And then I met her.
Well, saw her. For the first time. It was the first day of school, everyone primped and perfumed and Prada’d to their last hair, and then there was her. Beatrix Cruz walked into the front doors, her two brown braids slightly ruffled by the autumn wind. She carried a backpack that looked older than she – threads trailing from the frayed corners and a zipper that didn’t close all the way around the mass of school supplies she’d brought. Her uniform was carefully ironed, and from the essay I knew she had to have done it herself – her mother was rarely home. It wasn’t tailored like everyone else’s; it simply hung on her shoulders, wrinkle-free but far too baggy. Her stormy gray eyes never once shied away from someone’s gaze. She looked straight ahead, the sunlight illuminating her from behind.
I knew in that moment it was her. There were always a few new students on the first day, but she was unmistakable. The unflinching gaze could only belong to the same person who’d written that essay.
And now she hated me.
I’d forgotten what it was like, to be hated. Well, the students I kicked out hated me, but they were scumbags who needed to be taught a lesson. I could care less what they thought of me. But someone who wrote such honest things? Someone who poured her heart out on paper and made it look easy? Someone who knew what hope was? I wanted someone like that to like me. Someone like that was rare and priceless. The last thing I wanted was for her to hate me.
But she did.
Yeah, maybe I built up our meeting a little too much in my mind. Maybe I’d been too nervous for too long, watching her from afar. Maybe I’d read the essay too much, instead of trying to talk to her like a normal human being. Maybe I was just being downright creepy about the whole thing. I liked her writing, and that was it. I shouldn’t have wanted anything more than that. It was greedy of me. And it was stupid of me - the last time I tried to get to know someone they betrayed me. Mark took my trust and ripped it into tiny shreds. Just because she wrote an essay I liked didn’t mean she was any different. I knew from her words that she and I were similar – two people who tried their hardest to save someone. Trying. She’s still trying, but my efforts are in the past.
That’s why she doesn’t belong at Lakecrest.
Her essay said nothing about her wanting to be here for her own sake. It was all for her Dad’s. And while that’s noble, and self-sacrificing, and a million other things, it’s also very, very stupid. Incredibly stupid. Maybe it’s because I would’ve given anything to make Mark ‘better’ again, but I can’t stand seeing her waste what’s left of her teenage years trying desperately to heal someone she can’t. He needs professional help. It’s a shrink’s job, not hers, to help with his illness. Putting all of that pressure on one person who isn’t trained for it - who doesn’t have years of study and practice under their belt – is wrong. Putting all that pressure on one girl is wrong. And the worst part is? She’s doing it to herself, stubbornly.
She has to be expelled. It has to be done. She has to leave Lakecrest before it damages her psyche, her soul, and her dreams, permanently. And if I have to be the bad guy, then so be it.
I don’t know her. Not really. But her writing sang to me. Someone who wrote like that had to be equally as graceful, as wise, as kind. Words don’t come from nowhere – they come from a mind, and I wanted to know hers.
I’d never know. But at the very least I could preserve it. Protect it. Protect her.
All I have left is the essay, and I read it over and over until the sun sets and I fall asleep with her words dancing behind my eyelids.
Chapter 5
BEATRIX
This is going to come as a shocker to you, pen-and-paper, but I've never been to a truly fancy restaurant in my life.
The closest I'd ever come was the Cheesecake Factory in Seattle on a weekend sometimes. Going out and eating wasn't exactly Dad's thing - he always felt like he was ruining it for the rest of us, and got downtrodden pretty quick - so we stopped going. I'd definitely forgotten which one is the salad fork or how to sit in a chair for more than ten minutes without squirming into a more comfortable slouch, and I definitely, DEFINITELY didn't have anything to wear. Not that I usually cared about impressing people, it's just that Mr. Blackthorn held the future of my scholarship in his hands. I had to at least try and look smarter and older than I really was.
Dresses aren't my style. I like sweaters and jeans and converse and that's it. Frankly, everything else in the fashion world can take a flying leap off a waterfall. With piranhas in the bottom. Mom did try to get me a sundress once with blue flowers on it. I barely fit it anymore. But it was all I had, and I was desperate to look like more than a sixteen-year-old girl belonging to a hovering-just-above-poverty American family. I squeezed into the dress and threw a sweater over it, convinced I looked like the world's dopiest kindergarten teacher.
Mom wasn't home, thankfully. It was Dad and only Dad. Mom would've definitely noticed something was up when I walked into the living room wearing the sundress I hate. But Dad was oblivious, glued to the television as he had been since I'd gotten home. It was one of those days for him.
"Hey Dad." I kissed the side of his cheek, his beard scratchy. He'd told me once he hated beards, but shaving had sort of fallen on the wayside for him. "I'm going to the store to get some things for Mom. Do you need anything?"
"What?" Dad tore his glossy eyes from the TV. "No, no I'll be fine."