Chapter Eight
Rosalie
Every time.
Every time I look in the mirror, it gets harder and harder to stomach what I see. As my hands grip the edge of the sink, I force myself to memorize every feature my father claims reminds him of my mother.
The light shade of my skin, the mole that sits above the left corner of my mouth, and the dark locks that hang matted and messy past my shoulders.
And the desperation in my eyes.
The pleading cry of a girl who only wants to be set free—to abandon all of this.
Oh, what could I have become if this weren’t my reality? Would I be carefree and surround myself with friends? Would I not be scared to touch or hug them? Embracing my companions without the sick feeling that paralyzes me anytime someone gets too close?
Would I have a boyfriend?
Someone to wrap their arm around my shoulder and smile down at me like I mean something.
Or would I just not exist anymore?
Is this reality what I’m reduced to? Are there no other dimensions where there’s a perfect replica of me, yet my opposite in every way?
“I hope she’s happy,” I mumble quietly.
There’s a harsh knock on the door that jolts me.
“Rosalie!” Dad screams from the other side. “Get us a beer!”
I close my eyes. “Okay!”
I splash some water on my face, then use one of the hand towels to dry myself. My dad’s friends are over to watch a football game, and I’m stuck on cooking and beer duty. I take advantage of it because if he’s busy with them, he won’t be focused on me.
I just have to survive the next few hours, and then I can lock myself away in my room for the rest of the night while Dad sleeps his hangover off. It’s easy enough.
I walk back out into the living room, passing right in front of the three men seated on the torn sofa. They usher me back into the kitchen and out of their view of the game. I grab three beers, hand them off, and get to work on dinner.
There isn’t much around the house, but since Dad has company, he made the rare grocery run. He grabbed a few cans of tomato sauce, noodles, and ground meat, then tossed them onto the counter and instructed me to make something good.
Spaghetti it is.
I’m just glad I’ll be getting a meal over the weekend. If I put some aside, I can hide a tupperware container in the back of the fridge and eat on that until Monday.
I have my plan all worked out until supper time rolls around, and I’m left staring at an almost empty pot of noodles. I haven’t even eaten yet, and there’s hardly enough for a bowl.
“Damn, that was good, Rosalie,” Dad compliments as he digs into his second helping.
My arms fall to my sides as my appetite fizzles out. “Thanks…”
“She’s gonna make a hell of a wife one day,” Allan, one of Dad’s friends, boasts.
My skin crawls, and I lift my hand to pick at my elbow.
“Much better than her whore of a mother, that’s for sure.” Dad snorts.
I wince, my head ducking before I toss my bowl back into the cabinet and retreat to my room. I lock the door behind me before crawling under the covers and letting my tears silently soak into my pillow.
Charlie gives me a pointed look as I take my seat beside her on Monday morning. “Did you not sleep this weekend?”
The bags under my eyes are heavy and dark. I didn’t expect Dad’s friends to crash all weekend. I also didn’t expect Allan to keep testing my locked bedroom door in the middle of the night. I didn’t sleep a wink because I was ready to defend myself in case he got in.
“Just had a rough night,” I mutter.
“Okay…” She says quietly, but she doesn’t push as the room begins to fill with students slowly trickling in.
Kairo, Roman, and Maddox surround Jordan as she flips her hair over her shoulder.
She holds her head high, protected by the three walls who surround her as they take their seats in the far left corner of the room.
The intercom crackles to life overhead, and I put my head down as the morning announcements filter out.
Most of it is about homecoming or prom. There’s rambling about the king and queen titles as our senior year comes to a wrap, but the most alarming information is what follows next.
“…the Mystic High Valedictorian is none other than Rosalie Beckett, who’s maintained a stellar GPA since her freshman year.
The runner-up and salutatorian is Maddox Campbell, who missed the mark by a hair.
It was a tight race, and both should be proud of their academic achievement.
Preparation for graduation starts next week, and we can’t wait to hear our scholars' speeches. Go Bull Dogs!”
I sink lower into my desk, keeping my head tucked in my arms as eyes sear into the back of me. Of all the things I could fucking achieve…
“Holy shit!” Charlie gasps. “My best friend is a genius!”
