Chapter 22
He's different,after that.
Maybe she is, too, but she's definitely not imagining the change in him. The edges of his taunts have been filed down; his cutting remarks softened until they feel more teasing than cruel. Sara wonders if it's because she's earned a degree of trust, or if he simply has no other secrets to guard. She's not even sure if the reason matters, because the end result is the same: Seth has become infinitely easier to live with.
They're teetering on the line of friendship; each more considerate of the other. Seth stops watching tv when she goes to bed; Sara makes sure to turn it to his favorite channel come morning. He stops baiting her in public, makes an effort to stay in her line of sight so she can see him without looking crazy. Sara wears her earbuds faithfully– perfects the faux answering of her phone just so they can speak freely on the streets, in the laundromat, between classes.
She tries not to evaluate how much time she spends talking to him; tries to push it to the back of her mind with the justification that it's only natural when he shadows her the way he does. She, under no circumstances, will admit that she kind of enjoys having someone to listen to her complain about why art appreciation is eighty percent essays and why can't every teacher be like her Algebra professor who only grades on tests and never homework.
Perhaps the most surprising development is Seth actually does. He listens.
He chimes in when she leaves an opening, engages in the conversation without ever dominating it. He is free with his opinions, but even when they disagree, he never dismisses her own. It takes her a week before she recognizes that (for him) the friendly debates are more about the conversation than the outcome. She wonders, guiltily, how many of the others before her treated him with the same silent apathy as she had only a month ago—wonders how many of them never stopped.
Then she thinks about the time between, the years he's spent with no one to see him, no one to hear him, and feels her heart twinge. She makes a small promise to herself, that she won't punish him with silence again (no matter how he may press her buttons). She won't scream at him to leave her classes, won't demand his absence in her life.
Growing up under her father's roof, she knows what it's like to feel invisible.
Sara staresat the exam questions, knee rapidly bouncing under the desk. Between her heartbeat drumming in her ears, the scratching of her classmates' pens fill the silence. Mouth dry, she glances at the clock and feels herself pale. She's already used up a quarter of her test time and has nothing to show for it but a blank page.
Turns out, the movie doesn't cover everything.
She swallows thickly, the questions on the page blurring as her eyes water. So much for graduating after next semester—she'll be too busy repeating this stupid class and cursing GE requirements.
Someone stands in front of her; a familiar charcoal shadow she doesn't need to look up to name. "Pick up your pen."
She gives the tiniest shake of her head she can muster. Even if there wasn't an audience, she's not sure she could trust her voice.
Seth sighs, lowering himself until his eyes are level with hers. "Pick up your pen and write exactly as I say. Do you understand?"
Hope flares, bright but short-lived. Things have been good between them lately, but does she dare trust him? With this? Her future?
He must see the hesitance in her expression, because he sighs. "Honestly, a little trust wouldn't go amiss. What could I possibly gain by misleading you?"
The enjoyment of watching her fail. The goading I-told-you-so rights for the entirety of next semester (at least).
She looks at him, gauging his expression. There's no hint of deception, but Sara's not entirely convinced there would be. Still… her blank paper glares up at her, a daunting reminder of the alternative. With a bracing intake of breath, she picks up her pen and sets the ballpoint tip to the page.
Seth shifts to her side, his voice soft and measured despite her being the only one capable of hearing him. She transcribes each word, fills the lines and then the pages. When she turns it in with five minutes to spare, it's with a silent prayer.
"I got an A minus,"she mutters numbly. She almost thinks it's a mistake, but the numbers on her laptop screen stay the same no matter how many times she double checks them.
Seth huffs. "Well, you couldn't possibly expect me to get you full marks. You passing at all is suspicious enough."
Pulse racing, her hand shakes as she clicks for her overall grade.
C minus. A passing grade. Barely passing—but passing.
She slumps in her chair, relieved laughter shaking from her lungs. Glancing over, she catches the tail end of Seth's smile before it recedes. "Thank you," she breathes.
"Don't make a thing of it. Witnessing you make a butchery of our language was becoming more wearisome than amusing." He folds his arms over his chest. "Besides, there's still plenty of time for you to fail, yet."
He's right. If she wants to pass this class, it isn't going to be by getting an A on just one exam. She needs to do enough to hold the grade.
Pensively, she chews on her bottom lip. She remembers he had offered his help once, in that twisted half-mocking sort of way that he has. She had declined purely out of spite before, but she can't deny that she needs the help. "Would you—I mean, do you think you could help me study for the next one?"
