Tracks (Rock Bottom)
Read Tracks (Rock Bottom) Online
Authors: Sarah Biermann
|
Tracks |
Sex. Drugs. Rock and Roll. |
|
Sarah Biermann |
|
Contents
Chapter 6- The Blue Haired Girl
Oh my God, this is it.
I opened my eyes long enough to look down once again at the envelope in my hands, one on each side of it. It was a smaller envelope than I was hoping to receive, which made me even more nervous. I was visibly shaking. I even debated whether or not to run to the bathroom to vomit.
But there is a slight chance I may not have to vomit
, so I figured I’d hold off until I knew it was necessary.
I read the name on
the return address stamp in the upper right corner of the envelope for the 50
th
time.
Harvard University School of Law.
The gist of my academic career
, since at least the 5
th
grade, has led up to this moment. My whole life has orbited around my dream of Harvard Law. High school and college weren’t as fun for me as it probably was for my classmates. I brushed off parties, barely dated, and had limited friends. My Saturdays were spent at home, studying. What if that was all for nothing?
I knew I
received amazing grades in college, and a much higher than average score on my LSATS, but somehow I still didn’t believe it was good enough. I didn’t come from a well-known or well-to-do family. I didn’t have any relatives that had attended Harvard. There were a lot of people wanted to go to Harvard Law with all of these extra qualifications and more.
I sighed, frustrated with my lack of confidence in my hard work
. ‘Get a grip, Dylan,’ I mentally scolded myself. I placed a finger under the tab of the envelope. I pushed my finger along it, hard, so that it ripped away from the paper, revealing a white letter inside.
I dug the letter out, letting the torn envelope fall to the ground. With shaky hands, I opened the folded note and began to read.
I hear a knock at the door to my room, once again. I am
trying to be as understanding as possible under the circumstances, but I swear if he doesn’t leave me alone, I will never finish packing. It’s stressful enough as it is.
I sigh
, “Yes, Dad?”
I was just making sure you still didn’t need any help?” my dad yelled through th
e door. Honestly, I probably do need some help with the packing. Even though I am 22 and had already gone through undergraduate school, I had never actually moved away from home. It saved me from having to pay dorm fees at my school, and usually my dad truly wasn’t this overbearing. There was no need to be, really. I was pretty much a perfect kid on the outside. So since I had never moved out of this house or this room in my entire life, I had accumulated an enormous number of things since I was an infant.
Although the help is
probably needed, the idea of my dad rummaging through my things and tinkering with them makes me cringe. I am an extremely private person, even from my dad, who is probably the closet person to me, aside from Theresa.
“Still ok
ay, Dad. But if you don’t leave me alone, I probably won’t be done to leave on time tomorrow. And then Theresa will kill me.”
“No, ok
ay, yup, I know,” my dad mumbled awkwardly. I hear a trace of sadness in his voice. My heart constricts a bit at this realization. My dad would never let on that it was hard for him to see me move because I know he wants the best for me, but I do feel guilty for leaving him alone in the house. I’m not exactly moving around the corner, either. Boston is quite a drive from Philadelphia.
Somehow, I think
, I’m sure my dad has other people to entertain him. I shudder and push the thought out of my mind.
Thro
ugh my bedroom window, I notice the sun is quickly setting in the orange sky. I step away from the box I am haphazardly sticking office supplies in and walk up to the window, looking out to the horizon. I would miss my home. I would miss the backyard and the rickety brown fence that enclosed it. I would miss my old swing set that still sat in the corner of the yard. I had never known another home. I know that this would probably be the last night I ever spent here where it still was my official home.
It’s
times like these I wish I had a mother to talk to. I needed comfort and support that only a mother could give. I try to picture what my mother would have said to me, gazing at me with her kind, brown eyes. I remember what she looks like, but I’m starting to forget certain things, like her voice. The way she smelled…
I hug
myself tightly around my chest as I walk away from the window and back to packing. I must admit, I will be glad to leave some memories behind in this house and start a new life away from the pain.
The next morning, my dreams are interrupted by a sudden, horrible noise. I open my eyes, still heavy from sleepiness. I slam my hand down on my alarm clock, shutting off the nasal, buzzing noise. Six in the morning. I groan. I understand why I decided to leave at 7, because we would get to Boston around 1 in the afternoon, which would leave us a lot of time to get the boxes into our home and unpack before it gets dark. I can’t stand clutter, so I’d like to have everything pretty much unpacked today. But I certainly could use more sleep.
I smile, thinking of Theresa
, who is also waking up right now. I know she’s cursing me. She’s not at all a morning person.
