I say nothing as I approach the building entrance and fumble in my purse for my keys. She has told me this a thousand times, Dad, too. They both believe I need to change so that I can beat my fears.
Hasn’t worked out well so far. I’ve tried. I’ve pushed myself to go out more, to talk more, to be more confident. Feels like I’m wearing someone else’s ill-fitting shoes and trying to tap-dance across a taut wire.
But I’ve never tap-danced in my life, nor will I ever. Which is exactly the point. Or sort of. Apparently I should learn.
Crappy metaphors, I know. At least my mom has stopped talking. And here’s my cue to reply.
“Okay,” I say. Like always. “I’ll try.”
“That’s my baby,” Mom croons, and yeah, this is getting downright painful. “You can do anything you put your mind into.”
Except magically transform into a better me, obviously.
“Have you decided what to do about your studies yet? Will you transfer to the university there?”
Another sore topic with my parents. Why would I decide to leave my studies and go to the town where I was born to decide what to do with my life? The town where I was bullied?
My answer is: why not? Better figure what I want to do for a living now, rather than five years and a college degree down the line, right? And why not in Madison, where my life sort of stopped? Doesn’t it make sense to find the pause button and hit play again?
Seemingly not. Makes me wonder if I’m crazy, and not for the first time. But despite everything, putting distance between myself and the family nest makes me feel free from my parents’ expectations. From the obligation of turning into a heroine who saves her own life by overcoming her shyness.
Don’t get me wrong: my parents adore me. They took me away from here to save my sanity, and they succeeded. Sort of. They plucked me out of the school where bullying had torn my confidence to shreds and reduced my happiness to cinders, and transplanted me into a new world where I was able to move on. I owe them everything.
So I tell my mom I love her, which is the truth, tell her I have to go, which isn’t, and disconnect the call. I stare blindly at the screen of my cell before dropping it back into my purse.
How can I become who they want me to be? How can I change if I don’t find myself first?
I prepare to open the door, when I notice a guy eyeballing me from across the street. There’s something familiar about him, something that chills the blood in my veins.
Nick? The guy who bullied me at school? Who cornered me after class and took my bag, emptied it in the trash. Who made sure to pass by me at the cafeteria every day and “accidentally” push me so I’d spill my food and drink. Who made sure nobody talked to me—except Ev because she didn’t take shit and ignored Nick and his asshole buddies.
No, no way. I’m imagining things. Nick can’t be here. Don’t be paranoid.
But as I unlock the door and hurry inside, I can’t deny the relief that washes through me. Once the heavy door is shut behind me, I hurry up the stairs to the apartment, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder.
I’m fine. This is just stress. Everything’s fine.
I have to bel
ieve it.
***
Summer is definitely here. It’s warm inside the apartment, and I’ve stripped down to a pair of jean cutoffs and a loose floral blouse that’s a bit too large and hangs off my shoulders.
It’s late afternoon and Kayla is sipping at some jasmine green tea—or marijuana tea? The scent is potent, that’s for sure—while I’m trying to decide what to make with the new beads and wire I bought. One thing is certain: I need to create art and lose myself.
I don’t do words. Never been good at them. Dyslexic, I had to fight them, fight language, every step of the way.
But I can do art. Tangible, beautiful things I can move and shape. Poems without words. Stories without lines.
My hands work on their own, pulling beads and coiled wire from one of my art boxes, my mind on my conversation with my mom and my studies.
Give up on architecture and take up art? I want to live off this, from this art I’m making, these necklaces and bracelets and rings. Am I being foolish? Naïve? Am I retreating from the world even more when I promised to conquer it?
Stick a flag in it, too, a voice at the back of my mind chirps, and I giggle. Amber the Conqueror. Yeah, that’s me alright. It shouldn’t be so funny.
In fact, it’s not.