Archive of Our Own

“Ten, nine, eight. Breath, Victoria, just breathe.” I finally reached my dorm room and snuck in. “Seven, six, five.” My front head leant to the door. I felt dizzy. I felt like throwing up. And I had to stop it. “Four, three, two, one. It went well. It must have.”

My heart was still pounding wildly but at least I wasn't afraid it would swoop out of my chest, anymore.

But did it really go well? Did I say the right words? Did I present myself the proper way? Rachel Amber was everyone’s sweetheart. If someone manage to be in her good graces, they are on the right track. Being her acquaintance will make me recognized and appreciated, right?  But she didn’t relish in any of those antics my father engraved in my brain. People only respect you, Victoria when they fear you. Make no mistake, there is no such thing as kindness. Humans are selfish in essence. If something is given to you, you’ll be asked for something in return. Don’t be the one who takes, be the one who gives. If you are not in control, it’s you who’s controlled by others. Father always said. He was a successful man coming from nothing. Perfect example of rags to riches. He must have known what he was talking about, must he not? Yet, Rachel didn’t seem to be any of those things. She acted with kindness towards others. Being always relaxed and outgoing without caring about some control. And no one seemed to fear her.  

Maybe she was so good at it, no one would notice. She was pretending all the time, manipulating others. How else would she be so popular? And that thing about no fear was nonsense, as well. I definitely dreaded Rachel Amber. What if she didn't find me interesting or likeable? What if she would say something nasty about me to Steph?

“No, no, no. Not this again.” The nausea was back accompanied by intense throbbing behind the bridge of my nose. “I’ve already settled this. It’s over. It never happened.” Not to mention I was on the brink of a mental breakdown and started talking to myself.

All because of Steph Gingrich. Stephanie Rose Gingrich, to be precise. But everyone called her Steph. She was a sophomore and a stage manager to a school play The Tempest. I had hated my mother when she had forced me to audition for the lead. I barely could find girls bathrooms after two weeks at Blackwell. How could I go through an audition without making a complete fool of myself? But failing hadn’t been an option. Not for my mother, so it meant neither for me. Of course, I had lost to Rachel Amber, but at least I had become her understudy.  It hadn’t made mother any less furious, but it smoothed her disappointment over. It had looked like a win-win situation. She could still sell it as I was in a play, and I had been delighted there had been one less thing that put me under pressure. Until I had found out Steph Gingrich is going to be a stage manager.

I couldn’t drop the play. That was the only thing I couldn’t do. For a moment I had been considering a way that would disqualify me as an understudy. For example, an accident that would result in my broken leg. I was too much of a coward for that, though. So, I had created a coping mechanism.

That was my secret trick. And it was about to save me again.

I rummaged through my Louis Vuitton Palm Springs backpack and fished for a notebook and pencil case. Once I had what I needed, the over-expensive accessory fell down without mercy. It had no importance to me anymore. Nothing had. My body slid down along the doors while I was fully in the zone.

My pencil danced around the notebook page, my eyes barely opened. Mother hated when I got my hands dirty with something so plain and dull. Pencil surely wasn’t a tool worthy of high art. So, she had bought me the most expensive camera instead. Do you desire to capture a moment, do it properly, she had exlaimed.  Taking pictures was nice, actually but it couldn’t compare to really making them.

I guess If someone saw me, right now, they would probably think I was deranged indeed. Maybe it wasn’t far from the truth. I definitely felt crazy. Crazy about Steph Gingrich. The outline of my sketch was coming together, so I had to focus more to add the details. There still was so much I missed. Features I couldn’t catch from afar. But it was impossible to get closer. One part of me claimed it was because I did not, and never could feel any of it towards her. The heat of excitement, touch of devotion, attentiveness. The other part though knew and was terrified that if I allowed myself to approach Steph she would see. She would recognize it at once. My obsession, my addiction, my sheer infatuation with her.

Yeah, it was all pretty effed up. I should be working on how to be respected and feared and appreciated by people. And in control of my life and my choices and my whatever. And all I was really doing was drawing sketches of Steph Gingrich. I finished the lower part of her face on the newest one. It was an easier job. As a stage manager, she had her say every now then about this and that according to a rehearsal. And I was free to watch. To feast my eyes on her full luscious lips moving, smiling. She often nibbled the lower one while she was fully focused on expressing her view of Shakespeare’s world. Or in very rare occasions when she got austere, they became a thin line.

