CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Riley — 17 years old (Junior year, again)
I like fall as much as I used to like spring. The fallen leaves, the barren trees, all the pretty colors before it fades into gray. The earthy smell of the rain and humid grass. The warmth that is accompanied by a chilly, autumn breeze. The festive spirit as people get ready for Halloween.
Halloween is my favorite holiday, with Christmas being my least favorite, for obvious reasons. Christmas used to always be so dull and cold at home.
When I was nine years old, my love for everything Halloween had me believing that I was probably a sorceress in my past life. I had even created an elaborate story in my head of a fantasy world, where I was the most enchanting sorceress of a forbidden land. I rode a mighty dragon, and I could cast pretty spells. I fell in love with the villain, because the prince is boring.
The villain and I lived happily ever after.
But it was all a pretty fairy tale.
In this life, I haven’t met the prince yet. And the villain? Well…there’s nothing charming about the villain in my story.
Dr. Bailey’s words echo in my ears, reminding me to stay strong once I step back into the outside world. I was in rehab far longer than I was supposed to be there. I watched as my friends slowly healed and then left, to conquer their lives. To start anew, with solid goals and prettier dreams.
But me?
I was left behind. Alone with my dark thoughts.
Once I reached thethree-month mark, they extended my program for another three months. It wasn’t because Dr. Bailey thought I needed the extra attention or help for my bulimia recovery and anxiety disorder.
But because I was forgotten.
Because my father asked them to keep me there longer. The longer the better , he had said. To keep me out of his sight. It’s disgraceful just how much you can use the system to your benefit when you have money.
Something small flutters in front of me, catching my attention. My gaze flickers to it, following the fluttering red wings as it flies to my left. A red butterfly.
A ghost of a smile plays across my lips.
I am unattractive.
I am beautiful.
I am grotesque.
I am strong.
I am a failure.
I am brave.
I am worthless.
I am worthy.
Dr. Bailey had these words drilled into my brain, forcing me to acknowledge the pain that came from my parents’ abandonment and my friends’ betrayal. “Your worth is not measured by how others perceive you,” she’d tell me. “Because it is human nature to judge. They will always find you lacking. But you will find your worth within yourself, Riley. Listen to that voice.”
Those are all nice and consolable words — to make someone feel confident and brave in their own skin. With their own emotions.
And honestly, I thought I had the hang of it. Rehab didn’t just magically fix or cure me. My scars are still etched deep, underneath my flesh. But I knew how to cope better with my eating disorder and my anxiety.I thought I could do this, that I was no longer a wreck.
That was until today.
My first day back at Berkshire Academy was a shitshow, to say the least.
It’s a new academic year and my bullies are now seniors, while I am redoing my junior year. I thought if we weren’t in the same grade anymore, it would be easier to avoid them. I kept my head down, I didn’t talk to anyone, I sat in the back of all my classes, I made sure to blend into the crowd. I avoided the cafeteria at lunch and went outside instead. Found myself a nice willow tree and ate my cold sandwich there.
But the sneers still followed.
The taunting whispers and the mocking giggles. They were everywhere I went.
I really can’t escape the ghosts of my past, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes, I wonder if that stigma will follow me for the rest of my life. Will I always be reminded of that night at the Christmas gala? Is this how people will recognize Riley Johnson now? The girl who puked all over her father’s expensive shoes and then promptly passed out?
Will my life ever go back to normal?
Well…not that it was any normal before. But at least I don’t have to walk around like I have the word SHAME written on my forehead, in bold letters.
I’m still wallowing in self-pity when the red butterfly flutters in front of me again, and then settles on the bench across from me, a few feet away. Next to the young man, who has been sitting in the park as long as I have.
Even though he’s seated, I can tell he has to be really tall. He makes the bench look small compared to him. His shoulders are wide, and he’s built like he just walked out of a romance novel. Tall, dark and handsome.
I might have sworn off boys and dating for the rest of my life, but I can still appreciate a fine specimen when I see one in the wild.
He’s dressed in black pants and a white polo shirt, the color contrasting with his beautiful, tanned skin. The black-rimmed glasses perched on top of his nose gives him a bit of a nerdy vibe, but I think it just makes him look hotter.
And I might be wrong…but I think Mr. Tall, dark and handsome is drawing me.
I didn’t notice the sketchbook before, but now I do. So, he’s an artist?
