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Cady doesn’t visit. Your mother is filming a TikTok (you know you’re in the background but you don’t have the wherewithal to be mad), Kylie is reading in the chair next to your bed, and Cady hasn’t visited. You should’ve expected this, honestly. This was all some sort of revenge plot against you and Cady’s just a pawn. Her naivety is still refreshing. She doesn’t understand what all of this means, and she never will because she’s so goddamn oblivious to it all. She hasn’t visited and you’re not sure she ever will. You miss her terribly.
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Sometime between being hit and being loaded into the ambulance (after being revived from your 15 second death), you really do wish that it had finished the job. You might have to do it yourself, though the last thing you see won’t be Cady and then there’s no reason to do it at all. The searing pain is deliriously delicious and you deserve it. You want it. Nails digging into the soft skin of the underside of your wrist, aching pains in your stomach, the tightness in your jaw are all yours and yours alone. You don’t have to share with Gretchen, Shane, or—God forbid—Aaron. Your mother cannot find it on one of her ten billion sock puppet accounts.
You know that you should not crave control in this way. You know that “it’s not becoming of young ladies,” but that doesn’t mean that you won’t do anything to keep it. Delicate crescent shaped indents in your left wrist because anything more would leave scars and that’s horribly unattractive. A constant emptiness in your stomach as you blow a bubble with your spearmint gum, laughing at Dawn Schweitzer’s mom jeans that don’t fit her hips with Gretchen. Gum that’s been in your mouth for far too long, having lost its flavour ages ago and just stiff enough that your jaw is starting to ache with each bite.
Your anger is yours alone too. Things didn’t have to go like this, but you’d rather have it this way than any other. Cliques were never the problem with North Shore, it was always you, and it’ll continue to be true if you have any say in it (though you might not, now that the school seems to adore fucking Janis of all people). You won’t come back the same. There’s a trope in literature of the heartbroken husband reanimating his dead wife but her coming back different. Who’s reanimated wife you are, you don’t know—certainly not Cady’s, though.
The rest of you, though, is not yours at all. Your body belongs to your mother; you’re her test subject for her wacky diets that leave you starving, but it’s okay because not eating gives you that thrill of control. You know exactly what goes into your body—well, knew. You shouldn’t have trusted Swedish “diet bars” or Cady’s web of lies but were you really paranoid enough to Google something that Cady had given you? No, you could never do anything but trust her. Your personality belongs to everyone else. They get to see the carefully curated version of you where you maim with offhand comments and little effort. Your name is hardly yours at all when whispers about Regina George circulate the school. You’ve not been Regina in a while , not since fucking Janis of all people.
You’ll do anything to not lose control. As soon as you can walk again, as soon as you can move your head, as soon as you can sit up, even, things are going to change. If you still have a say in North Shore politics, you’re going to come back worse. It’s not enough that you ruined Janis’s life once, you’ve got to do worse. You’re nothing if not your father’s daughter, and that’s the worst insult you could imagine. You’re hungry for power, for control, for the ability to move your fucking arms. The faster you get out of this hospital bed the faster you can either immortalise yourself in the hellscape that is North Shore or you can ruin Cady fucking Heron’s life.
What would they say if you died? You already know about phoney sympathy and rumours swirling Cady pushing you in front of the bus (thanks, June). How much bullshit would they spew? You hope that Janis would feel guilty if you killed yourself. God knows you don’t about her attempt. You know Cady would feel guilty if you killed yourself. As she should because all of this is her fucking fault and she hasn’t visited and you can’t wipe the tears out of your eyes because you can’t move your fucking arms.
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Cady still hasn’t visited. You’re getting discharged and Kylie’s yammering on about how the flowers that people brought you are long dead but she pressed some of the prettiest ones for you, and you’ve never loved your sister more. Listening to her mindless chatter is much better than whatever your mother has been saying about how you need to lose the weight you gained on the feeding tube. The pain is distracting and delightful. You hope that one of the flowers that Kylie saved is from Cady, though you doubt she stopped at your house to give you any sort of condolences (God knows you don’t deserve them, but you think that you do, especially from her).
Once you’re in bed again, Kylie with you because it’s big enough for your sister to sit with you, she carefully shows you all of the flowers that she pressed. You’re not really paying attention to Kylie, mostly because the pain is incredibly distracting, but you love the fact that Kylie won’t shut up. You’d rather have her blathering on beside her than sit in silence because the painkillers are significantly weaker than they were in the hospital. Maybe it's for the better because if she were prescribed anything stronger, her mother would get her grubby little hands on them and then she’d be in even more pain than she already is.
