CHAPTER NINETEEN

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2021

          I wasn't scared of Ingrid.

          If anything, I was mildly annoyed by the way she thought she held that much power over people—including me—to believe she could just summon me to a washroom whenever she pleased because she didn't feel like attending her lectures like the rest of us common mortals. I couldn't stand feeling inferior to people and it was bad enough when I made myself feel that way; when it was my own friend doing it, it was far much worse. 

          All in all, part of me pitied her. I pitied her thanks to the great lengths she had to go through to get the slightest bit of respect around here. Though I understood why, I failed to see the point in treating me so horribly because of external factors. I was her friend, not her follower or admirer, yet there I was again, bending and breaking whenever she beckoned me to do so, simply because she could, and I needed to prove I was reliable.

          I hated that she was using my insecurities and deepest desires against me, like I hadn't trusted her enough to let her in, to let her know about those things, to believe she would never do that. Whenever she proved me wrong, with every knife she stabbed into my back and cracked my spine in half, I'd pull them out and stuff them back into the knife holder like the protagonist of a horror movie. I'd forgive her, too dependent on her and her approval to do anything else but that, and then we'd find each other in this situation over and over again.

          I was far more at fault for allowing myself to be treated this way and to thrive in these situations, getting so high on the feeling of being needed, of being helpful my head was spinning with the possibility of that plan succeeding. Then, I remembered why I was there.

          "I'm not being a bitch to Sav," I retorted. "Why are you asking me that?"

          She rolled her eyes. "Gee, Penny, I don't know. Must be because you were." She raised her phone, like she thought I was daft to the point of not realizing what she was referring to. "She told me you snapped at her during Steele's class, implied things were a competition between the two of you, and she was just trying to make sure you were okay because you looked like you're about to cry."

          "No, I wasn't."

          "I wish you'd talk to us instead of bottling things up and exploding like that. We're here for you. You know that."

          I raised my chin. "There's nothing going on. I don't know why you're so convinced I have to talk to you over something that doesn't even exist—"

          "Why did you talk to Steele, then? What is it about that guy?"

          My whole body clenched—teeth, fists, jaw, heart. I looked at her, hoping my facial expression had remained as neutral and blank as possible, but everything inside me was sizzling in fury and fear. I couldn't risk saying the wrong thing in his defense and make her suspect anything about the true nature of our relationship—especially considering all the evidence pointing towards her already suspecting there was something amiss—but I couldn't let her diminish his character, either. I didn't think she'd get it if I tried to explain things with half-truths that were close to the truth and I didn't want to deal with her skepticism, but something in the way she looked at me told me this was a test.

          A sick, twisted part of me wanted to beat her at her own game. I wanted to beat her at all for once in my life, show her someone had chosen me instead of her and nothing she could do could change that. I knew exactly how to rile her up, just like she knew exactly how to get under my skin; the same way I couldn't bear disappointing or being invisible to the one person that mattered, she couldn't handle being confronted by the people she wanted to turn invisible so she could shine brighter. I didn't want to burn so brightly I fizzled out in exhaustion, but I still thought Ingrid's view of the world had left her in a particularly lonely position.

          "He's my advisor," I eventually said. "It's his job to check—"

          "He's your senior project advisor, not your therapist."

          "So? He's still my professor. His course is the only one I'm not borderline failing. This is the one thing in my life I haven't completely screwed up, so I need to keep things that way." She scoffed, like I knew she would, but I also knew I wouldn't win her over by explicitly asking for pity. Her pity came in the form of condescension, in her own terms. "You know these professors all know my parents. They're friends with them. I can't afford this getting back to them—"

          "Frankly, Penny, everyone in this place is friends with someone's parents. Half of Hollywood is friends with your parents. I'm sure your future was guaranteed the minute you first walked through these doors."

          I groaned, fingers digging into my hair to brush it away from my face. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—unkempt, chaotic, losing control—and realized I was becoming everything I'd sworn I'd never be. I needed my rules, I needed to be in control of myself, and she was ruining everything.

