a million different things I could have done that day

Chapter 17

Krystelle

Troy wasn't the only guy I'd ever dated. I might not have been as audacious as Bliss, but I was no Mother Teresa. There had been a few before Troy: all worthless, spineless assholes who just couldn't bear to, for once in their lives, do or say anything that carried the slightest tremor of depth.

And then there was Xavier. Oh, Xavier. He was perhaps the only one of my flings who could manage to read ten pages of a novel without falling asleep. Xavier was what most people would call a "good influence." He was composed, intelligent and most importantly, he could carry on a meaningful conversation for more than five minutes.

Oh, Xavier. How my mother hated him and his middle-class family for no other reason than that they couldn't afford to drive Ferraris like the rest of us spoilt brats. Mom loved it when they finally moved away because Mr. Peterson lost his job. Naturally, my heart shattered into a million pieces, incurable by anything except Adele and Taylor Swift.

Only years later did I realize Xavier wasn't really much of a boyfriend. He didn't make my heart race when he smiled; holding his hand never felt like magic. Years later, when I'd finally moved on, I realized that Xavier had simply been an amazing friend. Which was fine. Because back then, he was exactly what I'd needed.

People are like that. We love to put labels on relationships: friend, best friend, boyfriend, frenemy, whatever. But at the end of the day, all it comes down to is this: It doesn't matter what you call a person, if they're there for you when you need them, that's all they really need to be.

I remembered Xavier now as I wonder what to do about the whole Fine Arts School thing. He got it. He was the one person who got the pressure, the need to be great, to be remarkable(besides Carson perhaps).

Yesterday, I finally opened up some university websites. As predicted, there weren't all that many good ones in the country. I don't quite know why I started applying from down up, maybe because I thought it would get my head into it? I don't know. Almost through the list, at the 3th ranked art school in the country, I finally stopped my robotic answering to think. Brenwood Academy for Fine Art, Boston. Their essay question deserved a slap in the face. It went as follows: What do you think your purpose in life is? What the hell? We're 17-year-olds.We don't have the answers to that kind of stuff. Or is that just me? That question brought me back to sanity and reminded me that 3 AM really is a time to be asleep.

My slumber bid me farewell late the next day. I hadn't spoken to Carson since yesterday morning when we both went home at 8 AM. Neither of us had felt up to going to school after, so we'd persuaded ourselves to take a day off. Not as fortunately as you'd think, watching 2 season re-runs of Grey's Anatomy in a day makes time fly and eventually sends you down the tunnel of insanity

I glanced at the digital alarm clock on my bedside table. 10 AM, it read. Shit. I try not to swear that often (unlike Carson) but this situation required it. Mom was going to kill me; Two days at home was worthy of decapitation in her eyes. Maybe I could sneak out quickly without her noticing. I might even make it in time for the sessions after lunch.

I frowned at my reflection in the mirror. I know people weren't exactly supposed to look great whilst brushing their teeth, but has it always been this horrendous? Normally, I'd be too tired and sleep-deprived to notice. Today, however, I wasn't that fortunate. My hair, normally light brown and straight, was up in strange places at strange angles. Mornings are not their best.

Deciding what to wear to school has always been a struggle for me. Do I dress casual? Do I dress like a Barbie? Do I dress like a nerd? Do I dress like an artist? I am all those things, after all. But I know Mom only approves of one style: hers. Elegant and regal. Lucky for me, no one expects me to wear elegant and regal to high school. Ultimately, I ended up throwing on a knee-length, floral, black dress. That a bit of everything, right?

When I reached the kitchen, I screamed. Oh, my god, there's a stranger in our kitchen! He doesn't even have a shirt on! Reaching into my bag for my pepper spray, I scanned the room for possibly exit strategies. The kitchen has a back door, but I probably couldn't get all the way there in these heels. I finally understood why Bliss always said heels were a creation designed by men to weaken women. You really couldn't get anywhere in these god damn things!

I screamed again fearing that I might be attacked right here in my kitchen in the house I grew up in. I guess watching all those seasons of Criminal Minds had had an effect on me. Why else would I decide to charge at an intruder, pepper spray at the ready, prepared to seriously regret this decision?

I ran as fast as these paralyzing excuses for shoes would let me. I let out another pathetic scream like they do in war movies. Only difference was that they sounded like warriors and I sounded like a dead rat. Charming.

The man saw me coming and ran. Ran! The coward! How dare he run while I, a hundred pound teenage girl, maintain the courage to charge? I chased him around the counter until I realized this was my perfect opportunity to get away. Maybe it was the fear in his eyes that made me go on instead. How dare he break into my house semi-naked?

"Krystelle Maria Yale!" I heard a woman's voice shriek from behind me. "Would you put down that bloody thing and stop behaving like a lunatic?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to see my mother standing there. "Thank you," she said a little quieter. The man went to stand beside her. What the hell? I took this time to look at him more closely. His blonde hair was damp and his features looked old in a strangely attractive way."This is Conan."

Finally, as I gazed up at my mother standing there in her robe beside the psycho in a towel, I finally put the pieces together."

"No," I muttered. "Oh, my god. Did you sleep with him?"

My mother blushed a bright shade of red. "You know what," I continued, "I don't even want to know.

They were going to kill me. Both of my parents. Them and their idiotic love lives. First Dad and Suzan with their kid, and now this.

For the first time, I couldn't wait for college. Maybe I'd find one in Australia.