His head tilts, dimples flashing. He looks positively delighted. He crosses his legs, fingers laced over his knee. "I believe I can carve some time out of my busy schedule."
"Areyou sure you want to do this?" Jen asks, voice low. Her eyes flit between the picture on Sara's screen, to the hair stylist finishing up another customer, and back to her face. "You hate it when they take off more than two inches."
Sara shifts in her seat, the hard plastic chair a far cry from comfortable. The picture on her screen is definitely shorter than she's ever even considered, and she had really only decided to do it on a whim, but she feels no apprehension. In all honesty, she isn't sure. The idea only dawned on her a few days ago, a stray thought that nudged its way into a decision as she combed through her wet hair—playing with the ends and eyeing her reflection in the mirror.
It's been years since she's changed her hair; years since she embraced something new. Her life has become unrecognizable. There are more scars on her heart now, deep and twinging, and she's tired of looking in the mirror and seeing the face of the girl she was before. She's tired of pretending the pain hasn't changed her.
Also… Ms. Green offered extra credit to anyone who came to class dressed up for Halloween—the amount of points a reflection of the amount of effort put into the costume. Sara thinks of the handful of 80's movie posters her professor has hanging over her desk.
She could really, really use those credits.
"I'm sure," she says, nodding. "I'm ready for a change."
Jen still looks nervous for her. "Yeah, but this is kind of a bigchange. It's going to take you forever to grow back if you hate it."
Sara shrugs. "It's just hair."
Jen stares. "Ok, who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"
She rolls her eyes. Sara can't even pretend that her friend is wrong for being concerned—she used to swear up and down that she'd never go short. Her long hair was a source of pride, something almost intrinsic to who she was.
But she's not that same person anymore.
Between David's accident and Oma's death, the fights with her father and the recognition of pain in Seth's eyes, the length of her hair feels trivial at best… a painful reminder at worst. She used to love how Oma would braid her hair in the summer, weaving in flowers from the garden as if any ordinary weekend was May Day.
Sara's fingers play with a strand of hair, twisting it around her knuckle before letting it fall. "It's fine—I'm fine."
Jen must sense something in her tone, because her expression softens—lips parting around a quiet, "oh." She takes Sara's hand in hers, squeezing softly. "Well, for the record, I think it'll look great on you. You totally have the bone structure for it."
Sara smothers a laugh, nudging her friend's shoulder with her own. "Thanks."
Jen nudges back, grin wide. "Anytime, Bestie."
The hairdresser—Natalie, according to her name tag—calls her name, and Sara rises. When she glances over her shoulder, Jen gives her two enthusiastic thumbs up.
"So what are we doing today?" Natalie asks, rotating the chair for her to sit.
Sara shows her the picture as she settles in. "I want to do something like this."
Natalie whistles, the swallowtail tattoo on her forearm winking as she flicks the cape over Sara's front. "Big change!" She winks at Sara through the mirror. "It's going to look great!"
Taking a few minutes to comb through Sara's hair, she works out the tangles before banding it at the nape of her neck. Then she holds up her scissors, offering a final chance to change her mind. "Ready?"
Sara nods, butterflies in her stomach. "Ready." She can hear the scissors slice through the banded strands—three cuts—and then she's struck by a sudden feeling of weightlessness.
The stylist laughs, holding up the ponytail for her to see. "Feels weird, doesn't it?"
Staring at her reflection, a small smile teases Sara's mouth. "Yeah. It does."
It feels lighter.
Sara rushes home after,the air on the back of her neck cold but her spirits high. Class is starting in an hour, but she hadn't thought to bring her school bag with her to the salon. Turns out a full cut takes longer than a trim (go figure).
She doesn't think about Seth's reaction to the sudden change, not until she's through the front door and his eyes are on her—pinning her in place.
He blinks, expression infuriatingly neutral. "Your hair."
Instinctively, her fingers reach up to the strands hovering just past her ear. "I, uh, cut it."
He continues to stare. "Yes, I can see that."
"Yeah, I—well, it was time for a change, anyway. And I know Ms. Green really likes those old eighties movies. So, yeah. I'm Claire. You know, from—"
"The Breakfast Club," Seth finishes. "I'm familiar."
Oh. "Really?" Aside from a handful of pop culture references, she wasn't really well acquainted.
"Time is something I have in excess." He shrugs. "You'll be hard pressed to find a film I'm not familiar with."
