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“Oh, it is.”
I sipped my drink slowly, when really I felt like downing the rest of it. I asked the bartender for a glass of water. “But who would accept an offer like that?”
His expression was serious. “I was hoping you would.”
I smiled, which was in effect my answer.
Now, I realize he was wrong. That invitation wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life. It wasn’t any of the stuff that had happened before; it wasn’t trusting the wrong person, or having one too many. Not that night. And not now, either. My biggest mistake was falling in love.
You leave me no choice. I drift back to a time when I had a choice. They say the mind goes to strange places when confronted with death.
The car accelerates, and I realize we’ve reached the highway. There’s no turning back.
Put up a fight. How? And why, if you know you can’t win? Even if I could somehow run for it, I’d always be running. Sure, I could mess with the taillights, cross my fingers we’d get pulled over. I could try and locate the emergency hatch. At least this way, I will die an internet celebrity. This way my life will have meant something.
My breath comes heavier. I feel a panic attack coming on. Not that I’ve ever had one, but I’ve never cared for small, dark places.
Frantically, I search for wires. They make it look so easy in the movies. Here, in real life, it’s no use. I guess you don’t always get so lucky. And anyway, I’m not the captive of an amateur.
If you can’t save yourself, save someone else. Leave clues like breadcrumbs. They’re more likely to find you that way.
I left my clothes. Pantyhose first, panties, and at last my bra. Like a proper drunk. And now, I leave you this. I can’t be sure anyone will actually see it. I can’t even make a call. But Instalook says there are eighteen thousand of you geared up, in queue, waiting to watch my demise, I sa
y, my face centered on the screen. Many more before now. Some of you, I say into the camera, maybe most of you, won’t believe me. You may say this is fake. It doesn’t matter. If believability is what you want, then I suggest sticking to the safety of the neatly colored lines of your own life. And for God’s sake, if a hero is what you’re looking for, let me say this up front: you’re in the wrong story.
As for the rest of you, I’m going to die. I promise a good show.
Chapter One
Melanie
Before
No one is going to feel sorry for me. They didn’t when the ‘big accident’ happened. They didn’t when I was tormented in school. They didn’t when all the other bad things happened. So why would they start now?
Someone should really take girls aside and tell them the truth: you can’t be pretty and smart. You have to pick, one or the other. And then there’s the other bigger truth, the one they really ought to chase it with: if you are both attractive and intelligent, it won’t be the opposite sex that will do you in. They can make life hard, for sure. But it will be your very own kind that betrays you when it counts most. Perhaps that’s the worst of it all.
I can already hear it. Poor little rich girl, they’ll say. They would be right, of course. Under normal circumstances, I certainly look the part. Today, I confess silently to the reflection staring back at me in the mirror, not so much. If unkempt is what I’m going for, if that’s what they want me to be, then I’ve nailed it. My hair’s a mess; my roots could use a touch up. I run my hands through it, leaning in to get a better look at just how far I’ve fallen off the wagon. Ever so slightly, light shades of brown are beginning to peek through the baby blonde. Nothing too bad yet. But one has to be careful about these things; that’s what my mother says. Like weeds in a garden, inattention to one’s appearance is not the kind of thing one can stand for too long without consequence. She has a point about that. My eyes are puffy and red and without a doubt a facial is in order. I assess my complexion. You won’t be young forever. My mother’s voice again. She likes to hammer that in. Unfortunately, my pores seem to be siding with her. I roll my neck. A massage couldn’t hurt. I’ll get to it, to all of it, just as soon as this nightmare blows over.
For now, I force myself away from the mirror before I do something I’ll regret. Almost everyone has a weak spot, otherwise known as vanity. To distract myself, I gaze longingly around my expansive closet. I guess it’s now or never, sort of like ripping of the Band-Aid. I won’t be able to hide out in here forever. Pride won’t let me. I pull a bag off the shelf. Too big. I’m going to miss you, I say. I reach for another. Too small. I could cry just thinking about how much I’ll miss that one. I let my fingers trail against the smooth, cool leather. I stop and linger for good measure. I’ve always had a soft spot for anything Italian. That’s why I’m in this mess to begin with.
My father calls my name again, his voice loud and booming over the intercom, and I realize this is it. I can’t stall any longer. The third one will have to be the charm. “Coming,” I yell as I hurriedly stuff a few of my things into the chosen one. My mind is too fucked to know if I’m making the right choice. I mean, how is one supposed to choose between Givenchy and Hermes? It’s like asking me to choose between my right arm and my left. I feel sick being put in this position. When I’ve finished shoving in what I can make fit, I realize I can’t very well face my parents naked, so I throw on jeans and a t-shirt. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. My mother hates it when I ‘dress down.’ I’m doing this for her. For the unfairness of it all.
Everything in her life has taken a turn for the worse. It’s time to cut the cord, I overheard her say to my father. Good cop, bad cop. It’s always been their favorite game.
Whatever. Let them play. Once I’m out that door, I’m never coming back. I promised as much through crocodile tears.
“Melanie,” my father repeats. His voice bounces through the house, through doors and walls, like an all-knowing being. “Time’s up.”
I fling the designer bag over my shoulder and then give the bedroom of my childhood one last look. I hesitate for a second, thinking maybe I should take more. What we forget, we can just buy when we get there. My mother taught me that. And anyway, who am I kidding? Of course I’ll be back. I’m guessing this whole thing will be swept under the rug within a few days—my parents are experts at that—and then I’ll be right back here in the only home I’ve ever known.
Okay, fine. That last part is a bit of an exaggeration.
Technically speaking, I have four homes, or rather, as my parents like to remind me, they have four homes. This one has always been my favorite. But now, thanks to a minor mishap, I’m looking at zero places to live.
“You’re grown now,” my father informed me. “It’s time you started acting like it.
“Go,” my mother agreed. “Spread your wings. We can’t have you living here forever.”