People visit. You’re hardly conscious enough to know who or for how long, but you know that Cady doesn’t visit. Karen is quiet when she visits. She’s wearing the ugliest denim vest, but you can’t remember if you insulted it or not. You hope you did because that vest is a crime to humanity. You’re pretty sure she’s only here out of obligation. When’s Karen going to abandon you, just like how Janis did, how Cady has. It would be just your luck that you have fair weather friends.
Aaron visits before Cady does. He doesn’t stay long after you yell at him to get out. He does not deserve any grace. He should’ve been the first to abandon you when you got hit by a bus. He should’ve abandoned you forever ago.
Aaron visits for a second time before Cady does. He’s sweet, though he talks the entire time he’s in your bedroom. You refrain from telling him to shut up and get the fuck out because you’d rather have Aaron there than your mother. He tells you that he probably won’t come back again but that he hopes that you’ve learned from this experience. You don’t tell him that you’ve certainly learned something from this experience.
Shane visits before Cady. You hate the fact that you can’t stop counting. You hate the fact that everyone is either Cady or not Cady. Your visitors are always not Cady. You ask Shane to sneak you one of the bottles of Tito’s from your mother’s liquor cabinet. Lucy for you, he’s still wrapped around your little finger and brings you a bottle the second time he visits. When he asks if he can have a drink, you kick him out. He definitely doesn’t deserve any grace.
You know better than to mix alcohol and your pain killers, but you don’t care enough. The nausea isn’t new. You hope you don't throw up. There wouldn’t be anything more embarrassing than being found dead in a pool of your own vomit, not even getting hit by a bus. It’s never advisable to drink a lot of Tito’s, but you’ve never been one to take advice. You’ve also been told to not drink and do drugs but you don’t take advice.
Sometimes you wish that someone would care enough to check on you. Maybe, if someone cared enough, then you’d actually want to change (maybe if Cady visited). You despise the way that your life really doesn’t mean anything if Cady isn’t part of it. You’re not supposed to be pathetic. You’re supposed to be Regina George. Maybe if you weren’t Regina George, you wouldn’t feel like this.
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You hate how much you love physical therapy. You finally have something that you have control over. You might not have any visitors, but you sure as hell can walk now. You do your stretches daily, you walk slowly around your bedroom, and manage to work your way down the stairs, but not up again. The last thing you need is for Kylie to find you at the bottom of the stairs, but she finds you there anyway. You don’t want her to see you crying. It’s not that she shouldn’t see you as weak; Kylie was the one at your bedside most often. You just wish that this were all over because Kylie doesn’t deserve to be responsible for you.
Shane chaperones you on your first excursion from the house. He drives around in his old truck that he’s had reupholstered since the last time you were in it. You’re in the corrective neck collar still, so Shane drives slowly around Winnetka as your music plays from the Bluetooth connection he installed, even though he has stated multiple times that he doesn’t like your taste in music. At least Shane’s a friend and he’s willing to support your questionable behaviour instead of grilling you for your motives. He doesn’t ask questions. After an hour of silence, you tell him that you miss Cady. You tell him that you desperately want her to visit, but then you tell him to not to do anything about it (this golden retriever of a boy has good intentions but he’s not super intelligent). You’d rather cry in front of Shane than in front of Kylie, so just let it happen. He doesn’t say anything, knowing you better than almost everyone. You might have only been hooking up with the boy as a power play against Aaron, but he’s a good friend.
When you go back to school, you hear every whisper, you feel every stare, and Cady’s still not by your side. She spends her time with Karen and Gretchen and none of them spare you a second glance. Why can’t Cady care enough to even look at you? Maybe it’s her guilt, even though she didn’t push you in front of the bus. If there’s anything you blame her for, it’s certainly not for being hit by a bus; it’s her actions after the bus. She can’t be enough of a mean girl to think you deserve all of this, right? Yes, you were a bitch, but you’d have at least a sliver of sympathy if someone like Janis got hit by a bus (not that it would be very much, but you’d feel very bad for her lovely parents).
You know that she doesn’t belong to you. She never has, especially when she was the one who questioned your actions most when the four of you were plastic. But you somehow felt closest to her. Cady changed things—though not always for the better—and you miss her. You just want her to show that she still cares. She’s the most genuine plastic and if it were up to you, she’d be genuinely interested in being your friend, but this seems to prove that she’s genuinely disinterested in your entire being.
