and I was kind of an idiot and accepted."
"A dare?" he asked, the crease turning deeper still.
"Yeah," I nodded. "Deal was to write a letter telling a stranger something no one knows about me, and leave it somewhere random. An anonymous letter. I hid it in a disgustingly old book in the hidden pits in the library."
"And there was a person who found it? Am I right?" he raised an eyebrow.
"And answered it," I nodded.
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh." I groaned. "That's where the anger is coming. I can't believe I was stupid enough to do that! If Mom found out about this, she tells me I'm supposed to be the most intelligent of the house."
"May I ask what was their reaction?"
"I...um..." What was I supposed to do? Tell him? I reminded myself that this was one of the few people I could trust. I needed to believe that. I could trust Mr. Langley. He's never talked about what we talk about here, or my mom would kill me. I could trust him.
"He..." I frowned, a knot in my throat as I remembered what the letter said. "He said that if I ever wanted to talk to any person who's been through crap too...I shouldn't doubt in writing it," I said slowly, frowning deeper still. Somehow saying the words made it more real.
"I'm pretty sure it's a guy," I continued. "Even though he also answered anonymously. His parents abandoned him two weeks before he turned ten."
"Confusion," he said quietly. I looked at him and frowned again, stepping out of my gaze. He was looking at me carefully.
"What?"
"You feel confusion— you said so," Mr. Langley explained. "Because it's someone who, at some point or another, understands how you feel, what you went through."
"Wait," I held up my index finger. "How do you know that? I haven't even figured it out."
"I went to college, Isabelle. This kind of stuff is my job, what I'm supposed to do. Help teenagers in their everything-is-wrong-with-my-life problems," he reminded me with a slight smirk.
"But that's not the only aspect where the confusion is coming from," I countered. "This could be one of those idiots messing with me! What if one of those twats did find out, and they're using it to make me feel like shit again. You know how they are, not just with what happened before. They're assholes to everyone," I said in one breath, my temper rising with each word.
He looked at me for a few minutes. "Okay, what makes you think that, Isabelle?"
"I—" I frowned. The letter's written anonymously. It could be anyone for all I knew. But I didn't think it was anyone with whom I had any relationship. The school was pretty big. But I didn't have a valid reason. I sighed. "I don't know. I have trust issues, and it's a letter written anonymously."
"How did you feel after you read what the person answered?"
I pursed my lips at the mention of the word feel. "I— I felt stupid at first, for doing something like that just to shut up my best friend. Then I nearly had an anxiety attack in the library when I didn't find my letter there. I was going to go home and burn it. But then I read it and—I felt confused but also something else, I don't know."
When I opened the letter, I underwent complete and utter terror. Someone knew. But then I read it, and he was right— it felt weird, but also great to realize a person out there knew how I felt, even if I hadn't admitted that to myself just yet.
"That's the part about excitement," Mr. Langley said quietly, taking his glasses off once again. "You want to know more about him, but at the same time, you don't want 'him' to know who you are because you're afraid he'll make fun of you," he concluded.
I relaxed in my chair, leaning backward. I pushed my legs and wrapped my arms around them. I was tense, I realized. "It surprises me how much you can find out in one simple conversation," I muttered. And then half groaned. "You're right, ugh."
"That comes naturally to me, Isabelle. You should know that by now," he grinned, letting the atmosphere be relaxed once again.
I laughed a little. "Wow, extra points for the sass, Mr. Langley," I told him, nodding and then frowned. "What should I do?"
"I think you need to figure out by yourself, Isabelle."
I groaned once again. "Can't you just tell me what to do?" I asked, glancing at the ceiling. Feebly hoping it'll contain the answers to my questions.
"No," he laughed and shook his head at me. "But if I were a teenager, and that was happening to me, I'd give it a go."
"It's a suicidal mission," I told him. It was. Why couldn't anyone see that? "I don't even know if it's true. What he wrote, at least."
He sighed and glanced at the ceiling this turn. "Isabelle, tell me something. Would you lie or invent what happened with your father? What still happens sometimes?"
I answered automatically. "No."
"Then you have your answer."
I groaned. "Why?"
"Why are you suddenly becoming the teenager everything-is-wrong-with-my-life, or why should you give it an opportunity?"
"The latter," I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
"I'm assuming —and since I know how Christina is— that she dared you because she thinks you need to live a little, as she likes to call it?" he asked, trying to hide off his smile and raising an eyebrow at me.
I nodded, half expecting what was coming.
"Well, Isabelle—" he began, but I cut him off.
