3. Salem
THREE
salem
The library smells like old paper and sweat. Or is that me? I can’t remember if I put deodorant on this morning or not. Oh, the things that can trigger a panic attack on a random afternoon. I adjust my gloves for the fourth time in as many minutes, smoothing the rubbery textured nitrile over my knuckles until they sit just right. The edges must align perfectly with my wrist bones, or I’ll have to start over. It’s a vicious cycle, a never-ending one, really.
I focus on my breathing, ensuring each breath is measured.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. And if it isn’t, then it will find a way to be.
Starting summer classes has been the death of me. I’ve done my best not to stand out, even while wearing nitrile gloves. If my OCD doesn’t scare people off, it’s the rumors that have been spread about me.
That’s the primary reason I chose to start school early versus waiting till the fall. I thought there would be fewer students in the summer, and I’d have plenty of time to make a couple of friends and become accustomed to classes. As I look around the library, scanning the faces of other students, I have to wonder if I made a mistake. Why are so many students attending summer classes?
I’ve managed to survive three weeks, so I think I can do anything at this point. Although it’s not really the attending of classes or the hushed voices that get to me. It’s the gawking, the stares, the silent judgment grating on me. It’s like everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to have another mental breakdown.
They aren’t, but it feels like they are.
Enough , I scold myself and focus on arranging the notebooks at precisely right angles. The corner of my calculus text needs to align exactly with the edge of the study cubicle. If I can get everything perfect, maybe my brain will quiet down enough to absorb the differential equations I’m supposed to learn.
Someone laughs in the distance, and I flinch, causing disorder in my well-arranged system. Deep breath . Start over. Align the edges. Check the gloves. You can do this.
I won’t think about the alternative because there is none. Getting through this term… graduating … it’s no longer a can option and more of a have to . I’ve already lost two years of my life trying to return to some level of normal. Months upon months of disappearing into white walls, therapy sessions, and learning how to exist in my own skin again.
I refuse to let all that time be a waste. I won’t stand in my own way, not anymore.
The textbook shifts a millimeter out of place, and I bite back a groan of frustration. Three more adjustments, then maybe I can start studying. It’s a silent promise I make to myself, but one that will soon be broken. Something always happens, and then I have to start the process over again.
“Salem? Is that you?”
The soft voice speaking my name makes me jump, which sends my perfectly aligned notebooks in every direction across the cubby. I really need to get a grasp on things. I peer up from the mess in front of me and find Maybel Arturo—or is it Maybel Jacobs, still?
I guess I don’t know anymore since I’ve been so out of touch with the hierarchy .
Her last name doesn’t matter so much as the fact that her name is Bel, and we used to be pretty good friends. Still are, I guess. We just haven’t spoken in a while. She stands at the edge of the cubby, her blond hair escaping its messy bun in wisps that would drive me crazy if they were on my head.
“Hi!” The word squeaks past my lips.
Bel shifts her weight, the movement making her oversized cream cardigan slip off one shoulder. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure if it was you or not. You look different … but not in a bad way.”
So in a good way? I don’t know how to take that.
My hair is still the same mess of mahogany brown it was back then. I’ve lost weight, of course; an abundance of anxiety and a rigorous medication routine will do that to you. In the physical sense, I’m still the girl I was before everything happened. Mentally, the girl I used to be and the one I am now couldn’t be more different.
The memory of the past, of who I used to be, makes my skin crawl.
Two years ago, Bel and I shared notes in advanced literature and giggled over coffee between classes. Now she’s campus royalty, dating, and maybe even engaged by now, to Drew Marshall.
And then there’s me. The girl who wears medical gloves to be able to open the pages of a textbook. Never mind the fact that I can barely function in a social setting without having a mental breakdown or counting everything in sight. Nothing says I’m interested in you like counting ceiling tiles on the first date. Not that anyone is leaping at the chance to take me out.
“No, it’s okay.” I force my lips into a smile.
