“I thought it was weird that you saved me a cookie. But I see why now. Do you know how gross it is to have diarrhea for a whole day?” I feel faint. But I only put a little bit in, I want to say. Instead, what comes out is “You can’t prove it.” I want to cry. I want to grab Haven and wail that I’m sorry, that I hadn’t meant to actually hurt her. But I’m unable to get the words out.
Haven’s face twists, turning ugly. “You are an evil freak. I’ve never known anyone as evil as you.” She stabs a finger into my chest. “You need to stay away from me and Dani and everyone else. Stay away from me. I mean it.” With that, she turns and walks off, her hand flying to her stomach like she might throw up.
I barely remember the walk back home. She knows. How did she find out? I guess it was obvious, like she said, because I saved her a cookie and she knew that I didn’t like her. Stupid, stupid! How could I not have seen how obvious it was? What if she tells the police? Why hasn’t she? I guess because she doesn’t have any proof. And if she does, I can say that everyone else was fine, so it couldn’t have been me who did it. What if she tells Dani? What if she tells others? Why did I do what I did? I feel so much disgust toward myself that I shudder thinking about it. I can’t let that darkness out ever again. I need to really commit to being good from now on. Because I want to be good. I need to be good. The last thing I want is to turn into someone like Haven.
Chapter 18
I would so love to say that I wasn’t in my right mind when I put on Mom’s visor, sunglasses, and a mask and got back into my car. But the truth is, I was completely in my right mind. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that I can’t remember the last time I had such clarity. Everything seems stark, all the edges around me sharpened into minute detail, and my mind is clean and undisturbed, like still water, all my thoughts focused into one single tiny pinprick of a thought: Stop Haven.
I call out to my parents, telling them that I’m going for a drive, and from the den where they are watching TV, Mom says, “All right.” She doesn’t bother asking me where I’m going at this hour of the night. It’s nine now, and clearly I’m not going out to hang out with friends because (1) pandemic et cetera, and (2) I have no friends, but neither of my parents seems bothered by the fact that their single daughter is heading out at night while wearing a visor and sunglasses. I wonder how normal parents would behave. I wonder what it is that happened early in their lives that made my parents this way. And I think: I am not going to end up like them.
The moment I start up my car, I am transported back to my high school years. The truth is, I’ve done this so often that I can just sit back and let muscle memory take over. The number of times I drove to Haven’s house back then, under the blanket of nightfall, and just sat in my car and watched her house. I don’t know what I was hopingfor back then. Part of me wanted to catch her doing something bad, I guess, but the other part of me became enamored of her home life, so different from mine. Her adoring parents. A home full of love and laughter, loud and bright.
The thing is, I used to have a habit of driving to Haven’s and watching her. I never told anyone. And it wasn’t out of control or anything. Eventually, I managed to break that habit. Nighttime would come and I would grapple with myself and manage to keep myself at home, manage to stop myself from climbing into my car and driving the now-familiar route over to Haven’s. It was hard at first, but it got easier, and of course it became easier still once I graduated and was able to move to the East Coast. I healed myself. I did that. And now ...
No. This time, it’s different. I’m not just going to Haven’s to watch her aimlessly. I’m going there with a purpose. I grip the wheel tightly as I drive. The houses around my parents’ house in San Gabriel can’t ever be accused of being extravagant, but they’re nice enough. It’s a safe neighborhood, and I’ve always liked the feel of it. But then I cross over to San Marino, and suddenly it’s ostentatious mansions all around, with expansive front yards and elaborate Greek fountains, as though climate change weren’t an actual thing. Focus, I tell myself. I go over the list of things I’m supposed to do when I get there.
Okay, so for one thing, I need to get evidence that Haven is full of shit. Back in school, Dani never quite believed me when I told her all the bad stuff Haven had done to me, and of course she didn’t, because Haven always made sure to cover her tracks. It was on me to prove it, and look what happened when I failed. But I know better now. I’m going to find proof. And how do I do that? By proving that her dad’s in perfect health and she made up all that stuff about him having COVID to gain sympathy.
That’s a good plan, right? I can’t even tell anymore.
For another, maybe I’ll be able to get proof that Haven is a bad person some other way. Like if I could ...
