It takes the platinum-chrome alarm clock a dozen tries to make me budge. Its normal sing-songy tunes don’t feel as soothing as they used to. By contrast, the relentless ringing noise feels like a guitar constantly being struck with the wrong chord. At least I’m awake now. I drowsily scrub my eyes open, letting the sun gleam through the crack of my blinds and bounce off the walls.
I get dressed in a tan pullover and loose sweats and grab a fresh burrito from the buffet. Even after devouring the scrumptious meal, I still don’t feel ready to face the day. Especially not all the drama-hungry students. But I have to for Sander. I told him we’d work this out together, and there’s no way on Earth I’m bailing on him. So, I force myself to keep on walking, up until I reach the classroom. I arrive right on cue, as the bell rings as soon as I slouch into the chair.
Sander is already there. His head is immersed in his book, so he doesn’t notice me until attendance. I give him a reassuring smile that today will be okay. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself, because I am very much so losing hope. I mean, even if this eventually dies down, it will be engrained in everyone’s memory forever. Sure, I could run away again, but I don’t think that I have the energy left to start over.
My paranoia prevents me from paying attention to class, because the instant I turn my head away, I sense my classmates' whispers. Their nasty snickers are almost unbearable, but somehow, I manage to survive. Mr. Quinn hands us all a stack of paper to review as we’re exiting class, and a bunch of groans fill the hall. When I’m positive that no one’s looking, I snatch Sander’s wrist and drag him to the music room where we can have some privacy.
He looks at me with wide eyes like I’ve just kidnapped him, but softens up when I squeeze his hand. We sit opposite each other, with our hands up front and our fingers intertwined. I still feel too far away from him, so I scoot to his side and hold his hand. I can feel his soft curls tickling my cheek.
“Well, I talked with my mom, and she wants me to deny that it was me in the video,” I sigh.
“But you’re not going to do that, right?” He looks at me expectantly while I try to find the right words to say next.
“You know how much I care about you Sander, but there are some other things that I need to consider.”
“What about me? You can see my face so much more clearly than yours, so what am I supposed to do?” he groans. He raises a valid point. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Of course, I’ve thought about how Sander would get out of this predicament, but I always figured that I'd overshadow him and their attention would be focused on me.
“I don’t know,” I confess. “I’m sure we can figure something out, though.”
“I guess that no matter what, they can’t dictate what you say”, he points out. “And I trust that you’ll do the right thing. I trust that you’ll accept whatever repercussions that’ll come from you telling the truth, and live your life freely.” That’s easy for him to say, but he has no idea how messy my life would get into if I confess. I’d always be looked at differently, and this is my last chance to turn things around. My heart breaks a little more every time I look at his face and think about how easily everything can fall apart.
“I don’t want to say anything to the press, but my mom’s making me do so,” I complain, twirling the strands of hair covering his face.
“I believe in you. We haven’t even done anything wrong,” he reassures me.
“You’re right. Thank you for putting your trust in me,” I let out a wistful smile. We sit there for some time longer, up until the bell rings for our next period. I make a mental note to myself that I will not give up on Sander. Unfortunately, we aren’t in the same class again, but at least I have art, which means I can be a little more laid-back. Our teacher, Mrs. Rivera, never pays much attention to me anyway. She’s always too focused on helping the guys with no artistic ability whatsoever, which also happens to be the majority of the basketball team.
I start working on a scenic painting, but somehow my muscles still remain somewhat tense. They’re shaky, and they won’t stop quaking. I just can’t relax. I feel too much stress. I keep it all tightly bottled up inside of me until its expiration date, and now I feel like I’m about to explode. I really should have some sort of medication for my anxiety, but my mom never bothered and my dad’s never around.
I have to deal with everything myself, and there are moments like this where I wish I was normal. Don’t get me wrong, there are many perks of being born into royalty, but there are also the days when my responsibilities feel like an endless mountain, too steep to climb over. Being in the spotlight for one day is something, but having a flashlight shining in your face and constantly blinding you with light is not something I enjoy dealing with. I once heard someone say that the ones who are born into riches are the ones who suffer the most, and I could not relate more.
After art class, I receive a text from my mom. Can you meet me in the garden at 5? Let’s talk. Oh god. It’s never a good sign when she texts “let’s talk.” It usually either goes one of two ways. Either we have a nice, smooth, unproblematic talk, or we end up arguing about something which spirals into a feud. Recently, I’ve been trying to be more reasonable, but she and I simply never seem to be on the same wavelength. She’s old-fashioned and stuck living in the past. The future has moved on without her, and so might I.
