iv. crocodile tears

CHAPTER FOUR
crocodile tears.





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H A L L I E
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THEMES:
in the ground the aubreys
bad things cults


SCHOOL OPENED AGAIN on Monday, much to the mixed feelings of the entire student population — including myself. Even without the curse of omniscience about the whole thing, I couldn't think of anything worse than walking past that godforsaken gym and... maybe even worse... having to have P.E. lessons in there just as usual. It felt haunted to everyone now.

     Still, maybe the status quo was a good thing to return to. Stanley and I could be discreet, while we secretly figured out how the hell to track down Sydney and her diary.

That morning, on a Monday a little bit suckier than usual, I threw on a grey and navy blue argyle cardigan with some comfy jeans and Converses. Getting ready that morning felt just like any other day; except when I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the face glaring back at me was pinched with scepticism and alertness for anything that might go wrong. I looked tired. Really tired. But then when have I ever caught a break lately?

     Now that Mom was back, we returned to our usual tradition of her driving me to school. It was a rare time where we kept each other company — unless she got a work call, of course. Then she would try and haphazardly take the call, while I prayed for my life that she wouldn't crash the car over the aforementioned call. In the past I tried talking to her, forcing small talk (which I hate with a passion, but anything to get something from her). Nowadays I just put on my headphones and let the music do the talking, until we got where we needed to go.

     Today, though, she was different. Her attention seemed completely focused on me when I got in the car. Knuckles whitened over the steering wheel, she kept looking back and forth at me at differing intervals.

"Um... everything okay, or?" I finally asked uncomfortably.

     "Are you sure you don't want to stay home today?" she questioned me. "I mean, I don't think you'd be the only one."

     I found myself blinking at her in disbelief — my mother had never suggested taking a day off before. I was pretty sure the woman was incapable of doing it herself, let alone suggesting it to anyone else (hence why the sudden vacation to Saratoga still puzzled me).

     "No, it's fine," I finally answered. And I meant it. Sure, a kid had just died on the school grounds, but what else was I going to do at home? Stew in my thoughts a little more? As if I hadn't done enough of that already over this long weekend... part of me was actually gagging to get back to school. I wanted answers. To know how we could find Sydney and her diary, first we had to have some idea of how to tread so as not to arouse suspicion. What story were they selling around school?

     Mom didn't question me any further on the subject, but still seemed a little reluctant to drop me off. I still stood firmly by my decision until she physically pulled up outside the school entrance — then it hit me. Seeing students dotted across the staircase, filing off school buses and into the building could mistake this for any normal Monday morning. But no. It couldn't be further from the truth.

     Uneasily, I unbuckled my seatbelt and shot my mom a wave. "Well, see you later, I guess."

     "Normal pickup time?"

     "Yep."

     "Alright, see you honey... hold on... hello?"

     Her phone had started buzzing as we said goodbye, and by the time I'd shut the door and left, the phone was already tucked between her ear and shoulder as she drove away. I was left at the steps of Westinghouse High, my heart thrumming in anticipation against my ribcage.

     Well, I thought reluctantly, here goes nothing.

     I dragged myself up the steps and felt the white noise transition from the outdoor chirping of birds to the eerier, tenser sounds bouncing off the hallway walls. It didn't look any different, per se, but it felt a million miles from how it had on Thursday. There was a subtle, underlying stench of cleaning products that caught at the back of my throat and scratched my sinuses — as if there had been a strenuous effort to cleanse the place of Bradley Lewis remnants. It was as if his blood shadow remained.

Unwillingly, I found myself darting my gaze between those of other students walking past. We all seemed as on edge and nervous as each other. It seemed there were two ends of the spectrum, in how you were reacting to Brad's death — you were either excitedly chattering over the mysterious circumstances of his exit, or you were silenced by total numbness in the aftershock. There was no in-between.

"Attention all students," Principal Whitaker's voice suddenly spoke through the loudspeakers. "There will be an assembly in ten minutes about the current situation. Please do not go to the gym, as it is taped off and currently being investigated. The assembly will be held in the cafeteria in ten minutes. Thank you."

