Before You Go

SEVEN

Dad and Amy pretty much leave me alone over the weekend. I use the time to get a jump-start on my coursework and before I know it, it’s Monday.

D-Day.

Dad waits for me in front of my apartment. He insists on driving me even though I only live two blocks away. We drive in silence, though his mouth opens a few times and I catch him stealing several looks at me. We pull up to a big brick building. Dad pats my legs and pulls me in to kiss my forehead.

“It’s going to be okay, Tabby,” he says in a strong voice, but his shaky hands give him away. I want to comfort him.

“Yes, it will Dad,” I mimic his tone. “I’ll be fine.” I force a smile, it’s the best I can do.

After my first class, I’m not so sure.

I float in my own little bubble through the crowded buildings, isolated from the other students. I struggle to maneuver around them as I move from class to class. There is no connection to them. I am alone. Not just alone, but invisible. I’m in a new place with new people, but the isolation is the same. Just the way it had become by the time I left Illinois.

After poly sci, I feel a full panic attack coming on. I want my bed, my room, my nest of safety. I have to settle for the restroom instead.

Disgusting? Yes, but I don’t have a lot of choices.

When I first came to stay with Dad and Amy, they were so scared. You could see it in their eyes. A normal person would’ve felt bad for them, but I really didn’t feel anything. It barely registered. But now, I see their faces whenever I go to that dark place—whenever I think about doing bad things to myself. I know I have to get better. At least for them. I’ve even started doing some breathing and meditation coping exercises.

Dad noticed the change right away and you’ve never seen a happier parent. I liked being the cause of something good for once. Getting Dad and Amy off my back wasn’t the only benefit to partaking in the therapy, it actually helped. The only problem is, like everything, it doesn’t last.

My head is cloudy, but I keep my eyes on the restroom sign. Around the corner, I open the first door I see. A mop comes falling out, hitting me on the head. Nice. I opened the door to a janitor’s closet. I slide the mop back in and slowly close the door, trying to play cool. Like I didn’t just walk into a closet.

When I finally find the right place, I pick a stall, lock the door, and lean up against it. The bathroom here is nothing like one that graced the university in Illinois. There’s no sitting area with a sofa. No marble floors or granite countertops. It’s strictly functional décor here, with a bit of an institutional flare. Something I should be accustomed to, considering I spent most of the summer in lockdown.

I close my eyes and imagine getting through this day, unscathed. I imagine sitting through my classroom with no whispers or giggles or looks. I imagine walking home in peace. I hold that scene, outside with the wind in my hair and I breathe in until the door next to me opens. Under the partition, I see a pair of Coach boots tapping on the dirty tiled floor. How stupid to be noticing this now, but I can’t help it. That’s what happens when you’ve been groomed by a superficial mother.

From what I’ve seen so far, there’s not much fashion sense—or nonsense—to deal with here. The Land of 10,000 Lakes is not over the top with girls looking like they just stepped off the runway or metrosexuals who use more hair products than I…well, than I used to. The people here seem more real. Almost normal.

The pain in my chest grows, throbbing with each heartbeat. I feel the tears coming, the unshakable kind. I hold my breath to keep them at bay. I hold it until my eyes feel like they’re ready to pop out of my skull. When I can’t hold it a minute longer, I open my mouth and a loud sob escapes my throat. Followed by three more.

My stall mate hears me. “Are you okay?” she asks.

My face burns and the walls close in, but I find a way to deal. Slowly, I open the door and slip out of the stall without saying a word.

Being invisible has its perks.

SEVEN

Out of sheer willpower, I pull myself together and get through the next two classes. When I make it to my final class of the day, Miss Cute Boots is standing outside the door. My heart races and I wipe my clammy hands on my pants. I’m hoping she doesn’t remember my black ballet flats next to her in the bathroom stall or recognize my voice. I just have to get through the next sixty minutes.

My nerves calm when I realize she won’t notice me or my shoes. As I get closer, I can see she’s huddled in with a guy, yet it’s anything but cozy. She keeps her distance with a hand planted into a nonexistent waist while her hip juts out in a sharp angle. You can feel the chill in the air. The guy moves in and rests his hand gently on her arm like he’s afraid she’ll break.

Christ, it’s Noah.

Again.

He says something to her, but she interrupts and tells him to back off.

His response is no more than a whisper, but I can feel the vibration of his low, deep voice. It cuts to the bone—in the best way, comforting and warm.

I look down and shuffle past them to get into the classroom, wondering why they chose such a high-traffic area to have an obviously private convo.

“I just want to help, Jenna,” Noah says.

“You’ve done quite enough,” Cute Boots snaps.