My hands twitch, and the need to fix the scattered notebooks makes me itch. I bite the inside of my cheek, eliciting pain and drawing attention elsewhere in my body while forcing my hands to remain where they are. I can fix the notebooks after she leaves.
“Do you mind if I …?” She gestures to the empty chair beside me. I nod even though having someone in my space makes me want to walk into oncoming traffic.
This is Bel. Your friend. The girl who’s always been kind to you, even before everything happened. I can take five minutes to talk to her. What’s it going to hurt?
She settles into the chair, tucking her legs underneath her like we’re at a sleepover instead of in the library. “I had no idea you were back. Are you doing summer semester only, or …?”
“I’m full-time right now. The plan is to catch up on the credits I’m missing and get back on track. Going to class in the summer sucks, but if it lessens the workload during the school year, I can’t complain. I mean, what else do I have to do with my time?” I cringe internally at how dumb that sounds.
Bel doesn’t seem to sense anything strange about it. “Are you … I mean, how are you doing?”
The concern in her voice makes me want to crawl under the table. It reminds me of Lee Sterling and his loaded question from the other night. Are you okay? Okay, deep breath. She’s asking because she cares, not because she feels bad for me.
I direct my attention to the scattered notebooks in front of me. I know I said I’d do it when she left, but I can’t help myself. I realign them, letting the precise movements calm my racing pulse. I can’t imagine how messed up I look right now.
If she has thoughts about it, she doesn’t say it out loud.
I answer her as I adjust everything. “I’m … okay. Better than I have been in a long time. I’m happy to be back, to return to regular life.”
The silence settles and stretches between us. All the things we’re not saying and all the history we’re pretending doesn’t exist fill the crevices. I know she has questions; everyone does.
Is she going to ask them? I wonder if I even have answers to give her. I peek up at her. She’s watching me straighten the textbooks. Seconds tick by in suspense. Then the silence shatters.
“That’s good. I’m happy to hear you’re doing better, and I’m even happier to see you again.”
“Things are different, that’s for sure.” Different, but the same. Although sometimes I feel like the only thing that’s different is me. Like I’m a triangle trying to fit into a circle spot.
“So,” Bel starts, then stops, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan sleeve. “I heard you were at The Mill party last night.”
My hands freeze mid-adjustment of my pencil case. Oh god. I can only imagine the things being said about me. Actually, it doesn’t matter. I’m no longer surprised by the hateful things people say. Everyone in attendance noticed me.
In their defense, it’s hard to miss the weird girl who is constantly counting, refuses to talk to anyone, and has to wear gloves to function. I’m sure hiding in the pantry like a social reject was icing on the cake. Like, yeah, Lee was there for five seconds, but he’s popular and normal by society’s standards. I doubt anyone batted an eye at him.
“I was there briefly. It became overwhelming pretty fast, so I bowed out early.”
Bel leans forward, her expression brightening. “But you came. That’s something, right? I mean, I know parties aren’t really your thing, but—” She catches her implication too late. I swallow hard, focusing on the exact angle of my calculator against the desk edge.
My thoughts drift, and this is usually when I spiral, everything going back to that terrible fucking night, but that’s not what happens. Instead of going down a dark hole, I’m taken back to the memory of last night. A place I have zero business being.
Nope, do not think about it.
Too late. All I do is blink, and I can feel his warm hand against my skin, his sweet bourbon breath fanning against my lips and that soft, understanding look that appeared in his eyes when I told him I have OCD.
He’s out of your league, Salem. More, he’s out of your universe.
“Drew told me he found you and Lee in the pantry together.”
“Yeah, we were both hiding … nothing happened. I mean, if that’s what you were hinting at.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could swallow them. “I’m sorry. That was … stupid. I didn’t mean to imply that you were thinking we did something. Parties aren’t really my scene, you are correct. In fact, this whole thing is new to me. I should’ve prepared myself better, but I didn’t. Lee was …”
What was he? Interesting at best. Intense, yes. Terrifying. Also yes. The opposite of myself in every single way, one million times yes, yet being in his presence made me feel … normal. Protected?
“Intense?” she offers with a small smile. “Inappropriate? Both?”
