One
One
Corvallis in the fall has a special charm. With its little houses, parks, and dense forests all around, it looks like one of those enchanted snow globe landscapes that I used to collect when I was a little girl. The arrival of the first storms makes everything even more magical. Just like now, with the rain pounding violently on the asphalt, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the smell of the wet streets. There’s no better awakening in the world, to me.
The peace doesn’t last long, though, because the blaring sound of the alarm clock reminds me that today is the first day of my sophomore year at Oregon State University. Needless to say, I wish I could keep curled up under the covers a little longer, but after the third beep, Nirvana’s “Breed” comes on at full blast, practically giving me a heart attack. I reach over to the nightstand next to the bed, groping for the phone, as Kurt Cobain’s voice fills the room. When I finally get ahold of it, I turn off the alarm, pull up my green frog sleep mask, and force myself to open my eyes.
Clutching the phone in my hands, I give in to the urge to check for a message or call from Travis. Nothing. I should be used to it, but it’s still a disappointment every time. That’s how it always is with him: after every quarrel he goes off the radar for entire days, demonstrating time and time again how little he cares about salvaging our relationship, now on its last legs.
Is it possible to be exhausted before your day even begins?
Reluctantly, I pull myself out of bed and step into my fuzzy unicorn slippers. I gather my messy hair into a loose bun, throw on my fleece robe and inhale the intoxicating perfume of fresh laundry, and walk over to the window in front of the bed. I pull back the curtain, rest my head on the cold glass, and let my gaze wander over the garden path wet with rain.
Travis takes it for granted that I’ll be the one to make the first move. But this time I have no intention of breaking the silence, not after what he did. Seeing an Instagram story with my own boyfriend falling-down drunk, dancing and grinding on a bar with two random girls, while I was at home all by myself in bed with the flu, is a kind of pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. When I called him furious and looking for an explanation, he dismissed me with his usual “Vanessa, you’re overreacting,” and wisely decided to hang up and not call back again. I spent the entire weekend holed up at home, depressed, drinking ginger tea to soothe my sore throat, reading and organizing books and notebooks to get ready for the first day back at college. But not even FaceTiming with Tiffany and Alex, my best friends in the world, was able to completely erase the memory of that video and the humiliation of being disrespected like that by Travis for the umpteenth time.
The situation has become so consuming that I don’t even have the strength to cry anymore. Which is strange, because for as long as I can remember, the only thing I can manage to do when I’m overwhelmed by emotion is cry. In a burst of frustration, I hurl the phone on the bed, massage my face, and compel myself to think of something, anything else, because the alternative is giving me a headache. I’d better start getting ready, I have a long day ahead of me.
After a quick shower, I go back to my bedroom to get dressed, and even though I know it’s stupid, I take another little peek at the phone. But once again, no calls and no messages. An unhealthy desire to call him and shower him with insults starts welling up inside of me.
“Nessy, are you up?” My mother’s shrill voice snaps me out of those thoughts, along with the smell of hot coffee wafting through the house. It’s a little like walking a tightrope between hell and heaven.
“Yeah, I’m up,” I respond hoarsely, lifting a hand to my aching throat. The cold from the last few days totally wiped me out.
“Come down, breakfast is ready!”
I let out a big sigh, and still wrapped in my robe and with my hair wet, I head downstairs, hoping I’ll be able to camouflage my awful mood. The last thing I need is to be subjected to one of Mom’s never-ending lectures where she repeats that I’ve got to hold on to this one because he’s from a good family. Who cares about his mistakes and my suffering—the love my mother harbors for Travis’s family fortune is even bigger than the love she has for her daughter. When, two years ago, she found out that I was in a relationship with the scion of an oil company executive, to her it was like winning the lottery.
When I arrive in the kitchen, I find her already ready for the day: a perfectly arranged blond chignon, elegant white palazzo pants, a Tiffany blue button-down, and impeccable makeup, with mascara emphasizing her blue eyes and a light layer of red lipstick on her thin lips. Her innate class always manages to undermine my already scarce self-esteem.
Before I can even say “good morning,” she comes at me with a barrage of unsolicited information.
“I left some bills and the checkbook on the entry table; it would be great if you could take care of them today.” A little frenetic, she darts over to the coffee maker and pours two cups without interrupting my to-do list. “You have to pick up the dry cleaning, grab something for dinner, and, oh, before I forget,” she says, handing me a mug—I listen to her go on, trusting in the coffee’s increasing effect—“Mrs. Williams went out of town and asked me to take care of her chihuahua. I told her you would be happy to.”