Shane stays by your side, even when no one wants you and your corrective neck collar at their lunch table. The two of you take lunch in Mrs. Lewis’s classroom, even though you’ve never taken any of her classes. She’s Shane’s favourite teacher, teaching woodshop, and she’s incredibly kind to you, even though your reputation precedes you.
You’re not hiding. No, you don’t want to face anyone else, but you’re not hiding. Gretchen approaches you after one of your shared classes, asking why you’re avoiding her. As much as you want to snap at her for believing that she’s the only person that you’re avoiding, you don’t have the energy. You mumble out a bad excuse and hastily make your way to Shane and your locker. It’s the moments like this when you regret ever coming back to school. The other moments are when you’re trying to make eye contact with Cady and she’s pointedly avoiding you. You want the anger, the rage, the hatred back. Most of all, you want the power back. You were a pretty benevolent ruler to everyone who wasn’t an ass, a sleaze, a creep, or anyone who didn’t deserve it.
Your therapist says that you need to channel your rage through a healthy avenue. You force Shane to take you to a rage room once you’re no longer in a brace. You hate how therapeutic screaming and smashing plates is. You hate how empty you feel after you’ve shattered ceramics with a baseball bat.
Your physical therapist warns you to be careful when you go to the rage room. You’re not because you’re nothing if not carefully careless. You don’t need anyone to know that you’ve tweaked your back like a middle aged dad who groans when he sits down. School and making appearances can wait. Only Kylie seems to notice. She brings you a heating pad, your strong painkillers, a bottle of ice water, and lays in bed with you. Kylie shouldn’t be the one taking care of you. Kylie shouldn’t have this responsibility already. She says that she doesn’t mind, but it shouldn’t be her. Selfishly, you prefer that it’s her and not your mother.
Kylie invites Shane in when he shows up on your doorstep after school. This time, he won’t give you the Tito’s that’s stored in your closet. This time, he won’t bend to your will and won’t retrieve your mother’s sleeping pills, won’t get the razor that’s sitting in your medicine cabinet, won’t leave you alone. He won’t even give you a stick of gum from the pack on your vanity. So you instead press your unkempt nails into the soft side of your wrist as you glare at him. He gently pulls your wrists apart when he notices. The crescent shaped indents in your wrist are only a little satisfying.
Cady still hasn’t talked to you. If she would even look you in the eye, you’d be satisfied, but instead she’s avoiding you like you have the bubonic plague and modern medicine hasn’t been invented yet. You’ll do anything in your power to capture her attention again. As long as her eyes are on you, you have some sort of control again. At least you still have control over your body. And now you can move your fucking neck. You’re perfectly fine only being in control of so many things. Your rage is still your own, your hatred is still your own, your resentment is still your own, your love for your sister is still your own. So is your tolerance for Shane because he’s kind of hard to tolerate if you don’t know him (the frat boy persona is just that). But Cady’s attention is not yours and that’s what pisses you off more.
You wish Shane would leave you alone. You don’t need a babysitter. You’re not going to off yourself the moment the front door closes behind him because killing yourself is pathetic and if you’re going to die, it’s not going to be fucking suicide. You’d rather get hit by a second bus than commit suicide.
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The summer can’t come faster. If you have no reason to see anyone, then maybe Cady will get out of your brain. The only problem is that you can’t forget the previous summers of being in the pool with Gretchen and Karen, of staring at boys at the mall and judging their horrible outfits, of shitting on everyone that isn’t each other. You miss when things were easier. When you didn’t have to try so hard for your followers to like you.
You pick up running. It’s not too strenuous on your body and it gives you an excuse to get away from the house (where your mother is still making TikToks about you), you get to spend more time with Shane, and Cady could see you. Cady’s bedroom is on the second floor, facing the street, so if she’s in her room and glances out the window, there’s a possibility that she could see you. And that’s not why you run shirtless and in shorts that are probably a little too short. You don’t even like running shirtless because the scars on your back are horribly gnarled and no one, not even Shane, should see them, but you’re going to do everything in your power to regain Cady’s attention (and you know how much she likes staring at your tits). Shane doesn’t say anything about how you only take your shirt off for running down Cady’s street.
Karen starts joining you on your runs after you run by her house once. She says that she also likes to run, but you’ve never seen her run once (Gretchen is the one with very toned legs, an IQ of 140, and parents who love her). You’re an odd trio. Karen can’t pace herself and she’s always a little fast or a little slow, but never at the same pace as you and Shane. Shane only runs shirtless and in booty shorts like one of those asshole cross country boys that think they deserve the world because they can run long distances (he is not a jock, actually, but he does play disc golf). You run in oversized t-shirts that you steal from your dad and Nike Pros that prevent you from chafing. Karen always wears the most suburban mom outfits that make you only a little ashamed to be seen with her. You stop taking your shirt off when you run past Cady’s house.