Sometimes when I came from school I just laid down and thought about those lips for hours.

Did it make me gay? And If I was would it be a part of the problem? Father would most likely have a hard time to grin and bear it. But he was a doctor. Despite his almost middle-aged views of the world, he understood homosexuality is not something someone chooses. Mother would suffer more because lesbian daughter couldn’t marry a high-class gentleman and be his garnish. But she would come to terms with it eventually. She was an art person through and through. She owned a gallery and many of her closest friends were gay men. So yeah, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Still, it would only add to the endless list of Why can’t you be just normal, Victoria?

Perhaps there was a chance to avoid this hitch. Perhaps there were some lips more desirable out there than Steph’s and it could belong to some guy. I tried to hold onto that thought, but it was a cruel challenge. Hence entirely impossible. None of those bimbos I’ve met so far in Blackwell could compare to her by any rate. And would it be actually enough for me If I’ll meet a guy who didn’t consider sending a dick pick as the best kind of courtship?

I carried forward with finishing Steph’s sketch, but I got stuck with her eyes. It scared me to death to look into them. I had no doubt she was that kind of person who can look right through you. She would know. And what would I do if she knew? I had no clue. We had encountered each other a couple of times around the stage. She had tried to say hi to me at first. I had always frozen and glared behind her speechless unable to meet her eyes. Eventually, she had just stopped trying to be polite and started overlooking me.

It was a relief. And a massive torment at the same time.

I couldn’t continue with a sketch without help. So I stretched my leg to retreat the neglected Louis Vuitton backpack. After a minor struggle, I had it back, pulled up the phone just to kick it away, again. Checking Steph’s pics on social media was very thin ice. But I made an agreement with myself in haste that this was a trade-off. I will be allowed to look at the photos with Steph, but only those on Rachel’s wall. If I clicked on Steph’s profile, I could spend hours scrolling down, indulging the stalker in me. Despite my resolution to stay self-restrained, the idea definitely sounded gratifying.

Just a little peek, I broke my promise quickly and felt a huge wave of heat when I opened her fb page. Her relationship status was still single and the spark behind her eyes on her profile pic was painfully mesmerizing.

“No scrolling. Don’t you dare!” You already have what you wish for.” I still rode on the insanity train with that self-talk, but miraculously I put the phone down and possessed the notebook again. It was no trouble to finish the sketch now.

Steph hadn’t been single when I had dared to invade her social media for the first time.  Not that I needed to check to know. On my first day at Blackwell Academy, I had been a monumental mess. Inside. Outside I had been nothing but the impeccable daughter of Rowan Chase. When father had declared some issues had to be discussed with principal Wells in private, I had jumped in joy. In my head only, of course. Subtly I had crawled around the main building to find a spot where I could be alone and finally take a breath. Or throw up. Or simply faint.

The moment I had turned around the corner I had slumped against the wall. Seeing no one in the closest proximity had been good enough for my exhausted brain stretched with my utmost effort to pretend I was everything my father wanted me to be. I hadn’t been as alone as I had finally believed, though. But the two girls 30 feet on my left probably wouldn’t notice me even If I had pulled out a stereo. They had been kissing. And my urge to die had been replaced by an unknown thrill. The tremor between my thighs had confirmed I was an ordinary teenager in one way at least. My first ever outburst of lust had taken me by surprise. But somehow it had also been a very liberating experience. Suddenly I hadn’t felt like a broken instrument about Ed Westwick or Sebastian Stan being no help at all with my rubbing off seance.  I should simply choose to think about Leighton Meester or Jessica Szohr instead, I had realised.

The sole realisation could be horrifying. Well, pretty strong aftermath had come later. Still, at that very moment, I had only wished for me being cradled in Steph Gingrich’s arms rewarded with all those sweet kisses. 

Soon a kill switch my parents had implanted into my head turned on and I had escaped without being noticed. But the trace of Steph’s Gingrich passion remained. I’ve never seen the other girl on the premises and Steph’s fb status had soon changed to single. It had come out as a source of the most genuine joy in my life. When I was at my best. But mostly it only fed my eternal misery. Because what possibly a good for nothing, overcompensating pretentious daughter of traditionalist parents could offer to the passionate creative force of nature like Steph.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except maybe for this sketch of her I just finished. I tore the page from the notebook and was strangely proud of my work. It was a lovely drawing. It was far from perfect, but still. Maybe if I could spend some time with Steph to memorize more of her features…

The knocking on my door almost made my heart stop. I pushed myself off the ground, dropping the evidence of my illicit temptation.

