Page 5 of Stay Toxic

I wish I could get changed and brush my teeth, but I’m too tired to wait out what is no doubt another wild sex session in the bathroom, so I just kick off my tennis shoes, peel my shorts off my leggings, remove the blouse over my lacy tank top, and slide underneath the freshly laundered lavender-colored linen.

“Good night, Sebastian,” I hear myself say as I close my eyes.

It would have been smart to insist he return to my roommate’s side, or better yet, leaves. He’s a complete stranger, not to mention the kind of guy happy to tag team some girl in her dorm room—and be watched doing so. I should feel completely unsafe with him here.

But any kind of reaction sounds like effort, and all my energy is gone, gone, gone. I’m asleep before the next heartbeat.

3

Dear pal!

I feel awkward about introducing myself without giving my name. I’m 22, and I have a pre-law bachelor. I’ve lived in New Mexico my entire life. I’m so excited about coming to Thorn Falls. My mother was against my leaving the state, but after getting accepted to Rothford, what could she say?

I’m secretly pretty glad about being assigned a pen pal who knows Rothford, actually? I don’t know anyone here. It’s nice to be in contact with someone who knows what’s what, even if it’s anonymous. Though the reason is fucked up.

Stay Safe

Three months ago, at the end of the last term, some freshman kid killed himself at a college party, but not before dispatching seven other students with him. From what I understand, he was rushing for one of the “houses” in Rothford—they don’t call them frats here, but it seems like the same kind of deal—and he didn’t make the cut.

The news caused quite a stir, given how well respected this university is supposed to be, and the faculty couldn’t very well be seen doing nothing about it. They came up with the Dear Stranger support system.

It’s straightforward. Every student is paired with another—from a different grade. They make a point of assigning newcomers with people who know the campus well—and every week, they’re supposed to write a letter to each other, answering a question suggested by the faculty.

I love the idea of Dear Stranger, because I don’t know anyone here. I’m not fond of the reason why it was implemented—who would be?—but I’m still eagerly dropping off my handwritten note at the administration building first thing in the morning on Monday.

This week, the guideline was, “Introduce yourself. State how you feel about coming or returning to campus. Tell your correspondent what you think about the assigned pen pal system,” and I’m proud of having done so in a concise, not overeager way.

Then again, I managed to mention my mother in the first paragraph, but how can I not, when she’s such an integral part of my life?

I seem to recall she was an okay mom when I was growing up. Sure, she had rules, but I was always the kind of kid happy to do as I was told, so it wasn't a point of contention. I remember fun picnics, long walks on sunny days, the amusement park. I don't know if losing Dad did something to her, or if she just wasn't equipped to deal with her kid after I grew tits, but things changed when I was a teen. It wasn't enough for me to get good grades and do what I was supposed to, I was also forced to follow her lead on every other aspect of my life: attend her old high school, have her exact extracurriculars, no matter what I wanted to do, and most of all, be a certain weight.

See, Mother is what any guy would call a MILF. Fifty-one, and built like a fitness model, with a teeny-tiny waist, and muscular everything. She's a B cup, those small boobs tucked away under formal blouses.

But Dad has Italian roots, and from the get-go I was built differently; my hips are wider, my thighs are fuller, and yeah, my boobs were bigger than hers by the time I was twelve. That's when the diets started. And the consequences when I failed to meet her impossible standards.

After ten years of her constant scolding, insults, and punishments, I know how to avoid the brunt of it, and I'm used to the rest. I don't think I would have tried to get out from under her thumb, if it weren't for Robert.

Robert, the boy she told me to date. And the man she wants me to marry.

I reread the note, andI considered starting out again, erasing any mention of her, but I only had one sheet of nice, thick correspondence paper, and I didn’t feel like rewriting it all. I’ll have to make a conscious effort to not make everything I do here about her. The whole point of being here is avoiding her shadow. For a time, anyway.

My plan is simple: stay out of the way through law school, and hope against all hopes that Robert finds another pawn to plant his claws into. Ifherejects me, she can't say anything, can she? And even if things don't work out that way, it will buy me a few years of freedom before I find another way to get out from under her thumb.

By the deadline, age twenty-five, Ihaveto be away from her, no matter what. I’m not dumb enough to think I’ll be safe after.

* * *

Monday is an introduction day. Since I’m coming in as a post grad, I don’t have a group to follow, but the faculty has assigned me a guide for the first day—a gorgeous girl in a red sundress and a white cardigan with her long hair in a severe bun—to show me around.

She looks absolutely stunning, in a way that's not quite contemporary; no one would blink if she were highjacked and dropped in 1980.

“CallaBeaufort,” she tells me formally, shoulders back, head high, offering me a hand.

I know this type of girl all too well.I’m not sure they have debutantes in Thorn Falls, but if they do, she was definitely presented. Not that I'd judge her for that—so was I.

“Tia Cole,” I reply, shaking her hand.

I don’t often truly get along with women like her, although we’ve been pushed together our whole lives. They’re the people my mother wants me to befriend, and for the most part, I do, but it tends to be surface friendships, for the sake of appearances. They don't like me any more than I like them. I used to conform, but now, I make my contempt and disinterest for charity ball invites, teenage betrothals, and secret pregnancies amongst the wealthy blatant. Besides, we might wear the same kind of appropriate, preppy clothes, but I fill them out completely differently, and back home, the other well-to-do girls didn't like that.