Pieces of Olivia (2 page)

Kara and I spent the next three hours popping into more shops along King’s Street and then perusing the handmade goods in the Market. Baskets. Jewelry. Jams. Soaps. It was amazing to see these people, their work, the pureness of it. I found myself studying them, wondering what their lives were like outside of the Market. Wondering if today’s sales determined whether they could pay their bills or eat. Some had an easiness to them that was just part of Charleston’s character, but others were more desperate, almost begging for us to buy their products.

My mother would hate it there. She would accuse the people of lacking civility, of being one step above street beggars. In truth, she hated the poor. She was just too much of a
lady
to admit it.

So maybe it was to get back at her. Or maybe it was just because I felt more at home there than on King’s Street. But I ended up buying three times as much in the Market as I did in any of the other shops, and by the time we made it back to Liberty, I had a new purse, two woven baskets, and numerous earrings and necklaces, all handmade. I felt a sense of pride putting my money into those things instead of the shops on King’s that held no culture.

I hung up my new clothes in my wardrobe cabinet, which was still bare compared to Kara’s, and wiped down my face with a towel, eager for a shower.

“So, we’re going, right?” Kara asked as she put away the last of her new things.

I hesitated. Some guy downstairs had given us a flyer about a party in West Ashley tonight. Supposedly, it was an annual thing at an apartment building there. “Everyone will be there,” he had said. I had no idea who “everyone” included, but by the look on Kara’s face, I could tell she wanted us to go.

I fiddled with the flowy top I was trying to hang up, but it kept slipping off the hanger. “I don’t know . . .” I hadn’t been to a party since the one that created my scars, and I wasn’t sure I was ready. What if I broke down? What if I had flashbacks or something? I mean, that happened. People who suffered what I had suffered were irrevocably fucked up. That much I knew. But I had just now started growing close to Kara, and I hated to push away the only friend I had made so far.

“Come on. It’ll be a blast. I’ll see if Preston can drive us.”

My head snapped up. “Preston’s going?”

She grinned. “I’ll ask him if you’re in.”

I shrugged, faking indifference. “Whatever. We can go.”

“Yay! This is going to be so much fun. Now, what to wear?” She paused in front of her open wardrobe, then said, “I’m going to take a shower. I think better in the shower.”

I nodded, fighting the urge to laugh. Kara might be the only person in the world who needed to shower so she could think through her outfit.

As soon as I heard the bathroom door click, I pulled out my laptop and logged into my Gmail account. I typed “T” and
[email protected]
auto-populated in the “To” field. I stared at the name. I had experienced so much here already, and though a part of me was having a great time, another part felt . . . guilty. I began to type, unsure of what to say.

Dear Trisha,

I will never forget our tour of Columbia. You had asked where I would go to college if I could choose anywhere, be anything. The question was so odd because there was bare honestly in it. On the surface, we were supposed to be leaving our parents for our own paths, but instead I was following my father’s and you your mother’s. I remember the seriousness in your eyes and knew that you had about as much interest in Columbia as I did.

We walked in silence for several minutes and then out of the blue you said, “The College of Charleston. I’d go there.” I smiled at you because it was the very thing I was about to say. We both loved Charleston. Always had.

I moved in today and I should have been ecstatic, but all I could think about was how I was here, doing what we dreamt of doing, without you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Love,

Olive

P.S. I know you won’t reply. I know. But I had to write. I miss you.

Nightfall at Liberty brought on a whole new world of noise. Most of the rooms were open, music blaring, and Kara insisted on stopping by every one of them.

By the time we reached our across-the-hall neighbors, Kara had drank two beers and downed several shots. Her voice, which was already high-pitched, now sounded like she was intentionally trying to mimic a five-year-old.

“I’m Olivia,” I said as they called for us to come in. They had already decorated the walls with various posters. Some of iconic cities, others of popular bands. It made Kara’s and my room look boring in comparison.

