I frown, "What if we have a date the same night?"
"Then he cancels his. You will remain in the dorms if he and Miss Monkton are out. Are we clear?"
"Yup."
"Yup, is piss poor English. Goodnight, sweet dreams."
He has never said that before. He was shitty like he always is, but he's never said sweet dreams before. He hangs up like always and I just stare at the phone.
Shell doesn’t come home.
I don’t sleep. I don't sleep much on a regular bases, but the first night in a new place is always the worst. It's a guarantee that I won't sleep.
It's what I call the lonely. It creeps up whenever I'm uncomfortable. It freezes me up. I feel it enter new places with me, like it's in the bag I packed. The broken bits of whatever it is inside of me, the lack of trust maybe, have never healed. Nineteen years of life, almost twenty, and I can't get past it. It's part of who I am.
The difference between it and the phobias is the lonely is genuine. It's been part of me always. The phobias were learned over time.
My phone vibrates, as I'm lost in self-pity. I glance at it, 'Go to sleep.'
I look at the phone, grinning. He always knows. I look around the room, wondering. How does he do it? How does he know? Maybe he is Big Brother and I am in 1984.
When I pick up the phone I can't believe it's three am.
I text back smirking, 'You first.'
'I am sleeping.'
I snort. He is making jokes now? My fingers almost tremble with anticipation and fear as I text my response, 'What are you dreaming about?'
'You.'
My heart skips a beat. I have a fantasy. I can't lie. It's a deep dark fantasy that I never let myself see. It mostly involves him being a Duke or a Baron who is bent on helping me, but like the Phantom of the Opera. He's troubled and wants to do anything to be there for me. He wants me.
I think it's a common dream with orphans. Not to mention we are forced to watch more nun-themed movies than the average American. Like the Sound of Music.
I hold the phone and get a wicked grin as I text him back. 'What am I doing? In your dream?' He might be a baron or a duke. He might also be that guy who sleeps with his dead mother in the motel movie. I shiver and push that thought away.
'Sleeping and not annoying the living hell out of me.'
My heart hurts.
'Night.' is the last message I receive.
I leave it at that. I turn the phone off even though I'm not supposed. It's one of his rules. I hate that I have to obey him, even when he's shitty to me. I hate needing him. I hate that he really is the only chance I have at a real future. Instead of ending up as a waitress in New Mexico.
I stare at the ceiling and then try pacing. I watch another movie and then when I can't keep my eyes open a second longer, I do it. I turn off the TV and close my eyes. Let myself relax and try, just try, to sleep. It creeps in and hugs me, wraps me in fears and doubts. I remain there until the sun comes up, frozen. I'm grateful we arrived a week early. I can't imagine trying to go to school as exhausted as I am. My eyes are crusty and my throat is dry, when she bounds through the door with a smile that is unmistakable.
I'm grateful to see her. She is my saving grace.
"Oh my god, Em. He is A-MAZE-ZING." She thumps her back against the door and sighs. Her red face and dirty grin speak volumes.
My eyes won't stay open. I mutter, "The lonely." And pass out.
I wake as the sun is going down.
She is gone again. I yawn and stretch and turn the phone on. I climb out of bed and check underneath them both and in the closets. The phone vibrates, undoubtedly, with the messages he sent me while it was off. He's more than likely pissed I turned it off. I ignore it and take my things to the showers. I'm taking a tiny stand for my dignity.
I'm mid shampoo when the shower curtain is ripped back, making me scream. My eyes open wide, getting only a flash of Michelle's stressed out face and then close tight, taking loads of soap in. I cry out from the burning behind my eyelids, "Shit, Shell. My eyes. They're burning. Ass." I pull the curtain closed. My face is on fire and my eyes are burning.
"Hurry up. He's going to come and get you if you don’t answer that phone." She sounds panicked. "Seriously, Stuart just texted me. Uncle Daddy Weirdo is pissed. He's fuming."
"You think he's fuming." I grumble.
I open my eyes under the water, but nothing is stopping the burning. I blink and bat them, but it still hurts. I wrench back the curtain and cuss some more under my breath. I pull on my robe and stomp across the bathroom in my rubber shower shoes. I leave my shoes next to the door just inside the room, as always and slip on my bedroom slippers. I am so angry I could spit flames. If I had the slightest spark, I would have flames shooting from my nostrils. I wish I did have flames. I could use them to blow torch things and sanitize like the kosher chefs do on TV.
I grab the phone off the bed and dial the number.