I grab a quick snack before heading to the garden, where I see my mother already waiting for me. There’s a frown on her face so this cannot be a good sign.
“My sweet Nicolas. I’m afraid I have some bad news. This whole thing has propelled into a much worse situation than I thought,” she shakes her head.
“W– What is it?” My voice squeaks, unable to hide my nerves. Clutching the sides of my pants, my hands are trembling like an earthquake with a 9.0 magnitude and to top it off, my legs are all wobbly like I’m about to fall.
“It’s the media. They’re demanding you make a public statement tomorrow morning at 9 am sharp. You don’t have a choice. I hope you’ve made up your mind and you’re ready to refute the allegations claiming it was you in that horrid video,” she says firmly. I gasp, but then quickly play it off as if I choked on something and let out a few coughs. But it’s too late. My face says it all. Her eyebrows furrow at the sight of my shocked expression.
How could she assume that I’d blindly follow along with her plan? What am I, a sheep? And how could she say that about the video? The devil inside me is urging me to slap her in the face to show her who’s boss, but I fight it back and remain professional. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my parents, it’s that violence is not the answer. Yet it still gets the best of me.
Sometimes I get so furious that I can’t control my fists. Then one thing leads to another, and I find myself in a fight to the death against my arch nemesis. And who could forget the news reporters there to witness it live and get me kicked out of school? Yep. That’s how I ended up at Bayshore in the first place. A stupid fight. I look back at my mother who hasn’t moved an inch. She’s awaiting my response, so I take a deep breath before telling her what’s been jumbling up my mind.
“Mom. I don’t want to lie to the world. I don’t want to stop seeing Sander. And I really, really don’t want to talk to the press, even though I know I have to,” I scowl. There’s a hint of desperation in my voice, which causes her eyes to soften up. She flicks a strand of loose hair behind my ear and then lets her palm rest on my head.
“Oh, honey. I know how tough this is for you, but I know you can do it. You’re not a quitter. You have to do this, or they’ll make things up and you can kiss goodbye to your spot as a featured speaker at PSF and all the other festivals you’ve been aspiring to attend. You don’t want that, do you?” There she goes, back to her old, assertive self. For a second, I thought that we had a real mother-son moment, but now it’s ruined because she feels the need to remind me of all the things I could lose.
“Obviously, I don’t want that to happen,” I admit to her. “But I–”
“You know what? I’m going to give you some time alone to dwell upon what I’ve said. I’ll meet you at your dorm at 8 tomorrow morning to finalize your speech,” she cuts me off.
“Okay,” I agree before I take off running in the opposite direction. The woods are where I’m most at peace. Either that or in my bed. However, I don’t feel like going inside right now and facing the flocks of students, which is how I end up sprawling my limbs across an enormous rock, rethinking my life decisions. I’m left with two choices. One must be chosen. It’s do or die.
Choice one: my mother’s. Deny, deny, deny that I had anything to do with that video. Pretend that I’m straight. Fake that I’m normal. Mask away reality. Maintain a perfect image. Get off scot-free. Conceal the truth, except with an extremely high likelihood of losing my one love. Live with guilt.
Choice two: Sander’s. Admit, acknowledge, accept my fate. Shred away the mask. Be true to who I am. Live freely. Be with him at the cost of my family. Cut ties with my mom. Annihilate my reputation. Taint my future.
When it comes down to it, I’m deciding between Sander and my family. It may seem like an obvious choice, but the more I think about it, the more conflicted I feel. My heart is grasping for Sander, yet my brain is yanking me the other way. What would Hector do? I wonder if he’s up in the clouds, watching me at this very moment. I’m not one to think much about religion, but I do believe in an afterlife. If by any chance he can read my thoughts, I hope he can give me a sign. Anything to help me choose.
There’s no winning here. Whatever I do will hurt people. It’s a matter of selecting the option inflicting the least pain. Simply put, I’m screwed. There’s no backup plan, and if I mess up, I will never live it down. I rest on the rock until nightfall comes, quilting my surroundings with a black, starlit blanket. When I can’t stay there any longer, I rush back inside and dive onto my bed. Sleep deprivation is catching up to me, but I’m so worn out that I can already feel myself drifting off. After countless hours of weighing both my options, I’ve figured it out. I’ve made my choice.