It’s the only way the place is bearable. I try to figure out the basis of my sadness, my need to escape, but I can’t. What I do know is I have no reason to be so uneasy and unappreciative.
Instead of being responsible and attempting to learn, I walk to the small study in my suite, the place that’s plastered with all things Phoenix Rising. Other than my closet, this is the only room I’ve been allowed to decorate on my own, even though I lost the battle not to have carpet. With my closet, Mom was too busy recreating a Neiman Marcus showroom to concern herself with my uninspired choices.
After capitulating to allowing carpeting in here, I got everything else I wanted, including window seats and a simple light fixture that I didn’t choose as a proclamation of wealth. There’s even a desk in here, a piece of useless furniture that I thought was appropriate to keeping the vibe of the room going.
My bookshelf, dedicated to Phoenix Rising fan mags, unauthorized bios, and scrapbooks mostly about Sloane, are my favorite. The 24x36 framed poster of the magazine cover with Sloane’s gorgeous back and arm tattoos hangs directly across from where I stand.
I hesitate before giving in to the urge and yanking one of the first scrapbooks I ever created off the shelf.
I sink to my carpet and begin to flip through the worn pages. Nothing is registering because his hospital visit to me has sustained me. It’s nice knowing someone cares about me. I wish I could stay with him forever, but then I always reconsider. I don’t want to get a selfish need to latch on to someone confused with my desire for him.
Well before Mom and Dad forgot about me, I adored Sloane. It was a shallow, superficial worship. Still, it’s easy for me to tangle need, desire, want, and caring with my predetermined image.
Clinging to thoughts of the attention he gave to me has also helped me to consider my next steps. Such as emancipation from my parents and dropping out of school. If either my grandmother, mother, or father, would visit me, I might discuss one or both with them.
With a frown of distaste, I know I’d discuss dropping out of school quicker than I would emancipation. First, I’d need my allowance to hire an attorney. Second, once I hire an attorney, my allowance would stop. Third, I’m scared. I don’t know how to pay bills, keep a house, or earn money. I don’t even know how to save money. Mom and Dad would be hurt and furious, and I might irreparably damage our relationship. Somewhere, deep down, they love me, so I don’t want to air our dirty laundry, as Grandma sometimes says. Although she doesn’t use those words very often since we all know better.
That’s another thing. Grandma. She’d have me declared something before she allowed me to disgrace the family and emancipate myself. So, um, yeah…no fucking way am I ever bringing up that boneheaded idea.
Dropping out of school on the other hand? That would be seen as a failure, too, but it would be more on me and my inability to learn. It’s all about distribution of blame. Weighted in their favor—Mom and Grandma…and Dad kind of—and I get my way.
I think my grades began to slip around the same time I couldn’t take riding lessons anymore. That occurred about the time I started my period when Mom began to be completely disgusted with me.
Maybe, if it stopped she’d love me again?
“Stupid.” The idea of stopping my period is insane, so I giggle and absently flip the page of the scrapbook.
Sloane. My heart flips at another photo of him, where he’s younger and wearing sunglasses, surrounded by the other guys. Maitland hadn’t gotten the gauges in his ears yet or his fingers tatted. Neither had his hair grown long enough for the man buns he now favors. Quint was leaner, still with that soccer hair, and manic stare. Adam’s blond hair hadn’t gotten defined by the crew cut he’s so famous for. In the early years, he wore dog tags and I always wondered why. Perhaps, it was just an accessory, but I doubt it, given the powerful meaning of the military ID. About the same time he stopped wearing them, he came out with the crew cut. Quite a doubtful coincidence in my estimation.
But what do I know? Besides, my scrapbooks on them are itsy bitsy compared to what I have for Sloane.
I’ve followed his stay here as closely as possible these past days. Each time I see footage, I continue to shove aside my disappointment over what Crowell did by taking Lana to the concert after he’d promised I’d be his date.
He’s called me, but I’ve declined each of them. Now, though, I’m considering picking up my gold-plated iPhone—courtesy of my dad—and dialing Crowell’s number.
At one time, whatever else was going on, I could always count on him for a high. Now, I’m not so sure, although, I intend to test him.
I flip more pages, considering a strategy. I just about cleaned out my bank account for this month’s allowance, so I might not have the money for a fix. Since Crowell isn’t interested in having me suck his dick anymore, I’m not sure how to proceed.