He answers in a rage, "YOU EVER TURN THAT DAMN PHONE OFF AGAIN AND I WILL COME AND GET YOU. NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" His voice sounds so different I hardly recognize him. I wince, dropping the phone. I don’t cry for other people. I don’t cry unless I'm in pain, horrid amounts of physical pain. I refuse to allow myself the weakness of the tears forming in my eyes. I blink them back.
I shake, looking down. I take a breath and pick up the phone.
He speaks softly after I hold it to my face for a minute, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was wrong to shout like that. You scared me. I have to know where you are." Again his voice is so altered, I almost don’t know it. He is genuinely sorry. I can hear it. It doesn’t change the fact I am still genuinely terrified.
I don’t speak. I cannot.
"I can hear you breathing. I know you’re upset. Close your eyes. Just like Doctor Bradley says. Close them and find the peace and gratitude." He tries to talk soothingly but he can't. He isn’t a soothing person.
"You're an asshole." I whisper. My eyes pop open when I realize what I've said. He laughs into the phone.
"Don't turn it off again, okay?"
"Whatever."
He sighs, "Come on. Work with me here. It's all for your benefit."
"Whatever."
I'm angry. I never get angry.
"You mad?"
"Yup."
"Good." He hangs up.
I put the phone down.
A text comes in instantly, 'Ignore the bad messages, the early in the morning ones. Got a bit desperate.'
I ignore them all. Including the ones my eyes are reading out of habit.
I glance up at Shell. She bites her lip, "He gets so crazy. I'm scared of him. He phoned Stuart's phone and screamed like a psycho. Maybe you should call the cops."
I sigh, and look at her sideways, "And say what? I have a mysterious benefactor who insists on reaching me and keeping me safe? And then whine that in return, I have to suffer through his bad temper, lack of social skills and incessant need to have my cell phone on. The cell phone he gave me, for free. Along with the fact he's paid for everything for you and I."
She crosses her arms, "Sometimes he's a bastard, dude. A nasty-bastard. He's always watching you. It's creepy. We can go home anytime, you know that right?"
I shake my head, "No, he isn’t. He's like a dad or a big brother. He worries and overreacts. It's scary when he does it, but it's all in the name of keeping me safe. I went on a date with a stranger and then was unreachable. Your dad would be pissed if we were back home in Clovis. Besides, I don’t want to go back. Clovis isn’t my home." It never was.
She concedes, "Okay."
I distract her, "How was your date?"
She beams again, "Oh my god. Oh my god. It was…oh my GAWD."
I roll my eyes. "Glad one of us has some oh my god going on."
She flashes me a grim look, "Pretty hard to have any oh my god when you hose every boy within a five-foot radius with seasonally-scented hand sani. You never let anyone close enough."
I point, "I also don't have any STD's, pregnancy scares, or guys who won't stop calling. And smelling like pumpkin-spice is a nice way to spend the day."
She rolls her eyes, "True dat. So we going out? You put me in charge of the New Leaf foundation here at University and I think this is an excellent way to start it off. I heard there is a bar around that is fun with a capital T for trouble."
I laugh, but she doesn’t change her desperate expression. She pleads, "New Leaf? I was kidding about the T for Trouble. It's called Taboo. Supposed to be fun. The T is for Taboo. Okay, maybe a tiny bit of trouble. We can go somewhere else more mellow." Her voice rises with hope and sweetness.
I roll my eyes, "I don’t do clubs."
"You'll have fun."
I look at her, astonished she actually said that.
"Please, try to have fun." Her attack is a pout and a soft smile.
"I don’t want to go."
"If you hate it we never have to go again."
I cross my arms over my robe and tilt my head, "If I have a panic attack?"
"We can come home right away. I'll pack extra sani's and your paper bag."
I sigh.
She pleads and bats her eyelashes, "We can't drink. We're minors and not on the Mexican border. All we can do is dance and maybe score a bit of ecstasy if we're lucky enough to find some." I nearly stroke.
I glower, "No. No drugs or I don’t go." My brain is screaming because I don’t want to go and somehow she has made me agree to it.
She jumps off the bed, grabbing my hands and hopping in an excited circle. I'm pretty sure I've just been had. She threw the drugs in to get me to agree and then was fine with the drugs leaving the table.
We change into club clothes, for me this is a t-shirt and jeans and strappy sandals but minus the running watch. I'm feeling bold. I laugh at myself in my head, but a thought about how crazy people laugh inside their heads floats through. So I stop and look at myself in the mirror, the new mirror Stuart installed.