At two-thirty in the morning, I’m still wide awake. At some point I’d ventured out of my room and apologized to Kellan, who promised to keep the easel turned facing away in the corner of the living room, as though it were being punished. Now, however, it’s an entirely different kind of guilt keeping me awake.
Try as I might, every time I close my eyes I see that stupid red satin corset, the one that cinched up so tight I couldn’t take a full breath. Paired with a leather mini-skirt and a pair of Marcela’s stilettos, I’d thought I was the pinnacle of high fashion. Certainly not the invisible girl whose high school yearbook photo is a large question mark, since the school accidentally misplaced my picture and only realized it an hour before the book was set to be printed.
It didn’t matter, I vowed. I would reinvent myself at college, be somebody people remembered. Because if I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure only a handful of my high school classmates would recognize my photo even if it had appeared in the yearbook.
Turns out, being memorable is not that easy.
I roll onto my side and stare into my darkened closet. I know I’m imagining things, but I swear I can see that red corset winking out at me, reflecting in the slivers of moonlight easing through the gap in the curtains. The wind howls outside, the promise of yet another storm, and even as I shiver, I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. I flip on the bedside lamp and hurry to the closet. When I moved in I’d tossed all my…less tasteful clothes into the back corner, buried safely behind my boring new wardrobe of jeans, T-shirts, and cardigans. Now I rummage through the pile, finding mini-skirts and sequined halter tops, dangerously tiny cut-off shorts and the neon pink bikini I’d paired with them for a pool party probably no one remembers I attended.
And there, in the deepest recesses of the closet, is the corset. The bright red beacon of guilt that neither Crosbie nor Kellan can ever be allowed to find. I contemplate leaving it right where it is, since there’s no earthly way anyone will ever root through my closet. Then I consider grabbing a pair of scissors and hacking it into such tiny pieces that even should someone find it, they wouldn’t be able to guess what it was. But in the end I settle for the far more ridiculous option and stuff the corset in a grocery bag, toss on boots and a jacket, and run two blocks up and two blocks over to a completely random street until I come across a garbage can. I wrench out a bag and stuff the corset underneath, securing it with the first bag of trash and replacing the lid.
I’m breathing hard as I stare at the can, wondering if this is how people feel when they hide a body. A bit relieved, a bit gross, and a whole lot guilty.
chapter seventeen
Thanksgiving is remarkably uneventful. I pick up a turkey burger from The Hedgehog and eat it while watching reality TV, reveling in the knowledge that I’ll have the whole apartment to myself for the next few days. Me and that stupid easel. From time to time I glance over at it, wondering if there’s something I can do to…help. Maybe change “red corset” to “red hair,” or cut the bottom of the pages so there is no forty-one and therefore no one to identify. Or maybe burn the whole thing to ashes and say we were vandalized.
We’re down to five names in the current group. Kellan has identified everyone from forty to fifty except the mysterious and entirely forgettable “Red Corset,” and is working on figuring out how to get in touch with the remaining lucky ladies. Two are Canadian backpackers he met during the summer. He thinks he got one of their email addresses while giving them a “tour” of southern California, and now that he’s home for Thanksgiving, he’s going to dig through his things and see if he can’t find a few more clues.
As nice as the quiet is, I’m lonely. I don’t miss the smell of cheese or the non-stop explosions emanating from the television, but I miss having a roommate and I miss having a boyfriend. My first boyfriend. Kellan and I are Facebook friends and I smile as I see photos from the track team trip, mostly the guys goofing off on the bus, running bare-assed into the freezing ocean, or doing inappropriate things with whipped cream. Crosbie doesn’t have an account of his own but he’s pictured there too, looking as handsome as ever.
By the time I get home from work on Friday night, I’m more than ready for the boys to be back. I smile when I bike up the street and see lights on in the living room, dragging my bike up the stairs and thudding inside to find Crosbie sitting on the couch, alone.
“Hey,” I say, looking around. Kellan’s room is dark. “Where’s Kellan?”
Crosbie stands and stalks toward me. “Does it matter?”
“Is he—Oomph!” I forget my question as Crosbie backs me into the wall and kisses me like I’m not the only one who missed somebody this week.
“You were saying?” he asks when we break apart to breathe.