Like moths to a flame, everyone seemed to subtly recalibrate their routes to take them to the cafeteria. I let myself disappear into the crowds of students flooding through the halls. When I turned one corner, there was a particularly huge swathe of students congregated around a block of lockers, and for a moment I was left wondering what could be so fascinating that they were blocking my damn path...

     And then I saw it.

     A shrine for Brad had been set up by his locker door. At the heart of it was his framed yearbook photo, the slicked back hair and the smug grin making my toes curl in my Converses. Bouquets of flowers were stacked and leaking water onto the linoleum floors. A football propped up like a trophy, signed by members of his team. It had attracted crowds of students, emotionally ranging in everything from devastation to morbid curiosity. I, for one, was just overwhelmed by it.

Even though I hated the guy, the sudden permanence of Brad being gone sunk in... along with whatever repercussions that was going to have. For all of us.

     I noticed two cheerleaders sniffling and weeping nearby. Sceptically, I squinted at them as I walked past; just last week they had been the same people laughing at and spreading rumours of Brad contracting gonorrhoea. And now here they were, emotionally tortured over his death — it just all felt so bizarre.

     When I got to the cafeteria, I saw it had been completely cleared of the tables and replaced with row upon row of plastic chairs. They were already filling up with students, all facing toward the lectern for Principal Whitaker to speak. I began scanning the empty chairs for a familiar face, simultaneously avoiding all the other ones which I didn't want to see.

     "Hallie! Over here!"

     I followed Calvin's voice and found him waving at me a little too exaggeratedly from his chair. Bowing my head to the floor, I briskly walked over and squeezed past the chairs to collapse onto the seat next to him. Before I had time to speak, Calvin was already wrapping his arms around my shoulders and hugging me tight — I had no choice but to reciprocate, giving his back a firm pat of my hand.

     "Oh boy, am I glad to see you again," Calvin said, letting go of me again. "I was super bored over the weekend. And obviously, like, super stressed out and confused too."

     "Yeah, me too..." I trailed off.

     "Hi Hallie," said another disembodied voice. Ryder suddenly popped his head out from next to Calvin.

     "Oh, hi?"

     "It's been a crazy weekend, right?" Ryder said, tossing his head to the side so it shifted his fringe. "And don't get me started on the fucking acid trip of a Homecoming dance that was."

     "Yeah... really crazy..."

     The seats were filling out now, the empty seat on my left becoming occupied by a bug-eyed, nervous-looking freshman boy. The poor kid was probably only just adjusting to the slap in the face which was High School, and now he had a whole murder on his plate too. Principal Whitaker soon arrived at the lectern, looking stony-faced and grim with the weight of what had happened on his shoulders. With a tap of his microphone, he began talking.

     "Good morning. Now, I first—"

     The double doors at the back of the cafeteria swung open, and there entered Stanley Barber; of course he would be fashionably late. The room echoed with the sound of everyone collectively turning their asses in their chairs to look at him — possibly the most mortifying thing ever — but in true Stanley Barber fashion, he just gave a curt nod and tried to discreetly find an empty seat. As he sat down, we shot a knowing look at each other from across the cafeteria, as if to say: "Good luck listening to this."

     I'll admit, it was really hard to listen to... and not least due to the unnerving smell of the lunch ladies already cooking the school meal grub. But for the first half of what Whitaker said, it was all grovelling tributes to what a tremendous student Bradley Lewis had been, how sorely he would be missed by the school. It stirred up such confusing feelings. I mean, I didn't want the guy to die, but he was a dickhead — and that's putting it lightly. While Principal Whitaker recounted his heroic sports achievements, I recalled Brad fat-shaming Calvin; I remembered him punching Stanley's lights out; I remembered him reading Sydney's diary out of spite, victimising Dina (who he was frenching until a few days prior!) and spitting out the most homophobic and horrible things... I wondered if anyone felt the way I did. Did people genuinely love Bradley Lewis? Or were those glassy sheens in their eyes crocodile tears?

