The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

The applications were garbage, I knew that. I submitted identical materials to every school, complete with a stupid boilerplate cookie-cutter essay my guidance counselor practically wrote for me, checking all the boxes, she said, of what these schools are looking for. I remember thinking, fleetingly, What about what I’m looking for?

All except for the one application I didn’t think would matter.

For that one, I wrote something that probably should’ve been locked in a journal somewhere away from the world. It was part apology to myself, part love letter to Josh, part victim impact statement to anyone who would listen . . . all in the form of my essay to the admissions office at Tucker Hill University. It was overly precious and overly honest and dripping with metaphor and too many shiny words, but I was proud of it. All about second chances and lost time and regrets and feeling hopeful about the future. And I believed, I wrote with such confidence, that my future was there.

I meant it when I wrote it. It was a shot in the dark, a wish that was unlikely to come true. And the improbability of it actually happening made me feel brave enough to try.

It was the very end of January, and I was flying high off the knowledge that Kevin had been arrested and people seemed to believe me and I still thought that counted for something. I thought he’d soon be locked up and out of my life—out of all our lives— for good. I felt free. Josh and I had been talking again, before I left school, before Steve, before things got so much harder. And so I cranked out that essay in the eleventh hour. I had no idea that months later, still nothing would’ve happened to move anything forward with the trial or that I’d be feeling less free, less hopeful, with every day that passed.

I had no idea how any of this legal stuff worked, so when DA Silverman and our court-appointed advocate, Lane, explained that it wasn’t going to just be a trial that consisted of me, alone, against him, that it was the state against him and I was just one piece of something bigger, I felt so relieved. Almost powerful. Protected even. Because it was three against one—me and Amanda and Gennifer—finally the odds felt fair. Strength in numbers. I imagined the three of us walking into some fancy courtroom like a gang or something from a movie poster: the ex-girlfriend, the little sister, and the girl next door, all tough and strong, arms locked in solidarity.

It was a nice dream.

But that feeling didn’t last. Because, as DA Silverman and Lane made abundantly clear when they explained the whole evidence collecting, hearing, and trial process: under no circumstances were we allowed to talk to each other about anything related to the case, Kevin, or what happened to any of us. Because we could be accused of . . . I’m not sure what, lying, I guess, creating some mastermind narrative. Didn’t they realize Kevin was the real mastermind behind it all in the first place?

I barely remember the person I was when I wrote that essay. I thought about it twenty-four-seven, for weeks, until the cold, blissful realization washed over me: I could stop hoping. One look at my transcripts would ensure no one would ever read it.

Which is why I’m having trouble processing the email I’m staring at on my phone. It says I’ve been taken off the wait list and am being offered admission. I read the words ten times, but I still don’t understand them. This has to be some kind of mix-up.

I frantically search for their previous email.

I’d barely read it the first time. My eyes scanned for the word “unfortunately,” and then I immediately closed it—never even looked at it again. But it wasn’t a rejection. They told me I was waitlisted. I go back to today’s email. Yes, it clearly states: We are pleased to offer you admission for the fall semester.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What?” my brother, Caelin, says as he shuffles into the kitchen, where I’m standing frozen, with the microwave door still open, my burrito getting cold, still in my polo shirt and visor from the Bean, the scent of coffee clinging to my hair and my skin.

“I—I got in,” I stammer, looking up at him. “To Tucker Hill University.”

“Holy shit, Eeds.” He smiles as I hand him my phone, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him smile. “Seriously, this is amazing. I didn’t even know you applied there. Tucker Hill is a really decent school.”

“I know. Which is why I thought I’d never get in in a million years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and he holds his arms out like he might lean in to hug me, but then he stops short.

“Well, but it’s not like I can really go, can I? I mean, it’s expensive and far away—”

“Eden, you have to go,” he interrupts. “It’s really not that far away; it’s not even out of state. It’s gotta be four or five hours, max.”

“Okay, but it is expensive.”

“Oh, fuck money,” he says, dismissively waving his hand through the air. “There’s financial aid and scholarships, grants . . . loans.”

“It’s so soon, though. I don’t have enough time to get ready, and with everything else going on.” The trial is supposed to start in the fall, which we haven’t discussed, the two of us. What it’ll be like for him to see his former best friend like that . . . his sister.

“Yeah, that’s all the more reason you should get out of here— you can come back when you need to,” he says, conveniently not saying for the trial. “And you have over a month. That’s plenty of time.”

“Mom and Dad won’t think this is a good idea at all. Me, being on my own—they don’t even trust me to borrow a car to get to work. And that’s another thing . . . I don’t have a car.”

“Stop, stop, okay?” He brings his hands together like he’s praying. “First, since when do you give a shit what they think . . . or what I think, for that matter?” He laughs, and so do I, because, of course, that’s true. “And you can find a car. Hell, I’ll give you my car!” he shouts. “Stop making excuses.”

“You need your car.”

“What do I need a car for? I’m taking the semester off,” he reminds me. “You’re doing this.”

I’m trying to picture how any of it could work, how any of this is not crazy. I let out a laugh and cover my mouth, shaking my head as I look down at my phone again. I suddenly feel giddy and nauseated with the overwhelming sense of possibility blooming in my chest.

“Tucker Hill,” Caelin says. “Isn’t that where Josh Miller goes?”

I nod slowly.

“So, does this mean you and him are like a thing again or . . . ?” he asks awkwardly.

“He has a girlfriend,” I hear myself automatically reply. It’s the sentence that has been constantly running through my mind for months, even if that’s not exactly what he asked. “I mean, we’re just friends,” I conclude.