Heat crawls up my cheeks. “I don’t really know. He’s just different.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely different …” She pauses like she’s choosing her words. “And complicated. Far more than people realize, but if you like him, don’t let that scare you away. He’s one of the good ones, even if he tries really hard to convince everyone he isn’t.”
“Oh no, it’s not like that,” I correct her, wanting to make certain she knows nothing is going on between us.
“Hey, that’s fine. I get it. I just wanted you to know, on the off chance you were, that not all the rumors are true. Lee’s a real good guy. He’s just rough around the edges.” The way she talks about him, like she feels the need to defend him. A light goes off in my head, and after his comments last night, I have to wonder how long he’s been pretending to be something he’s not. How long has he been wearing a mask and faking it until he can’t anymore?
I bet Lee has a pile of secrets he’s keeping.
“Hey, look, freak show’s back for summer school.”
The comment slides through the study space like a poison-filled mist. I don’t give it any acknowledgment. I know that voice, know who it belongs to without turning around.
Marcus Chen and his cronies—the same guys who were there that night, who watched it all happen, who watched me break apart like entertainment. Their taunting and hateful words are meant to elicit a reaction.
I’m sure I look weak in the eyes of my peers since I don’t bother to defend myself, but there’s no reason. Anyone who believes their lies isn’t someone I would ever associate with anyway.
My hands start to shake, and I clench them into fists, feeling the nitrile stretch across my knuckles. Focus on the smooth texture. Count the bookshelves.
“Guess they let anyone attend these days, huh?” another voice adds, just loud enough to reach my ears. “Even the ones who should be locked up.”
Bel’s entire body stiffens, her usual gentle expression hardening into something fierce.
“Don’t,” I plead, but she’s already half turned in her chair.
“I thought the library was for studying,” Marcus taunts, his voice dripping with fake concern. “Shouldn’t she be in a padded room? What if she loses it again?”
I hate that my only option is to leave, but I won’t subject myself to this crap. Sinking deeper into the confines of my mind, I push out of my chair and allow my body to move on autopilot. Each item needs to go into my bag in the right order—laptop, textbook, notebooks, pencil case. If I focus on doing it perfectly, I won’t hear them.
Won’t feel the weight of their eyes on me. Won’t remember how it felt when?—
“That’s enough.” Bel’s voice cuts through the whispers, sharp as broken glass.
I look away from my backpack and find her standing, all five-foot-four of her blazing with quiet fury. Marcus meets her gaze for half a second before he falters. Pussy. Everyone knows crossing Bel means crossing Drew Marshall, and nobody wants to be on the wrong side of the most influential graduate of Oakmount.
Even with Drew having graduated, his shadow still looms over campus politics.
“Guess I wasn’t aware you befriended psychopaths?” Marcus sneers at Bel, drawing on false bravado.
“Not only do I befriend them, but I date them, too.” She smiles, tipping her head toward Drew who wanders closer to our little tableau. Drew gives Marcus a small wave and a terrifying smile. How does a quiet bookworm end up with the psychopath football player? Something tells me there’s a story there.
Marcus mutters something under his breath and walks off with his friends in tow. The pressure on my chest lifts as soon as he’s gone. I can finally breathe again. It doesn’t change anything. The damage is already done. The perfect order of my morning is shattered, and no amount of reorganizing will fix it.
“I’m sorry… I know it’s not my place to apologize for their shitty attitudes, but I feel the need to,” Bel says softly.
“It’s okay. I’m used to it, and I was getting ready to leave, anyway.”
Bel watches me with apprehension. “Don’t leave. Don’t let him win. You have as much of a right to be here as he does.”
“It doesn’t matter if I have a right to be here. I don’t belong.” My voice cracks, and the honesty in my words is soul-piercing.
“Yes, you do,” she counters, and there’s no point in arguing with her.
“Thank you for your kindness, Bel, but I know I don’t, and I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted it. I have another class soon anyway.”