Nope, I’m drawing a blank on this one. All I can think of is if I stole in and grabbed her phone or something, but that is definitely over my head. They make it look so easy in movies, breaking into people’s houses. Somehow, everyone in the movies knows how to pick locks, and every lock is a manual one that can be picked. Or everyone knows how to hack into phones and computers and do cool stuff like clone them. Well, I don’t know how to do any of that, so I have no idea what I’d need to do to prove that Haven is lying. Maybe I’ll get lucky and catch her doing something like kicking a stray cat or something. I snort at the thought. The sad thing is, I can totally envision Haven doing that.
I park my car down the street from Haven’s house in case she recognizes it from school. It’s been a relatively warm day, but nights in SoCal are always chilly, and this one’s no exception. I’m wearing a hoodie, and I wrap my arms around myself as I walk down the street. Halfway down, I realize that wearing a visor and sunglasses at night will probably attract more attention, so I scurry back to my car and dump them in the back seat. Instead, I pull my hood over my head and hope that the mask I’m wearing will render me somewhat unrecognizable. I keep my head down as I walk, focusing on keeping my breathing even.
Haven’s house is one of the smaller ones on this street, but it’s still much bigger than mine, and much, much nicer. Despite the fact that we’re in a pandemic and I’m sure no landscaper has been over here for months, the front lawn remains aggressively manicured. I slow down as I approach, my heart rate quickening. I feel painfully noticeable, sticking out in the silence. Why are these stupid streets so well lit? Back in San Gabriel, I can barely see where I’m walking at night, but here, the streetlamps are as bright as flood lights. I check my surroundings to make sure there’s no one else around, then I duck into a gap in the hedges and walk closer still to Haven’s house.
I’ve never been this close to the house before; back in high school, I always just sat in my car. But now that I have a clear goal, I know that I can’t sit back passively, waiting for something to happen. I need to make it happen. I approach slowly, my breath roaring in my ears, soheavy that my mask moves with each inhale and exhale. I hate this stupid mask, the way it makes my face so warm and moist and makes me smell my own breath, but I’m also grateful for the way it hides my face.
I reach the side of the house. There’s a gate that presumably leads to the backyard, and a few trash cans next to it. Now what? I retrace my steps, circling to the front of the house, and I’ve just reached a large picture window when I catch a figure moving inside the house, less than five feet away from me. I suck in a shocked gasp through my teeth, and if not for the pane of glass separating me and the other person, they would’ve heard me for sure. My instincts scream at me to duck down below the windowsill, but I make myself freeze instead, fearful that any slight movement might catch their eye.
It’s Haven’s dad. He’s sitting on a lounge chair that is now familiar to me because I’ve seen it so many times in Haven’s posts. It’s his favorite reading chair. There are so many videos and photos of him sitting in it, looking out the window, or reading on it, or sipping a cup of coffee. And every single time, there’s always a gentle smile playing on his lips, and he looks so at peace, a man who knows that he’s been blessed with a good life and wants to savor every moment. I’ve seen comments referring to him as Asian Santa, and I have to agree. Mr. Lee looks—there’s no other word for it—jolly.
But now, he’s visibly diminished. His once rotund belly has shrunk; his barrel chest is thin. His sweater hangs loosely on him. His face was round on Haven’s Instagram, but now it’s gaunt, his chin pointy instead of soft. On any other man, the weight loss might have looked okay—good, even—but on Mr. Lee, it looks wrong, like someone’s stabbed a straw into him and sucked out everything jolly about him. He looks tired and old, and every breath he takes seems labored. I have only seen him in person a handful of times, on parents’ day at school or when Haven performed onstage, but because of Haven’s Instagram, I feel like I know Mr. Lee, and the sight of him now, so greatly reduced in stature, physically hurts me to look at. I’m not a monster; my fight isn’t against Mr. Lee. I don’t want to see him like this.
And, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach, this proves that Haven was telling the truth about her dad getting COVID. Part of my mind tries to tell me that he might be sick with something else, that maybe it’s the flu or something, but I know that it’s just grasping at straws. And so what if it’s a different disease and not COVID? He’s still deserving of empathy.