“I’m Sarah,” a tall red-haired girl replied. She had the distinct look of a soccer player—tall with a strong build. “And that’s Rena.” She pointed to the dark-skinned girl grabbing Kara a shot.

“You want one?” Rena asked. I shook my head. I wanted to tell Kara to slow down, but I barely knew her. I didn’t know her tolerance, and I didn’t want to come across as motherly.

“We’re heading to a party in West Ashley,” Kara said. “Want to come?”

Sarah’s eyes sparked with excitement. “Definitely! When are you leaving?”

Kara glanced down at her bare wrist. “Oh. I’m not sure. Olivia?”

I smiled. “Preston’s meeting us out front at ten-thirty.”

Sarah turned around to look at the large metal wall clock they had hung between their two desks and shrieked. “That’s in twenty minutes! But we’re so there. Meet you at the elevators in fifteen?”

She and Rena ushered us out of their room so they could get ready. Once back in ours, I grabbed a few bottles of water from our refrigerator and passed one over to Kara. “Here, drink. It’s going to be a thousand degrees at the party. You don’t want to get dehydrated.” I opened my own bottle, hoping she wouldn’t take the gesture as me trying to rein her in. She eyed the bottle and then me.

“You sound like Preston.” She reluctantly took the water and drank half of it before setting it on her desk. I studied her face, her demeanor, her responses. She was already at a level two.

Trisha and I used to assign levels to our drunkenness. Level one was a light buzz. You could still talk, walk, etc. Level two was a push toward sloppy. Your words were more slurred, and everything was suddenly funny. Level three was the point where your memory started to waver, and you could possibly do something embarrassing or something you might regret. We called this the danger zone. Level four we just called gone. All motor skills were gone, all sense of control gone. Everything—gone.

Kara was at a two and we hadn’t left the dorm yet. That didn’t bode well for the rest of the night.

“Okay, I need a beat to get ready,” she said. “What do you want to hear?”

I bit back a laugh as she tried to get her iPod into the slot on her dock station, and then suddenly the soundtrack to
High School Musical
blasted from her speakers. Her eyes rounded out in shock. “Oh my God.”

“Uh, Kara . . . what is that?”

She fumbled with the dial, trying to get it to turn off, her cheeks turning redder by the second. “Nothing, nothing. My little sister must have been playing with my iPod. It isn’t—”

I walked over and clicked the iPod to turn it off, a giant smile on my face. “You’re into Zac Efron, aren’t you?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s—no. I’m—no.”

I crossed my arms and smirked, causing Kara to toss her hands in the air. “Fine. Fine! But look at him! I can’t help it. He’s like this super hot, singing, dancing, delicious piece of awesomeness.” She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide. “I will so kill you if you tell anyone I said that.”

I walked over and clicked my own iPod on, surfing through the songs until I found Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” and showed it to her.
“As long as you promise not to tell anyone that I’m a closet Miley fan.”

We both burst out laughing, until Kara’s phone rang and Preston’s face filled the screen. “Crap!” She clicked the phone and blurted out in a rush, “Five minutes. We’ll be down in five minutes,” before hanging up and rushing to her wardrobe. “Crap! What am I going to wear?” She grabbed two dresses and tossed them on her bed, eyeing each as though she were making one of the toughest decisions of her life.

I had taken my clothes in with me when I showered so I wouldn’t have to risk getting undressed in front of Kara. I glanced at myself in the mirror above my dresser. I had on a new flowy black top Kara picked out for me. It was only three-quarter sleeve, but long enough to cover the scars on my left arm. I paired it with white shorts and some beaded sandals, giving me a slightly dressed-up vibe, though still relaxed.

Kara finally settled on a red dress and flashy heels, which I thought was a bit overdressed for some apartment party, until we reached the elevators and Rena and Sarah were dressed exactly the same way.

Rena eyed my outfit just as the elevator doors pinged open. “Is that what you’re wearing? Shorts? To a party?”