Bel frowns. I know she’s trying to save me and make me feel better, but nothing can save me from reality.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to meet up somewhere else, then. Do you want to get a coffee sometime?”
“Sure, let’s figure out a day.” I don’t bother telling her it will never happen. Bel is kind and a great friend…but she doesn’t need someone like me as a friend.
“Okay, I’ll text you, and we can figure out a day.”
I give her a nod. “Sounds good.” I watch as she walks right into Drew’s arms.
It’s crazy how different everything is now. The library used to be my sanctuary, back when I was just another honor student with a bright future. Back before I became the campus cautionary tale.
My gloved fingers trace the edge of the desk, counting the nicks in the wood, grounding myself in the reality of now versus then. How I used to share notes in study groups, raise my hand in lectures, and walk across campus without counting my steps or checking door handles three times before touching them.
I suppose that’s what trauma does to you. It takes all your good parts and destroys them, shatters them, so you can never put yourself back together the way you were before. I’m still me, in the same body, with the same skin and eyes, but I’m not me at the same time. Change is good; it’s an inevitable part of life. That’s what my therapist says. And I understand that, but I also wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.
Returning to campus reminds me of everything that I used to be, everything I used to have. It’s progress, a part of the journey and recovery, but it feels like a punishment in many ways. I pull out my phone and open the calendar app, checking my schedule even though I have it memorized.
Statistics at eleven, followed by British literature at two. Eight hours of classes a week, perfectly spread out to allow for recovery time between social interactions. It’s a carefully constructed house of cards, and one strong breeze is all it will take to send it tumbling down.
The screen blurs as I stare at it, and I realize I’m thinking about last night.
About a dark pantry and a boy who didn’t look at me like I was broken. And how, for just a moment, with his finger tracing my lip and his soft voice caressing my ears, I felt closer to normal than I had in a very long time.
But normal isn’t for girls like me anymore.
Normal walked out the door two years ago, along with my dignity, my future, and any chance of being more than the weirdo who wears gloves, counts her steps, and hides in pantries at parties. I close the calendar app and start repacking my bag. Everything needs to be in its place, in perfect order. I might not have control of my life, but at least I can control this.
A flash of memory hits me as I zip the bag—the sharp smell of antiseptic, fluorescent lights that never dim, my mother’s face crumpling as she signed the admission papers. I grip the back of my chair, nitrile squeaking against the metal.
No. Not here. Not now.
“Breathe through it.” Dr. Martinez’s voice echoes in my head. “Find your anchor points.”
One. The precise weight of my backpack straps perfectly even on both shoulders.
Two. The smooth texture of my gloves against my palms.
Three. The rhythmic tap of my shoes on the tile as I walk—left, right, left, right.
The memory recedes, leaving behind the usual hollow ache in my chest. After that night, I spent two years learning how to exist again. After everyone saw me break apart in the middle of sophomore year. After I became the girl who …
No. I won’t think about it.
I let my traitorous mind drift back to Lee, the misunderstood playboy. He didn’t flinch when I mentioned OCD, didn’t give me that look of pity mixed with fear that I’ve grown so used to seeing. He simply accepted it, like it was as ordinary as having brown hair or blue eyes.
Because of him, I know what it feels like to be seen instead of stared at. To be heard instead of whispered about. It didn’t matter how he made me feel, though. Not when Lee is exactly what I need to stay away from.
Wild, impulsive, always the center of attention—everything that sets off my well-constructed warning systems. I’ve seen him around campus before; he’s always surrounded by drama and desire. Everywhere he goes, chaos follows. The way he touches people so casually, drinks from other people’s cups, and lives life like germs and consequences don’t exist.
He’s a disaster waiting to happen.
No , I decide, pushing through the library’s heavy doors into the summer heat. Last night was a momentary lapse in judgment, a strange intersection of his need to hide and mine. Nothing more.
I adjust my gloves one final time and start counting the steps toward my next class. Left, right, left, right. This is my life now: careful and contained and controlled. Nothing will change that fact. Not even the guy with understanding eyes and a devil-may-care smile. Even if some small, reckless part of me wishes he could.