Sometimes, Karen waves at what you know is Cady's bedroom window. As much as you want to know if Cady’s watching you, you don’t look at her. If you pay her attention, it defeats the purpose of you running by her house and pretending to be unaffected by her entire being. You’re just Regina George, going for a run, outside, instead of on your treadmill. There’s nothing weird about it at all.
Your thighs look stupid in your spandex and the oversized t-shirt looks incredibly stupid, but it’s the only outfit you don’t feel wrong in when you’re running. Cross country boys don’t have massive thighs, so if you keep running, maybe you won’t look incredibly fat, especially when so much of your legs are on display. But spandex are the only things that don’t make your thighs chafe, so you wear them, even though the elastic cuts into your stomach and the weight that you haven’t lost since the Kälteen bars. As often as you skip meals or eat low carb snacks and work out, the extra weight isn’t going away. Everything is staying exactly as it is. There’s no change every time you step on the scale. Your therapist thinks that you should get rid of the scale, but you need to know. You have to be in control of your body. Now that you’re cleared to do everything but play a contact sport, you’re regaining control of your body. You can move about as fluidly as you could before the accident, though much more painfully. You need your physique back, even though you were still heavier than you would have liked. You need your physique back and to lose those three pounds. Maybe you shouldn’t get cheese fries at all next year. You’re already on a self-imposed ban from Freddy’s.
Shane and his booty shorts look good, for some reason, and you have to admit it even though you’re distinctly not attracted to him. Karen also somehow slays in her bright orange athleisure, even though her leggings are such an ugly colour. If only you could look half as good at either of them. Karen is slim, proportional, and knows how to accentuate her figure well. Shane might not look it but he’s incredibly fit. He’s really lean and has really good upper arms when he flexes. Lifting weights certainly won’t help your thighs, but it might help with the gut problem. If you get killer abs, then you’ll have a flat stomach and no extra weight on your midsection. And maybe if you lift, you can prevent having any upper arm fat. And strength training isn’t a contact sport, so you’re technically cleared to do it. And it could be a good avenue for your rage, as your therapist put it. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Shane lives across the street from Cady and his home gym is in the garage. You’re going to become that cliche “boy next door” who works out and works on his car so the girl crushing on him can stare out her bedroom window longingly at his incredible physique. It’s a wonder that Cady likes Aaron when Shane lives across the street and does shit like replace the motor of his old ass truck without a shirt on. If you have any say in it, you’ll be the object of her affection in no time—Cady’ll be too busy staring longingly at you as you work out and help Shane with his car to think about Aaron.
The more the three of you run, the more often Karen waves at Cady when you pass her house. Shane starts waving too. Resolutely, you don’t, even though you desperately crave her attention. It’s not exactly something that you can control, but at least you feel more in control when Cady’s watching you instead of being watched by you.
The weight of Cady’s stare is conveniently crushing. The longer her eyes linger on your body when you start lifting in Shane’s garage, the worse you feel about your figure but the better you feel about your sense of control. It feels critical but captivated, even though you’re probably the worst that you’ve ever looked, even during your gaudy graphic tees phase in elementary school. As the summer stretches on and the temperature rises, you can’t keep the t-shirt on any longer (you nearly pass out one day when you’re still refusing to take it off, and Shane refuses to train with you until you learn how to regulate your temperature). He’s giving you control over your own body, and you love him for it. You carefully peel your shirt off, leaving you in the white sports bra and spandex that reveal a little too much of your body. When you can help it, you don’t turn your back towards Cady’s bedroom window. You’re probably far too cautious, but if she sees the scars, she won’t want you. Her eyes won’t linger and the ever-present weight of her stare won’t be as hedonistically heavy as it currently is.
There’s times when you know that she’s home but her selfish stare isn’t on you. And this certainly doesn’t make you angry. It’s your rage, your anger, your hatred, your frustration and you take it out on his dumbbells, his medicine ball, his ropes, his barbells.
You find that you like lifting weights. You have control over almost everything. If your form is good, you can feel the way your muscles move as you do goblet squats or when you bench press. Shane won’t let you only do arms. He says that it’s a waste of time to not train the whole body, even though you don’t want thighs that are the size of tree trunks (they’re large enough as is). You are in control of how much weight you lift. You never squat until failure, but you’re comfortable doing lateral arm raises until failure. Shane also gets you on yoga—he says it’s important to do all aspects of fitness and flexibility is one of the most important. Your physical therapist is thrilled when you tell her that you do yoga now. You relish in the control that you have over yourself.
