Unwritten Pages

“Andrew!” I could hear my mother yelling my name from downstairs. I didn't want to get on anyone else's bad side today so I hurried downstairs. “Why in the world is the floor wet?”

“Oh,” I say, “I spilled some water,” I lie. I don't want to tell her what had actually happened. But she doesn't ask and I don't feel obliged to tell her so I don't. She doesn't ask any further.

“Did you even try to clean it up?” my father asks me. I shrug. I don't feel like answering any questions.

“You have to learn to take care of yourself,” my mother says, irritated. “You're eighteen for God's sake! You still act like you're only eight!”

Because you treat me like I'm eight, I think to myself. I don't say it out loud. I don't want my mother to have any reason to continue scolding me.

“Alright, alright,” I say, exasperated. “I get it. I'm going out now,” I tell them. Luckily, my parents don't ask why I'm leaving or even where I'm going. My mother is too busy complaining under her breath about what an irresponsible child I am.

I need to go for a walk. This whole deal about Winter and Desiree has left me confused. I hadn't been actually taking Meth, but Desiree thinks I am because I've spent so long cooped up in my room. And Winter—she was stalked. I didn't even know that. Plus, she had so much added drama with Drew and Liane.

I step outside and step the door. There are no summer breezes now. I'm not exactly sure where I'm heading. I just wanted to get some fresh air. I'm not going to find Desiree. I doubt that she'll even hear me out right now. I need to give her time to cool off. I hate when she does that. I hate when we have some misunderstanding and she doesn't listen to my part of the story.

Before I know it, I'm heading to the court near my house. I know Peter will be there. I'm not so sure about Con and Tomas though. Tomas is probably out somewhere hunting for a new girlfriend.

I think about what Winter had written about Peter in her journal. She use to have a romantic interest in him. But now everything was shattered. At first, I thought it had just been because she killed herself. Now I know that Drew played a part in separating them.

Drew. I want to hate him, but somehow, after seeing him in the cemetery, it's hard. I want to believe that Drew didn't care about Winter at all. If that's true, why would he be saying all those things by her grave? He hadn't even known that we were there. Maybe he had been just acting but why would he even try to seem like he missed her? It made no sense.

I can already see the court after a few minutes walk. Like I expected, Peter is there. Peter's been hanging around there a lot. I suppose it's because Winter's death has really shaken him. Winter deals with shock by writing lyrics and poems or whatever she does. Peter deals with shock by concentrating his whole being on sports.

I also see Con. The instant I see him, I think about Arianna and Avery. I didn't know that Arianna was the real Avery. Sure, she may have seemed slightly familiar when I first met her, but other than that, Arianna was always Arianna to me. Not the poor Avery girl that Robert had stalked.

Plus, Arianna's strong. She doesn't run away from things. Or at least, I think so. I've told Con the story of Avery before. I wonder what he'll think of Arianna once he realizes that she's Avery. He'll think of it as a joke, maybe. But who wouldn't?

“Hey!” I call to Peter and Con. Tomas is obviously not there and it confirms my suspicions that he's still attempting to gain the player reputation. Not that he's consciously trying to do it, it's just that he dates so many girls that he might as well be a player. I'm sure he's probably had a one night stand at one point.

Con waves at me but Peter just ignores me and shots another basket. There's no one else on the court today.

I jog over to them. Peter acknowledges me but he doesn't pay attention to anything other than the basket and the ball he's holding.

“He's still at it?” I ask Con. Con shrugs, trying to look disinterested with the topic. But I know that's he's slightly concerned for Peter. I know that Peter's not going to go mentally unstable. Hopefully not.

“That's his schedule for the summer,” Con says, sounding absentminded. “You know him. Sports is life. You know the drill.” I scowl at his vague answer.

“Seriously,” I say. “Has he even been eating?”

“McDonald's every day,” Con jokes with a goofy smile on his face. Seeing my expression, he sighs and says, “I think he just has dinner every day. That's it.”

I'm not sure that's enough, but I don't say anything else. Peter can take care of himself. He's not going to starve himself or do something harmful to himself. I'm just a little worried about him. He's my friend, and who would I be, not to care?

Peter has eavesdropped but he doesn't seem to care that much. “I did eat,” Peter say simply. “It's not like I'm anorexic.”

He's got a point there.

I don't feel like going into the whole conversation. I have a feeling I'll be pissing Peter off so I just drop the topic. He can do whatever he wants if he thinks it's good for him.



