“That’s great,” she says. “Now, we must go back to the beginning…”
* * *
I’m usually a Scrabble master,but today, my game is completely shot. My last word added a total of eight points to my score. I just can’t focus. I can’t stop thinking about Ava, about how I could possibly reach out to her, about what I would say to her if I did. I’m driving myself absolutely mad.
And when I’m not thinking about her, I’m sad about Joel. I miss him. I miss his easy laugh, the way he made me feel like sunshine. And these days, I feel like rain.
I also think about Brian who refuses to talk to me about Ava. He prefers to pretend that our lives are unchanged, exactly like they were a few weeks ago, before I discovered Ava’s photo. He’s kidding himself. He’s more delusional than I am.
“Double word score,” Trevor cheers as he arranges his wooden letters on the board. “Twenty-four points.”
“Show off.” Tristan smirks. “You’re still not going to beat Mom.”
I think he might. Even if I manage to get my head off the Halls, and wrap it around this game, he’ll still beat me for sure.
I shake my head and try to focus.
I can’t take it anymore. It’s an unbearable urge, longing to go, but having to remain still. An impossible itch. I can’t think straight, or carry on about my life until I’ve satisfied the impulse.
Which is the reason I find myself on a bus on a Thursday afternoon, headed to Ava’s college, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
34
It was a Thursday afternoon at exactly this hour the last time I stalked her. If her schedule hasn’t changed, the odds of seeing her again are good. I stand under the same tree, shaded and somewhat inconspicuous. I check my phone and absentmindedly browse through my Facebook feed. I check Ava’s social media accounts for hints of where she might be, but there’s nothing — she hasn’t posted in a while.
My heart is pounding and my legs are a little shaky. I’ve worn leggings, a plain white t-shirt, and a baseball cap in an effort to appear young and melt into my surroundings. Perhaps she’ll think I’m just a girl from one of her classes. She’ll struggle to place me. I’m only about seventeen years older than her and I’ve always had a youthful face — I don’t see why it wouldn’t work. I stare at my sneakers and wonder if passersby can see right through me, if they can tell how unhinged I am.
I glance up — absolutely no one is looking at me. My pulse eases. I stare at the entrance/exit, impatiently awaiting her appearance. It’s uncomfortable, sickening even, but it’s also extremely satisfying and exciting. It’s a little bit like falling down a steep rollercoaster. I don’t exactly know why I do it, but I know it has something to do with my fucked up brain chemistry. I consider upping my drug doses even more, but I really don’t want to walk around like a zombie either.
My heart practically leaps out of my chest when I see her. She’s alone today, and looks so sad. The urge to reach out to her and console her is stronger than I can bear. It propels my legs forward in her direction. My steps are hurried as I trail her in an attempt to catch up to her.
She’s wearing a pretty polka-dot skirt, paired with cute flip-flops. Her long hair swings as she walks briskly, her purple JanSport backpack hangs off her shoulder. I’m so close, I can read the two buttons pinned to it. They’re both colorful as a rainbow. One saysPRIDE, the other saysLove is Love.Could she possibly be gay? I thought she’d just broken up with a boyfriend. But maybe he was all for show.
I’m completely breathless when I finally gather the courage to say her name out loud. “Ava,” I call out, still behind her.
She jerks around, confusion all over her face.
I’ve done it now. I can’t go back. “Hi,” I say meekly.
She raises a brow, hesitates to speak, observing me from head to toe, struggling to remember me. Am I in one of her classes? She’s clearly uncomfortable, caught off guard. “Hi…” she finally says.
Thankfully, I’ve gone over this about a hundred times in my head. I know exactly what to say. “Hi, I’m Mischa.” I extend my hand. “I’m a friend of your parents.”
“Oh…” She’s still eyeing me suspiciously, not quite comfortable.
“Can we talk?” I ask. “I need to discuss something with you.”
Now she’s looking at me like I’m plain crazy, which let’s face it, I kind of am. She doesn’t respond.
“I could buy you a coffee or a smoothie or something at the shop over there.” I point to the café nearby. “I promise I’m not a psycho who will roofie you or anything.”
Her beautiful eyes grow wide. That last bit was improvised and I instantly wish I could take it back — I’m not making myself sound very sane. “It’s about your parents,” I say with the hope of appealing to her curious side.
“Okay…” she finally concedes. “I guess.”
I smile widely. “Thank you. Let’s go to the café across the street.”
As we make our way there, I delve into small talk. “I like your skirt,” I say in a lame attempt at conversation.
