Page 164 of Mad Girl

LETTER NINETEEN

46 WEEKS LEFT

Today, when you visited, something weighed heavily on your mind.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Did something bad happen?”

You grimaced. “It’s not bad, per se, but—well—I’m afraid you’re not going to like it. In fact, I know you won’t.”

“If it’s something about one of them? I’d rather not know.”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing to do with them. It’s something to do with…”

“What? To do with what?”

“The house.”

Dread lanced through me. “Is Nic selling it? Did he sell it?”

“No,” you said, slipping a reassuring hand across the steel table. “It’s nothing as bad as that. It’s just—the thing is—it’s not the—he’s had the house redone.”

“Redone?” My chest tightened. “Redone how?”

You winced. “It’s been painted white. Professionally decorated. Many of the rooms…they won’t look anything like you remember them.”

My chin wobbled as I whispered, “What? Why? Why would he do that?”

“It was too dark in there. Too depressing. He needed a change, he said, a change of scenery. He kept seeing you in all of it, everywhere he looked, and he—Elliot, he couldn’t take being reminded anymore.”

I thrust myself up, hands fisted on the table. “It’s not like I died! I’m coming back! How could you let him do that, Casey? What the fuck?”

Chatter ceased as visitors and inmates at the tables surrounding us stopped to gawk. To listen.

“Me?” you said, leaning forward. “How could I have stopped him?”

“Bancroft,” the guard barked, stepping away from the wall. “Lower your voice. Sit down.”

But I ignored her. “He listens to you! You should’ve told him not to do it! You should’ve told him I’d hate it!”

“Listen, I did tell him that. I strongly suggested he not go through with it.”

“Bancroft,” the guard said, gripping the cuffs that hung from her belt. “This is your final warning.”

“Oh, screw you, Vera!” I yelled, causing her dark eyes to flash. She motioned at someone over my head, still gripping those cuffs as she marched toward me. A large, burly male guard came from the opposite direction, grabbed my arms, and yanked them behind my back, making it possible for Vera to handcuff me. As he carted me out of there, your distraught gaze snagged on mine. My outburst had cost us thirty-two minutes.

Hearing about the house enrages me.

I’ve lost so much, and Nic is still taking things from me.

In the weeks following that altercation with my dad, I put all my focus on school. And Nic put all his focus on me.

We didn’t talk about what had happened in the backseat of the car with Hal. Like everything else, we pretended that horrible thing had never happened. But it was there, looming over every meal and interaction, filling all the gaps in conversation, loud in the silence. Still, my dad stayed close, taking me for breakfast dates in the mornings before school and coming home early from work every day. He felt guilty for hurting me, I think, but he was probably afraid to leave me alone, too.

One rainy afternoon, we sat in the cafe window of a local coffee shop with steaming lattes, facing the street, raindrops sprinting down the glass. My laptop sat open on the bar between us, Harvard’s submissions portal pulled up, one click determining the next year of my life.

“You think I really need to do this?” I asked him, my finger hovering over the I DEFER checkbox.

“Yeah,” he said, gripping his maroon latte mug. “I do.”