Taking my phone, I scroll through my Kindle app and open the book I was reading last night. I try not to make it obvious that I’m studying him, only looking at him in my peripheral vision. I catch him staring at me as well, every now and then, before looking back down at his sketchbook. His pencil never stops moving on the paper, even when he looks up, his gaze flickering over my face with rapt attention and then down again.
There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t pinpoint exactly what.
An hour passes, just like that. Me trying to read, but easily getting distracted by Mr. Tall, dark and handsome , while he continues to draw. I get to my feet when I can’t bear the suspense any longer. Somewhere in the back of my head, alarm bells are ringing. But my curiosity beats me. I pocket my phone, and close the gap between us with a few steps.
He belatedly notices me coming toward him, and when I am close enough, he snaps his sketchbook closed. His eyes go wide, and he quickly looks left and right — for an escape.
Aha! I know guilty when I see it, and this stranger has it written all over his handsome, sculptured face. I bite on my lip, hiding my smile. “I don’t want to sound obnoxious, but I’m pretty sure you were just sketching me.” I pause, pointing at the sketchbook on his lap. “And closing your sketchbook like that kinda makes you look extremely guilty.”
His lips thin into a straight line, but he doesn’t say anything back to me. “Look, I don’t have a problem with it. But if you were drawing me, I just want to see how it looks.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice deep and gruff.
“Huh?”
He finally looks up at me. Our gazes meet, and his brown eyes are stern and intense. “Why do you think I’m sketching you?”
I point back toward my bench. “Because I saw you. I kinda caught you red-handed. So, can I see it?”
He’s silent for a minute, before he grumbles under his breath, “Yes.”
I sit down next to him and he opens his sketchbook, before handing it to me. My breath catches in my throat. The girl on the paper can’t possibly be me.
The art is detailed and exquisite . Every line is drawn with startling precision and patience. As if he was trying to be careful not to stain the image with any outside flaw.
Her hair is flowy, and her eyes are deep and expressive — pained.
At first glance, the girl in the drawing is breathtakingly beautiful.
But the closer I look, the more haunting she becomes. There’s a restlessness in her innocent expression, a feeling I know very well.
“This is me?” I question out loud, practically choking on the words.
“I’m not a professional artist,” he defends quickly. “So, I’m not very good at it. I only draw when I’m bored.”
He misunderstood my shock. “No, no,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful. It’s just…I didn’t expect it to be so… detailed .”
This stranger didn’t just draw me.
He sees me.
I swallow and look up from the sketchbook. “Thank you,” I breathe, and then a shaky laugh escapes past my lips. “I am delightfully surprised.”
“That’s a good thing then?”
I nod. “Yeah, yeah, it’s a good thing.”
My gaze flickers back to the paper and I can’t help but run my fingers along the lines of the drawing. We’re both quiet for a long time, and I bask in the comfortable silence.
This is the first time I’ve spoken to someone since I left rehab. The first time I’ve willingly approached someone in a very long time. It’s crazy to think how I’m living in a house with my parents, but I haven’t spoken a word to them since I came back home three months ago.
They don’t want to see me, so I stay out of their sight.
I should be apprehensive of the stranger I’m sitting next to, but there’s something in his silence that puts me at ease. He doesn’t sneer at me, doesn’t watch me with disgust, even when I constantly feel his burning gaze on me.
His silent curiosity speaks to me. I hand him back his sketchbook and lick my lips, before speaking again. “Do you mind if I ask for your name?”
He slowly cocks his head to the side. “Only if you tell me your name first.”
I tuck my annoying stray hair behind my ear. If he’s asking for my name, that means he doesn’tknow who I am. This is my first indication that he’s not from around here. If he is, then maybe he’s just new in the area or he’s not much on social media. Because my humiliation from the Christmas gala has gone viral.
And if he doesn’t know who I am…then I can be anyone I want to be.
Someone who is not the haunting girl in his drawing. I don’t have to be Riley Johnson — the worthless, grotesque girl that no longer belongs anywhere.
I swallow, and then smile at the stranger. “Daisy,” I tell him, “Daisy Buchanan.”
His brown eyes light up with recognition. “ The Great Gatsby ?”
So, he’s not just an artist, but he recognizes classic literature too? Mr. Tall, dark and handsome is now ten times hotter. I simply shrug and wait for him to give me his name.
