CHAPTER 12

Nastya

I used to spend excessive amounts of time thinking about what I’d be doing over the next twenty or so years. It usually had something to do with playing the piano in concert halls all over the world. Which would mean lots of world travel that would include stays at fabulously glamorous hotels with fabulously fluffy towels and fluffier bathrobes. There would also be the unbelievably hot, musically gifted, swoon-worthy princes who would tour with me and inevitably fall obsessively in love with me. Because that happens. I would be revered for the talent that came from my father’s side of the family and the beauty that came from my mother’s. I’d wear elegant gowns in colors that haven’t even been imagined yet and everyone would know my name.

Now I spend my time thinking about what I’ll be doing over the next twenty or so hours and hoping it involves something resembling sleep.

***

I’ve been able to run every night for a week now. The weather has cooperated. My legs are coming back. I push myself harder than I should but I haven’t thrown up again since the second night. My body is remembering. The best part is that I can exhaust myself, drain everything the day dredges up, so I can sleep. I still can’t do without the notebooks, but the running helps. It gives me something, or maybe more accurately, it takes something away. I don’t care. I know I depend on it too much but it’s the one of the only things I can depend on. Exercise, notebooks, hate. The things that do not let me down.

I know my way around the streets now. I can pay attention without paying attention. I’ve memorized the ambient sound. I know what belongs and what doesn’t. I know where the sidewalks are uneven, where the pavement has been pushed up by the roots of an angry tree. My mind has learned what to expect from the night I run in. I leave around the same time every evening but I don’t run the same route twice. I can get myself home a dozen different ways from any direction if I need to. I am not comfortable. I’ll never be comfortable leaving the house again, but I feel prepared, and that’s better than I was the last time and the most I can expect to be.

For the past six nights, I have purposely avoided the pale yellow stucco house on Corinthian Way. The one with the perpetually open garage. I run past the street every night, but I can’t ignore the pull I feel to at least glance down the road from the turn off. I can tell by the pattern of the lights whether or not the garage door is up and it hasn’t disappointed yet. It hasn’t been closed once, no matter what time it is. I always wonder what he might say if I were to show up there again. I know it won’t be much but I wonder what the words would be anyway. Would he say anything? Would he ignore me and keep working as if I wasn’t there? Would he tell me to leave? Ask me to stay? No, I know he wouldn’t do that. Josh Bennett doesn’t ask anybody to stay. I could come up with a hundred possibilities, but I really can’t figure out which of them would be the closest to possible. Then, for a just a moment, I lose focus. I stop thinking about what he would say to me and start pondering what I would say to him. That’s the moment I push my feet hard and fast in the opposite direction. And I run far away from Corinthian Way and my absurd, self-destructive thoughts.

I get back to Margot’s house at 9:25 and head straight for the shower. I talk more to myself in that shower than I have in months. Within the safety of an empty house, under the muting of the running water, I remind myself of all the complications that will come from opening my mouth. I try to get all of the words out of my system. I tell Ethan Hall that he’s a douche while I visualize administering a perfectly executed palm heel strike to his face. Or a fork to his eye, which is equally appealing. I tell Ms. Jennings that, contrary to popular belief, Bach was not more prolific than Telemann; he’s just better remembered. I tell Drew which of his pick-up lines works the best and who I think he should really use them on instead of wasting them on me. I tell my Dad that he can still call me Milly because, even though it’s a sucky nickname, it makes him happy and that makes me happy in a way I don’t know how to be anymore. I tell my therapists thank you, but that nothing they do or say or try to make me say will help. I talk until the water runs cold and my voice feels hoarse from overuse. I hope it’s enough to help me keep my mouth shut. I haven’t said a word to another living person in 452 days. I write my three and a half pages, tuck away my composition book and crawl into bed, knowing how close I came to not making it to 453.

***

I’ve been doing a decent job avoiding Josh at school. Other than fifth hour, the only time I have to see him is in shop, which is always a humbling experience since everyone in that class knows their way around lumber and power tools and I’m lucky I can identify a hammer, maybe not even that. The other day this kid named Errol asked me to hand him one, and when I did, he looked at me like I was an idiot. Apparently there are like four hundred kinds of hammers and I didn’t give him the right one. Now nobody even asks me to get them stuff.

I could have tried to drop the class, but I decided to choose my battles with the guidance department and shop was the lesser of the evils when compared to Speech and Debate and Intro to Music. Between the two of those, I figured I could survive Speech since Mr. Trent had told me I could earn my grade doing research and finding interpretation material. Plus, I had crash hot sexy Drew to amuse me and I’ll take all the amusement I can get. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, which I usually endeavor to avoid, I knew from day one that I needed the hell out of Intro to Music. That class was a fault line running just beneath the surface of my unstable mind. I’d rather avoid it. I’m good at avoiding.

And besides, being the teacher aide in Ms. McAllister’s fifth hour has been more entertaining than I could have hoped for. It’s like the school equivalent of watching Big Brother; I get to eavesdrop on the drama and it’s not mentally taxing in the least. Drew is in there, along with Josh, dirtbag Ethan, fuckwad Kevin Leonard and this badass girl named Tierney Lowell who Drew argues with non-stop. I don’t think she’s my biggest fan, either. She hasn’t told me outright, but she glares at me like I spend my free time murdering puppies, so it’s an educated guess.

Shop really isn’t so bad, either, even if it does make me feel inept and useless most of the time. No one bothers me, and Mr. Turner doesn’t expect me to do much of anything. Josh is apparently some sort of god there. He walks around like he built the place. They should give him a dedicated phone line in the workshop, because every time the phone rings, the same thing happens: Turner answers, Turner summons Josh, Josh leaves. He gets sent out a lot. Shelves need fixing? Call Josh Bennett. Drawers stuck? Get Josh. Need an exquisitely-crafted, custom-built dining room set? Josh Bennett is your man.

Just don’t ask him to talk. He hasn’t said anything to me since the day he told me he wasn’t going to make me relinquish my seat at his table, benevolent despot that he is. I, obviously, have not said anything to him.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 524