"Please don't tell me she's right," I half begged, covering my eyes with my hand. "I live, okay? Not just in the ways other people want me to live. I have my way of living. And I like it."
He chuckled at my speech. "Your best friend is right, Isabelle. As much as you hate to hear it, Christina's right. You're seventeen. You don't get to live these years again. When you're my age, you will regret not doing this kind of thing," he paused. "Trust me."
We sat in silence for a few seconds, both comfortable with the silence. I kept turning it over and over in my head. I didn't know what to do. And I didn't like not knowing what to do. In the back of my head, a distinct voice reminded me that I maybe wanted to do it. But at the same time I didn't. That same voice reminded me that it was sometimes better in real life. Better outside the book, as Chris had once pointed out when I refused to go to Aiden's birthday party. The bell rang.
"Thank you, Mr. Langley," I smiled a little and rose from the chair. It never felt like talking like a counselor. It felt like talking to a friend, which was good. An older, wiser, who kind of knew the ways around life, but a friend nonetheless.
"Anything else you would like to talk about?" he asked as he, too, stood up.
"No," I said. I reached the door. And then I recalled, mentally groaning. "Oh, wait, there is. Mr. Reilly is making me tutor Sebastian Mathews. Help him in English."
He exhaled and raised his eyebrows while scratching the back of his neck. "I think you should sit down again, Isabelle."
I laughed. "See you later, Mr. Langley."
"Have a good day, Isabelle," he called after me.
I had Biology next, which meant sitting next to Chris in class. This detail was good, but it also meant being all eighty minutes sitting in front of Carson. No good without the bad.
I went to my locker to get out my books. I breathed heavily through my nose, thinking about the person who wrote the letter, trying with force not to be bitter in that aspect. When I closed the door behind me, fumbling with my bag, I saw Aiden leaning against the locker next to mine.
"Did you lose something?" I asked him, walking ahead— faster.
"I was hoping I could talk to you about something," he said, keeping pace easily alongside me. I am barely a 5'2— smaller frame, shorter legs.
"What do you want?"
"Oh, I heard you are tutoring Sebastian in English," he told me. I could almost hear the smirk behind his words. And I looked up at him, my mouth open.
"He told you," it wasn't a question. It was merely a statement. Of course, he knew.
"Of course, he told me. He's my best friend," he said. "That's bound to be an interesting combination, that one is. Don't you two hate each other?"
"I hate most people in this building. What's the difference?" I muttered under my breath.
"I'm sure you do," Aiden chuckled. "Whatever, that was not what I wanted to ask you."
We rounded the corner. I stood by the door. Chris was already inside, her headphones in and humming to a song. "What do you want, Aiden?"
I saw his eyes shift inward for a second, peering. Whatever it was he was looking for, his eyes focused on it. I looked inside and Chris raised her eyebrows at us, waving once with a somewhat confused expression on her features. She smiled either way.
Aiden turned to look at me quickly. "Never mind, I'll tell you later. See you, Isabelle." And as he turned around, walking in the same direction we came, I thought I saw something similar to uncertainty flash in his big brown eyes. Also, the back of his neck was red. Weird.
"Um...What was that about?" Chris asked as I walked in and sat in my usual chair next to her. Carson sits exactly behind us. He had his back turned.
"Dunno," I frowned. I fervently hoped he didn't want me to help him. But Aiden was good in English. As good as he can be.
"WELL, GOOD AFTERNOON CLASS!" Mrs. Lyons is an overly excited teacher. Enthusiastic about everything, especially Biology. I jumped a little in my chair, just like I do when she greets us. Always the same greeting. "ISN'T IT A BEAUTIFUL AFTERNOON?"
Hardly.
She resembled the witch who taught divination in Harry Potter, with glasses that made her small eyes look too big for her head. She's hilarious. And loud. And makes biology somewhat interesting. "TODAY WE'LL BE LEARNING ABOUT THE HUMAN REPRODUCTION," she paused, and then her voice took a normal tone. "Or as you people like to call it: sex!"
There was a wave of uncomfortable laughter. Chris was red in the face. I probably was too. I could be ninety years old, and subjects such as sex would still make me uncomfortable and cringe in my seat.
"Mrs. Lyons, I think you should get the sexually unprepared out of the classroom," a voice behind me said. Mrs. Lyons turned her magnificent enchained eyes towards the voice.
"Oh!" She went to the lab table behind us, and I turned around. Mrs. Lyons placed her elbows on the desk, holding her face with her hands. She leaned so close to him that he recoiled and nearly fell from his chair. "Why is that so, Mr. Samuels?"
Carson smirked, his eyes now fixated on me. "Oh, because we don't want to make Isabelle uncomfortable."