It was quite the task to come to the terms with the idea there wasn’t any purity commando in the hall. Mercifully, being around mother and father for 14 years taught me a thing or two about the power of masquerade. I snatched the sketch, crumbled the paper, and propped it inside the Louis Vuitton backpack with the rest of its scattered content.

“I’m coming.” I announced to the visitor buying some time to settle down.

Ten, nine, eight. Breath, Victoria, just breathe. I hoped I didn’t say those words aloud. No one knows. No one will ever know.

Once I opened the door I was greeted by the panic-struck blondie. So much for being afraid of purity commandos.

“Hi. Hey.” She tried to look me in the eyes but wasn’t very successful.

“Hello.”

“I…I am Chris… I mean Taylor Christensen.”

“Hi, Taylor Christensen.”

“Oh, hi. Hey. I live next door… And I have... we have class together. Classes. We talk. Sometimes.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re always nice to me. And have a damn great sense to combine impossible colours or quite unmatching pieces of fabric together.”

“You—you remember?”

“Of course, I remember. I know I seem obnoxious sometimes, but I do remember a girl who doesn’t think fashion is a luxury.”

“Oh, really? That’s the most amazing thing anyone ever told to me.”

And at this point precisely, I should have mocked Taylor Christensen. The voice of my mother invoked inside my head. If you praise someone you have to chastise them at the same time. Show them you’re in control. You decide what’s appropriate and what’s not.

I took a deep breath considering what kind of heinous remark I should bring up to put her in the place.

“What can I say. You have a great gift. I admire that.” That’s what I said on the contrary of everything I had been taught. Maybe I could be superior and mean to other people. Later. Maybe I could use this one situation as an exception.

Taylor Christensen blushed and threw her arms around me. I didn’t quite follow her enthusiasm. But there was no denying I felt a little mushy about it. But it was nowhere close to the mushiness Steph Gingrich caused. Was it friendship, then? Maybe I could make friends, after all.

“Sorry, erm. Sorry.” She backed out slightly. “I’ve come to ask. Wanna hang out? Go to the mall tonight? With me and the other girl from our class. Courtney Wagner.”

“Sure thing, Tay.” I gave her the first genuine smile I produced in ages. “I’ll meet you there.”

When she left the good spirit that had arrived with her evaporated quickly. Would she want something in return for being my friend? Did I have anything to offer?

A couple of weeks into the school year didn’t make any of my toils easier. But something did change. I won the Beacon's Young Artist Award for my photography. With the whole freshman fuzz and Steph Gingrich all in my head, I totally forgot I applied in the summer. Or my mother made me do so, to be precise. With her connections, she could rig the whole thing. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. But mother definitely didn’t care how it happened.  I won. The Chase name was on the price and that mattered to her the most. Whether she was celebrating or telling everyone about her so-called success by raising such an amazing daughter and young photographer, she ceased her constant assessment for a couple of days. One thing added to another, and it made me so hyped that at the moment of utter madness I couldn’t hold my feelings towards Steph in check anymore. So, I told her, she felt the same and then we drove into the sunset.

Okay, no, of course, I didn’t tell her. What would I say, anyway? But I called my older brother. Robert Chase was my father’s son from his first marriage. He was a doctor, too, actually, and ridiculously handsome. Father probably had been like that too, until that craving for undivided respect consumed him fully. And no warm feature on his face left, just ominous shadows.  Anyway, Rob and I weren’t close or anything. He was 13 years older. Father was even more standoffish towards him than he was to me.  But Rob always texted me on my birthday or sent me a Christmas gift. He probably knew too well that hell was a walk in the park compared to living in the Chase household. He couldn’t help so he showed sympathy. But perhaps he might be assisting with something else, I thought.

“How do you do it, that no woman can resist you? They are throwing themselves on you.” I blurted once he picked up my unexpected call. To my defence, I’ve just eaten a whole bag of cookies that evening. A sugar spike erased any attempt to self-restraint.

