Eight
Dear Calla, My friend suggested I write to you because my parents are being so dumb. Everyone is going to the Keys for spring break and my parents are saying I can’t go. It will only cost them 3 grand and they’re acting like I’m asking them for a million dollars! They keep saying that they just bought me a brand new car so they don’t have the money, but everyone else just got a new car. My friend, Lexi, even got a convertible and her parents are still letting her go. Please help! How do I tell them they’re being ridiculous? ~Signed, Suffering and Poor
I reread the question one more time, trying to tamp down my initial impression of Suffering and Poor.
I’m not successful.
Psychology had always been a discipline I was interested in. From my early days on the playground to my high school days in the locker room, I knew I had a knack at listening to people’s problems. I loved being the person that friends would confide in—the person they trusted to keep their secrets. As a girl who hated sharing anything about herself, counseling had been a way to be a friend without needing to give anything back.
Some people would think I became a school psychologist because I had such a horrible childhood. The truth is I didn’t know anything was wrong with my childhood. Ignorance and isolation kept me from seeing how neglected I was and how little I mattered to my parents.
Shortly after my seventh birthday, my parents started “Callie’s Night”. They’d have me go around the house and gather up my only stuffed animal, book, snacks, and drinks. My mother would remind me how to call 9-1-1 just in case there was a fire and offered me a rare hug when I role-played a conversation with the police. My father would whistle or sing one of his favorite Dean Martin’s songs as he rolled their television set into my room and showed me how to get to the channels that were my favorite.
They always acted like Callie’s Night was my idea—that they were against the thought, but that I was too spoiled to say no to. They’d kiss me on the head and remind me to use the portable potty if I needed to go and not to pee in my pants “again”. I’d sit on my bed with my arms wrapped around my stuffed animal as they kissed me goodnight and ignored the tears already rolling down my cheeks. I would hold my breath and listen to them put the key in the lock on the other side of the door. I’d close my eyes and hear their quiet murmuring as they laughed about something, already forgetting about the girl they locked away.
I’d stare down at the phone and press the numbers nine and one for hours until they came home again. I’d hear them stumbling up the stairs, laughing, hitting into the walls like they were kids freshman trying to sneak past their parents. I’d hold my breath, hoping that just this one time they’d remember I was in my bedroom. Praying they’d unlock the door—that they’d peek their head in to make sure I was okay. But they never did. Not once.
The weekend I turned eleven, they gave me twenty dollars and six boxes of microwaveable mac and cheese. They told me they were headed to Atlantic City for the weekend. I later found out my grandmother had sent them fifty dollars to buy me a birthday present. When I had the audacity to ask them about the money, they told me the guy at their poker table was counting cards so they didn’t have any of the money left. It wasn’t their fault that the money was gone.
Nothing was ever their fault.
When my friends would complain about how nosey their parents were, I had nothing to complain about. I never had to worry about my parents showing up at a party to drag me home. I never had to worry about breaking curfew since my parents never cared to set one. I never had to tell anyone anything about my grades because no one ever asked. No one ever asked me anything except how much money grandma sent me for my birthdays.
I’ll always remember the moment I realized my childhood wasn’t normal. As part of my school psychology graduate program, I had to have a mini counseling session with a graduate student studying to be a school psychologist. I remember sitting in the chair across from her with a strained smile on my face, having no idea what to say. Thirty minutes later, I felt like someone who lived under a rock their entire lives only to wake up to a world where Donald Trump was actually voted in as president.
In that world I realized I wasn’t neglected or unloved, I was just inconsequential. The only way I knew how to make sense of it was to help other kids who felt the same way. Maybe there were other kids out there who, no matter how loud they spoke, were never heard. Maybe I could be the first person to actually pay attention—to hear their ignored words and assure them that they mattered.
But for every neglected kid, I meet three entitled kids like the girl insisting on breaking her parent’s bank account just to go on spring break. Taking a long sip of my wine, I shake my head and look down at my Bullmastiff, Simba. He must sense my irritation because he puts his snout on my thigh and blows out a breath.