     Speaking of Dina... as guilty as it makes me sound, I hadn't even thought about her until now. She was in the front row — I could make out her head hung low, trying to avoid eye contact with everyone. I supposed that to her, as far as she knew, her jerky-ex-boyfriend had just spontaneously combusted before her eyes without explanation. I suddenly remembered her that night, splattered head to toe in his blood, knelt down before the rest of him with her hands clamped to her mouth and shuddering with sobs.

     Perhaps Dina, more than most of these people, was desperate for the truth.

Once Principal Whitaker was done showering Brad with posthumous love, he got into the practical side of things, which I was much more interested in. "Now, you're probably wondering how things will be going forward this week..."

Yes, I thought impatiently. You don't have to introduce it like it's a fucking circus act.

     "The best thing we can do is maintain some semblance of a return to normality," said Principal Whitaker. "Lessons will be going ahead as usual, except for indoor sports lessons and all other extracurriculars or activities held in the gym, for... obvious reasons. For this week in particular, you may notice on your timetables you have all been allotted a slot with the guidance counsellor—"

     The minute Whitaker said the words 'guidance counsellor', I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I was highly averse to the idea of sitting in some little room, with some adult I didn't even know at all, and be expected to talk about my feelings. I had gotten this far dodging it successfully — I turned it down when my SVT first started, and I gave it another firm 'no thank you' after Uncle Bill died last year. Okay, you might argue after reading everything I've told you that maybe therapy wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. But don't you think I should be the one to decide that?

     "— And by the end of this Friday, you should all have had the opportunity to have your session with the counsellor," Whitaker continued. "The staff and I feel it is important to check in on the students after what happened, but after that, it is entirely up to you whether you continue with these sessions."

Okay, I thought, that's moderately better. If I get this one out of the way, then I won't have to worry about the guidance counsellor ever again.

"Additionally, we have a lost property station set up near Reception," adds Whitaker. "We're aware that in the... immediate aftermath, there were many belongings understandably left behind. We have gathered them up, given some of them a, uh... well, a clean. The lost property station will be there for the next two days, and anything that isn't claimed after that will be given away. So come and get your things if you know you've lost them!"

At this I perked up, and I knew when I met Stan's eyes across the cafeteria he was thinking the same thing: Sydney's diary. There was a pretty high chance it could be there, and if we found it, that would be one problem ticked off our list.

Principal Whitaker dismissed us, and I made it my mission to reunite with Stanley among the crowds of people as quickly as possible. When I squeezed through the suffocating masses of people to meet him, his amber eyes were alight with a spark of determination.

     "You heard that, right? About lost property?" asked Stanley breathlessly.

     "That's where I was headed to right now," I replied affirmatively. "You coming?"

     "Hell yeah!" Stan grinned, doing finger guns at me. I narrowed my eyes at him.

     "I don't know if this is a 'hell yeah' kind of situation, but... you know—"

     "Yeah, no, I get that, it's—"

     "— Do whatever you want, I guess."

     Clearing my throat awkwardly, I began briskly speed-walking out of the cafeteria in the direction of the Reception desk. In my periphery I noticed Stanley trying to fall into step with me, almost bewildered by the speed. It was worth it, though, because we ended up getting to the lost property station just before it would get too busy. Immediately there were some familiar faces — Jeff Butters, Homecoming King (like anyone remembered after that night) collecting his phone and immediately calling his mom, Genevieve Parker (head of the Westinghouse debate club) picking up a silk shawl and seeming to marvel at how bloodless it was. One guy picked up a pack of condoms from the box, stashed them in his pocket but then noticed me staring; "What're you lookin' at?" he mumbled, before swiftly evacuating the situation.

Stan and I immediately got to work. It was remarkable how much people had left behind that night — but I guess when someone's head explodes out of nowhere, your first impulse probably isn't "Hey, I should grab my handbag!" or "Oh no! My Hello Kitty wallet!" (trust me, I'm as confused about that last one as you are... sure looking forward to see whoever picks that one up). We sifted through hoodies, cardigans, a varsity jacket to check pockets — admittedly getting some strange looks — but found nothing. There were iPods, phones, wallets and other bizarre trinkets along with shoes and scrunchies and everything between and beyond.

     And yet, not a single trace of Sydney's diary.