“Hello to you too, Vicky. Is there any particular reason why you wish to know?” He didn’t even try to hide his amusement.

“No, no reason,” I said. I knew he wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t tell mother or father. Or anyone. But I didn’t want to bother him with details of my pathetic teenage life. He just got done with his residency at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He surely had bigger fish to fry than to listen to my endless rambling about Steph Gingrich being the most beautiful creature in the world.

“So, there is no particular young woman who—”

“No. None.”

“Okay, but if there were, you can tell me.”

“I know. Now back to my question.”

“Be ready to not like what you will hear.”

“Just tell me, Rob. Please.”

He did tell me, and I didn’t like it. Not at least. Because the whole magic lied in being aloof most of the time and playing a game of mice and cat. Another piece of advice was to show a hint of affection towards other women, as well, to provoke the object of one’s affection. Why such behaviour would be attractive to women was beyond me. I called out this fully idiotic manner. But then Rob explained many women considered kind caring men inadequate to withstand threats of harsh reality and only use them for second-rated tasks. Rob was my beacon of hope, but even he saw the world as the survival of the fittest contest. It was awful. It was the biggest hit under the belt I could imagine. Not to mention the idea I should be mean to Steph made me want to throw up.

“Are you there, Vicky?”

“Uhm-hmm.” I didn’t know what to say.

“Maybe, she’s different.” He tried to reach me. Or just appease me. He wasn’t fully damaged, yet like mother and father. Did it mean anything in the whole scheme, though? “What’s her name?”

“Steph.” I heard myself, choking on my own words.

“Maybe try to do something, no one has ever done for her. Write a poem, sing a song.”

“Uhm-hmm.” I would laugh at the absurdity of his suggestion if I didn’t feel so miserable.

“I need to go now. But call me anytime, okay?”

“Okay, bye Rob,” I said, having little intention to talk about this with him again. Or anyone.

It was somewhere around December when I understood for the first time I yielded. I got significantly better at acting highly superior and rarely missed an opportunity to be condescending. Learned from the best, my dear mother, I was becoming a master of delivering passive-aggressive one-liners. Frankly, I had no idea if someone actually respected me or feared me, but this meticulously created façade was thick enough to prevent anyone from seeing how much of the huge mess I really was. People started to recognize me, and it wasn’t because someone rammed me to the locker. My confidence rose. The nights were still lonely and full of self-doubting but through the day I was relentless with following the code.

None of it had any effect on Steph, though. I didn’t treat her poorly or play any game. I would never. And I couldn’t say I ignored her either because she already ignored me prior to my earlier inability to say a word to her.

I felt highly ambiguous about her indifference, though. Because my affection towards her grew stronger. The more I suppressed it when around people the harder it hit me when I was alone. I dreamt of her almost consistently. It wasn’t anything erotic, quite the opposite. We sat together on the couch in my dorm room and just looked at each other. Sometimes I dared to lay down on her lap bringing her hand into mine. I couldn’t say a word though. Not even in a dream. So, what would I do if she actually talked to me? Make an utter fool of myself most likely.

I was still crossed with Rob for being brutally honest with me about the cruel cruel world. But maybe the idea with a poem wasn’t all that bad.

It took me five sleepless nights and I barely finished it on the morning of Steph’s birthday on December 17th.  As a result, the schedule for my unhinged plan was insanely tight. Was it my first ever glimmer of bravery or nothing but utter folly when I decided to proceed with it? Fortunately, I had no time to ponder.

Once I covered every trace of weariness and armoured myself with my best Dior Cardigan, I sought Courtney.  We became friends, I guess. She, I and Taylor. I mean I liked to hang out with them for real. I like them. I still couldn’t tell if they liked me too, or just didn’t have anyone better to mess around with. But I was more inclined to embrace the whole concept of being in control. And so far, Courtney has shown no objection to being the one who follows instead of leading, despite her obvious wits. Strange combination, but it was exactly what I needed that morning.

I gave her 20 bucks and the little envelope with the poem and Steph’s name delicately written on it. I asked her to find some dummy and pay him to sneak it into Steph’s locker. I told her it was a prank. She was clever enough to not ask any questions.