I stammered. “I . . .” The truth was, I didn’t have anything against dresses. I loved them—the way they made me feel beautiful and feminine. But I owned very few long-sleeve dresses, and the last thing I wanted to do was show off just what a freak I was when my skin was exposed.

“I think she looks perfect.”

My cheeks warmed as I glanced up to see Preston waiting inside the elevator, his hand on the door to keep it from closing. He had on a soft blue Polo shirt, loose over a pair of cargo shorts. The shirt set off the blue in his eyes, making him look like some outdoorsy model. Crisp, yet rugged. And entirely too hot. “Now can we hurry up, please? I’m in a handicap spot.” He motioned for us to get on the elevator.

Kara rushed in and kissed his cheek. “How mad are you? One to ten.”

He cocked his head, considering her. “Three, but it’ll shoot to an eleven if I get a ticket.”

“Hi, I’m Sarah,” Sarah said, interrupting Kara before she could respond.

“Preston.”

“So, are you two together or something?” she asked, waving her hand between Kara and Preston.

“No,” they both answered quickly. Too quickly. My eyes shot up to Preston and then Kara, but they refused to make eye contact. Hmm. That was odd.

Then Preston draped his arm around Kara and glanced over at Sarah. “Nah. Not since second grade. We were the hot couple in the sandbox, until she cheated on with me Issac Wilson and Blake Thomas and Sam Lewis and—”

“Careful. You’re making it sound like I was some fly seven-year-old.”

He winked at her. “Oh, you were fly, all right.”

She pushed him and for some reason I felt a strange sensation in my stomach. Like jealousy, but that was crazy. I wasn’t jealous. I shook my head to push the feeling away and followed the others out of the elevator. I caught Rena nodding toward Preston and giving Sarah a devilish grin, causing the sensation to spike again.

What was wrong with me? I barely knew Preston. He was nothing to me. Why should I care what Rena thought or what kind of past he had with Kara? It didn’t matter. It—

“Hey, Olivia, we’re over here,” Kara called.

I turned around and realized in my silent psychobabble I had wandered away from the group, who were now climbing into a black Silverado parked in a handicap spot a few yards away.

“Nice ride,” I said with a smile as I went for the back cabin door.

“No way, Small Town. You’re up front,” Preston said, opening the passenger side door.

“No. Kara can. I’m fine back—”

“Kara isn’t allowed to ride shotgun. Are you, Kar?”

I glanced into the backseat to see Kara crossing her arms and looking annoyed. “It isn’t my fault you can’t drive. I only try to help.”

“Yeah, and by ‘help’ she means scream obscenities at the top of her lungs, while I tried to exit off 85 in Atlanta. Needless to say, she always gets demoted.”

I slid into the front seat, feeling immediately like I was overstepping some boundary between them. This was her spot, and I was sitting in it.

I turned around and gave Kara my best I’m-so-sorry-don’t-hate-me smile. She grinned back. “Don’t worry. I seriously always get demoted, even when it’s just the two of us.”

The girls in the back started up a conversation about their majors and classes and I tried to half join in, but my mind kept drifting to the last party I attended. The laughs, the dancing—the screams. It took an entire month of therapy for me to stop hearing them when I closed my eyes, and now I was throwing myself into a situation that could undo all my progress.

“Hey, you okay over there? You seem a little distracted.” Preston’s eyes shifted from the road to me and then back.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Thanks for the save back there. I’m not much of a dress girl anymore.” I cringed. Why had I said that?

“Anymore? What, were you a pageant queen or something in a previous life?”

I smiled. “Something like that. This is a nice truck, by the way. Is it yours?” I asked, changing the subject before it edged any closer to the too-personal zone.

“Yep, all mine.” The way he said it made it sound like he wasn’t especially happy about that fact. “Do you have a car here?”

I laughed as the image of my Land Rover parked in our four-car garage flashed through my mind. My parents had refused to let me have it after I turned down Columbia. I thought they would sell it or something, but instead they kept it there, mocking me.
Look what an idiot you are, Olive
.