I rescued Simba two years ago, but he rescues me every day with his unconditional love and simple adoration. As long as I share my breakfast and dinner with him, he thinks I’m the most perfect human on Earth. I kind of, sort of, love that.
He stares up at me and then burps.
Patting him on the top of his head, I sigh. “My sentiments exactly.”
Moving the email into my get back to folder, I weed through the two hundred remaining unread messages, sending out replies to the legit concerns and deleting the junk. I hesitate on a notification from Facebook. I rarely get any requests from Facebook since many teenagers have moved on from the archaic social media site, so curiosity makes me click on the email notification.
Hoping to find a question I can use for tomorrow’s post, I click on the subject line that reads Rumors.
Dear Calla,
I have a WWYD question. A few days ago, I overheard a conversation about a friend of a friend. I told my friend about what I heard. Let’s call him Bubba. Bubba thinks the conversation was staged so that I would overhear what was being said. Bubba now refuses to tell his friend about the conversation. We’ll call his friend Anna Banana. Now I’m left holding a secret that could change the course of the world. All right. Maybe not the world but definitely Anna Banana’s world. Do you think I should ignore Bubba’s advice and speak directly to Anna Banana, or is Bubba right when he says there’s no such thing as coincidence?
Thanks.
P.S. Anna Banana isn’t exactly a fan of mine.
I chew on my lower lip and reread the message. Opening a new blog post, I cut and paste the question and then tilt back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. A school’s rumor mill is a living, breathing thing that fuels friendships, destroys relationships, and is an oddly satisfying display of karma for people who believe in that sort of thing. No matter whether the school is in Japan or New York, the mechanics are always the same and all it takes is the constant rotation of rumors to keep it going around.
I reply to the sender, letting them know they’ll be featured on tomorrow’s blog post and encourage them to spread the word to as many friends as they can. Spreading the word equals more shares. More shares bring in more advertising. More advertising brings in more Hostess snack cakes.
I have a thing for Hostess snack cakes.
Opening up a new blog post, I type in the word Dear when an instant message pops up on the bottom of my screen.
Trin Guarino: I can’t believe you read my letter. I thought you had your minions do that for you. Wow. Calla Kennedy. So nice to “meet” you.
I glance over at the empty bottle of wine sitting on top on my countertop and consider my next keystroke. I’m definitely tipsy. By tipsy I mean I’m ten seconds away from drunk-messaging my high school ex-boyfriend. Unfortunately, Facebook probably already informed Trin that I viewed the message. Freaking NARC’s.
I pull in my office chair and force a fake smile onto my face.
Calla: I’m well, thank you. And thank you for reaching out to me with your question. My reply will be live at 8am! I hope that it helps. Good night!
I nod at the screen, satisfied by my lack of spelling errors. Will my response win me a Pulitzer? Doubtful. But my grammar and sentence structure hides the slur happening in my thought process. I press the buttons at the top of the dialogue box to hide my online status. I’m rushing so quickly that my sensitive mouse keeps slipping off the button. I can see the words “Trin is typing…” and sweat forms on the back of my neck.
“Come on. Come on. Come on.”
The cursor finally figures out which icon I’m trying to press.
Unfortunately, I’m too freaking late.
Trin: I thought we could talk now, Anna Banana.
My stomach revolts against the words on the screen, and I close my eyes to try to keep the nausea from climbing too high up my throat.
When I first met John Seder, I had no idea he would turn into the biggest regret of my life. At first, he was playful and fun. He never took anything too seriously, so we were the perfect pair. When I would have a rough day with a student, he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just open his arms, and I’d fall into him willingly. He became a rock I could rely on—one of the only people I could trust.
He was the first one to mention his crush on the Disney princesses, and I was more than willing to play along. He was my boyfriend—the most stable person in my life. Even Mila had loved the idea, reminding me how role playing was such an integral part of my job as a school psychologist. It just made sense to extend that skill into the bedroom.