     When it looked like we were defeated, I dragged out a long sigh and turned to Stanley, who slipped his hands into his pockets with a shrug. "Look at it this way," he said, "at least we know where the diary... isn't?"

     "You always have a positive spin for something, don't you?"

     "I try my best. Well... have fun with the counsellor later."

     "Oh God, don't remind me," I despaired. I really needed to check when that session was.

     "She'll come for you eventually... the counsellor can't be escaped!"

     "I'll see you later," I said forcefully, half-embarrassed but trying to hide my smile.

     I watched Stanley waltz out of the door, but I was still dissatisfied with our search. I searched through a few more things, as if new objects had magically spawned in the time I hadn't been looking. It was when I was searching through the phones that one in particular caught my eye — the back of the case looked familiar. I stretched out my hand and grabbed it, turning it and examining it. Sydney has a model like this, I thought to myself. Then: Don't be an idiot, it's a standard phone type. It could belong to anyone.

     Still, curiosity got the better of me, and I subtly tried switching it on. After the agonising wait of the phone starting up, the lock screen that popped up before me filled me with utter relief — it was a slightly shaky photo of Sydney and Dina at the Fiddles' Diner. Dina was holding the phone and looking radiant with her arm slung around Syd's shoulders, while my cousin was grinning from ear to ear with a slight lovestruck shyness. Oh yes, I thought with a triumphant smile, this is absolutely Sydney's phone.

     And that could explain another thing; the lack of contact from Sydney. Maybe all hope wasn't lost then, because if she really wanted to contact us, she might have found a way by now. But it was a lot harder without her phone on her.

"Hallie?"

The voice, undoubtedly belonging to Dina, startled me and prompted the knee-jerk reaction to pocket Syd's phone instantly. I looked up at her expecting her to be cynical — why was I looking at a photo of them both on a random phone? — but it was the opposite. Dina looked exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Her voice seemed worn down and troubled by the past few days, and... it looked like she'd been crying too.

     "Dina, hey..." I greeted her, sounding more monotone than I'd have wanted to.

     "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked.

     "Hm? Oh, yeah, in the... weird selection of stuff here. Did you see the—"

     "Hello Kitty wallet? Yeah, I did," Dina nodded, actually managing a weak smile as her brows creased together. "Freaking weird, right?"

     "Yeah..." I squinted at her for a moment, then sighed. I couldn't just leave her hanging; even though it would be easier, for me at least. "I kind of have to dash in a sec, 'cause I've already missed the start of First Period, but... have you been holding up okay? You know, um, after the whole... Homecoming thing?"

     Now I was asking her, it occurred to me that even without the whole Brad fiasco, she still would have had the dilemma of him airing out her and Sydney's kiss to the whole school. At least that wasn't people's priority anymore.

Dina's eyelashes fluttered nervously as she averted her gaze to the floor. "I, uh... I guess I am? I don't know, this whole thing is crazy. I don't really know how to feel. And on top of that, Syd just disappeared out of nowhere. I've been trying to text her for days but she hasn't even read any of my messages..."

I swallowed thickly, my fingers brushing over Sydney's phone in my pocket. Seeing Dina like this was heartbreaking to say the least. She had always seemed like such a lively and excitable person, so seeing her this downtrodden felt wrong. Like there was some chemical imbalance in the galaxy. Maybe that's why I decided to make the following offer:

"You could text me."

Dina blinked at me. "Sorry?"

"I mean, I know we don't know each other that well, but I guess we get along okay... so if you, uh, need someone to talk to, then... you can drop me a line if you want."

She seemed as surprised as I felt. I never give my number out to anyone this spontaneously (actually scrap that, I gave it to Stanley Barber, but that's... different). But Dina just looked so hurt, and since I was reluctantly privy to the secret that Sydney probably wouldn't show up for a while, I thought the least I could do was offer. It didn't mean we'd be best buddies and texting way into the night, or anything.

"Yeah, sure... thanks." Dina smiled, seeming touched. We swapped our phones, me being careful to hand over my actual phone, and tapped in each other's numbers. "I'll text you later to check if it works."

     "Cool," I nodded, then headed out from Reception with a small wave goodbye.