Sara remembers the way his expression darkened, how the words "I do" hissed between his teeth when she demanded he watch a movie instead of attending her literature class two months ago.
"Oh." In that moment, the obvious dawns on her. "You… you don't sleep, do you?"
He smiles, crooked and bitter. "No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid."
There's a pain there, hiding at the edges of the sardonic lilt in his voice. It's hard to imagine a life without rest—without the weightlessness of sleep or the lucidness of dreams. Sara almost pities him.
"Surely you aren't planning to wear that?"
Almost.
Her eyes narrow. "Why not?"
"Your shirt is purple."
"So?"
"Claire's is pink. Honestly, it's like you're not even trying."
She stares, dumbfounded. "I cut my hair. How is that not trying?"
"Yes, but why go that far if not to go all the way? Use that pink blouse—the one you keep meaning to donate but never get around to—and roll up the sleeves." He nods toward her waist. "The skirt will do well enough, but add a belt and switch the black boots for those brown ones."
Sara's stare doesn't drop. "Uh huh… How many times have you watched that movie?"
"Far more than I care to count," he grumbles, gaze lingering on her hair. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face—crooked and dimpled. "You do know what they called her?"
"Uhm, no?" Just because she knows about the movie doesn't mean she's in any way ready for trivia.
His smile widens, but it's the teasing glint in his eyes that gives it away.
Sara groans. "No."
"Always, the Princess, aren't you?"
She changes.Not because Seth said she should, but because she's desperate to score every single point of extra credit she can get. Sara won't admit it (at least not to him) but he's right—the pink blouse in the back of her closet works a lot better.
So do the brown boots.
And the belt.
Sometimes, she could hate him for being right. Especially when his eyes gleam, his mouth curling at the edges with a reserved sort of told-you-so confidence, when he sees her. "Well, make way for the Princess."
The glare she sends him is weak at best. "Ha ha. Hilarious."
"I do try."
Sara grabs her bag off the couch, slinging it over her shoulder and glancing at the clock. She's running a few minutes behind, but a thought nags at her. Shifting her weight, she adjusts the strap of her bag and fights the awkwardness threatening to make her voice catch. "I, uh, won't be home after school."
He perks, head tilting. "Oh?"
She adjusts the bag on her shoulder, shifting awkwardly. "I'm taking some more sunset photos, so I won't be back until after dark. You know, in case you got worried or whatever."
"I appreciate your consideration." He smiles, small but achingly soft at the corners. "Truly."
Sara shrugs, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. There's a prickling heat crawling up her neck that has no business being there. "Yeah, so, anyway. Bye." She turns, silently berating herself as she heads toward the door—her steps a little too quick to come off as casual. She tells herself it's because she's running late and not because she's running away.
Seth calls after her. It's only the surprise of hearing her name that prompts her to turn back, to meet his eyes. His expression is soft—sincere. "Your hair, it suits you."
The heat has spread to her cheeks now, but (somehow) she manages to keep her voice steady. "Thanks."
The tiny curl at the corner of his mouth grows into a smirk. "Good luck, Princess. Also, there's to be a surprise essay on one of Shakespeare's sonnet readings today. Do try and brainstorm on those themes we've talked about."
Sara makes a point to slam the door behind her, hoping he didn't catch her hint of a smile.
There'san extra pep to her step as she goes to her car.
Ms. Jones had laughed—delighted—when she walked into class and was quick to assure her that the full amount of extra credit would be awarded. Twenty-five extra credit points might not have been enough of an incentive for most of the class, but considering her next semester was riding on her passing, Sara is thrilled. Also, she's pretty sure she killed the in-class essay. Seth's warning might have helped. A lot.
So did the quick brush up on Google right before class.
Humming under her breath, she flings her bag onto the passenger floor before reaching for her seatbelt.
"So where are we going?"
Sara screams, hand flying to her chest as she pivots in her seat to glare at him. The wide grin he wears only fuels her fear induced fury. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"Loaded question, I'm afraid," he says, blinking into the passenger seat. "But in this case, I suppose my fault lies in being prone to boredom. Also, you forgot to turn the telly on."
She runs a hand through her hair, trying to convince her heart to calm. She can still feel it banging mercilessly against her ribs. "You always managed to turn it on before."
"Only with our dear Ansel's help."
She manages to restrain the urge to remind him that Ansel is her cat and no one else's. "And today is different because?"
"He's napping."
