“Why are you stuck in the concrete jungle?” I ask. “No beach this summer?”
“I work in PR. It’s a fucking grind. But, hey, it’s a living.”
“Another day, another dollar.”
We both laugh. Neither of us needs to work; we just like to talk that way.
“What about you?” she asks. “No family compound?” Then answers her own question. “Oh, shit. I forgot. How’s Billy?”
“Hanging in. We all are.”
“That’s good. I’m so sorry, Cassie. That girl, Diana Holly, is cuckoo-nutty. Langley knows her from Princeton. Once, she hooked up with Chase Braxton—remember him? His sister Ella was two years behind us? Chase had a girlfriend, which Diana knew, but after, she showed up at his eating club every day for, like, a week. I mean, this was a while ago, but there it is, right?” Avery is somber. “Billy will be okay. I’m sure of it.”
I study my fingers. This red is stunning, I decide. “Emma. Chase Braxton’s sister. Her name was Emma. I hadn’t heard that story. Tell Langley thanks.”
Langley is Avery’s brother. Seems odd to thank him.
There’s a long silence that neither of us knows how to fill. I have to apologize, but “I’m sorry” and “please forgive me” seem insufficient. I hate myself, I want to say. If I could, I’d go back to Miss Meredith’s class and meet you all over again. I consider telling her the truth about Marcus, which is the biggest offering I can think of. Especially if I describe how harshly he rejected me.
After our drunken night in the Bronx, Marcus cools off. Maybe Anton saw us. Maybe he didn’t. Doesn’t matter. Marcus decides it’s too risky. He doesn’t contact me for a week. Then two. I text Avery, suggest a movie. She ices me out for a day then agrees. “I’m sorry I’ve been so fucked up,” I say when we meet. “I have a crush.” Avery wants to know about him, what he’s like, where he goes to school. “He’s older” is all I say. “Doesn’t live around here.” We used to dissect every minute of every day. I know my lack of detail is hurtful, and I can feel her keeping a protective distance. But by then, losing Avery is the least of my problems. I’m also losing the rest of my life. Before Marcus, I was a superstar: straight As, Model Congress, Model UN. After Marcus, I hit the earth at full tilt. Unable to stop myself, I text him over and over and over and over: Please, I need you
Finally, a reply: Tuesday afternoon. Riverside. By the ducks.
My heart seizes. I text back:
They’re drakes
He doesn’t respond. And then:
Xoxo
I’m overwhelmed with relief. Which is why, in the park, when I lunge toward him, his refusal is so shattering. “No.” His voice is sharp, angry. “Stop it.”
“Stop? Why?”
“We can’t see each other anymore.”
“But you told me to meet you.”
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Marcus walks off. I’m left alone on the bench, with the ducks. Alone and exposed, alone and unloved, alone and unwanted. It’s not over, I decide. He’ll come back. I’ll just wait.
Months pass. I wait. I wait out his shitty business deals. I wait out his conference calls. I wait out his sad, sexless marriage. I wait out his cold, brittle wife. I wait out his porn and his hookers. I wait and I watch. I measure everything. I am hyperaware of any change, on guard for a sign. I learn patience, I learn endurance. I learn no one can wait this long. No one, not even me, the strongest girl in the world. I call him. I beg. “We love each other. Please don’t leave me.”
“This is over, Cassie. You have to stop.”
He’s still angry. This is my fault. Why did I come on so strong? Why did I force him to go to a bar? My shame and self-loathing curdle in my stomach. I wield them with gusto. I self-destruct. Drink too much. Smoke too much. Lash out for no reason. I call Avery an idiot, make plans and blow her off. Do it again. Then a third time. We’ve been best friends for most of my life, but I can’t stand one second in her presence.
Finally, she’s had enough. “I’m sick of your shit. You’re a selfish bitch.” I know she’s right. I break down in tears. But Avery is a teenage girl too. She, like me, is an ambush predator. She wants me to hurt as much as she does. Next thing I know, the rumors sweep through Spence like wildfire. Every day, a new one circulates: Cassie Quinn cheated in AP History. Cassie Quinn fucked Powell Porter. Cassie Quinn is hooked on Adderall.
Forsaken by all my friends, I can’t leave my room. I cry in my bed, won’t go to school. When my parents ask what’s wrong, I tell them, conveniently, that Avery and I had a fight. “She turned everyone against me.” They’re appropriately horrified. “No one is more dangerous than a teenage girl,” Eleanor says. She threatens to call Avery’s parents, but I beg her not to, knowing it’ll just make things worse. Marcus, meanwhile, still isn’t returning my calls. I hate him beyond all rational thought. I hate him so much I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning in my own misery. I lose ten pounds, the one upside.
Frightened, Eleanor takes me to a social worker, a psychologist, a psychiatrist. No one can help me. Not because they don’t try, but because they don’t know I’m waiting. Finally, I see a shrink who suggests in-patient treatment. I’m skeptical but agree to check into a psych ward for three days. Surprisingly, it helps. In the hospital, we talk about feelings. When you feel so much, the doctor says, you get confused. So your feelings may be about other feelings than the feelings you’re feeling.
Is she speaking English, I wonder? I don’t know this language. Aloud, I apologize. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Your words make no sense.”
Feel your feelings, she repeats. Feel your feelings.
From this, I gather one insight: the only way to leave this place is to surrender something sacred. So I tell her about Marcus. He acted like he wanted me, and I think he did, but then one day he didn’t, and left me alone with my feelings.
What are your feelings? she asks.
“Sometimes, I feel rage, sorrow, and desperation. Other times, I feel love, affection, and adoration.” What I don’t tell her is that my feelings are so deep they’re deadly, and I feel all of them, all at once, all the time. It’s too much to bear so I try to feel nothing.
She thanks me for sharing. Sometimes, she tells me, we mistake kindness for love. Gratitude for devotion. Pity for desire. As I told you, Cassie, it can be confusing.
It sure can, I agree, lacing up my sneakers, grabbing my coat. Thank you; you’re very nice, thank you; goodbye. I race out of there feeling nothing.
I text him. Then I wait.
I’m sixteen and one-quarter. No longer a kid. A woman who knows her own mind. A woman who’s seen hard times. And just like that, something shifts.
Marcus replies: I miss you. I miss the ducks.
Marcus calls. “You weaken me.”
Finally, I think.
The next time we meet, he kisses me, hard. I want you; he tells me. I’ve wanted you for so long. I can’t stop myself. I can’t help myself.