He surprises me when he finally introduces himself. “You can call me Jay then,” he says, in his deep riveting voice. “Jay Gatsby.”
My heart does a somersault in my chest. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If you can be Daisy, why can’t I be Jay?”
Point taken. His lips twitch with a secretive smile. “So, Jay ,” I start, calling him by his obvious fake name. “How did you get into art?”
A muscle ticks along his chiseled jaw. “Someone suggested I use art as a medium to clear my thoughts. I find that it works.”
“You’re really good at it.”
He gives me a half-shrug, and he seems almost awkward at my praise. “Not really.”
“Why did you draw me?”
He answers my question with one of his own. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Confused, I squint at him. “Sorry, what?”
He nods, as if my confusion has somehow answered his question. “You don’t remember me.” This time his words are a statement instead of a question. There’s a note of chagrin in his voice. “We met last year, last summer specifically.”
I must still look confused, because Jay releases a disappointed sigh and then elaborates. “I was the guy from the alley.” He shows me his hand, before clenching his fist. His knuckles are rough, and I see a few silver scars on the back of his hand. A hand that speaks of experience.
“You went to buy some meds for me and bandaged my hand,” Jay continues.
I have a light-bulb moment and gasp in realization. “I knew you felt familiar!” I breathe, eyes round in surprise. “But I just couldn’t wrap my finger around it. We met in a whole different state, so I really didn’t think I’d ever see you again. And it was really dark that night; I couldn’t see you well.”
I pause, my gaze sweeping over his face. I can see him better now; every inch of his hard, sculptured face. A strong nose, perfect symmetrical eyebrows, smooth lips and dark eyes that are narrowed on me. “I can’t believe you still recognized me though,” I tell him.
He doesn’t comment on my bewilderment. Jay adjusts his glasses and then runs his hand over his head. His hair is short, buzz-cut to his scalp, marine-style. I think it suits him well. “What happened that night? You seemed to have been in a rush.”
Oh, yeah… that night. It seems almost forever ago.
“I was in the city, filming a few cameo scenes for a TV show. I was trapped in a hotel room with my mother for a week, and honestly, I desperately needed a break from her. So, I kinda…ran away. I mean, I climbed out the window while she was sleeping. I had seen a poster earlier that day, that there was going to be a firework show. So I escaped to go watch them. When my mom found out I was missing, she called the security people. I was running away from them.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
I shrug, my hand unconsciously moving to my left knee. “Not really.”
My mother had yelled at me for being irresponsible. I rub my knee over my jeans, remembering just how angry she was. Not because I escaped, but because I had scratched my knees up while doing so. She almost had a stroke when she saw those scrapes marring what used to be my perfectly unblemished skin.
“So, is that why you drew me? Because you recognized me from the alley?”
“That’s partly the reason,” he says, before trailing off. His eyes shift over my face. “Your hair is shorter than before.”
His random comment suddenly makes me feel self-conscious. Is my short hair weird? It’s no longer choppy as it was when I first cut it so carelessly. My hand comes up, and I touch my shoulder-length hair. It has grown a bit over the last couple of months and I had cut the split ends last week, keeping it even and pretty.
Jay’s hand reaches out toward me, as if to touch my hair, but then he realizes what he’s about to do. He snatches his hand back, just before his fingertips could touch the wayward strands of my hair.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “Your hair was beautiful before, and it’s still beautiful now.”
There’s a flustered look on his face, and my self-consciousness eases. My heart does another somersault and there’s a fluttering in my stomach.
“I drew you because you looked sad and lonely,” Jay finally confesses, in that same deep voice of his. “I wanted to capture that.”
“You wanted to capture my loneliness?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “There’s a beauty in loneliness and there’s always something else that accompanies it. Do you ever wonder why the songs are sadder, the sunset is prettier and the sky is more starry when we’re lonely?”
I don’t know how to answer that question, so I stay silent.
“It’s because of longing . We yearn for something we don’t have. And I saw that on your face. The yearning for something that you can’t possibly put to words. I wanted to capture that moment. The look in your eyes.”
My breathing stutters. “Jay,” I blurt out, but then my words escape me, and I don’t know what to say. So, I stare at him, like a stupid, helpless girl.
His gaze never leaves mine — dark, intense and compelling.
I feel that flutter in my stomach again.
