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1. Self-denial is indulgence of a propensity to forego. -- Ambrose Bierce
"How's it going?" her mom asks, and Tracy knows what she should say.
Instead, she says, "I don't know."
Her mom is silent. Wrong answer.
"It's... different here," Tracy says. And I'm the same. But that's not what anyone wants to hear.
She laughs. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know," she repeats dully. "All the other kids are really good."
"So are you," her mom says.
"I just feel like I'm trying too hard sometimes." All the time.
"Tracy," her mom says.
She picks idly at a scab on her shin.
"It's not just me, you know. Someone thought you were good enough to give you a full ride."
"I know." The scab disappears, and blood rises to the surface.
"And you love it. And we're all so, so proud of you. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, I know."
"You're living your dream, babe. How many people ever get to say that? Shit, I never will. You'll get used to it."
"I know," she says. She squeezes the skin around the wound. "It's not that bad. I just had a bad day. It's really cold already. It's only October!"
"Well, get some sleep," her mom says, apparently forgetting the concept of time zones.
"I will," she promises anyway.
"It'll get better," she says. "You just got there."
"I know. Good night, Mom."
**
Tracy chopped off all her hair with a pair of scissors before moving to New York. She liked the look of it; she liked looking like someone else. Someone new.
But there's another first-year art major with close-cropped hair: Rebekah Hall. Her hair is a shade of red that reminds Tracy of a lipstick she smuggled out of a drugstore in fifth grade. Whore red, she thinks, remembering her reflection in the mirror. She'd rubbed it off with a tissue, but she could still see it for the rest of the night. She thinks she used it once for Halloween or something.
On Rebekah Hall, it looks beautiful.
Next to Rebekah Hall, Tracy feels like a pale imitation of an NYU studio art major.
Next to Rebekah Hall and ninety-five percent of her classmates, she feels like everything she creates is false, fake, empty, childish. In high school, her amateurish work could pass for decent, but this is different. Rebekah Hall's work is effortless, perfect.
But her mom was right: She does love it.
So she guesses she'll stay until her fraud is discovered and they kick her out.
**
It's the middle of November, the cruelest month so far, and Tracy is cursing the cold, ducking into a Starbucks with her roommate, when she thinks she sees a familiar face coming out.
It couldn't be.
She doesn't turn around to check.
It isn't. How could it be?
"What?" Natalie asks.
"What?" she repeats, like it's nothing. Oh god, please don't say 'You look like you've just seen a ghost.'
"You just looked really weird right then. Are you okay?"
"You mean besides being on the verge of hypothermia?"
Natalie laughs. "We have got to get you a winter coat."
"This is a winter coat!"
"In what universe?"
"California," she says.
Natalie is in her second year, but they're the same age. Tracy lies when she's asked and says she took a year off to figure out what she wanted to do. (She'll never admit she was held back. Lying is like blinking or breathing anyway. Second nature.)
"Are you sure you're okay?" Natalie asks after they've gotten their coffees. Tracy takes it black, calculates the calories. She's earned a break; it's been a good week. "I haven't seen you eat solid food in, like, a while."
"Of course," she says.
Natalie regards her skeptically, flicking her long, chestnut hair like a horse's tail.
Natalie is a history major, a former ballet dancer from Connecticut. She has a bad knee, a long, slender neck and a nose that's too big for her face. She's tall, graceful and thoroughly sweet, even to a fraudulent fuck-up like Tracy, and she's probably never made a wrong move in her life.
Tracy kind of hates her.
Counting calories is like a game. She doesn't care about losing weight; she doesn't need to, and she can't anymore, even if she wanted to. After a few weeks of keeping her intake below 400 calories a day, she imagined she could feel her metabolism grind to a halt. It doesn't matter.
Counting is easy, comforting: a routine. There's something exhilarating about being in charge, adding up the numbers, the satisfaction of hitting the goal. Even when she feels like an untalented freak, at least she's guaranteed one victory each day.
"The first year can be pretty stressful. Especially for you, so far away from home."
"I know," she says, tuning out. Natalie continues to talk to her about the importance of maintaining one's immune system in winter weather, but she's not listening; all she can think about is getting horizontal and staying that way until she feels like getting out of bed again.
If she ever does.
**
2. To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead. -- Bertrand Russell
Sleeping has become her default position. When she's not in school, or working on something for school, or eating, or talking to her mom, or occasionally venturing out with Natalie or some of the more tolerable people from school, she's asleep.
It's safer than other things she could be doing.
(She hasn't cut since the day her mother found out.
