DREAMS of 18 Read online

  If I was crucified in the dark corners of social media, Mr. Edwards was in the local paper, along with the kiss, the photo and an article that I want to set fire to.

  The headline read: “The celebrated coach of Cherryville High caught after-hours and on camera.”

  The article blasted his reputation. They called him an alleged sex offender. They said that I was a teenage student and that the best coach that high school had ever seen was taking advantage of me. They knew he was my neighbor so there were speculations. They said that maybe he’d had his eye on me long before he made the move.

  The article went on to list all the other places Mr. Edwards had worked at, mostly in Denver, and that even though there was no indication of any misconduct on his part, the board should have a formal inquiry. The truth should come out. Because really, how safe were the kids if we had a teacher like that?

  It was a tabloid piece. I don’t even think anyone reads the Cherryville Chronicle but that week, they sure did.

  The article painted me as innocent, though. An innocent, naïve high school student caught in the clutches of a lecherous coach, eighteen years her senior.

  If anyone’s lecherous in this scenario, it’s me. I’m lecherous. Moi.

  I tried to fix it, too. I called the newspaper people and demanded that they print a retraction. I told them the whole story. I even went to Principal Jacobs, and told him everything.

  He thanked me for coming forward with the information, but he said that I should let the adults handle it.

  Yeah, those were his exact words – let the adults handle it, Violet.

  I wanted to punch him in the face and tell him, check your facts, moron. I am an adult. I’m fucking eighteen.

  None of that seemed to matter anyway because a week later Mr. Edwards was fired. He packed up everything and left town.

  I’ve never seen anyone disappear so fast. Like he wasn’t even there. Like he never came into my life and everything was a dream.

  An elaborate, two-year-long dream that my fevered, lonely brain came up with.

  But I’m glad that he left when he did.

  I’m glad he wasn’t there for the worst of it. When the rumors started to catch fire and more and more people started to know.

  So, it’s a good thing that he left town.

  Only I never saw him after that night.

  Mr. Edwards was always so good at making himself scarce and I was so good at avoiding him myself that I hardly ever saw him except in the night. I didn’t see him after the kiss, either.

  Not even when I went to their house, banged on their door so Brian would let me in.

  Sometimes when I focus on all the bad stuff that happened, especially with Mr. Edwards, I almost forget what Brian went through.

  Almost.

  He was my best friend. He wanted to surprise me on my birthday and look what happened. I broke his trust. I hurt him so much.

  After witnessing my crime, he got into his car and left for the night.

  He didn’t come back until the early hours of the following morning. I went over to his house to try to explain. He didn’t give me a chance. He wouldn’t listen to me, no matter how much I groveled.

  I decided to try again the next day and the day after that and then yet another day after that. Either he wouldn’t open the door or he’d make an excuse and walk away from me. Calls, emails, everything went unanswered, which was so surprising because no matter how much we fought, he’d always say something.

  Brian always had something to say. He was always so open and talkative even when he was upset.

  And then, he left early for college a week later.

  I haven’t heard from him since, either.

  But I do hear about him. I do hear about all the things that he does. Although, I never – not in my wildest, wildest dream – could have ever imagined the source of my information.

  I shouldn’t be surprised though. She does seem to know everything about everything.

  Fiona. My sister.

  And of course, she knows everything about Brian too because he is dating her now.

  Yeah, they’re dating.

  They started dating last fall. Actually, that’s when I snapped. Fiona called me to brag about it and I lost my shit.

  That’s when I got drunk and lost control of my car.

  When they put me in Heartstone, I had a lot of time to think about why Brian would do such a thing when he hated Fiona more than me. She would deliberately try to make my life difficult back in school and Brian never liked her. So it was a shock.

  But I think I know the answer.

  He did to me what I did to him. I hurt him. I betrayed his trust. So he did the same.

  I just hope he doesn’t get hurt in the process because according to Fiona’s Instagram, they’re still going strong.

  The only consolation is that when I asked Fiona to never mention my breakdown to Brian, she agreed. Her exact words were, “If you think I’m going to mention Heartstone to my boyfriend, Brian, you really are crazy. You’re not taking this away from me, not again. For some reason, he chose to become friends with you and your weirdness. I’m not adding fuel to the fire by painting you as this poor, crazy little Violet who ended up at a psych ward and risk being sympathetic to you. So yeah, I’ll personally make sure that Brian never finds out.”

  For once, I was happy to be on the same page with my sister.

  I don’t want anyone to find out. Ever. Besides, it’s in the past now. I’m on the Outside and I’m handling things.

  And I’ve got bigger fish to fry. That’s why I’m here.

  In Colorado. In the middle of nowhere, it looks like.

  It’s a small town called Pike’s Peak and Mr. Edwards lives a little over an hour outside of it.

  The first thing that I notice when I reach my destination and park my car by the side of the road is that this road is endless.

  It stretches on and on, flanked by dense trees.