The sound of a phone ringing has both of us flinching back and whatever moment we were just having shatters. Jay shoves his hand into his pocket and takes out his phone. “Sorry, that’s my alarm.”
“Oh.”
“I have to go…” he trails off.
“Oh,” I say again. Speak up, Riley. You’re starting to sound stupid!
He packs up his pencils and then stands. I mutely do the same. Now that we’re both standing, I can see the actual height difference between us. He’s really tall, just like I had assumed earlier. I would have to crane up my neck and probably stand on my toes for us to be eye-level.
“Dinner is at seven,” Jay explains quietly, his voice softening with something akin to disappointment.
I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to explain himself to me…but I still can’t talk. So I stand there, dumbly. Until he pushes his hand between us, for a handshake?
“It was nice to meet you, Daisy.”
I blink, taking his hand. His much bigger, rougher hand. His touch is warm. I look down at our entwined hands — his tanned skin a deep contrast against my paleness. He squeezes my hand, and my lungs clench inside the walls of my rib cage.
“Nice to meet you too, Jay,” I finally speak, but it’s barely a whisper.
I release his hand and he takes a step back. I want to ask him for his real name — but then I stop myself. If he tells me his real name…he’ll expect me to do the same.
And I don’t want to be Riley Johnson to him — to the mystery man who drew me so flawlessly. Who stole my loneliness and my yearning to capture it on his paper.
I want to stay as Daisy Buchanan and him as Jay Gatsby.
It’s better this way. Safer.
I watch as he walks away, with my face etched on the papers of his sketchbook.
He saw me, when no one else has ever done so, or even tried. I don’t know if we will ever meet again, but I know…that my mystery man has somehow buried himself into the deep corner of my heart. Somewhere dark, a place where no one can see him. Not even himself.
He will stay there, safe. Away from the chaos that is me and my life.
I watch as he walks away, and soon enough, his tall frame disappears from my sight. “Goodbye, Jay,” I whisper and the wind carries my voice.
***
I grab my chicken mayo sandwich from my bag and make my way outside. Berkshire’s hallways are fairly empty, since mostly everyone is in the cafeteria for lunch.
I personally loathe that place.
It’s like a swamp full of snakes and alligators — a big red DANGER written above the doors.
I move toward my willow tree, where I’ve been eating my lunch for the last two weeks. It’s quiet here and there’s no one to bother me. It’s lonely, but somehow, I’ve learned to find comfort in my loneliness.
But today is different.
I come to a halt, when I see someone else already sitting under my willow tree. She has her lunch box on her lap and her math textbook next to her. What is she doing here?
I recognize Lila Garcia from my AP English class. But we’ve never spoken before. I sit in the back, and she sits in the front row, next to the window. Lila is new to Berkshire and she didn’t get in because her parents are rich.
No, she got in on a scholarship. Berkshire Academy has an entrance exam for students in the 11 th grade to apply. Outsiders. But I heard the exams are almost impossible to pass, probably to discourage students from joining. Berkshire doesn’t care about these young, hopeful people who are dreaming big.
They only care about their image.
The entrance exam is to make it look like they are accepting of everyone.
The exam has only a 2 percent passing rate and only one of those students ends up with a full-year scholarship. The rest have to pay the tuition fees and most of the time — they can’t.
So while Lila Garcia got in with a scholarship, she will have to find a way to pay for her senior year. Though I have to say — I am amazed she’s made it this far. She has to be some kind of genius to be able to top the entrance exam.
She lifts her head and notices me standing there. Lila raises her eyebrows questioningly, and there’s something about her nonchalance that makes me feel both impressed and uneasy. So I blurt out the first thing in my head. “You’re in my spot.”
She crosses her legs and leans back against the tree, making herself even more comfortable. “I’m sorry, is your name written on the spot here?”
No, but she’s in my spot and she needs to leave, so I can eat in peace. Why is she disrupting my routine like this?
When I don’t speak, she squints up at me in defiance. “I’m not moving. So, you can find yourself another tree. Or you can sit here, and we can eat our lunches without petty drama.”
Sit with her?
Is she out of her mind?
Why would she want to sit with me? Doesn’t she know who I am? Didn’t she hear the whispered gossip in the hallways? Why in the world would Lila Garcia want to associate herself with me ?
Almost as if she can read my thoughts, she speaks again, “Look, you’re an outcast and I’m an outcast…” Lila trails off, her gaze sweeping over me and the sandwich I’m clutching to my chest. “We’re not so dissimilar.”