I could do it myself, but… Well, no, actually, I couldn’t. What if someone would see me and tell her. I couldn’t risk that.  I wasn’t ready to face her, yet. I needed to see though, to be sure the envelope was delivered.  In the break between the first and second period, I booked the spot with a perfect view of Steph’s locker but at a considerable distance. I was already an expert on finding places from where I could watch her. Or stalk her if I wished to be literal. I had a few all over the premises. I was talking to Courtney and Taylor and my insides were burning. This was just the first part of the mission, the delivery. Steph didn’t ought to stop by her locker before the fourth period. So everything should be safe and sound.

But once she will get envelope will she open it right away? Or will she read it in private? In the case of the latter, how will I know what she thinks of it? I laughed about something not funny one of my companions said and pushed those thoughts away. The poem had to be delivered to Steph, first. Everything else was subordinate. She was supposed to know about this person who’s enthralled by her. Every little piece of my affection could be revealed later, poem after poem. I had already got more set in my head.

The moment I saw the guy hired by Courtney this deadly premonition settled in my guts. He reminded me of the kid who lied about not eating any chocolate, but it was smudged all over his face. I should dash there and stop him. But the yearning of Steph to have a poem was too strong. So, my eyes were just pushing him forward to get over with the delivery at once. That’s why I missed Steph incoming. Against her regular routine, she clashed with the guy in front of her locker when he was about to sneak the envelope in.

“What’s this?” She seized hold of his wrist with no mercy.

“A…a…p—prank.” He had no power to come out with anything else but truth. Her fierce valiant eyes gave him no other option.

“Do you like to prank people?”

“N—n—no.”

“Don’t do it then.” To my utmost relief, Steph shoved everything off quite peacefully.  And to my massive disappointment, she stole the envelope and tossed it into the nearest trash can. Game Over, Victoria.

I had little knowledge of what happened next. If I went on autopilot or just skipped the rest of my classes and found refuge in dorms instantly. I remembered though Courtney knocking on my door a couple of hours later.

She trudged in and put the envelope on my bed, scared to look me in the eye. She must have dug it out of the trash.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work.” She muttered and turned away to leave.

“Wait,” I ordered. I had no right to be mad at her, or Rob or anyone but me. But who cared about wrong and right, right? “Did you read it?!”

She shook her head with too much vigour.  I absolutely didn’t need to see her face to know the truth.

“Liar!”

“I didn’t.”

“Stop lying to me!” My hand laid on her shoulder and swivelled her body wildly. Her eyes were filled with a strange, unexpected daze. Neither a mischievousness nor a disdain but a daze.

“I cannot imagine a human being who wouldn’t be touched by that poem, Victoria.”

“It was a prank. A stupid prank. Nothing else.”

“Okay. But if it wasn’t, you have nothing to be asha—”

“Out. Get out!”

I practically kicked her out. This was undoubtedly the lowest point of my life.

Courtney knew I was an embarrassing useless mess. Steph would probably never know how I felt about her. And my pathetic heinous behaviour just reminded me of the person I detested the most. My alcoholic ragging mother. Splendid.

The rest of the beautiful year of 2009 didn’t bring anything that would restore my spirit. The incoming Chase family Christmas deteriorated it even more. The only small thing that didn’t suck was Courtney. She acted as the incident never happened and was still friendly to me. I yearned to apologize to her, but if I did, I would admit the whole Victoria Chase image, super classy chick, was a farce.  So, I didn't, which made me even a bigger farce.

What kept me going through those tormenting holidays was Steph. Father was mostly hunkered down in the study with a bottle of Glenfiddich and mother more aggravating than usual. But the plotting about a more effective way to deliver my verses to the one and only they belonged brought back a vibrant spark of joy.

The spark that was predestined to be smothered ruthlessly on my first school day back in Blackwall in January. After PE class I overheard a conversation in the girls' locker room. A bunch of seniors were gossiping about Steph’s steamy affair that started with a wild makeout session at a New Year’s Eve party. I felt sick at once.

With no desire to hear details, I dashed out being thankful I didn’t eat much that day and the girls’ bathrooms were next doors. The realisation I had been three seconds from vomiting in front of people was definitely a great assistance to sober me up. This insane addiction I have almost mistaken for love needed to be cured. ASAP. Steph didn’t give the slightest damn about me and had snog with some college bitch instead.

I had very much known this before, deep down. She would probably rather eat razor blades than kiss me. Yet, finally admitting it freaking hurt.  