━━━━━━

     Turns out my session with the guidance counsellor was actually that same Monday, at the beginning of Fourth Period — perhaps it was better to rip the band-aid off quickly. I was accustomed to being punctual for things so I arrived five minutes early, then hesitated before going in; I didn't want to seem too overeager. I still hated this whole idea with a passion. So I hovered outside the guidance counsellor's office for five minutes, then stepped right outside the door with my eyes fixed on my phone's clock.

When the time changed from 12:29 to 12:30, I finally summoned the gut to knock on the door.

"Come in," a muffled voice from inside summoned me.

Taking a deep breath with my jaw clenched, I reminded myself: This is a one-time thing. Just do the session and get it over with. Answer her questions and leave it at that.

I opened the door and found Ms. Cappriotti, the guidance counsellor, swivelling around in her chair to face me. A musty wood smell immediately hit me, mixed with something else I couldn't quite place — it was strangely hypnotic but also unnerving. She nodded at me with a gentle smile. "Ah, you must be... Hallie Novak-Miller?" When I nodded, she gestured to the chair opposite. "Welcome. Please, make yourself at home."

I stared down at the chair, as if it would bite back at me somehow, before I slowly approached and lowered myself into it cautiously. Ms. Cappriotti was slowly stirring a teabag in her mug and I focused on the circular motion of the teaspoon. That was the other fragrance I couldn't place coming in here. As she gave me a friendly smile, I couldn't help but think one thing: Sydney was right. She really does smell like an old hippie.

"Do you prefer the window open or closed?" she asked. Something in her voice was feathery and wispy, and I couldn't decide if it was calming or borderline irritating.

"I, um... open, I guess?" The question threw me for a loop. I don't know what I was expecting her to ask when I first came in here, but I'd assumed it was more forthright — How are you coping after a teen's head exploded? How many times have you cried this week? On a scale of one to ten, rate your stress. I don't know. Shit like that, I guess.

"This is your first time here, isn't it?" she said. "Your name sounds familiar."

"Yeah," I deadpanned. "I'm the one who keeps avoiding you. But congrats, you finally caught me, I guess."

"Coming to your guidance counsellor is a big first step. It isn't easy to open yourself up like that, to make yourself feel vulnerable. But I hope this is a positive experience for you, Hallie. Think of me as a neutral party — someone who you can vent to, without some of the feelings attached that we have with friends or family."

But I barely know you, I thought uncomfortably, shifting in my seat. I glanced over despairingly at the door; unfortunately it was shut, not providing an exit for me to bolt out of at any given moment.

Ms. Cappriotti tilted her head at me, the beads around her neck rustling. I felt like she could see right through me, right past my skin, and it made me squirm. "How are you feeling about this session? And don't worry, you can be completely honest. This is a safe space."

Is it? I thought sceptically, glancing around the room. My eyes scanned the shelves stacked to the brim with books, as well as the leafy plants adding a botanical feel to the alternatively stuffy office. I noted the pen laid down by a notepad at her desk; she wanted to take notes about me like I was some kind of wounded animal. How was this supposed to feel like a so-called safe space?

     But... there was something about her. Ms. Cappriotti emulated a calming aura, whether I liked it or not, that was somehow infiltrating my firmly lifted guard and easing it down with each passing minute. She looked so dreamily unaware, and yet so attentive. It was like she really did care how I felt... whatever that was exactly. I wasn't even sure I knew myself.

     I finally parted my lips and began talking. "Honestly... I feel like I'm being held hostage. Like, I came in here expecting to be asked some questions, and then I could leave. I'm trying to do a job here. And... and I know I'm supposed to be vulnerable, or whatever, but what if I don't want to be? And even if I did want to be vulnerable, I don't think I know how to explain it. What I'm... feeling. I never quite do. So if I can't figure out how to say it, then we're both wasting our time, since I've gotten this far in life without having to sit down and tell someone my life story. I can handle this myself."

     Ms. Cappriotti nodded slowly, as if she was drinking in every word I said. Oh no, I thought with dread, it's happening already. She's going to psychoanalyse me, or tell me how I'm 'feeling', and I'll be stuck in this room forever.