I hiss at her to shut up, but she doesn’t stop as she riffles through her backpack and slaps a pamphlet for Juilliard down on my desk.
“What is this?” I ask.
She gives me a withering look before jabbing a finger at the brightly colored front page. “Our ticket out of this stupid town, bestie. My dad is helping me do college prep this weekend, and you’re coming over.”
I push it back towards her. “I can’t afford that, Charlie.”
Her lips thin. “Neither can I, but if we put together a portfolio, we could try for a full ride.”
I shake my head, but she only begs harder.
“Please! Come on, Rose!”
Something bends and snaps in me as I whirl on her. “And what if I fail, hmm? Don’t you think that would be the breaking point for me—” My lips slam closed as I realize I’ve said too much.
Charlie chases my eyes as I try to avoid her, worry seeping into her features. “Rose, what do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” I wave her off before handing the pamphlet back to her. “It’s nothing.”
She takes it, then gently places it on her desk. “Rose, what if you don’t fail? Your songwriting is amazing, and any college would be lucky to have you. Just think about it, okay?”
I nod, but I can’t look her in the eyes. I feel like she would see right down to the depths of my soul. She’s observant like that, and I’m not ready to change her view of me. I don’t want her pity. She’s the only person I know who views me rather than the misfortune of my upbringing.
No matter how distant the thought of me actually attending college seems, I can’t stop thinking about it.
All week, my brain strays to a picture-perfect campus life—friends I collaborate with in the studio with, a work-study job where I make some pocket change and get to keep writing my music, and Charlie as my roommate.
It takes up the forefront of my mind, but so does a creeping suspicion. The guys have been quiet for most of the week. It seems everyone has resorted to ignoring me, and I can’t tell if I should be ecstatic or worried.
Worried seems more fitting since they’ve never gone this long without tormenting me. As the weekend rolls around, and I’m stuck at home alone, my anxiety becomes worse. The college fantasy takes a backseat as I sit in my room with my textbooks scattered around me.
I’m trying to work on my speech, but I feel sick.
What are they plotting?
I know Maddox has been gunning for valedictorian since freshman year. Losing to me is cause for something horrible.
Not knowing what they’re thinking is the worst part. Are they plotting to hurt me? Maybe they’ll release another deep fake of me saying something embarrassing?
The possibilities are endless, and it’s eating away at my mental state as the days progress. I’m not sleeping, and eating makes my stomach churn. I feel like I’m on the verge of a mental break if I keep this up.
It gets harder to pull myself back to the present. I know I have to keep pushing, but sometimes I don’t think I have the strength.
I feel hollow—lifeless.
Like I’m a shell just aimlessly going through the motions. I’ve gone past the point of tears, and the ache in my chest radiates down my arms and into my cold fingertips.
I feel dead inside.
As I shuffle my papers, I can’t even make out the smooth texture on my fingers. It’s like my body is shutting down, and I don’t know how to stop it.
“One more month,” I grit as I shake my head and rub a trembling hand across my eyes. I’m unraveling at the seams.
Something slips out of my backpack, and my eyes catch on the Juilliard pamphlet as it settles on my bed. I frown as I pick it up.
Charlie must have slipped this into my bag while I wasn’t paying attention.
Sure enough, there’s a pink sticky note attached to the inside of the packet with her delicate handwriting.
If you change your mind.
235 Seacrest Avenue, Mystic, Connecticut.
It’s a sweet gesture, and for a moment, I actually think of abandoning my room and trudging across town to the suburbs where my friend lives with her parents. I think of it, but as I push the college brochure back into my bookbag, I know I’m not brave enough.
Putting together a portfolio involves someone seeing what I write.
After Maddox read one of my songs out loud like it was slam poetry, the thought of anyone else discovering my music makes my stomach tighten—like nausea wrapped up in coiled tension.
It makes my chest feel unbearably heavy and weighed down by an invisible force pushing against me.
It’s suffocating.
And a reminder that sometimes dreams are just that.
Imagination and make-believe.
Nothing more.