I bring my lukewarm burrito into my bedroom and close the door, open my laptop. I want a cigarette so badly, because I’m feeling all these emotions bubbling up, fear and excitement and joy and dread, all fighting for top billing.

But I take a breath, slowly in, slowly out, and I open my email, double-checking, as if the message would’ve changed from my phone to my computer. It didn’t. I follow the link to the English department grants and scholarships. English, I’d said my intended major was English. I try to picture myself there, as one of the people in these idyllic pictures online. Maybe I could be that girl there, sitting under a tree with a blanket and a book, reading. Or that kid smiling in the lecture hall. I could be in that group of people walking together, talking, laughing—friends. I close my eyes and try to dream it: big buildings and vast libraries, living in a real city.

And then there’s the other part. I close my laptop. The Josh part. The whole Josh . . . thing, as Mara said the night of the concert.

I’m picking at the salad on my dinner plate that evening, trying to find the right time to bring it up. Caelin keeps looking over at me, waiting for me to say something. Mom is reading on her phone. Dad, who barely speaks to me these days, is hunched over his chicken, eating in silence, as usual.

“So,” Caelin announces, “Eden got some really good news today.”

Mom looks up from her phone and brings her napkin to the corner of her mouth. “Good news? We could use some good news around here.”

“Uh, yeah. So, it turns out I got into Tucker Hill University for the fall.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“What?” Dad says, setting down his fork, looking back and forth between me and Caelin like we’ve been keeping some sort of secret.

“I just found out today,” I add.

“And you . . . want . . . to go?” Mom asks, her words coming out slow and uncertain.

“I mean . . . ,” I begin, but just the way she said it makes me feel like I shouldn’t want to go, like I don’t have a right to want it.

Caelin interrupts. “Of course she wants to go.”

“Right, of course you do,” Mom says, and I can feel a but coming next.

“This is a good thing,” Caelin says in my defense, bolstering my resolve just a little bit.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Why do I feel like I’m breaking bad news to you guys?”

“No, it’s great news. Really,” Mom says. “Just somewhat unexpected.”

“Okay,” I scoff. “Are you even happy for me at all?”

“Of course!” Mom says. “Yes, of course we are. Sorry, I’m just thinking of everything you have going on. You know, it finally seems like things are settling here for you, with your appointments and your job and . . . and you have a routine. I just worry that a big change isn’t what you need right now.”

“Or it’s exactly what I need. I already called my therapist’s office and I can keep meeting with her over the phone. I can definitely find another part-time job making overpriced coffee. And I can come back for the hearing, if it even happens—I mean, it could get postponed again. Why am I putting my whole life on hold?”

Dad sighs loudly, shaking his head.

“What?” Caelin asks our dad, and even I hear the challenge in his voice.

Dad narrows his eyes at Caelin. “Excuse me?”

“I said the word ‘therapist,’” I mutter under my breath. “I mentioned the hearing—I know we’re supposed to be acting like none of this is happening.”

“Eden,” Mom says. “No one is—”

But Dad interrupts her. “She’s gonna do what she wants to do. Why even ask us?”

“Who, me?” I say loudly, Caelin’s boldness catching, because I’m so sick of Dad not talking to me ever since this all came out, like I did something wrong. “So, you mean to say you actually want me here? Because you barely say two words to me.”

“This is . . . ,” Dad starts, pushing away from the table, looking at Mom. “She’s too young, Vanessa. She’s too young to go away. This is,” he repeats, “this is not happening.”

“You won’t even look at me, seriously?” I shout.

“Eden,” my mom says. “Calm down.”

“Oh my God,” Caelin mumbles.

“What do you want me to do here?” I ask, and I’m not even trying to control the volume of my voice now. “What, work at the Bean for the rest of my life, take a community college class every once in a while. I am capable of doing things, you know. This is something I want. I don’t know why you’re being this way.”

Dad stands from the table now, he’s walking toward the door, grabbing his car keys.

And I finally say the thing I’ve been holding back for the last seven months. “You think this is all my fault, don’t you?”

He turns around, actually looks at me for the first time in months.

“Well, I didn’t ask for any of this to be happening. What Kevin did is not my fault, and I’m sick of you blaming me every single day!” I shout.

“Your father does not blame you.” Mom stands up now too. “Conner, say it,” she demands.

Caelin stands up too, looking at my dad, then at me, as he says, “No, he blames me, Eden.” He pushes his chair in calmly and then goes to his room.

Dad turns back around, opens the door, and leaves.

“For God’s sake,” my mom hisses. “Eden, I’ll be right back. We’ll figure it out—let me just . . .” And then she follows after my dad. I’m left alone, sitting at the table with four half-eaten plates of food.

“I’m going,” I say to no one.

It takes me all night to work up the courage to text him. Ever since that conversation I had with his dad on their front porch, I’ve been trying so hard not to dump all my shit on him. Been trying so hard to be there in case he needed me for a change. I’ve tried to ask him so many times how he’s doing, but he hasn’t opened up to me at all. I’ve started to worry maybe our time has just come to an end. That we’ve missed too many chances and have finally run out of them.

I lie on my back, staring at the blur of my ceiling fan, letting it lull me into some kind of weird meditative state. I have to drag my eyes away. I roll to my side, sit up, and take a deep breath, pulling up our texts for the millionth time. If I wait any longer, it’s going to be too late and I’ll have to do this all over again tomorrow.

I know it’s late . . . but can I call?

My phone immediately vibrates in my hand.