In time, though, his fantasy became a strange obsession. He not only wanted me to dress up every night, but to sing the songs, and read off of a script. He started complaining about my job, clothes, and friendships. His playfulness then turned into violence. A playful push that knocked me into my dresser. A bitter edge to our love making where his anger was the most consistent thing between us. Every day he’d drift deeper into a controlling darkness while I tried to pull further away from his cruelty.
The night he became the “Beast” and had me dress up as Belle was when the truth became impossible to ignore. It was as if he became the monster, tearing at my skin like he was trying to remove it from my body. My gown lay in shreds at the foot of my bed. A clump of hair lay on the pillow beside me while I lay in utter shock with tears trailing down my cheeks.
I changed the locks the next morning and put his things in a suitcase on my front step. I finally felt free and relieved to be rid of John Seder.
Little did I know I wasn’t just breaking up with a controlling freak. I was trying to end things with a sociopath. Three days later, I found out.
I had just taken the aluminum foil off of the cannoli dip I made for a girl’s night in with Mila. Five teenager-angst movies sat on the edge of my coffee table in order of preference with a pitcher of sangria chilling in the refrigerator. I turned and jumped when I saw her standing in the kitchen doorway. In that one second, time seemed to stop, and my mind took a picture of her expression as if my brain knew I would relieve that moment over and over.
I watched a tear slowly fall into her deep-set frown, and only then did I pull my eyes up to hers. Unshed tears hovered along her lids as her mouth parted but no sound came out.
The next few minutes always play back to me as if Mila and I were stick figures on the pages of a flip book. Sometimes the pages flip slowly, pausing every now and then on a particular moment like when I stepped forward to offer her comfort or when I dropped to the ground when she told me about the first video. No matter how fast the succession of images, the vivid details never fade. No matter where I hide, John Seder seems to always find me. He’s like my own personal demon that won’t be satisfied until I’m possessed by insanity.
People try to laugh off the videos—saying that I should just ignore the immature hoax. They don’t see how his torture isn’t in showing the world our private sex life. His torture lies in how often he releases a video. How often I try to settle into life, only to have my anonymity ripped away from me again. How he still has complete control over my life, and how exhausted I feel living inside this body that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore.
Fueled by drunken indignation, I tap on the keys hard, feeling oddly calm by the clicking sound of the keyboard.
Calla: I’m signing off now. Go jack off to someone else tonight, you-fucking-pervert-who-can’t-get-laid-by-a-three-dimensional-woman-so-you-blow-your-wad-watching-a-woman-who-would-never-willingly-help-you-blow-your-wad. Fuck off.
I’m sober enough to realize how immature my response is, but I’m buzzed enough to feel righteous and validated. Quickly signing off, I push away from the desk with my wine glass held high.
“One creeper down, a billion more to go!”
Leaning back on my office chair, I try to focus on the other messages I responded to—deciding to ignore the adrenaline refusing to quiet down. I feel jittery, like every cell in my body is charged, vibrating at a level they shouldn’t. Standing up, I walk the short length of my house trying to calm down. Since my body is already rebelling against me, my brain supplies an image of Ash in my mind.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Even though I’m not having a full-on panic attack, I know my restraint is slipping, and panic is gearing up to invade. I search for five things that I can see. I go through each of my senses, remembering the soft lull of Ash’s voice, picturing the soft pull of his eyes as he helped me down off of my mental ledge.
I’m just about to grab a Ding Dong snack cake for my something to taste, when a new message alert comes from my computer. Swaying on my feet, I realize the only thing I can do is to either kill the mo-fo who won’t leave me alone or turn off my computer. I’m not a big fan of murder, but I am a big fan of enjoying my Hostess cakes in silence.
Begrudgingly, I walk over to the power strip and am just about to switch it off when Jacob’s name stops me in my tracks. Blinking a few times, I lean over the computer screen, but keep my toes on the power strip just in case I need to make a hasty escape.