“No. No car.”

“Something tells me there’s a story there.”

I shrugged. “I had a car, but my parents took it when I decided to come here.”

“Ouch. So they didn’t approve of the awesome caliber of education found at the good ole CofC?”

I didn’t know what to say without sounding pretentious. “Let’s just say they had other things in mind, and when I chose this, instead of that, my car got parked.”

Preston studied me. “So, where were you supposed to go?”

I thought of my tour of Columbia with Trisha. How we bought matching T-shirts and pajama pants. How I burned them both a few weeks ago, like charring them could somehow burn away the hurt inside. “Just somewhere else.”

“Uh oh. Was it Johns Hopkins? Is there a good girl trapped inside that body of yours?”

“Johns Hopkins? Uh, no. And what do you mean that ‘body of mine’?”

Preston’s eyes filled with mischievousness, before dropping to my legs, then returned to the road. “You know what I mean.” Warmth spread down my neck. “So if not Johns Hopkins, then where?”

I looked away. I didn’t want to get into this, especially in the closed quarters of a truck, where I had no hope of escaping. The moment I said Columbia the questions would begin, and clearly, I wasn’t so good at lying.

I thought of my parents, specifically my mom, when I told them I wasn’t going to Columbia. Dad stood and started pacing the room in rage. Looking back, I was surprised he didn’t throw something. But my mom’s reaction was the one that cut deep. She looked like she had failed me, like she had worked her entire life, done everything she could possibly do, just to get me into Columbia, and she had failed.

I didn’t want that for her. This wasn’t her failure. It was mine. And even though I wanted to be here, and even though I knew I would do fine with my studies, and even though there was nothing in the world that was wrong with this college, I would always view coming here as a failure. Not because it was less of a school, but because I was less of a person now. A strong person would be able to cope, carry on with her life, and do what was right for her future.

I wasn’t that person now . . . though maybe I never was.

Preston pulled into the apartment complex before I had to answer. Cars were parked everywhere, making it hard to weave through the parking lot to the back of the complex, where the party was supposed to be held.

Preston drove around to the basketball courts adjacent to the building and parked. “Sorry ladies, we’re walking.”

We got out of the truck, and I forced myself to draw a few steadying breaths before joining up with the others. I could do this. I
would
do this.

When we reached building 320, we realized the party wasn’t in just one apartment. It was in the entire building. Doors hung open on each level, music blaring from all of them. I felt a wave of nausea move over me as we edged closer. What would my old friends think of me now? Would they tell me to get over my stupidity and have a good time or would they call me an idiot for even trying this after what we had been through? I didn’t know. I would never know.

Kara settled on apartment M, declaring that
M
seemed the most mellow, and sure enough as we stepped through the doors, a soft melody hit our ears instead of the raging music from most of the other apartments. A guy sat in the corner of the living room, playing a guitar and singing, and while most of the people around him were fairly buzzed if not completely drunk, he seemed disinterested in anything but what he was playing. There were conversations throughout the small space, but here they were held at normal tones. No screaming to be heard or yelling from those too drunk to know the difference.

I liked watching people in this setting—their expressions as they spoke, their reactions as they listened. I liked to see if their eyes matched their facial expressions and was often amazed by how often they didn’t. It was as though inside, deep in a place they refused to address, they were different, hurt, afraid. It made me feel a little less alone.

The old me never noticed anyone. I went about my days never seeing the people around me and likely never caring. So, in a way, I was better now. In a way.

Rena and Sarah dove in first, finding the keg and passing around drinks to the rest of us. I shook my head as Sarah handed me a red plastic cup.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I said, my arms wrapped tightly around my sides, like they alone held me together. My mind flashed to that night. Blue cups instead of red. I closed my eyes, but quickly forced them back open. They were all around me, watching—judging. God, I didn’t want to be this crazy girl.

Sarah looked taken aback, and I knew what was coming. “You don’t drink? But it’s a party. Everyone drinks.”