Authors: Katy Atlas
My feet were exhausted and Sophie’s dress was probably ruined, so I sank down to the ground, right where the sand went from dry and grainy to packed and hard, just at the edge of where the waves reached at their furthest.
I looked out into the water, squinting in the darkness and trying to see as far as I could. A plane flew overhead, its blinking lights obscured by clouds.
It felt like there was nothing left for me here. Blake was done with me, he had made that perfectly clear, and after what April had said, I didn’t blame him.
I tried to figure out my options, to list them in my head like some kind of multiple choice SAT question that I could find the right answer to.
I could go back to Blake’s.
But as I thought about it, that one made the least sense. What had I really left at Blake s? My overnight bag, which was mostly just full of Sophie’s clothes. The few things I had packed wouldn’t be missed -- my dress from the concert in New York, my old Prospect tee-shirts, the yellow sundress I’d worn in Northampton.
I could go to Brett’s.
But what was the point? To sit around and wait for Blake to apologize, to call me realizing that he’d made a huge mistake? Even if he did -- and it was an if I could barely even fathom, after what I’d done -- any potential reunion with him just meant that he would be kicked out of the band. Blake, who had written every single one of their hit songs. Blake, who felt such responsibility, such intense pressure, over writing the music for their next album. Who April was willing to toss aside for a reality show. Or just to get me out of the picture.
I looked up as a Jeep pulled into the parking lot and a group of early morning surfers climbed out, boards in tow. They waved to me as they pulled their wetsuits up, and I waved back.
I opened my purse, counted the cash left over in my wallet. Blake hadn’t let me pay for anything all summer, so I had almost a hundred and fifty dollars left. Enough for a cab ride to the airport, but not for the plane ticket. Not that my parents would mind.
It seemed anticlimactic, to just go home. As if it was strange that I hadn’t done this earlier, that it had taken me this long to realize how impossible it was to stay. Even tonight, up on stage, I could feel the hope that somehow we’d find a way to work everything out, but I could see now how na√Øve, how foolish I was being.
It was the last thing I could do, and the best. Letting Blake go, knowing it was for his own good, like the waves that rolled up to my toes and then sunk back, destined for some corner of the ocean far away. Trying to cling to Blake was like trying to make the ocean stay still. The last best thing I could do was to leave.
The airline accepted my credit card, and I charged the $300 one way ticket, checked no bags, and then slunk to the gate in hopes of finding some breakfast. I bought a smoothie and paced through the terminal, still in Sophie’s dress, feeling awkward and bedraggled. I found a black LOS ANGELES sweatshirt at one of the souvenir shops and slipped it over the dress, thankful that for the first time in several weeks, I didn’t have to worry about photographers.
I wandered over to one of the airport newsstands, realizing there wasn’t any other way for me to kill forty five minutes before the flight took off. I looked down at the headlines, relieved that none of them featured Blake or April. Picking up an issue of In Style and then setting it back down, I realized the last thing I wanted to see right now was celebrities or fashion.
I walked to the paperback section, looking between the fluorescent covers of detective stories and pastel covers dotted with cupcakes and high heels, stories about girls in New York looking for a boyfriend. And on the bottom shelf, almost out of sight, I saw what I was looking for -- a book of poetry.
I bought the book and walked over to a row of plastic airport seats, trying to find the least crowded section. A middle-aged man in a suit gave me a strange look, and I felt grungy and exhausted. I tried to ignore him, opening the book to the passage I was looking for, and looking down at the words:
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
There was probably some symbolism to it, some way to make the words mean something that they didn’t seem to, if I were to discuss it in a class or in an essay. But all I could think about was that feeling of being underneath the ocean, some new and magical world that you can glimpse for just an instant -- and then, in waking, you drown.
Would you mind-- I said to the man in the chair next to me. Is there any way I could borrow your cell phone?
He hesitated for a moment, and then maybe I looked young and sad and scared, because he handed it to me. Sure.
I dialed Madison’s number. It was about eight in the morning in Connecticut. I knew she’d be asleep but hoped, at least, her phone was on.
Hello? She answered groggily after three rings.
Mad?
Casey-- I could hear her sitting up in bed, her covers rustling as she pulled herself awake. What happened?
I’m coming home, I said quietly, with finality. Can you pick me up?
She was quiet for a second, as if she wanted to ask another question and was holding herself back. Sure, she said finally. What time?
In six and a half hours, at JFK. Whatever that is with the time difference, okay?
See you then.
I handed the man back his cell phone, and he gave me a half smile. What were you doing in Los Angeles? he asked, his tone polite and interested.
I leaned my head back on the edge of the plastic chair, and looked down at the book that lay open in my lap.
Drowning, I said, and meant it.
Madison met me at the gate with a giant poster board sign with my name on it, decorated in fluorescent marker and glitter and all the other arts and crafts supplies that were probably left over from some project we’d attempted in fifth grade.
I was worried you wouldn’t recognize me, she joked, giving me a hug. I smiled at her, and for a moment, it felt good to be home.
The drive from New York to Rockland made me think about getting to the Moving Neutral concert, sneaking out the window in my dad’s study and meeting Madison down the block. It felt like it was part of another lifetime now. I told her about everything that had happened the night before, how hard and how obvious the choice had been to leave.
So it’s over, I said, looking out the window.
Just like that?
Just like that.
We sat in silence for a second, and then she smiled at me. Want to stop for French fries? she asked, or are you totally sick of them?
I could never see another McDonalds in my life and die happy.
I figured, she said. God, I can’t believe you sang with Moving Neutral. All those years I starred in those stupid Prospect musicals, and Casey Snow gets to do a show with Blake Parker. She paused, looking across the car at me for a moment. It’s good to have you back, Case, she said quietly.