Trin: Jacob was right. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Guess you probably get a lot of fucking-perverts-who-can’t-get-laid-by-a-three-dimensional-woman-so-they-blow-their-wad-watching-a-woman-who-would-never-willingly-help-them-blow-their-wad clusterfucking your inbox. Sorry that took so long to write. Way too may hymens. This is your favorite Sanders, by the way. I use my Mom’s name as a cover.
I should’ve chosen to kill the mo-fo.
Ash Sanders has been a permanent fixture in my mind for the past few weeks. He’s also been a permanent fixture on my computer’s search history. I became an addict, searching society sites like a stalker, getting inappropriately frustrated at the inconsistencies and how I had yet to find an ugly picture of him no matter how far I zoomed in. By day four post-gala, I knew I had a problem. With twenty-two “Ashton Sanders” tabs open, I knew it was time to accept a painful fact.
I might have a stupid crush on the stupid guy. I freaking hate when that happens.
But I figured our paths would never cross again. We’ve gone for a long time existing on opposite sides of Jacob, so we could easily exist on separate planes for the rest of our lives. I’d never have to figure out why I can’t let the image of him go, and he’d never have to fake his way through a conversation with me. He’d be the fantasy I could spend my lonely nights dreaming about, while I could stay the strange friend of a friend who he had to help get through a panic attack.
The fact that he deviated from my plan pisses me off.
I glance over at the empty bottle of wine and spend ten seconds talking myself out of hitting reply. They were the most wasted ten seconds of my life.
Calla: They’re called hyphens. Not hymens. Good night, Cole.
I move my finger up to hit the Backspace button but hit the enter button instead. Manufacturers seriously need to put those keys on opposite sides of the keyboard. Chewing on my thumb nail, I ignore how fast my leg bounces under the table.
Trin: I said your favorite Sanders! Me! Ash! As a writer, you can have the hyphens. Leave me the hymens.
My mouth drops open. “He’s so crude!”
Simba blows out a breath, and I swear he whispers, “You love it.”
My computer bings again.
Trin: How are you?
Calla: Fine. Good night.
Trin: I was worried about you the other night.
My stomach drops, and I close my eyes as if to block out his words. Simba barks from his place on the carpet. I open my eyes and he cocks his head as if to ask if I’m okay. Some of the tension loosens in my shoulders when I run my fingers along his back.
Calla: Just had too much wine and conversation. I’m good now. Good night.
Trin: Liar. You drank water and ginger ale most of the night and barely spoke to anyone except me, that woman next to you, that friend of yours, and Jacob. But I’ll let it go because I’m supremely awesome like that. Please remember just how awesome I am when I tell you what I need to tell you.
I lean back in the chair and stare up at the wood beams that run the length of the ceiling, trying to find a steady rhythm to my breathing.
Rereading his initial email, thoughts drift in and out of my mind as I try to figure out which secret he told Jacob. By the time he hesitates typing, I’ve prepared myself for just about anything.
Trin: I met your ex.
Except for that.
I reread the words over and over as if Ash had written an entire screenplay. In time the letters blur together as traitorous tears mar my vision.
A notification sound from the computer brings me back to the present, and I read the rest of his message with an odd sort of detachment.
Trin: We met during a business meeting arranged by his stepfather. The video came up in conversation, and he was very convincing of his innocence.
The disconnect between my body and mind continues as I pull the chair in closer to the computer. The edge of the counter digs in to my stomach, but I don’t mind the discomfort. I feel nothing, not the anger boiling just underneath my skin or the hard sting of tears threatening to slip down my clenched jaw. I gently rest my fingers on the keyboard and draw in a shaky breath.
Calla: My ex is a very convincing man. He convinced me that I could trust him, that he’d protect me, and that we’d be together forever. Little did I know, we would be together—his name will be linked with mine for the rest of my life, but not on a marriage certificate but, on Wiki-fucking-pedia. I don’t give a shit what you believe, Ash, and the fact that you even wrote me standing up for that man, shows me you don’t give a shit about me either. Don’t ever fucking contact me again.
Calla Kennedy has signed off.