I know things are bad the moment I see Desiree.

My parents hadn't even told me that Desiree was here. But then again, they didn't know that Desiree and I had an argument about the drugs in my room. I suppose it's a good thing that they don't know. I don't even know what they'll do if they found out about the Meth stored in my room.

I have to give that back to Avery.

It's only when I go upstairs do I see Desiree. She's stuffing clothes into her bag, looking ready to leave. Of course she wouldn't stay here another night. Not after what she thought I had been doing all week.

“Desiree,” I sigh as soon as I see her. She stops what she's doing and turns and stares at me with her eyes. She looks like she's daring me to say something horrible to her.

“What do you want?” she hisses. Vaguely, I notice that the bag of Meth is hidden behind a book on my shelf. I can still see the clear plastic bag poking out. I hope Desiree hadn't seen that. She might have thought that I had gotten a new pack already. Or maybe she thinks I picked up the drugs because I'm desperate enough. Plus, I hadn't even chased after her when she left. I honestly hate chasing after her when she's upset, but I know that secretly, she wants me to chase after her. God, girls have too many expectations sometimes.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I feel dumb the instant after I ask the question. Of course I know what she's doing. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out.

“Leaving,” Desiree says simply. “I guess there was one extra room back at home that I could have been sleeping in.” She knew that there was one extra room when she came to my house. She could have stayed in her house when her cousins came over. But she chose me.

And now she was choosing to leave again.

I'm not sure what to say to make her stay. Something drastic, maybe. Tell her I love her. Make out with her. I don't know. But even if I do that, I doubt that Desiree's going to stay. Why should she when she's been suspecting that I'm taking drugs?

“I'm sorry,” I say, feeling dumb. What am I sorry for? She's the one who's assuming that I'm becoming a drug addict now. Saying sorry would just make her think that I actually was taking drugs. I obviously haven't. I hadn't even been high once since ninth grade. But Desiree hadn't listened to any evidence.

“Sorry doesn't help,” Desiree says and I hear a hint of hurt in her voice. “I thought you weren't going to do this anymore.”

For some reason, I feel a flicker of anger. She thinks it's about her. Everything's about her, isn't it? I hold back from swearing at her again after the phone call incident. I don't want to hurt her any further.

“I'm not taking drugs,” I say slowly for fear that I'll lose my temper. Fortunately, Desiree doesn't say anything else to provoke me. “It was just a misunderstanding,” I tell her.

“Okay,” Desiree says. Though I know from her tone that she's not convinced at all. “You can say what you want and I'll believe what I want,” she says in a calm voice. She picks up her bag and heads towards the door where I am.

She's leaving. I'm not doing a good job of explaining all this. God, I hate explaining things like this to her. Why can't she just accept that I'm not lying? I wouldn't lie to her about things like this!

I block her way, feeling like a possessive boyfriend. But I want her to believe me. I want her to know the truth before she decides to go. She can stay the night at her house—that's fine with me. It's just the fact that she doesn't believe me is what hurts.

“I'm not lying,” I say. I don't yell this because I know my parents are downstairs and they'll hear us. I don't want to have another shouting match with her either. “Desiree, you know I won't lie about things like this.” My voice sounds slightly desperate in my own ears and I force myself to stay calm and not beg on my knees for her to believe me.

“Maybe,” Desiree says, hesitating. I let out a sigh of relief because she's actually considering it. But as soon as she considers it, she tosses the conclusion away. “No,” she says firmly, like she's trying to convince herself. “People change. I don't know you anymore.”

I see tears forming in her eyes. Desiree doesn't cry easily. I know that when she cries, she cries for a long time...

“No,” I tell her, almost forcefully. “You don't understand! Avery gave the thing to me! I was going to give it back to him but I forgot! God dammit—”

But Desiree has already shoved pass me and is rushing down the stairs before I can finish.



I stare at the bag.

The unwanted contents stare back at me.

When has things turned like this? When has Desiree been like this? Since when had she gotten the impression that I've changed?

I've spent all day tracing things back to where it began. I kept coming with the same conclusion: Winterlyn Evaline Lawly. Her death. That's when everything had changed. That's when every moment had changed. I wish she was here now. She would know what to do. She would know what to say to Desiree.

But she's not here. And maybe that's why, when I stare into the bag of Meth, I feel their temptation. The temptation to just use it and forget everything. The temptation of the unwanted.