But there are other ways to achieve the same effect, and she's pretty sure she knows them all now. Her repertoire would be impressive, if such things impressed rather than repulsed people.)
Was it Evie Zamora? she wonders idly, on the verge of drifting away. Do I care?
Of course it wasn't her, she answers. Why would she be here? Why would I care?
But I do care.
"I love you," Evie had said, over and over. Whatever that meant.
And then her world fell apart.
She rebuilt herself admirably, she thinks. She transferred schools, just in case. She studied hard, she caught up. And then her grades were perfect. She dated well-behaved young men now and then; she didn't put out on the first date. Or the second.
There usually wasn't a third.
She figured she'd had enough fun to last a lifetime, and look where that got her.
What would she even say to Evie Zamora if she ever saw her again?
Thank you?
I'm sorry?
I don't hate you.
I miss you.
Sometimes I compose my thoughts like letters to you.
I still love you...
It wasn't her.
**
3. I used to be bad, now I'm good; I used to be Lolita, now I'm Red Riding Hood. -- The Nields
It's not that she isn't technically proficient, she supposes; she's good at the style, just not the substance. That's what the admissions people must have seen in her work, but what they apparently ignored in evaluating her portfolio was the lack of passion.
Or maybe she's just really good at faking it.
She just feels like an incredibly boring person, especially in colorful, vibrant New York, with its endless history and intricacies, more than she could ever hope to discover. Her one true pleasure since she got here has been exploring the city alone, on foot, on the weekends, trying to find some inspiration.
She made a choice, a million years ago, to be a good girl: to buckle down, study hard. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. No alcohol, no parties. No mistakes. Only good choices.
And when her friends rebelled and experimented, she felt sorry for them, but also superior: No matter what they did, she'd done it bigger, better, harder, worse.
Her family thought she was trying to forget the past, but she loved her secrets, kept them close. No matter what a goody-two-shoes everyone thought she'd become, she knew the truth. She knew who she really was, even if no one else ever would.
Well, she thinks. Almost no one.
**
The second time she sees Evie Zamora, she's coming toward Tracy, across the street.
Evie still looks almost exactly the same, except she's more covered up than Tracy ever saw her and she's wearing about a fifth of the makeup she was wearing the day they officially met.
She looks like a grown-up. It's a little terrifying.
They lock eyes, and Tracy wonders why Evie doesn't call out to her, doesn't even wave. She runs a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious; of course Evie wouldn't recognize her.
Maybe that was the whole point.
**
"I feel like such a fraud," she tells Gregor after class, not for the first time. Even she's getting tired of hearing it.
"Come to the bar tonight," he says patiently, not for the first time. "Everyone will be there. Everyone feels like a fraud. You're sure it rings false until someone tells you it doesn't."
"Really?" she asks skeptically.
"Come to happy hour," he says. "I'll pick you up. I'll hold your hand. It's your first time, we'll be gentle."
"How do you know I don't like it rough?" she teases.
"You're a delicate flower, Trace; that's pretty obvious."
"You have no idea," she says, and though she means it to sound light, frivolous, the words have sharp edges because, you know, he doesn't.
No one does.
Well, almost no one.
**
4. No one's fated or doomed to love anyone. The accidents happen, we're not heroines, they happen in our lives like car crashes, books that change us, neighborhoods we move into and come to love. -- Adrienne Rich
Hands over her eyes.
Familiar lips on her neck.
Her heart stops.
"Are you stalking me?" Evie Zamora asks.
"I could ask you the same thing," she says.
"So ask."
"Are you stalking me?"
"Maybe." She smiles. "I never did get to say 'I'm sorry.'"
"Would you have ever really said that?"
"Well," Evie says, sliding onto the stool beside her, "not at first. Obviously. But now I get it. I know why you wanted me out of your house, your life, why you hated me. But I was a kid. I was pissed off."
"I didn't want you out. I don't hate you."
"Tracy," she says. "I don't care about that anymore. Forgive me?"
"I never got to say that narcing on me was probably the best thing anyone could have done for me. So, thank you."
"Would you have really said that?"
"Not at first."
"What are you drinking?"
"Manhattan. Seemed appropriate." She's been good all week; she can afford some extra calories tonight.
Evie wrinkles her nose. "If you're 80."
"What are you drinking?"
"Club soda. I'm driving."
"You have a car?"
"Shit, yeah. How do you think I got here?"
"I flew," Tracy says.
"I bet your arms are tired. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I'm at NYU. Art."