The whole class erupted in laughter. Mrs. Lyons gave him a tiny smack in the head.
But it didn't matter. The whole class was still laughing.
Twenty pairs of eyes fixated on me. I could feel my red face, and the only thought on my mind was how much I hoped Carson Samuels suffered a slow and painful death.
"That was unnecessary, Mr. Samuels," said the teacher curtly. "I suppose staying in detention this Friday might be necessary."
He clenched his jaw, his eyes still on me. I was in no way dropping my gaze. I just felt the need to punch him. Or hurt him in some way. Along with everyone laughing about it. "This stupid class is unnecessary for someone who will never know what is good until they die."
"Fuck off," Chris muttered. I could sense the shade of red she currently wore was from anger rather than uncomfortable-ness. "He can go die. Don't pay him any attention."
"I'd say two weeks of detention will do, Mr. Samuels," Mrs. Lyons was saying.
"Chris, I haven't paid him any attention in so long I lost count," I told her, balling my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Although, that last bit was a lie.
"Who cares?" Carson said.
"Perfect, then. Make that three weeks. Meet me after class to arrange the details, Carson." Mrs. Lyons sighed and continued. "AS I WAS SAYING..."
Carson was still smirking. I raised my eyebrows and rolled my eyes, turning back to the front. I willed myself not to cry. In and out. And then they asked why I want to get out of high school. Fast. All of this wouldn't matter when I graduated. These people can go to hell.
Some of them laughed still.
***
There was a clock on top of my desk, and its brilliant blue lights read 12:37 pm.
I wasn't going to sleep any time soon.
I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I'd been looking at it longer than necessary.
Everything has its pros and cons. The way I saw this, it had more cons than pros. But I wanted to believe something like this can happen. That there is a person out there who listens and understands. I smiled. And doesn't try to sleep with someone even if they can.
But a nagging part of me remembered —very stubborn so— that this is real life. And in real life, the guys don't come sneaking into your window at night. And people like Augustus or Patch or Four had made me believe that.
It was quiet now. I heard my mother turn in her sleep. I caught Mia talking in her sleep, something like not the frog. If Mom ever found I told a stranger what happened with Dad, I was for sure dead. She would very much appreciate it if I had not told my friends my father had abandoned me.
I looked at the letter, placed strategically to give me inspiration that hadn't come. I read it for what felt like the millionth time today, pen in hand—with worry and excitement flooding in my head.
I recalled what Jess had said, what made me sit here, not knowing whether to answer an unknown person who I had very stupidly told an intimacy.
"The journey of one thousand miles begins with one step," I whispered-reminded myself. I wanted to do something. I thought of Danielle's cold smile and Carson's smirk and of everyone who laughed.
I began to write.
Dear Someone,
I've been sitting with a pen in my hand for 20 minutes, staring at the blank piece of paper. I can't see a way to start this letter.
I've never been a big fan of the cliched 'Are you okay?' Because honestly. Why do we ask who is not okay if they are? We can see they're not, and we still ask instead of going and hugging them, and everyone does it. Even I have. I bet even you have, too.
So I'm not going to ask if you're okay. I don't know if it still hurts or if you don't care anymore, but I'm definitely not asking that question. I hope you're FINE. I hope it doesn't hurt anymore.
That's what scared you. And you're right, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what happened. I hope it changed you for the better and not for the worse. I'm still trying to figure that one out.
I guess we're both a little broken inside. Someone once told me that everything or everyone is a bit broken. Cracks; that's how the light gets in. Sigh. Even then, it sucks. Hell, it sucks because it hurts still.
I'm not a dirty old lady. I'm a girl who would rather be home eating than in high school. I enjoy the internet a little bit too much and sleep very little, (hence it's 12:43 am while I'm writing this, on a school night: THE HORROR). I wish you're not an old, dirty man either. I'd like to know more about you too, but I'm not willing for you to figure out who I am.
Sincerely,
Someone Else.
_________________________________________________________
WELL HELLO EVERYONE! MY NAME IS...Valeria. And I updated after 300 years.
*awkward silence*
There are no words to describe how happy I feel about people (LIKE YOU. OH YOU WONDERFUL AND AMAZING HUMAN BEINGS) liking and voting and adding and commenting. It honestly makes my day. I love you.
I'm not going to give any excuses for not updating. Only the writer's block, but then I was just lazy, and I'm sorry. I will try hard and try to update twice a month. I'm sorry.
DON'T FORGET TO VOTE AND COMMENT Y'ALL.
ILYSFM
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:) Stay beautiful