I find a spot in the classroom, near the back, and quickly pull out my phone, pretending to be engaged in an important message.

The bell rings and Noah and friend rush into class.

“Jenna,” the girl next to me chirps and claps like a seal, except silently.

Jenna, aka Cute Boots, is taking care of her paperwork with Professor Sands. She looks over her shoulder, smiles back, and waves.

“How was Europe?” the girl mouths as the professor tells everyone to take their seats.

“So great,” Jenna whispers as she takes the seat in front of me.

“Guys?” Seal Clapper whispers back.

Jenna replies with a dramatic hand to her heart.

Looks like someone else had an extended summer break—Europe. Must be nice.

Funny, I am both amused and disgusted by this interaction. Back in Chicago, I would’ve fit in with these girls. Meticulous clothes, stylish hair—the radiating cool aura. I had the right kind of hair, right kind of make-up, right kind of life.

Here? No so much.

If my old friends could see me now, they’d die. Nah, probably not. Anything would be believable after last year’s scandal.

Noah falls into the chair behind me. Great, I’m sandwiched between them. This is going to be a long hour, a longer semester.

“So, everyone,” Professor Sands begins. “These first few weeks of class, we’ll be reading.” He smiles and then just stands there, leaning back against his desk. His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows rise, exposing deep roads of wrinkles across his forehead.

“Okaaaay.” Jenna takes the bait. “Reading what Professor Sands?”

Our prof stands up quickly and wades through the maze of students. “Anything,” he answers. “Everything,” he says as he picks books off the desks and holds them up to the heavens like the Bible or something. Maybe they are to him. He moves to the bookshelf at the front of the room.

“Old books,” he says, holding a battered copy of Huckleberry Finn to his chest.

“New books,” he answers, pretending to struggle under the weight of the latest Stephen King.

“Steamy books.” He shakes the heat off his hand after pointing to a paperback bodice ripper.

“Books that take us to different worlds.” He nods to a pile of graphic novels.

“Classics,” he adds and flashes Moby Dick, Of Mice and Men, and Pride and Prejudice.

“That’s it guys. We’re reading all semester, but you decide the curriculum. Then we talk. What makes a good book? A bad one? How can a book change you? Help you? Teach you?”

I get goose bumps as Professor Sands talks about books. He’s electric. This might be a class I can handle every day.

“This afternoon, I’d like you to talk about your favorite books,” he continues. “What appeals to you? How often do you read for pleasure? What do you get from books? You get the idea.

“Let’s pair up front-to-back people. I’d like to continue with these pairs for the next few weeks. We’ll have a few group papers and oral assignments, but if you prefer to keep your reading material to yourself, you can do the projects on your own. It’s your choice.”

A tap on my shoulder has me glancing back and I smell it again. Winter.

“Hi, Tabby,” Noah says with a smile that reveals one deep dimple in his right cheek.

“So we meet again,” I say.

“Mmmhmm. I think the universe is trying to tell us something.”

“Yeah, don’t have odd sexual encounters with strangers.” I exhale with so much force it almost comes out as a groan.

I hate to admit I spent much of the weekend thinking about him. His smile. Blue eyes. His incredibly sweet personality. His amazing body. But now, when I look at him, all I notice are his full lips.

“So, we already have a jump-start on this discussion. I recall talking about books on Friday. Don’t you, Scout?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“I don’t recall too much from that night,” I say, pretending to be bored. “I was drunk, remember?”

“Oh, yes. I remember everything about that night.”

My body burns as his eyes travel over me.

“Please, Noah. This situation is awkward enough. Can we just forget about it?”

“I’m sorry, Tabby, but I don’t think I can.”

My stomach flips at his words, but I know I can’t get involved. For one, Noah obviously has something going with Jenna and her cute boots. Two, I don’t do relationships.

“Please say you’re up for being partners,” Noah says. “I promise I won’t mention Friday night again. Plus, I really don’t want to write a bunch of essays by myself.” He flashes an easy smile and I’m all toasty again.

I play along, knowing I’ll choose the solo essay option instead of working on a project with him. I inhale a deep breath and try to steady myself. This is hard. I haven’t talked to anyone like this for so long. Months and months. Even at home with Dad and Amy, it’s mostly nonverbal on my end.

“Okay, tell me what you’re reading,” I say.

We spend the rest of the hour talking books. Time goes by surprisingly fast as I listen to him talk about the classics, mysteries, and suspense. He tries to engage me, but I let him do most of the talking.

It is interesting.

He is interesting.

By the end of class, Noah talks me into doing our first project together.

Oh, he’s good.