A lot of progress is made over the summer. You can feel Cady’s eyes on you when you step into school on the first day of senior year. It makes your head spin for a moment. But you’re not Regina George for no reason, so proceed, unaffected. You’re burdened by a lot of stares. Some of them are because you’re wearing one of Shane’s shirts that you stole and cropped, showing enough midriff that won’t get you in trouble (not that you’ve ever gotten dress coded) but also shows off the abs you worked so hard for. Some of them are because you’re Regina George, and certainly not the version of yourself that came back after the bus. Some of them are because you’re walking around with Shane Oman. But you feel good. You lost the Kälteen weight, plus the three pounds you wanted. Your thighs are somehow still massive, but at least they’re toned now. The underarm fat has been burned and you’ve never looked better. Your style is still carefully curated but now you’re careful to not show off any sort of scarring. No amount of scar cream will cause the giant scrapes from the asphalt and the surgery scar from having titanium rods being put into your back to disappear. No one, aside from Karen, Shane, and (unfortunately) Cady, will see you in shorts, and you’re certainly not going to wear anything absurd anymore. You’re proud of your body but no one else needs to see it. It’s just another thing that you can control.
You’re not an artwork. Cady thinks that she can look but she can’t touch. She stares at you often. She doesn’t divert her gaze whenever you catch her. It makes your skin crawl, even though you usually revel in the tingling sensation that comes with her gaze. You need her attention but you hate how her attention makes you feel. The more Cady stares, the more scrutinised you feel. Maybe she doesn’t like your new physique. Maybe she doesn’t want to interact with someone who looks like a dyke, but that would mean that she wouldn’t want to be friends with Janis. Maybe you should have listened to your mother when she said that working out would make you look like a “hey mamas faggot.” You start wearing baggier clothes when the weather gets colder. Maybe people don’t need to see your biceps.
Apparently, your old lunch table is now overtaken by Cady’s ragtag friend group of Mathletes, Janis, Damian, Karen, and Gretchen. If you didn’t know Karen as well as you do, you’d be slightly more offended by Karen’s choice to not sit with you, but she needs praise about as much as you need attention. But unfortunately for you, the attention in the cafeteria sits heavy on your chest and you can’t swallow your yoghurt. You continue to take your lunch in Mrs. Lewis’s shop. At least the grip on your lungs releases while you sit at the workbench, listening to Shane explain the various power tools.
You share history with Cady. She walks into the classroom once you’ve already sat down and chooses the furthest available seat from you. You thought that you had spent all your emotions when it came to Cady after she simply didn’t visit, but it hurts a little too much and you’ve never been more uncomfortable in your single person desk in your favourite teacher’s classroom. You’re not bitter about it. You don’t hold it against her. You certainly weren’t waiting for her to visit, but maybe she doesn’t feel any sort of guilt. Maybe she thinks that you deserve it. And she’s right一you deserve all the hurt and pain that you’ve suffered. It’s only justice for all the harm that your Burn Book and your words caused, though you don’t believe that notion. They all deserved what came for them.
You have no control over Cady’s actions. The seats aren’t assigned but Cady doesn’t move from the seat she first sat in. And you’re certainly not going to: you’re Regina George and people bend to your will, not the other way around. If you glare at the back of her head hard enough, maybe she’ll turn around and give you the attention that you deserve. She doesn’t turn around. You have a handful of water and it’s slipping through your fingers when it comes to Cady Heron, which doesn’t make much sense but it really does. As long as you have some form of control over your life, everything will be fine. Your body will look incredible, even though your mother thinks that you're’ too muscular, too masculine. Maybe Shane should consider becoming a life coach instead of a construction worker because he really is right when he says that you should focus on making yourself happy instead of your mother. Of course, you ignored him at first. Shane’s advice has been anything other than bullshit—at least until now.
You don’t spend as much time with Shane. You’re not dating him. You don’t know why Cady needs to know this, but she does. Does she hold the fact that you were messing around with Shane while technically dating Aaron against you? Well, she has a much stronger moral compass than you do. The longer that Cady refuses to do more than look at you, the less desirable you feel. The way you place all of your self worth on Cady’s shoulders doesn’t make sense, but she was just about the only person from North Shore High that didn’t visit you in the hospital, so she obviously sees something in you that no one else does. Maybe it’s the rage, the anger, the hatred. The funny thing is that you deserve her snub. After everything that you put her through, you don’t deserve her attention. You want it all the same.