     "You know, you don't have anything to prove in here," she said softly. "This isn't about failing or succeeding."

     I swallowed thickly, but my mouth felt like tar. For some reason those words cut deep. Did she expect me to say anything back?

     "But if you say you are struggling to say these things out loud, then don't. Maybe you could write them down instead."

     Puzzled, I furrowed my eyebrows at her, while she opened a drawer at her desk. Out of it she pulled a seaweed green leather notebook, complete with a little black ribbon bookmark attached in the centre, and slid it across the surface towards me.

"Sometimes writing or drawing your feelings can be more effective," Ms. Cappriotti explained soothingly. "For some of us, maybe you, we can articulate ourselves better when we have time to think about what we are saying. Without the pressures of spontaneous conversation. Things may... flow better for you."

That was... actually pretty accurate. I'd always struggled to convey my deepest thoughts through speech, feeling like I was being suppressed or judged somehow. But in writing, it could be more inhibited, and — not to brag or anything — it was probably why I scored so highly on my essays across most subjects.

I flicked through the empty, pristine pages with hesitant curiosity. "So, what exactly do I write in this? How I feel about the whole Bradley Lewis thing, or?"

"Whatever you want," she replied. "Whatever comes to mind. It can be a diary, a list, whatever works best for you. Try channeling whatever you're feeling into that notebook."

Gee, thanks for the ambiguity, I thought to myself. But still, her words stuck with me.

"... And maybe when you're done, you could come back and we could talk about what you wrote?"

I froze in my seat, holding the book in my hands. She was trying to lure me back here. Although for some reason, I didn't feel so repulsed by the idea as I had when I first came in here. Smoothing my hand over the notebook's cover, I shrugged ambiguously. "Yeah, sure," I said.

"Good," Ms. Cappriotti smiled.

A few beats passed between us.

I glanced at her tea, then the clock, then her. "... Wait, so can I go now, or?"

"If that's what you want, then sure," she replied. "My homework for you is to try writing something down in that book, and maybe by next week we can chat again. Hopefully that will help you feel more comfortable talking to me and being in this space."

I nodded curtly, already packing up my things and edging closer to the door. I was desperate to get out of there. After an awkward (at least on my part) goodbye exchange, I headed out into the hallway and to Fourth Period — but strangely I felt disorientated, disconnected from my body. I felt as though I was walking on clouds and this place wasn't quite real. I don't think I was even in there for that long, but Ms. Cappriotti sure seemed to have opened the floodgates.

It's the tea, I thought, in a moment of self-deprecation to alleviate just how my mind was racing right now. Suddenly I found myself wondering what I would write, given the opportunity, and where I would even begin. Writing about the founding fathers in History or a George Orwell book in English was one thing; but my own feelings? Yikes. The autobiographical territory was unchartered, one I did not dare traverse. I'd probably have a mind blank when I sat down to do it. I wasn't unsure I could... unlock that part of myself in such a way.

This obsessive thought played on a loop in my head for the rest of the day, and it was starting to drive me nuts. I took it home with me and still nurtured the maddening compulsion to write, just write something down, anything. But what would I write? You heard the lady! Whatever comes to mind! That's the problem, my mind does a blank when I have to think about expressing these things about myself.

My notebook had been lying open on my desk for hours by the time I finally sat in front of it. I had just eaten dinner, completely lost in thought as I slowly ate my fish fillets. Write something. Anything. I rolled back and forth in my desk chair, massaging my biro pen between my fingers and watching my desk lamp illuminate the blank page.

I stared at that page for a good two and a half minutes. Just... thinking.

I just had to say it as it was. No beating about the bush.

Finally, I clicked my thumb on the top of my biro, and began carefully writing the formative sentences in the notebook. They went something like this:

          "The counsellor told me to write this down, so that's what I'm doing. Well, technically she said I could either sketch or write what happened, but I've ruled illustrations out of the picture, since I can't even manage stick men, let alone a fine art re-creation of it.

          She says I'm supposed to write down what I feel. But that's the problem — I don't know how I feel."