"Shit," Evie says. "I mean, congratulations."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm in a band. Hold out your hand."
She complies. Evie scribbles a word on her palm with a purple Sharpie. She runs her thumb along Tracy's wrist, feeling the old scars. Tracy doesn't pull away, but pretends she doesn't notice, pretends her heart isn't racing. But she's shaking, her whole body throbbing, the force of her pulse pushing her forward and back, forward and back. The whole world must know she's overcome (by what?).
"You stopped," Evie says, so low she almost doesn't hear.
Tracy doesn't deny it.
When Evie's hand falls away, she scrutinizes the word scrawled across her skin, squinting in the dim light.
"Pherepapha?" She stumbles over the pronunciation. "Is that really it, or does your handwriting just suck?"
"It's a Greek goddess. Persephone, you know, queen of the underworld, but a different spelling. And the name of my band. Look us up on MySpace."
"Let me guess," she says, "you're the lead singer."
"What else? Can't hide this face in the back."
"And you write all the songs. The words, I mean."
"No way," she says. "I'm not that smart."
"You must be doing something right," Tracy says, a little light-headed. "You look really fucking happy."
"Thanks. I guess I am," she says. "But I have a crappy day job like everyone else."
"I never imagined that," she says. "I never imagined you here." I came here to escape. Go figure.
"I know, what are the odds?"
"Pretty good if you're a crazy stalker."
"I didn't even recognize you at first. The other day, I was like, 'Is that her?' I didn't want to come up to some random girl on the street. But I love the hair."
"Thanks," she says, and after a moment: "Cute belt."
Evie laughs, and orders her another Manhattan.
Round two.
**
"Who was that girl?" Gregor asks. "The other night. Did you leave with her?"
"She was an old friend," she says. Is it the truth? Sort of. "Just someone I used to know."
"You looked different," he says. "Maybe because I never saw you actually drink before, but you looked... I don't know. Happier?"
She shrugs. "Alcohol goes straight to my head."
"You should drink more often, then. Are you going to see her again?"
"I don't know," she says. "I guess that's up to the universe."
**
5. Freedom in general may be defined as the absence of obstacles to the realization of desires. -- Bertrand Russell
"I'm sorry," Brady says, and she knows he means it. She also knows why her mother didn't call; she's probably too upset to talk without crying. So she's glad Brady called instead, she supposes. For once.
"It's the way it goes," she says, idly scratching the inside of her calf.
"Are you going to be okay spending Christmas there?"
"Why not?"
"If there was any way we could come up with the cash," he says.
"I could drive," she offers. "A friend of mine has a car." She's only joking; she already knows the answer. Like she would ever, ever, ever tell them about running into Evie here.
"You'd end up driving for a week to stay here for, what, one day? It's just not practical, Trace. But we really miss you."
"Okay."
"We're all so, so proud of you."
"I know. I mean, thanks."
"Your mom said you're having some trouble."
"I was just having a bad day."
"Well, I just hope you know we all believe in you. I know you'll make it."
"Thanks, Brady." She looks at the thin red line from where her fingernails accidentally bore down too hard; it stings, so she knows she's broken the skin. Again.
"It'll get easier."
"I know."
**
She spends the first three days of break in bed.
And then the phone rings.
"What are you doing for Christmas?" Evie asks.
"Sleeping, probably."
"Come over. We'll have fun, I promise."
Tracy laughs. "I don't know."
"Well, I do. Come on, I've missed you. I didn't spend all that time tracking you down on Facebook to lose touch again."
"You are a crazy stalker," she says, then hesitates: "I miss you, too."
"Then come over. Or I will, if you don't want to hang out with my roommates."
"Okay," she finally says.
Why not?
**
They spend Christmas sprawled across Tracy's bed, eating junk food (she's trying hard not to care), watching and mocking an America's Next Top Model marathon on VH1 and purposely not talking about the past.
It's nice, Tracy thinks. Easy.
She doesn't have to pretend to be "Tracy," the straight-edge honor roll student with an unwavering moral compass.
Or even "Tracy," the insecure emo artist.
If only life could be like this all the time.
**
By 10:43 p.m. on New Year's Eve, Evie Zamora is kissing Tracy on the couch in the apartment she shares with two of her bandmates and their boyfriends. They're rocking out on stupid plastic guitars, eyes glued to the TV, and no one even notices. Or cares.
It's just like old times, except they're not practicing to prepare for someone better, later.
This is it.