I somehow manage to get myself out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a basic tee. No need to look stylish today. After I get done my morning routine in the bathroom, I run down the narrow stairway outside of my room,
continuing through the living room and into the kitchen. I smell that my dad has already started the coffee machine, and I silently praise Jesus and pour myself a cup. I’m a little overly fond of coffee, some might even say addicted, but when you need to get a 4.0 through all four years of college, it’s a necessary evil.
I hear footsteps quietly climbing down the stairway. I turn in time to see my dad entering through th
e doorway to the kitchen. I detect the black circles under his eyes. Guilt grips me again. It’s obvious he didn’t sleep well last night, probably because of the events of today.
“Morning,” my dad grunts, stretching.
I smile at him and turn to pour him a cup of coffee. I’m a woman of few words, but my dad never minded. We often sit in comfortable silences.
I hand him the steaming cup and he smiles at me gratefully. Taking a sip, he leans against the doo
rway. “Are you all set, then?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I need some help carrying the boxes from my room to the car. Are you ok
ay with that?”
He nods.
“Of course, yeah.”
After our nice
healthy breakfast of coffee with extra sugar, we manage to load up my little red convertible to the breaking point with my boxes. Theresa and I had, thankfully, been able to buy an amazing townhome on a quiet street that came almost fully furnished. For two poor law students with no furniture of their own, this was a life saver.
I said an awkward goodbye to my dad, hugging h
im tightly around his thin waist. My dad was a handsome man for sure, tall and thin with high cheek bones. His hair turned grey in his early 40s, but it gave him a distinguished look, and now that he’s approaching 60, it’s almost as if he hasn’t aged since. His good looks he often used to his advantage.
I released my dad at that thought, shaking my head as if to shake the
reflection away.
After exchanging pleasantries and a promise to call when Theresa and I arrived, I head off to meet Theresa at her house so I can follow her to our new destination.
I was extremely excited when I found out Theresa was also accepted into Harvard. I had been worried, honestly, as her grades had not been as good as mine. They weren’t bad necessarily, but not squeaky clean, either.
Much of her acceptance can be attributed to the fact that her father is a well-known politician who had also attended Harvard Law. She knew she would probably get accepted based on this information, and she took advantage of that a little bit while in school.
Theresa was much more sociable than I was in high school and college
. She has many friends and likes to frequent weekend parties and clubs. Still, we somehow had a connection. I was closer to her than I had ever been to anyone, and that’s about as close as I’m comfortable with.
I think Theresa and I balance each other. In fact, I suppose we are almost direct opposites in every way. Where she is shorter, dark skinned, and thinner- I am annoying tall, pale white as if I’d never seen the sun before, and curvy. Her hair is a curly, full brown
mane cut to her chin. My hair is unnaturally blonde (although I don’t color it) and hangs straight to just below my shoulder blades. She is bubbly, outgoing, giggly, and loves attention. I am quiet, reserved, shy, and die at the thought of any kind of attention almost ever. Where she pushes me forward, I settle her down. We change each other, and give each other a sense of steadiness.
It was with this in mind that I decided, against the wishes of my father, to buy a house with Theresa and live with her while attending Harvard. To me, it made more sense to be investing in something and paying a mortgage than it would be to rent something for the same price and throw money out the window for the next three years.
That makes sense, right?
God, I just hope we don’t get annoyed with each other and start hating each other. That would suck, because now we both own this home.
I just imagine Theresa having parties all the time well into the morning- the cops showing up frequently and knowing our address by heart. I envision all of the men she’ll parade in and out of the house, and what that might sound like on nights when I’m trying to study or actually get a good night’s sleep…
Fuck.
I am really good at suppressing bad thoughts that have the potential to make me feel uneasy, so I continually push my fears down deep as I follow Theresa to Boston for the almost 6 hour drive.
I’m confident I’ve composed myself enough to actually be excited as we pull up in front of our new townhome on Massachusetts Avenue right on schedule. Keeping to schedules helps my anxiety
issues.
The home we managed to afford, thanks mostly to Theresa’s parent’s generosity, is beautiful.
There’s a stairway leading up to a massive, green door. The right side of the home is rounded, giving it an almost castle-like effect. There are flowers to the right of the stairs, and the red-orange bricks adorning the entire structure scream Boston. The best part is that since we put so much down on the house, the mortgage is actually semi-affordable. For the two of us combined, at least.
Theresa parks
her truck in front of our home, with me parking behind her. I see her exit the car, her brown hair bouncing and blowing in the Boston wind, and turn to look at me through the windshield. She runs over to me as I exit my car, smile wide and white, and throws herself onto me with her arms around my neck.