is on the historical register or whatever, and the things inside are artifacts. Like, super rare, well documented. If something goes missing…” She trails off, but I don’t exactly need a billboard to pick up what she’s putting down.
“You think I’m going to take something,” I slowly realize. “I can control myself, you know.”
“No, I know that,” she argues, and I can see her head shake in my periphery. “I actually read this article about kleptomaniacs, and it said if there’s a chance of you getting caught, then the likelihood of you—”
I bite out a sharp, “I’m not a fucking maniac.”
Her mouth snaps closed and the car goes quiet, my hands tightly clenched around the steering wheel. Well, I was right about one thing. Being on the other side of that judgment shit really does suck.
Christ.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Her voice is small and low, and I hate it. It makes my fingers flex around the leather. “I just wanted to understand what it was like for you. Why you do it. I thought maybe if I did, I could help you. You know, like how you help me?”
I roll to a stop at a deserted red light a few blocks from the school. It casts her face in a worrying glow when I finally turn to meet her eyes. “You do help me, V. Trust me, it’s been days since I took something. And it’s not…it’s not simple, okay? It’s not something that can be summed up in some fancy term and written down in an article by someone who’s never met me. Yours couldn’t, could it? The way you feel about the pills?”
Her eyes are wide and so guileless that it makes me want to take her back home. “Probably not.”
The light turns green, but I idle there, trying to find the words. “There isn’t one reason. Just sometimes, the only thing that makes me feel good is taking something and getting away with it. I know it’s stupid.”
She puts her hand on my leg. “It’s not stupid.”
“Yes, it is,” I argue. “It feels good for a few hours—maybe even a whole day—but the trouble it causes for me and everyone else? It lasts a hell of a lot longer than that.” I give her a significant look. “I’m trying, V.”
She studies me closely, and I can tell from the sadness in her eyes that she gets it. My family is in pieces. My future is up for debate. I can’t take a jog without being watched. But what happened to her is the worst consequence of all.
The fucked-up part is that, even despite all of those perfectly valid reasons, resentment burns hot at the thought of giving it up. Why should I? Aside from Vandy, it’s not like I have much else going for me. Why can’t I have something that makes me feel good? The idea of a life without that rush seems like nothing more than a dull expanse of tedium. Sometimes I wonder what the point would be.
“I meant what I said before. You can tell me if it gets bad, if you feel like you need to do it. I won’t think any less of you.” She echoes my words from the other night, “I won’t bail.”
“Seriously, I can handle it.” I finally press the gas, rolling over the intersection.
I drive past the main campus entrance to the service road that runs behind the dining hall. It’s darker back there and easier access to the Alumni house, which is settled on a hill at the back of the property. Although everyone on campus is familiar with the house, it’s not frequented by students. It’s strictly for guests and donors.
I park the car and grab my stamp, then walk around to open the door for Vandy. I help her out, not because she needs it, but because she’s my girl. It also gives me a chance to kiss her in apology, soothing the tension from earlier, before taking her hand and slipping into the dark shadows of the campus.
“The Preston House was built by Gerard Preston for his wife, Martha,” Vandy whispers. I’ve conditioned myself to walk at her slower pace. “They bought the property to build a school and lived in the house. The first headmasters lived here, but eventually they turned it into a guest house.”
“You sound like a Preston history textbook.”
“Well,” she looks away, “it’s a required mini-semester in tenth grade. You kind of missed it.”