  In the midst of all the green and the open skies is a winding dirt path that cuts through the woods and on the cusp of it is a little red mailbox. Or rather it used to be red once upon a time, I think. Now, it looks more rusted than anything.

  I should really get out of my car right now.

  I’ve been sitting here, staring at that mailbox and that dirt path for about thirty minutes.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I tell myself, gripping the wheel tightly. “You can do it. You can face him.”

  Then, I chuckle nervously. “Really? Can I?”

  They told me not to go, my friends.

  They did.

  They told me that it was a bad idea.

  Why did I not listen to them again?

  Oh yeah, because I’m crazy.

  Puffing out a breath, I sit up and straighten my shoulders. From behind my Audrey Hepburn glasses, I squint at the endless road, the mailbox and the trees.

  “Just do it. Don’t think.”

  I jump out of the car before I can change my mind and start jogging.

  A second later, I’m standing at the mailbox. It has the house number on it, along with Edwards.

  Edwards.

  It sends a jolt through my body. So much so that my hand raises itself and my fingers grab hold of the rim of my glasses so I can pull them off and read the letters that make up his last name in technicolor.

  But I stop myself.

  For some reason, it feels too intimate to see them without the lenses. And I have no plans of feeling any kind of intimacy toward Mr. Edwards whatsoever.

  So I move on.

  I walk past the mailbox, putting one foot in front of the other. It’s hard. But I do it.

  The dirt road is littered with leaves, some green and some crunchy yellow. My red sneakers chomp on them as I walk through them and toward what I’m hoping is going to be his house.

  Right now, I can’t even see it.

  Just when I think that
I’m going to be walking forever, lost in the thick woods, I reach a clearing.

  And in that clearing sits a house that kind of dries out my throat.

  Mostly because it’s not what I expected but at the same time, it’s exactly where I expected Mr. Edwards to live.

  On one hand, everything about his cabin is very masculine and woodsy and outdoorsy and tough. It’s exactly what I felt when I saw Mr. Edwards on my sixteenth birthday, hauling that coffee table.

  But on the other hand, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here.

  Or anyone can live here.

  Because it seems inhabitable. Take the front yard, for example. It’s overrun by brambles and wild grass and shrubs that haven’t been trimmed in years. There’s a snaking stone pathway through them that leads to the stairs, which in turn lead to the porch of the cabin.

  Now the stairs and the porch.

  Wow. They’re made of wood but they seem to be sagging.

  In fact, through all the savage flora, I can see that one of the stairs is cracked and a piece of wood is simply hanging there. Like someone’s foot just went through it.

  And don’t get me started on the front door, man.

  Like the mailbox, it used to be a different color but now it’s all discolored and dull.

  Oh and let’s not forget the roof.

  The roof is pointed toward the sky but that’s the only detail I can tell. Because all of it is covered by ivy and something else that I don’t even know the name of.

  How does anyone live here?

  How does he?

  Because I know he lives here.

  It has an air of loneliness to it. If I focused harder, I could smell it. I could smell the old wood, the mothballs, the musty scent of dust. The neglect and disarray and even hate.

  Forgotten and lonely.

  Just like him. So far away from civilization and aloof.

  I shake my head to dispel all these silly thoughts.

  I need to walk farther, go to the front door of his house and knock. But I’m not moving. I’m not even looking at the front door anymore.

  I’m looking around.

  There’s a garage on the far right with an old-fashioned barn door, which is padlocked closed. It must hold the truck he used to drive, all black and big and so different from the BMWs of our neighborhood.

  The truck I so wanted to ride in but never got the chance.

  According to Brian, Mr. Edwards was possessive of his truck. He wouldn’t even let Brian drive it. It used to frustrate my best friend to no end.

  But I used to find it cute – Mr. Edwards’s possessiveness – among other things. Other less appropriate things that I don’t want to think about.

  The only thing I should be thinking about is apologizing. That’s why I’m here.

  To apologize. To make up for what I did.

  How am I going to do that? I’m still as clueless as I was when the girls asked me about it.

  But I have to start somewhere, right? I have to take the first step and go knock on his front door.

  God, front doors freak me out.

  But it’s fine.

  I’m fine.

  I skip on the spot as if getting ready to go into the boxing ring or something, instead of knocking on a door.

  But suddenly, I realize that I might not get an answer, even if I did knock.

  Because no one seems to be home. The house sits in darkness.

  I take a few steps toward the house, and through the big dust-stained window on the porch, I see the silhouettes of furniture. Maybe a couch and a coffee table. Even a lamp.

  But there are no lights on and the sky’s getting darker by the second.

  I bite my lip and stand there, trying to think about what to do next. Before I know it, my legs are moving forward.

  I go around the cabin and look through other windows to confirm my suspicion. No signs of any light or movements. There’s no sound except for my own choppy breathing and a slight rustle of the breeze.

  He’s not home.

  I’m relieved.

  I’m also disappointed. As afraid as I am to face him, I don’t like it that he isn’t here.

