Thirty-Three
WINTER FORMAL MY FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL WAS money themed. Not literally, of course—the dance committee named the event something frivolously idiomatic like “Nights of Splendor.” It didn’t really matter what they called it. The point of the event was showing off. My classmates in Prada and DG, the hotel done up almost as opulently as this wedding, everyone eager to flaunt.
Like me, in the photograph on the white shelf over my old desk.
Walking into my childhood room, I meet my own eyes in the small image. Me, dolled up and glittering, with Berkshire friends I no longer speak to.
The rest of my surroundings strike me similarly. The crystal souvenirs from European vacations. The signed poster for the Dream Team concert my dad got VIP passes for when I was in middle school. The other photos, impromptu “photo shoots” with old friends and views from faraway hotels. None of the old ones of me with my parents, which I destroyed when I moved out.
I’m shocked by how much my room no longer feels like mine, as if I’m an intruder stealing into my own life. It’s the room of a younger Olivia, one from whom I feel impossibly disconnected. It’s part of why I don’t come up here often, even when dinner delays leave me downstairs with nothing to do.
I remember exactly how I felt getting dressed for the dance in the photograph. I was excited, yes. Happy, sure.
Did I want to go? I don’t know. What unnerves me is the memory of how the younger me just… did stuff because it was there to be done. Because it was the expectation for the cute role of heiress I’d grown up into. The one I thought I was demoted from, I remind myself, until an hour ago. Standing here in my childhood room, I find I’m wrestling with how it makes me feel. Was I forsaken, or was I freed?
It’s the gloriously messed-up part of everything. Looking around at the luxurious icons of my old life, I find I’m not jealous of the Olivia who lived here. The delighted, directionless girl who trusted her family to be there for her. Who imagined the future would look like the past, but better.
I pity her. She had no idea what was coming. She didn’t know to protect herself from heartbreak.
And she didn’t know what she was capable of. I’m proud I’m no longer her. While a knife can sparkle in the light even if its edge is dull, the past few years have made me sharp. With resourcefulness, with purpose.
I close the door behind Cass, who walks in, evaluating the room. She’s clearly awestruck by the furnishings.
“No wonder you want to steal from your dad,” she comments, her eyes rising with the high ceiling. “Must have been hard to give this up.”
I cross the room to my dresser. It’s bare now, cleared out of everything I took with me when I left. Only clothes that no longer fit remain. I open a drawer, see old sweaters and jeans, then close it. “I don’t think this stuff is me anymore,” I reply.
Cass scoffs sharply. “Who cares if it’s you anymore? I would never give up anything like this.”
The hungry immediacy in her voice catches my curiosity, despite everything else whirling in my head right now. It’s the first comment I’ve heard from her that isn’t deserved dismissiveness for other crew members or objective efficiency. The first volatile glimmer of… want. Intention. Motive.
She runs her fingertip over the rooftop of the palatial dollhouse in the corner. Then she moves to the bookshelf. There aren’t many books on it, but Cass pulls out the richly bound hardcover copy of Oliver Twist. Only now does the irony of its presentation strike me, the famous story of a gang of thieving street-urchin children, packaged in gold-edged pages with a velvet bookmark.
“I loved that one,” I can’t help remarking. “Fitting, I guess.”
Cass flips the pages, something unreadable on her face.
“Me too,” she says. She closes the heavy copy. The fleeting emotion vanishes from her porcelain features, her usual efficiency returning. “These accommodations will be sufficient,” she informs me, plopping onto the bed, where she opens her laptop.
I laugh. “There might be some ancient Skittles in the nightstand. Help yourself.”
“Appreciated,” Cass replies.
I head for the door, then turn back, remembering the way her eyes looked roaming over the lovely detritus of my old life. “Don’t give it up,” I find myself saying.
Cass glances up in guarded confusion. “What?”
“When we get paid, whatever it is you want,” I elaborate, fumbling to put into words advice I don’t entirely know how to give. “Whatever it is, don’t give it up, because people will try to take it from you.”
She meets my eyes for a long moment.
“I won’t let them,” she says finally.
I nod. When she returns to her screen, I leave her in my old room, kind of wishing I’d put my foot through the dollhouse in the corner.