Burning my poem down was the easiest part of forgetting Steph Gingrich. Everything else was a lot more complicated. I couldn’t completely avoid her since I was a part of the play. Those two hours twice a week in her proximity were the greatest torment and the strongest remedy at the same time. Yeah, I guess some people truly could get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. Or maybe it was just me.

At the end of the day, nothing I tried to get Steph out of my head worked. Oh, and some of those stunts weren’t pretty, to put it mildly. So, I always ended up drawing her sketches at night, just to tear them apart in the morning. While around people I dealt with my frustrations by transforming into a vicious wretched person who lost her way, exactly like my mother did.  

Only three people were spared. Steph who has been ignoring me since the beginning of the school year. And Courtney and Taylor. I wasn’t quite nice to them so many times, actually. But I fought that monster in me when they were around. I tried.

But as I said, despite the fact that I got better at being someone who’s bursting with confidence and relishes superiority, none of my toils get any easier. I learnt how to hide who I was, though.

After one of the last Tempest rehearsals all my contradictory emotions met. Because the play opening meant I will no longer be obliged to be around Steph. This issue would be a burden enough but there was also another one. My mother kept pestering me about my duty to turn the tide. She had the audacity to suggest I should get rid of Rachel and take the lead role by dosing her tea right before the premiere.

As an understudy and someone who didn’t even like theatre, I had limited knowledge of Prospera’s lines. I was only interested in Steph when around this foolishness.  That was a minor setback. The major one was my mother trying to force me to dose someone. I was fed up with Rachel, to be honest. Steph was so fond of her when Rachel was really only fishing for attention. But dosing someone? That was some effed up shit.

With people trudging out to enjoy their evening I sunk to one of the auditorium seats being completely drained and entirely out of my debts. The only consolation I could find was Rob’s offer of summer vacation in Italy with him. Taylor backed me up and swore to my mother I will be spending July with her family at Cape Cod.

Processing all of those pressing issues I heard a familiar voice.

“What’s up with you?”  Someone lightly poked my knee. When I saw Steph my first thought was that I was hallucinating. But when I stood up and faced her, the shiver going down my spine confirmed it was real. Maybe she was just all caring and kind as always, checking on some poor existence. Maybe she thought I fainted. I did forget about food recently too often and it wasn’t always possible to hide my weariness.

Whatever it was for the very first time it was just Steph and I in the dark auditorium. She had gotten my brain in a daze so many times. So many times, I had wished she wasn’t in it. But this was different. I couldn’t lose her attention now I got it again.

“What’s up with me?” I let the pre-Blackwell Victoria smile reach her.

“Yeah, that’s what I asked.” She didn’t smile, but she didn’t act like I didn’t exist as well. Maybe because I finally said a word to her.

“Now my charms are all overthrown,

And what strength I have's mine own,

Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,

I must be here confined by you.”

I carried out a flawless performance I would never believe I was capable of. But to be honest, those were probably the only lines I properly remembered from the Tempest.

“Cool. Superb. You are a promising understudy. Next year perhaps, you will rock. Now watch and learn and have fingers crossed for Rachel. Bye.” She patted my shoulder and it felt like I was a five-year-old kid who finally memorised a single line from a cartoon after three weeks of trying.

“Are you mocking me? Are you actually enjoying making fun of me?” My dare surprised me as much as it surprised her.  

“No, no. I haven’t intended to do so. I’m sorry if I did. What I meant is maybe just try to see other people around you, not just you. You don’t step into a room and act like you’re above them. You can learn so much from others. And it works both ways. That’s how you level up. When you understand others, not when you promote yourself. That’s what I should do before speaking to you.” And after that, she smiled. It was a small smile but genuine and gorgeous. And it belonged to me only.  I was instantly intoxicated again.

“I love you.” I spilled out with a huge delay. There was no chance she heard it. She was long gone. But I felt ecstatic. “I love you, Steph Gingrich,” I shouted even louder to the empty auditorium indulging in pure happiness.

My first conversation with her was so overwhelming I wished to tell someone. I could call Rob. I reached for my pocket in haste just to remember Mr Keaton’s fundamental rule. No cells during rehearsals. Everyone from the cast and crew had to turn it over and it stayed in the backstage cabinet until the work was done. I hurried up behind the scene, but once in there, the cell didn’t interest me anymore. I spotted Steph’s sweatshirt draped on the back of one of the chairs. My fingers ran around its hem and before I knew it was in my possession and my nose was buried in, inhaling her scent.