If someone had asked Tracy to look into the future, she never would have imagined that Evie would be the well-adjusted one and Tracy would be damaged goods. She kind of resents Evie for throwing her life off track, for switching their fates.
But that's stupid; she was cutting and stealing way before Evie. She just got careless, carried away. Why? Because for once, she didn't feel so alone.
And this isn't exactly what she had in mind when she agreed to come over, but it's easy and it feels good to be wanted by the only person who really knows what she's getting into and wants her anyway. So why not?
Evie's hand is under her shirt, her fingers resting in the hollows between Tracy's ribs.
She squirms away from Evie's touch, whispers in her ear: "You're cold!"
She is, but that's not why; Tracy's just not used to being touched.
Evie grins. "Warm me up."
So she does.
**
This is definitely not what she thought she would do if they ever crossed paths again.
But it's kind of a nice surprise.
**
"What's wrong?"
Evie's wrapped around her, just like old times, and Tracy feels better than she has in a while.
Or... less bad, anyway.
"I was just thinking," she says. The room is dark; time has slowed to a crawl. She wishes it would just stop, that the rest of her life could be just like this. No expectations, no pressure. Just her, just Evie, just silence and warmth, forever.
"Duh," Evie says.
"How did you get like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like... I don't know. Happy."
She laughs. "What's the alternative?"
"Me," she says.
"Oh, stop being so miserable. Why shouldn't I be happy? I got the fuck out of town, I'm exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to do. If you don't want to be an artist, nobody's forcing you to be one. Do something else."
"I don't know what else to do," she confesses. "When I changed schools, they told me that if I couldn't talk about what was going on, to express myself some other way. So I got into art. And everyone loved it, or they said they did. It became my life. My friends. I could be proud of it, and my family could feel like they knew me better. But now I just feel like... I'm missing something that everyone else already knows. So I don't know what to do."
"Do whatever you want."
"I don't know what I want."
"So don't want anything. Nobody expects anything from you. You're safe. We're alone. Just lie here with me."
So she does.
**
Evie's room is silent. She listens to Evie breathing beside her. Asleep, vulnerable. Trusting.
And as the sun rises, she thinks: I don't want to be anywhere else. I'm doing exactly what I want to do.
So I'm happy, right?
**
6. Many people when they fall in love look for a little haven of refuge from the world, where they can be sure of being admired when they are not admirable, and praised when they are not praiseworthy. -- Bertrand Russell
"You're the only person who really knows me," she says.
Evie just smiles, eyes closed.
"This is the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that's ever made sense."
"What are you going to tell your mom?"
"That I'm happy. I mean, I think so."
"She's gonna find out eventually."
"She'll just have to deal with it. I'm exactly where I want to be."
"Right on," Evie says.
"Your mom probably still hates me, too" Tracy says. "She thinks I'm a bad influence."
"You totally are."
"Are you going to tell her?"
"Yeah, we're not exactly tight," Evie says. "She's living in Tarzana with some asshole. I don't care what she thinks about my life, she obviously doesn't care what I think of hers."
"That's sad," Tracy says.
"You asked me why I seemed happy. It's a choice. Because I know what the alternative is. It's why I don't drink. I don't do drugs. I don't have sex with strangers. I know what that life is like, her life, and I don't want it anymore."
"I still love you," Tracy says.
"I know."
**
7. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. -- Anais Nin.
The spring is a lot better than the fall. The city starts to warm up a little.
She sketches Evie from a million different angles, sleeping, laughing, singing, dancing, shouting, crying. It feels remarkably natural.
She's still jealous of Evie's easy life. No expectations. No one caring if she makes it or falls on her face. That subsides sometime during the ides of March.
Nobody expects anything of you, Evie said, and in New York, it's true.
She rarely sleeps in her own bed anymore.
It's going to be better this time.
It is better this time.
She'll tell her mom over summer break.
They decide to drive back to California.
She goes over the conversation a thousand times in her head before they even pack up the car.
And she'll explain that it's not the way it used to be, and her mother will probably protest and tell her she doesn't know what she's getting into. She'll say she doesn't care that it's a girl she's bringing home, but that it's this girl; Jesus, Tracy, out of all the girls in the city.
But at the end of the summer they'll get back into Evie's car and rejoin her life, already in progress, whether her family likes it or not.
For the first time in a long time, she feels something strangely akin to hope.
It's a nice change, she thinks, leaning her head against the window, feeling the sun on her face, watching the city disappear in the rearview mirror as Evie curses the traffic and the sound of her unpronounceable, vaguely pretentious band fills Tracy's ears.
I'll be home soon.