She’s an outcast because she doesn’t belong to an upper-class, wealthy family. I am an outcast for a very different reason.
We are not as alike as she is trying to make it seem.
Lila is lucky she hasn’t experienced Berkshire’s bullies yet. So far, they have left her alone, but if she associates herself with me — they will go after her too.
“C’mon, take a seat,” she encourages quietly. She moves her textbook and pats the grass. “I’m not asking for you to be my friend. But hey, it’s been a lonely few days, and I could use some company. Maybe you need some company too.”
Her words are tempting, because yes — I am friendless and lonely.
I wish I had Maryam with me, but after rehab, she went back home. She has since fixed her relationship with her parents and is now attending a community college for its nursing program. We still talk every now and then, but she’s busy with her classes and meeting new people. I’m happy for her — that she’s out there, living her life, making new goals and achieving her dreams.
But I miss having someone to talk to.
As the days grow colder, I become lonelier.
So, I sit down beside Lila, under my willow tree. She makes a sound of approval in the back of her throat and then goes back to her lunch. She digs her fork into what seems like a taco salad and then brings a forkful to her mouth.
I watch her enjoy her meal from my peripheral vision, but I can’t bring myself to eat my own sandwich. Rehab didn’t magically fix my eating disorder. It has given me ways to cope with it. I don’t binge-eat anymore and I haven’t purged for almost six months now.
But I still don’t like eating in front of people.
And while I try not to focus too much on my weight, it’s hard some days.
Whenever I feel like I’m going to relapse into another binge-eating episode, I write in my diary to clear my thoughts and listen to whale sounds. Just like Dr. Bailey suggested. It has helped me tremendously.
Not fixed. Not cured. Not healed.
But coping — that’s what I’m doing.
I unwrap my cold sandwich and a lump forms in my throat. Bringing it to my mouth, the smell of chicken mayo fills my nose. I nibble on the corner of before taking a small bite. A burst of flavor fills my mouth and I chew slowly.
I am unattractive.
I am beautiful.
I am grotesque.
I am strong.
I am a failure.
I am brave.
I am worthless.
I am worthy.
You will eat, Riley . I remind myself. Another bite. Chew slowly. Breathe. And you will not purge. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Slow bites after slow bites, I eventually finish my sandwich. It settles heavily into my stomach and there’s rumbling inside me. I clench my shaky fists. Breathe, I tell myself.
“So, have you finished the English assignment yet?” Lila asks, forcing me out of my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“English assignment. It’s due next week,” she reiterates slowly.
“No, I haven’t started it yet.”
Her eyes go wide. “You haven’t started it yet?”
“It’s due next week, right? So I still have time.” I frown. Why is she shocked?
Her slack jaw snaps close and then she shrugs. “Fair point. I guess you still have time.”
“You finished yours already?”
“Yeah, the day it was assigned.”
My eyebrow quirks up in question. “Ah, so you’re not a procrastinator.”
“No. My grandma likes to call me a perfectionist.” She purses her lips, in a mock pout. “But I’m just very organized.”
“Miss Perfectionist,” I find myself teasing her.
She smiles, and it’s genuine.
“So, why do they hate you so much?” she finally asks when she finishes her lunch.
I release a shuddering breath at her question. It’s so direct and I wasn’t expecting it. “You don’t know?”
She tears open her brownie packet, tearing the brownie in half, and hands me a piece. I take it, because I don’t want to offend her. But I don’t eat it. A brownie has too many calories.
“I don’t listen to gossip. Most of the time it’s untrue and vile,” she tells me as a response. “So, why don’t you tell me your truth?”
I let out a laugh, but it’s painful and humorless. My truth?
No one has ever asked that. “It’s a long story.”
Lila takes a peek at her phone. “We still have thirty minutes before the bell rings, plenty of time.”
I stare at her for a minute. Looking for any kind of deceit in her eyes. But I find none. She’s not mocking me with her words, or taunting me about my failures. She’s genuinely asking me for my truth.
There is nothing fake about Lila. Not the way she speaks, or the way she carries herself.
So, I tell her.
My truth…
And my story.
Of how I went from Riley Johnson, the popular Cheer Captain of Berkshire Academy to a sad reject. A “fallen” princess as Colton Bennett once called me.