Creepy? So what? I was a 14 years old mess who was in love for the very first time. For a second, I was considering keeping it but decided against it eventually. I was crazy but not that crazy. I couldn’t let it go so easily though. I hung the sweatshirt on the garment rack and pushed every other hanger to the far left or far right side. It created the free space in the middle with the sweatshirt only.

Step one completed.

Step two included scouting the place for some drawing instrument. I would prefer the pencil, but my Louis Vuitton bag with the pencil case stayed in my locker. So, the shabby gel pen I recovered from a little gap behind the props box had to be enough. I pulled out one of the spare scripts from the box and finally plopped down under the garment rack. The blank back page of the script became my canvas and Steph’s sweatshirts hanging above my head emanating her scent turned to my guide. When the sketch was finished, I felt so much at peace. I gave it everything and it was perfect. When my fingers brushed the outlines of my creation it almost felt like I was really stroking Steph’s cheek.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Taylor’s voice shattered my fragile moment of happiness. The script with Steph’s portrait on the back page slipped out of my fingers while I looked up to see my two friends.

Taylor’s eyes flicked down to the fallen script. She gasped for air and squatted down to snap it as if she had to hold it in her hand to believe it was true. Courtney was quicker, though.

After that, there was some heated non-verbal exchange between them while I felt my shirt getting soaked with sweat. Should I come clean? Was this a right moment to finally be brave, to finally be me? They were my friends, after all, weren’t they? My only friends.

“You should sign it. With some fake initials.” Courtney’s warm reassuring voice came out before I could muster enough courage. “Then you can always say you’ve just found it lying around.”

“Righty right!” Taylor grabbed the pen I dropped, too, took the script from Courtney and went along with the proposal.

“Holy mother of God, Taylor. T means Taylor. That’s as good camouflage as none.”

“Okay, okay sorry. What’s the next letter to the letter T in the alphabet? R!” Taylor made another adjustment to my masterpiece being completely oblivious to the fact R wasn’t the letter next to T in the alphabet. “Here.” She passed me the sketch with an all-tooth grin, and I would feel all mushy about her jubilant nature if there wasn’t another visitor to our little party.

“What is this?” Steph snatched her portrait from my feeble fingers, anger seeping all out of her. “What a fucked-up occult ritual are you having here?” 

She probably came back for her sweatshirt, and I definitely returned to the frozen state. The only part of my body that was an exception was my raging heart.

“Answer me!” She demanded but I was petrified. Where did all that anger come from?

“Hey, easy, princess of the darkness.” Taylor stepped in, to shield me. Her voice was more than a little shaky, but she would fight to the death for me, there was no doubt. “We found the drawing here. Someone lost it. Someone who wasn’t us.”

“Is it true?” Steph tried to lean over Taylor to meet my eyes, but Courtney intervened as well.

“Of course, it’s true. You might not be a fan of popular girls, but this is not one of your favourite obscure movies. We are taking selfies with soy lattes and spending hours in front of the mirror just to look like Blair Waldorf, but we are not performing any occultist rituals.” Courtney sounded a bit steadier than Taylor, but I didn’t miss how she put everything in her to bring her skin in the game for me.

“Your lezzie ass has an admirer, be happy about it.”

Steph just rolled her eyes about Taylor’s comment, took her hoodie from the garment rack, and rushed out. She was done with us.

When she was gone no one talked for eternity. Or maybe just for ten seconds. No matter how long the moment of silence lasted, it was enough for my whole world to burn to ashes. Steph would never believe my feelings for her were genuine. Her eyes had said it all. Has she been mocked too much, or bullied by those of my kind? Because she was gay because she didn’t have a Louis Vuitton backpack because she was who she wanted to be?

Whatever it was, she despised me. She would always despise me no matter what I would do to prove myself. Because thanks to my mother and father I represented everything that was wrong with this world.

“It’s going to be okay, Vicky. You have us. We will always love you.” Taylor pulled me right into her arms and Courtney joined at once.

“We will.”

I’ve lost any hope I could have a chance with Steph. But I found the value of true friendship. Maybe the world was a cruel cruel place, dramatized and twisted. But there was still something out there worth fighting except enforced respect, power, and control. Something real outside of the play.