          "You don't get it, do you? It's never been about what my parents can do; it's about what I can do without their input. I want to do this for me, without them watching my every move, and I can't do that if I start failing every single one of my classes." I set a hand on the edge of the sink next to me for support, a gesture she noticed, like she knew I was crumbling. A conversation that had initially been about Savannah had taken a dark turn I wasn't fond of. "You don't get it, and you don't even want to make an effort to understand. Everything is a competition to you, even in battles you know you can't lose. You just like the feeling of being better than everyone else." She clenched her jaw. "It was a competition between you and Savannah from the start, but then you two made up and had to find the next best target. The whole frat party fiasco went down, and you still made it all about this stupid feud you had with her instead of acknowledging you had made a mistake, too. You don't know what it is about Steele, and I don't know what it is about me that makes you so angry. Was it because I stopped letting you walk all over me? Was it because I grew a backbone instead of closing my eyes and pretending not to understand whenever you made a not-so-hidden jab at me?"

         "Are you seriously listening to yourself right now? Do you realize just how delusional that sounds?"

          "That's exactly what I mean! Nothing I do is ever good enough for either of you. Nothing I feel is valid enough. Where does that leave me, huh? My two roommates constantly talk about me behind my back—"

          "No, we don't—"

          "—and keep trying to find hidden meanings in everything. Sometimes people are just upset. Sometimes people just don't want to talk. Sometimes people just want to have some privacy, but you won't even let me have that because you went and ran your mouth to Marco—"

          "I was trying to help—"

          "Well, then stop trying." I bent down to pick up my bag, mentally exhausted from arguing with a person who would never, ever admit to being wrong, and brushed away the hand she reached out towards me. "You can't treat me this way."

          "Penny—"

          "Oh, my God. Stop calling me that. Stop. I've asked you so many times."

          "It's just a nickname."

          "A nickname I've said time and time again makes me uncomfortable. It feels condescending. Of course you, out of all people, would fail to see that. What a great friend you are."

          Ingrid stepped forward when I took a step back away from her. She was standing so close to me I could count all the speckles of green scattered across her eyes—blue, almost like Chase's. "Then who's your friend in this place, huh? Marco? Steele? He's not your fucking friend, Penelope. He's your professor. He's not here to have you dump all your emotional baggage and trauma over growing up pretty and rich. Boo hoo."

          I shoved her away from me, hard enough to make her lose her balance after stumbling over her boots, and she slammed her back against the wall. A flicker of guilt momentarily struck through my chest, as she could have hit her head and gotten seriously hurt, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared when she looked back at me in fury, feral like a wild animal.

          Her hair, so blonde it looked white under the bathroom lighting, was disheveled, falling in front of her eyes, and she blew it away with a huff. Even then, she looked frustratingly beautiful, the kind of perfect I'd never amount to be, and she didn't hesitate for a second to remind me of that. Realistically, I could never compete with her. I could try and fool myself into thinking I stood a chance, but I didn't.

          "Get a grip," she hissed. "Grow up. Realize not everyone is out to get you. Especially not us."

          "I am," I retorted. "I'm moving out."

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          I hadn't thought things through.

          I couldn't completely move out of the apartment in one day thanks to the large volume of belongings I had there, and it was an impossibly stormy day, which made driving around the city a nightmare, especially in my current state. Ingrid had the decency to tell me to think about it for a while longer, knowing most of what I said had been an accidental explosion from the heat of the moment, but I wasn't certain whether staying in the apartment was a good idea.

          I didn't want to be alone, not in this weather, not after fighting with my two best friends, possibly to the point of no return. I felt too exposed everywhere I went, like people kept staring as I tried to find an empty spot in one of the common rooms to wallow in my misery, and, when Ingrid and Savannah were around, at least I had some sort of protection. I felt so silly, too, curled up on an oversized bean bag, sipping white wine from a thermos bottle so no one could see what I was drinking—drinking wine on campus was a whole new low for me—and I couldn't bear the thought of explaining why I was doing all of this.

          It was pathetic. I was pathetic. Most of all, I was frustrated with myself for letting stupid fights get to me like they had when I had much bigger problems to worry about. I couldn't fail my classes, especially not Film Theory, but I couldn't find the proper motivation to stay focused and deliver quality work when I was so constantly stressed about Chase. It was far from being his fault—I'd always known exactly what I'd be getting into—but I felt so isolated from everyone and everything, without someone to talk to, someone who would listen to me, that I found myself being half present.