━━━━━━

     I don't know how long I had blacked out for — but when I woke up from my dozing, forearms and fingers throbbing with overuse and ink smudged on the sides of my hands, I read the time to be just past midnight.

     I had filled up the notebook completely.

     How did that happen, you ask? Literally no fucking clue. For the first couple of pages, I was eking out the words and drip feeding them out of my pen... it was painful. And then, like a switch had been flipped, some invisible force just came over me. With the fuel of background music on my CD player (and later my iPod to not disturb my parents) I charged through page after page of that book; charting everything from Uncle Bill's death, to bunking up with Sydney, to Banana's death, to driving around town with Stan late at night, to the untimely death of Brad Lewis. It was like I had picked the scab off an old wound and I was bleeding out— no, haemorrhaging into the book. The daze that the process had left me in certainly felt like I'd been drained of all my blood.

     But Ms. Cappriotti was right. It was therapeutic, to my disbelief. When I held the book in my hands and turned each page, I could feel the weight of the ink on the paper — the burden I had lifted out of my head and into this new outlet. It actually felt heavier to hold. Seeing it written before me like that was equal parts jarring as it was relieving.

     Damn, that lady was good.

     Definitely realising it was time for bed, I switched off my desk lamp and reached out to my window to shut my curtains. But before I did, a silhouette outside caught my eye. The figure was rather petit, obscured in a dark hoodie, although the piercing blue eyes sliced through the darkness and fixated right on me. It took only a matter of seconds before I was able to figure out who it was; and when I did, I thought my heart catapulted out of my chest.

     I scrambled to lift open the window, stuck my head out and called her name: "SYD!"

     Like a spooked animal, Sydney suddenly tore off in the other direction, like she was afraid of me seeing her.

     "SYDNEY, WAIT!" I cried. There was no use calling her from up here. Fumbling in the darkness, I bounded downstairs and didn't bother putting my shoes on. I ran out onto our drive with my socks and frantically searched for her in the night. But I was too late — she had already vanished again.

Standing out there, shivering by myself under the moonlight, I wondered if I had imagined that. If she'd been a figment of my imagination just then. You're going crazy, I scolded myself. You need to sleep. Shaking my head dismissively, I meandered back to the house and shut the door behind me.

But as I stood in the corridor, under the sharp light bulb light, I had an epiphany — it didn't matter whether what I just saw was real or not. Because everything else was very much real, whether I liked it or not. Maybe Ms. Cappriotti had just expected me to fill up this one notebook and be done with it (I had too, believe me) but maybe that wasn't enough. The things going wrong in my life, the things she probably wanted me to tell her... they were all still unfolding. And in fact, now more than ever, I had a gut feeling they were going to gain much more momentum. I would need this more than she ever anticipated.

So that's what urged me to creep through the dark and slip into my dad's office; to sift through his filing cabinet and retrieve a blank, wire-bound notepad for myself. Because if one thing had become clear to me just now, it was this:

I was going to need another fucking notebook.










________________________

A/N:

AYEEE LOOK AT ME UPDATING SO QUICKLY! (don't get used to it though) i actually had this chapter pretty well planned out when i referred to my notes, so i thought "you know what? let's treat the very patient readers and get this written sooner rather than later!"

hallie did some fourth wall breaking towards the end there 😉 if you didn't notice upon first read, when she starts writing the first lines in her first notebook, that is actually the same opening for 'there she goes' (which is essentially meant to be everything she writes in the first book ms. cappriotti gives her!) and then this story, 'keep your head' (at least everything from hallie's POV) is everything she is writing in the second notebook she just retrieved at the end of this chapter. the self-awareness is THROUGH the ROOF. i've had this little scene planned for ages, so to finally write it was super satisfying because it ties a neat little bow on it all.

also you know how in book one i used to write which songs for the chapter went with which scene? would you guys like me to start doing that again? because for this chapter i had very specific images, and it was these:

'in the ground' by the aubreys: hallie walks into school and sees people reacting to brad's death, incl. the shrine at his locker.
'bad things' by cults: after seeing syd, hallie has her realisation and gets out another notebook.

thank you so much for reading, and have a lovely day/evening!

published: 24th july, 2022

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