Stay Toxic

Chapter 10

Ichecked the student mailbox several times that week, my disappointment growing every day that I didn’t get a reply, until it’s there, Friday afternoon—the last day my assigned pen pal had to submit this week’s note.

Dear Desperate,

I don’t actually want to not get my damn doctorate, so here are my mandatory words: I don’t give a shit about the loser who killed himself last year. My shits are reserved for his victims. I don’t think this stupid system is going to stop any other loser from offing themselves or taking the rest of us with them.

Here’s some senior advice: shoot yourself if you must. Don’t take the rest of us down with you.

Stay gone

My jaw drops. Fucking hell. I can’t freaking believe it. I stand outside, in the wind, gaping as I reread his awful words. What a complete and utter dick.

I was having such a lovely week until this. I had lunch with Tanya three times, the ballet was wonderful, Ari and I are growing pretty close, I adore the library, the pool is great, and my mythology class was such a treat. More than this, I am well and truly away from Albuquerque. It’s really sunk in after a week. I was practically floating on a cloud. And now, I just feel…dreadful. Useless. Worthless.

People say words have no impact, but after years and years of being told how inadequate I am, I know it’s bullshit. They hurt. Maybe not as much as a slap, but they stay with you for far longer, eating at your self-worth.

Maybe if it weren’t for my history, I’d just brush it off, but I can’t.

I don’t even wait, grabbing a pen out of my purse, to write back at the back of his hastily torn, thin, lined notebook page.

Dear Awful,

Oh wow. You’re a case and a half. You know I could report you for that answer, right?

For your information, I’ve never been desperate. I don’t want to kill myself. But if you were in front of me right now, and I had a gun in hand? I might just pull the damn trigger and make the world a nicer place.

As for this week’s assigned question, given that I don’t intend to be kicked out of school: I made friends with my roommate. She’s lovely and invited me to a concert. I’m not going.

Stay toxic, troll.

There. I’m satisfied, having said my piece, and also, filled in next week’s assignment. Just because he has no regard for the rules doesn’t mean I’ll risk my enrollment because I haven’t answered the mandatory question. What if they check? Besides, if I eventually have to report my correspondent, I’d rather be seen doing what I’m supposed to.

Though my first paragraph isn’t shedding the best light on me either.

I hand in the note, in an envelope blank except for the number 1789, and the receptionist files it.

I’m pissed off for the rest of the day. Realistically I know it’s not about me. My first letter was absolutely civil. I’m just dealing with an asshole, the kind of person relying on anonymity for being an abusive dick, no different from the average internet troll commenting on someone’s appearance to make them feel bad about themselves. I shouldn’t let him get to me. And somehow, I know it’s a him. Women can be awful too, but there was a certain bullheaded directness to his letter that can only come from someone with testosterone. No subtlety.

It takes four lattes, a bag of candy, and a new, fascinating book on the history of meretrix—Roman call girls—to stop huffing.

I think I have my annoyance under control, but Ari stops mid-makeup application to ask, “Okay, what’s the deal?”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re practically strangling that pen, and if looks could kill, your notebook would be on fire. What’s up?”

“Oh.” It’s disconcerting that she can read me so well after less than a week. “I guess…you know the Dear Stranger thing, right?”

She beams. “Oh, yeah! I’m paired with a freshman. Timothy. He’s such a cutie. We already switched from paper to online messages—much faster. He has so many questions, it makes more sense that way.”

I try not to hate poor Timothy for having lucked out; why can’t I have a mentor like Ari?

“Well, my pal is a bit of a dick.”

I’m reluctant to explain to what extent—the dude literally told me to go kill myself—because I’m fairly certain that if I do confess to contents of the letter, Ari will tell me to report him.

It’s not that I’m not tempted. The idea did cross my mind. But with some hindsight I can read between the lines. While the letter was aggressive, it also sounded…hurt?

My shits are reserved for his victims.

I’m new here, which means I was assigned to someone who attended Rothford before, and from the subtext, I think he—or she, women can be dicks, too, though I’m almost certain it’s a guy—knew the kids who died last year. And if that’s the case, well, I don’t want to add more trouble to his plate.

Besides, I’m not a snitch.I’m not about to fuck with someone’s doctorate because they weren’t nice to me.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You know, technically, you can always just answer the questions, and leave it at that. You don’t even have to read their answer if they’re not nice. Toss it in the trash as soon as you get it.”

That’s useful, and accurate. I reread the specifications of the program, and yep, the only thing we’re mandated to do is answer the question the faculty asks every week.

The following week, I’m determined to do just that. I’m good for a week as I immediately replied, so I don’t check until the next Thursday.

In less than two weeks in Thorn Falls, I’ve already established a routine, centered around my roommate, my best friend, the library, and avoiding my roommate’s boyfriend whenever I see him in the halls. Which is a lot, surprisingly. I’m in law school and literature, which means my classes mostly happen in Silver Hall, while all the sciences tend to be in The Dome. But I go to The Dome to swim, and apparently, our schedules are similar, because I tend to see him most mornings. And I hide.

I’m not a coward, per se. I just don’t like the way he makes me feel. Maybe I can’t settle the cacophony of butterflies partying in my damn stomach every time he’s near, but I can at least make sure that doesn’t happen often.

Unfortunately, Sebastian also frequents the library. Mercifully, he tends to stick to the fourth floor, while I’m hiding up on the seventh floor, even when I have to pick up books from other sections. I’ve chosen a favorite alcove, and I find myself returning to it every day.

I’m perfectly pleasant and polite when I can’t avoid him. Like right now.

He’s wearing a tight T-shirt, dark gray. It hugs his muscles in a way that should be illegal.

“Hi, Sebastian.” I even smile.

“Pervert.”The corner of his lips goes up into that damn smirk. “There’s a pool party tomorrow afternoon at my cousin’s house. Feel like going with me?”

What the hell?

“No, thank you.” I flush, and hurry down the stairs, squeezing a book to my chest.

Why would he ask me to a damn pool party? He has a girlfriend! Or something. Right?

That’s how I find myself at the student center, to check my Dear Stranger mail, although I didn’t intend to pick it up until the last possible moment tomorrow.

My heart is beating hard and fast and I know, I just know, that I’m going to read the damn letter I should just throw in the trash. If only because anger over whatever’s written on there is a good distraction from my roommate’s boyfriend’s lips.