  For a few moments, I thought he was close. He was right here. A knock – as impossible as it is for me to make it – and he’d open the door and I’d look at him after ten long months.

  Now I don’t know what to do. Where to find him. When I’ll get to see him.

  If I’ll get to see him.

  Maybe I should go and regroup, come up with a different plan. And I’m all set to do that but I stop.

  Because my gaze falls on something.

  Something that makes my heart squeeze in my chest. So much so that I feel like someone is strangling it, suffocating it to the point where I can’t breathe.

  It takes all my strength, but I move. I get my legs working, and then I’m running toward it.

  His garden.

  His rose garden.

  I almost scrape my bare knees dropping to the ground. I snatch my glasses off and stare at the dead flowers.

  The shrubs are bare and thorny, with hardly any leaves hanging on. The red and pink petals are scattered on the ground, warped into themselves.

  As soon as I touch a curled-up bloom still attached to the stem, it crumples.

  “Oh, poor babies,” I whimper.

  No one has been taking care of them.

  He is not taking care of them. They are forgotten and neglected, thrust into a little corner in his backyard.

  Just like this house and him.

  Mr. Edwards has always been so meticulous about his roses. So careful and religious about looking after them.

  Once Brian told me that Mr. Edwards drove two counties over to get the right brand of peat moss for them because the one they had at our local store wouldn’t let the moisture seep through the way that he wanted.

  God.

  My heart is breaking in a million ways right now and I have to find him.

  Not tomorrow. Not an hour later. But right now.

  I have to find him right this second.

  I have to see him with my own eyes. I have to look at him, ask him about his roses. I have to ask him so many things. I have to say so many things to him.

  The next thing I know I’m in my car and I’m driving away. I’m flooring it.

  I’ve never driven this fast in my life. Not even on the night I was running away. I go back to the town that I’d only passed through on my drive in.

  I literally have no idea what I’m going to do once I get there. But I can’t not do anything. Not after what I’ve seen.

  Oh God, the roses.

  I’m aware that I’m losing my mind over a bunch of plants. But they’re not just plants. They are… his plants.

  I still have the petals from all the dying roses I stole from him over those two years. I kept them safe between the pages of my journals. The old ones, the ones with my dreams: The Diary of a Shrinking Violet.

  Forty-five minutes later, I reach the main part of the town. It’s kind of a tiny place with a few stores, office buildings and restaurants probably covering about four to five blocks in total. I find a parking spot on one of the streets and jump out of the car with my large hobo bag – that I literally can’t go anywhere without – and my disguise on.

  I don’t even know if he’s here. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he’ll come back next week.

  But I can ask.

  Yes, I’m aware that talking to strangers isn’t my forte anymore but it’s going to be okay. I’ll do anything to find Mr. Edwards.

  I will.

  And my weird hang-ups won’t stop me.

  It’s a small town. I bet someone will know where to find him. My plan is to go to the bars first and ask about him and –

  “Holy shit,” I breathe out and halt in my tracks.

  Someone bumps into me from behind but I don’t move or pay attention to thei
r mumbled apology and my anxious heartbeats.

  Because I’ve found him.

  I’ve found Mr. Edwards.

  Or at least, his truck. His black truck is parked across the street, and like a lunatic, I run toward it.

  It’s definitely his truck.

  There’s the Connecticut plates – which apparently, he hasn’t changed – and that’s his plate number that I could recite even in my dreams.

  It’s parked right in front of a bar. There’s a window to the side, a big window, and without thinking about it, I approach it.

  The interior is neon-y and dark. The walls are made of dark wood and there are leather booths to the side, along with a few free-standing tables in the back.

  The place is somewhat crowded, and I scope through it, looking for him. For that one man for whom I drove thousands of miles and crossed multiple state lines.

  And in a rush of breath, I find him.

  My legs stagger a bit when I see him sitting in one of the leather booths close to the window.

  “Holy fucking shit,” I whisper. “Mr. Edwards.”

  He’s here.

  I found him.

  And God, he’s glowing.

  Something is illuminating the contours of his body. Even through the tint of my sunglasses, I can tell its sparkly and bright.

  It’s something out of a dream.

  Thousands and thousands of dreams that I’ve had. Some drunk, some electric. Some psychedelic and stoned. Some lonely and horny.

  But all of them about him.

  I press my hand even more aggressively on the glass window, probably leaving the print of my fingers and palms.

  In fact, I give my entire weight to the thick glass as I watch Mr. Edwards.

  He’s sitting alone, all shiny and magnificent and I’m finally basking in his light after ten months.

  Ten fucking months.

  Right now, his head is bent and except for the dark mess of his hair, I can’t see anything else of his face. His elbows rest on the wood, his strong, veiny forearms exposed.

  He caught me with those hands when I stumbled the night I kissed him, my feet tipsy and my body drunk.

  I bite my lip as a great big shiver runs down my spine.

  I know I’m flushed; I can feel the heat spreading all over my skin. It’s the kind of heat I haven’t felt in a long time. It has nothing to do with the prickling.