          I was living two separate lives—the one I needed to present to the public eye, my professors, my parents, Ingrid and Savannah, and the other students, and the self that existed in a private world with Chase. There was no way I could bring the two of them together without ruining his, which meant I needed to keep splitting myself into little pieces, one at a time, whenever it was required, and long gone were the times when I felt whole. Even after graduation, even when we would be able to put this all behind us, I feared I wouldn't be able to piece myself back together.

          Were he any other guy, a mediocre one like the ones I studied with, I could go to Ingrid and Savannah for advice, or even my parents. With the whole relationship having to be kept a secret for the sake of our reputations and, most importantly, his career and his future, the isolation was another sacrifice I had to make for the sake of the greater good. Now, I was still agonizing over what Ingrid had said about him—about him and me, which was far worse—and I was horrified in anticipation over how he'd react once he found out about the venom in her words, the implicated meaning behind them.

          I momentarily considered going home for a while instead of driving to an empty loft, but Chase hadn't mentioned where he'd be meeting my father and I couldn't ruin such a big opportunity for him. If I showed up there tonight, cold, soaked wet from the rain, and under the influence of drinking during school hours, it wouldn't be a pretty sight and we'd all be forced to have a conversation no one was looking forward to.

          Why had I been drinking? Why had I gotten into a fight with Ingrid and Savannah? Why was I so mad at Ingrid's comments? Surely I had nothing to hide.

          Hunching forward, I pressed the heels of my hands against my forehead to try and fight the early signs of a migraine. My lips were chapped and dry from the cold and the wine, a deadly combination, and my first instinct was to reach out for the closest bottle, but all there was next to me was the stupid thermos with the stupid wine I didn't even like. Savannah was the one who liked it so much and kept buying it for us, filling the cellar with bottles like we all loved it, and it was the best I could get from there while in a rush.

          "You don't look so hot," someone commented. I jolted up straight, skimming the room in search of the source of the voice, and a shadow covered my line of sight.

          The girl standing next to me looked familiar, though I couldn't pinpoint where exactly I knew her from, much shorter than me. Her skin was tan, a few shades darker than mine used to be back when I still saw the sun, and she wore her hair in a low, elegant ponytail. Curious, bright-eyed, willing to check up on a stranger. I wondered if that, too, had been me at some point. It was sad that I couldn't remember.

          "I'm okay," I replied. "Just had a crappy day."

          "I figured as much. Can I get you anything? Water? A pastry? Something to get your blood sugar up?"

          "No."

          I hadn't eaten all day, a nagging habit I'd developed along with sneaking around, influenced by all the adrenaline from doing something in secret. I couldn't stay in one place for too long and I was always so preoccupied with other things that I couldn't find the time or the energy to sit down and have a proper meal, which couldn't have been helping my ability to stay focused on any given task or assignment. I felt weaker now, lightheaded from minimal efforts, and all my movements were sluggish, like they didn't belong to me at all, like I was watching someone else's life on a screen.

          At first, during sophomore year, though I'd always been tall and slender, I started getting compliments, mentions that I hadn't ever looked better, that I should give modeling a try. I'd briefly considered it, as it would be a far cry from my parents' area of expertise, but then school got busier, I got busier, and Chase was the first to say I didn't look so well. The stress college was placing on my shoulders was unbelievably heavy and unbelievably embarrassing—I was supposed to handle this like everyone else—but I was exhausted all the time and looked wrecked. I wasn't sick and I wasn't doing it on purpose, but the thought of dragging myself to the cafeteria, home, or the campus café meant I'd have to run into Ingrid and Savannah, and I didn't want to face either of them.

          "You're Penelope, right?" the girl asked, sitting on the bean bag closest to her like I'd invited her. I moved my legs away, not wanting to take up too much space, but she was small enough for my presence to be bearable.

          "Do I know you?"

          She cracked a small smile. "Well, we've been in all the same classes together since freshman year, but I keep to myself. You know my twin brother, though." My stomach froze. "Marco. He hasn't shut up about you all semester and it's driving me up the walls, I swear. I'm Sarah. Sarah Figueroa."

          She reached out a hand towards me and all I could muster was a quick squeeze of her wrist. With him looking somewhat like me, she should, by association, look like me as well, but I saw the obvious differences—her eyes were bigger, wider, and her face was rounder. While Marco had this aura of confidence and arrogance around him, she looked more grounded, someone I could have been friends with had he not been dragged into this mess.