As soon as I realize this, the rage descends once more. Why can’t anything go my way, just once? I really needed this. I needed to prove that Haven is evil. Just this one time. And the universe can’t even give that to me. I have nothing. No job, no prospects. I have one tiny book deal and no publicist now that I can’t pay Sarah, which means my book will simply sink into obscurity, leaving me with truly nothing. And Haven, sweet, beautiful Haven, has been blessed with everything, and still, it isn’t enough for her. Still, she wants to take from me. Why? She was the one who reached out and offered that olive branch, and I’ve stuck to my end of the bargain, haven’t I? I’ve moved on, focused on other things, but still she keeps clawing me back into this abyss where we end up destroying each other.
What more do I have to do to get her out of my life?
The answer comes to me as clear as a bell, tinkling straight into the center of my brain. That’s exactly it. I have to get her out of my life. And my life is mostly online right now. My real life is nonexistent, but online, I have everything—friends, a community, my publishing deal, my social media accounts, which are steadily growing. So what I need to do is to get rid of Haven from my online life. My gaze, previously locked on Mr. Lee, now travels back to the side of the house, where the trash can and recycling bin stand. I’d spotted something else there, stuck to the wall. I wait until Mr. Lee turns his head away from the window before ducking down and scampering back to the side of the house.
There it is. A white box with cables running out of it and into the ground. The fuse box? Or an internet box? Either way, without one or the other, Haven is not getting online. Well, she could use her phone to go online, but this will still put a damper on things.
Part of my mind, the part that’s been raised by my parents to keep its head down and stay out of trouble, gibbers, This is crazy! Stop! Don’t do it!
But it’s overwhelmed by the other part of me. The part that’s tired of rolling over and playing dead. I don’t let myself hesitate before I grab the cables, then I give the cables a ruthless yank. They’re tougher to rip out than I thought, requiring me to plant my feet firmly on the ground and give it two more tugs, but then there’s a satisfying click as the cables detach from whatever’s in the box, then a buzz of electricity, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m about to get myself killed, but I’m okay, I’m still here, and I’m holding a bunch of ripped-out cables in my hands. Voices are raised from inside the house. Confusion and alarm. I drop the cables, and without another look behind me, I turn toward the street and run as fast as I can.
I’m expecting to be caught, to hear Haven’s voice shouting “I see you, Fern!” but nothing comes. No one even steps outside of the house. I’m out of earshot within a few seconds, so I have no idea what they’re saying in there, and I don’t stop running until I’m inside my car. I slam the door shut, the sound of my gasping, wheezing breath filling the small, enclosed space. Before long, my body heat and hard breathing fogs up my windows. I stay there for a long while, gripping the wheel tight, letting the fogged-up windows cocoon me from the rest of the world. I’m okay. I’m okay. I made it out.
When I finally catch my breath, I take out my phone and check Slack. I go through the channels one by one until I find Haven’s name. Her last post was on the #celebrations channel, thanking everyone for congratulating her on the announcement about being aGood Morning Americabook club pick. That was sent just seven minutes ago. I estimate that I’ve been sitting in the car for about five minutes, so Haven posted this two minutes before I ripped out her cables. Excitement bubbles in my chest. Have I done it? Have I successfully gotten rid of Haven online, even if temporarily? I’m not delusional enough to think that this could be a permanent solution. I would be happy if it justmeans that Haven is even the slightest bit impeded from posting all the time. If she no longer has internet at home, she’ll have to rely on her phone, and maybe she won’t be so quick to respond to everything.
I wait a little longer in case Haven makes a new post in the next few minutes, but the channels are regularly getting updated by other members, with no Haven in sight. The dot next to her name remains gray. I’ve done it. I laugh out loud, the sound unabashedly happy in my car. I sound like a little kid getting an ice cream sundae. Time to get out of here. I turn on the engine and blast the heaters to unfog the windows, then I slowly drive down the street, keeping my headlights off. I watch Haven’s house as I drive past, and it’s shrouded in complete darkness. I guess what I ripped out was their electric cables and not just their internet cables after all.
Guilt stabs into my stomach. What if by doing that, I harm Mr. or Mrs. Lee?