Sara stares at him, anger mounting, before she shakes her head and starts the car. "You're impossible," she hisses.
A beat of silence. Sara can almost feel the shift in him. "You were actually frightened." A statement, not a question—one Sara doesn't bother responding to. "My apologies, it wasn't my intention."
Gritting her teeth, she turns the key until the engine sputters to life. "Sure."
"I can't lie."
She swallows, chewing on her words until they soften. As much as she hates to believe him, she doesn't really have a choice in the matter. "Just… don't ever do that again."
He nods, eyeing her strangely. "Very well..."
Sara can still feel the question in his gaze after she pulls out of the parking garage, but it takes her another minute before she can answer it. "There's that story," she mutters, feeling silly even as she says it. "The one with the killer in the backseat. It's always freaked me out, ok?"
"Ah," he breathes, "I see." Somehow, she doesn't doubt that he does."Would it be any consolation to know that particular story is merely an urban myth?"
"It really wouldn't." Her phone rings, breaking through the silence with a jingled merriment that grates on her nerves.
Seth raises a brow as her hand fumbles blindly through the messenger bag at his feet while keeping her eyes on the road. "Jingle Bell Rock?"
"Jen," she growls, ignoring his bark of laughter as her fingers finally find her phone. She pulls it out, glancing at the screen before hanging up and dropping it into the cup holder with a muttered curse. "I swear to god, these telemarketers have it out for me." She turns a corner, glowering. "Also, remind me to take off that stupid ringtone later."
"Not feeling the Christmas spirit?"
"We haven't even made it through Halloween."
"Fair enough," he chuckles, settling into the seat and watching several streets pass as she drives. "I'm surprised you don't plan on joining the festivities," he says eventually, seeming genuinely curious. His gaze snags on a toddling ghost buster and he smirks. "Seems a shame to waste such a delightful holiday."
Sara rolls her eyes, finger tapping on the steering wheel as she waits for the light to turn green. "No."
"But why?"
"Because I'm an adult?"
"That's hardly stopping your peers. I have it on good authority that even your BFF Jen is participating."
Sara closes her eyes, sending up a quick prayer for patience before sending him a glare. "How many times do I need to tell you to stop spying on my friends?"
"At least once more, apparently," he quips, unrepentant. "Besides, I would hardly call it spying. I just pop in every now and then to see how they're getting on."
"They don't know you're watching them. It's spying, and it's creepy."
"If you'd rather keep me all to yourself, all you need to do is ask."
"That is not what I said."
"You're the only one who can see me."
"Why do you keep ‘popping in' on them, then? There are literally thousands of other places you could go to do some people watching."
He hesitates. When she chances a glance, his expression is pinched in a way that makes her nervous. It's the same look he gets when he wants to twist the truth, but doesn't know how. "Seth?"
He grunts, looking out the window. "Just to make sure everyone's well."
"Yeah, I'm not letting this one go. I command you to tell me."
"You can't command me to do anything," he retorts. "You may have me on a leash, but I'm not your dog."
At the intersection, she stops at the red light and faces him fully. "You can either give me an actual answer or I can needle you with questions the rest of the ride. Why do you keep checking on them?"
Seth grits his teeth, jaw straining. "They're your people." The words rush out of him, a hiss of breath. "If something happened to either of them, it would crush you." He shakes his head, eyes meeting hers. The depth of sincerity she sees there makes her hands sweat. "You've lost enough."
Sara swallows, breath shallow and eyes blown wide. Behind her, a car honks. At some point, the light turned green.
Taking her foot off the brake, she drives through the intersection; grasping the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip to mask the trembling of her hands. It's only after she turns onto the highway that she finds her voice. "Why?"
The word is shaky, vague enough that he could easily answer around it, but it's all she can manage. Her heart is hammering in her chest, an echoed beat of a fist against solid wood. In front of her is miles of open road dotted with a spattering of cars, but all she can see is the panic in Seth's eyes when he begged her not to answer the door.
"I don't know what he is capable of." His answer is soft, strained at the edges. "And the firm he's interning at is out of my reach."
Licking her lips, she tries to keep her voice steady. She doesn't need to ask who ‘he' is. "Reach?"
"There are… limitations to how far I can travel."
He doesn't elaborate. Sara doesn't ask him to. A silence falls between them, thick and brimming with tension. Her thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief—David would never hurt anyone, let alone her friends—but through it all she can still hear the drumming of his fist against her door, the slurred curses and violent rattle of the handle.