          "I'm sorry for not noticing you," I said. "I keep to myself, too."

          "It's okay. I hope you don't think I'm here on his behalf. I saw you during Steele's lecture today and thought it was kind of a dick move to call you out in front of the whole class." My heart clenched. She would never understand, yet there she was, pretending to, without having ever said two words to me before this conversation. "I overheard your argument with Savannah, too."

          "You're very observant."

          She backed away, cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

          I sighed, sipping from my thermos. "It doesn't matter. It happened. I'll live."

          "Everyone needs someone sometimes. I'm sure Savannah was just trying to look out for you." I fought against the instinct to roll my eyes. "Look, I . . . I don't want to tell you how you should feel, and I think you have every right to be upset about everything that happened today, but I also don't think you should let his validation be this important. There's so much more out there waiting for you, so many things that actually matter, and it's not the opinion of some random college professor that's going to define who you are."

          Like she would ever know how much it meant to me, like she would ever understand how inadequate I constantly felt, unable to relate to the people I went to college with, to the people my parents introduced me to. Like she would ever understand the aching pain left behind when you disappointed the only person who cared about you, the only person who valued you, the only person who saw you. Like she would ever understand how desperately I was trying to be who he wanted me to be and failing.

          It wasn't just a bad grade. It wasn't just an argument. It was about my failures, the disapproval and disappointment in his eyes, my uncanny ability to dodge every helping hand he reached out towards me. It was about the realization that I was the problem.

          "I'll be okay," I insisted, in a voice that would never convince anyone. "You don't need to worry about me."

          "I'll add you on Facebook so we can talk, if you'd like. Or I'll give you my number." I handed her my phone, with the app already open so she wouldn't snoop around—like there was anything suspicious she could find had I not been so meticulous about what I kept there—and she typed in her number. "We'll go out for coffee sometime, maybe a movie. You're a film student. You like movies. No Marco, I promise."

          "Okay."

          "Okay," Sarah echoed, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. "And, for the record . . . Steele kind of gives me the creeps. I don't trust him. Just be careful about how much power you give him. He's not worth all of that."

          I shot her a stiff smile, cursing her entire existence for even daring to say something like that to me. "I'll be careful." 

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          That evening, I crawled back to the apartment with my tail between my legs.

          Ingrid and Savannah weren't speaking to me and refused to acknowledge my arrival when I got there, finding the two of them in the kitchen with their stupid glasses of wine and their dumb saltines. I kept my scoff to myself, focused on walking in a straight line as I heated last night's leftovers—spaghetti carbonara—and retreated with my plate towards my bedroom.

          Even with the door closed, I could hear the muffled sounds coming from the TV in the living room as they watched some romantic comedy I'd never had the patience for. I sat at my desk as I ate dinner, ignoring the pile of coursework to my right, and wondered what would happen if I attempted to tell them the truth. I would never, refusing to ruin Chase's life in the name of being honest with the girls, but part of me was morbidly curious about how they would react.

          Would they be disgusted? Would they be worried? Would they tell me they'd suspected it for months, maybe years? Would they be happy?

          Later, I crawled into my bed, leaving the dirty dishes on the desk. The smell made me nauseous, though it could partially be thanks to the wine, and I hid my face in my pillow to protect myself from it. The wind blasted against my windows, so hard it sounded like someone was trying to smash the glass, and I knew I wouldn't be able to fall asleep like that.

          I stared at my phone, dark and silent, thinking about how Chase's meeting with my father was going. I didn't deserve a pat on the back for introducing them to each other—especially when both of us had opposed the idea so vehemently years ago—but part of me wanted to believe I'd be more than a footnote years along the road in case things worked out for both of us. I wanted him to be proud of being with me, of being seen with me, not just as a pretty thing on his arm, but as an equal, as a partner.

          It was past midnight when my phone rang, pulling me out of a dreamless slumber, and I rushed to pick up the second I read the caller's name.

          "Chase?" I whispered.

          "Hey," he dragged the word, voice so slurred I could barely make it out from the wind on his side of the line, then chuckled. "Hey. So, uh, I need your help. I need you to come pick me up."