I wanted to tell her it was good to be back, but the words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t good to be back. It felt like I’d left a part of me behind, the part that was happy and excited and fun, and all that was left was the shell of Casey, hollow and empty.
I missed you, I said honestly.
Jason flipped out when he saw you in US Weekly, she giggled. They all totally believe we had backstage passes in New York.
I smiled. What happened with you and him? I realized in all the time I’d been gone this summer, I been so busy telling Madison what I was doing that I barely had a clue what had happened to her.
Ew, she said, wrinkling her nose. He was a total loser, you were right. It’s like, one year of college and he expected me to swoon all over him just because he used to be a lacrosse player. Gross.
I grinned, watching the signs for Branford and Guilford pass by on the highway. It seemed like all I’d done this summer was watch highway signs pass by. In a few minutes, I knew, we’d turn north, off the interstate, and drive another twelve or fifteen miles up to Rockland. For now, though, we were at the edge of the Atlantic, and I realized I’d crossed the whole country and ended up right back where I started, in Madison’s car, talking about Matt and Jason and Moving Neutral.
I felt a tear slip down my cheek, and then another, and in a minute I was crying, crying so hard I couldn’t stop and Madison had to pull the car off the highway just past Guilford. We sat in front of a chiropractor’s office for fifteen minutes, until there were no more tears left for me to cry.
It hurts, I said, feeling the hole inside me like it would never go away.
I know, Madison put her arm around me, and I rested my head on her shoulder. Come on, she said, shifting the car back into gear. Let’s get you home.
When Madison stopped her car outside my house, it was almost seven o clock. She turned the engine off and gave me another hug, handing me a ponytail holder off her wrist.
I’m not going to say a word about that sweatshirt, she said as I climbed out of the passenger seat. But if you burn it, I won’t object.
I smiled sheepishly, picking up Sophie’s clutch from the floor of the car and shutting the door. I’ll call you tomorrow, I said quietly, and watched as she drove away.
My house keys were in the bag I’d left at Blake’s, so I rang the doorbell, familiar chimes like the last chords of a song I’d almost forgotten.
I stood still for a moment, fighting the urge to turn around and just run, and then the door opened, and my mom was standing behind it, staring at me like she couldn’t believe I was real.
Casey-- her voice broke as she said it, and she hugged me, throwing her arms around me like I was something she could catch and hold onto. Trevor, she yelled into my hair. Henry!
And then everyone was hugging me, my dad hugging my mom and wrapping his arms around me too, and Trevor squeezing himself into the space next to me, clutching his arms around my waist, and I was crying again, because I missed Blake, but I had missed them too, and it had been a hard summer, without my family. My mom was crying in gasps, and even my dad took a deep, jagged breath, as if he was trying to hold himself -- all of us -- together.
I’m sorry, my mom said into my ear. I’m so sorry. We love you so much, Casey. We were so worried about you.
I hiccupped through the tears, feeling like they would never end. I’m sorry too, mom.
Where--, my mom started, her voice catching on the words. No, she stopped herself. I’m just glad you’re home.
They reluctantly trailed back into the kitchen, Trevor in the lead, my mom last, as if she couldn’t bear to let me out of her sight. I tried to imagine what they’d been thinking all summer, not knowing where I was or what had happened to me. It was hard not to feel guilty, for putting them through these last few months.
I climbed the stairs, thinking about the calendar up in my bedroom, the x’s that crossed off each day before college started. I’d missed eight weeks of those x’s and suddenly everything was different. I’d left whole, and come back broken. The ten blank days left until Columbia didn’t have the same urgency anymore. All they meant was that this decision was final. I’d probably never see Blake again.
I went straight into the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as it would go. I peeled off Sophie’s dress and folded it, setting it down on top of the laundry hamper. I could get it dry cleaned and mail it back to her, I figured. I wasn’t sure if Sophie would feel as betrayed as Blake had -- maybe she would still be willing to talk to me.
I stepped into the shower and rubbed shampoo in my hair, feeling grains of sand from that morning run down the drain. What a day.
What a summer. I thought about what April said to Blake, her words feeling like they were stuck in my head on repeat, making me want to take them back or interrupt or say something about how wrong she was.
She was only using you to get famous, I thought. And I hadn’t even found the words to correct her. I’d just dumbly apologized to Blake, as if it were true.
It was one of those conversations that went too fast for me to remember every word -- all I could think about now was the feeling that I couldn’t get a breath of air, that everything was falling apart. The look on Blake’s face.
The idea that I’d tried to get backstage for other shows, other guys, doing who knows what. The thought made me sick to my stomach. But it wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that I’d looked into Blake’s eyes, all summer, and lied to him. And that part was true.
I sank to the floor of the shower, curling my legs in front of me. I rubbed the conditioner out of my hair, feeling like I’d had a shot of happiness, and now it was gone, forever. I turned off the water, too numb to cry again. Picking up a towel from the hook on the door that I’d used since I was a kid, I wrapped it around me and crossed the hall to my bedroom.
My door was closed, as if they couldn’t bear to look inside while I was gone. I turned the handle, slowly opening it and walking inside.
It was my room, but not the way I’d left it. Supplies for college were spread out on every table, every armchair, and over the entire bed. I saw twin extra-long sheets for dorm room bunk beds, pillows, a comforter, shower caddy, flip flops for disgusting dorm showers, pencils, binders, pads of paper, storage containers, lamps, towels, a wastebasket, a laundry basket, and a hundred other items that I wouldn’t have even thought to buy, much less to pack.