All these orders first thing in the morning put me even more on edge than I already am.
“Need me to do anything else? Maybe mow the lawn? Go see if any of the neighbors need help? Organize a get-together for the homeowners’ association?” I look at her sideways, set my phone on the counter, and sit down at the table.
“You know Mrs. Williams doesn’t have anyone else she can count on. I couldn’t say no to her—how would that look?” She brought her mug to her lips, and after taking a sip, went on: “And I thought you’d be happy to take care of that little mutt. You love animals.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have the time or desire to do it right now.”
“Neither do I,” she retorted, oblivious. “When I took this legal secretary job, I didn’t know it was going to suck the life out of me. But someone’s got to bring home the bacon.”
I look at her, suddenly mortified. I’m well aware that since Dad left three years ago, Mom has had to cover all our expenses. I admire her for it, but she forgets that I have a life too and I can’t live it as a division of hers.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I get up and take a box of granola cereal from the pantry and pour some into a bowl. “Taking care of Mrs. Williams’s dog won’t be a problem. I can take him on a walk before I leave for campus and when I get back. I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry,” I reassure her conciliatorily.
“That’s what I like to hear.” She pats me on the shoulder, her fingernails perfectly manicured, pale pink. “And please, at least for the first day, try to look a little bit put together.”
She drains her mug and waves goodbye unceremoniously with a promise to be back for dinner. I stay in the kitchen to have a little breakfast. I pour some milk over the granola and go sit at the table. After a moment, the phone lights up on the counter: a new message notification. Dropping my spoon into my bowl, I leap up like an idiot to see who it is, tripping on the kitchen mat with granola stuck to my lip.
I’m so pathetic I deserve to fall face down on the floor. Maybe a good knock on the head is just what I need.
When I realize that the sender is Tiffany, my best friend and my boyfriend’s twin sister, I sink into disappointment once again.
I was really hoping to see Travis’s name on the screen, but evidently the end of the world is a likelier event.
Hey nerd. Your life’s purpose resumes today.
Yeah, I was so excited I didn’t get a wink of sleep , I reply wryly.
I’m sure. Listen, I wanted to ask you, practice starts tonight, do you want to come with me?
My eyebrows furrow as I read and reread the message, not understanding. Since when does Tiffany care about sports? Her only interests are the latest trends in fashion and makeup, her weekly salon appointment, and her beloved true crime podcasts. She would never want to waste her time watching some dumb practice basketball game.
Then I realize it’s not Tiffany asking me, but Travis, in a despicable attempt to extort information via his sister. What a coward! First, he falls off the face of the earth for two days, abandoning me to total self-pity without even claiming some far-fetched excuse that in all likelihood I would have bought or pretended to. Then he uses my best friend to get to me.
Annoyed, I reply: Tell your brother if he wants to ask me something, he’ll have to make the effort to do it in person .
Her reply came immediately: He made me, I didn’t want to. You know I’m on your side. I’m coming to get you; we can head to campus together. Be outside at 8. Love you .
I knew it was him. Infuriating! I throw the phone on the table. He made me lose my appetite. I rinse out my mug and bowl and go up to my room. I open my closet, and for a second, I entertain the idea of listening to my mother and wearing something cuter than my usual jeans and monochrome hoodie. I try on a white peasant top with lace trim. It’s nice, but looking at myself in the mirror, I notice it reveals too much of my abundant chest. If I wear this, everyone’s eyes will be on me, which is precisely what I try to avoid.
I hang the top back up in my closet, concluding that my usual anonymous look isn’t so bad after all. I pull on dark blue jeans, slim fitting and high-waisted, and a white sweatshirt that hangs past my bottom—that’s more like it. After drying my hair and putting it up in a high ponytail to tame the frizz, I grab my bag and slide in Sense and Sensibility , one of my favorite books; reading it between classes will help distract me.
Before leaving the house, however, I glance at myself in the mirror and instantly regret it. The image I see reflected is not pleasant: I’m pale, two violet bags weigh down my bloodshot gray eyes, and my raven black hair is begging for mercy. I let it down and smooth it a little, but the situation doesn’t improve. I throw in the towel and, armed with my umbrella, go out before I lose my mind.