The Way I Used to Be (The Way I Used to Be, #1)

by Amber Smith

I sit down in the seat next to Kevin like I had at countless family meals. Because we considered him part of our family, Mom was always saying it, over and over. He was always welcome. Always.

It feels like that scene in The Wizard of Oz when everything changes from black and white to color. Except it’s more like the other way around. Like I always thought things were in color, but they were really black and white. I can see that now.

He’s managed to turn my brother—my true best friend, my ally—against me.

It’s the first day back from winter break. And I’m trying so hard to just go back to my life. The way it used to be. The way I used to be.

“It’s true. Just because someone has always been seen as this incredible person—this hero—it doesn’t mean that’s the truth. Or that’s who they really are,”

Even though they don’t know what happened, what he did to me, they helped to create the situation. In a way, they allowed

Why do I feel like after all this time I still can’t tell her, that even she wouldn’t believe me, or that if she did, that she would somehow blame me? Why do I feel so completely alone when I’m with her sometimes?

When I come out of my bedroom later that night, I force myself not to apologize to them. Because I desperately want to, want their approval—crave it. But I have to start standing up for myself. And it has to start with them, because it was with them that it began.

I see that guy—Number 12.

He points at me and mouths the word you, with a small lopsided grin.

I look at him. He leans toward me. So I lean toward him slightly and try to listen as hard as I can. That’s when I notice his eyes. They’re this intense brown, so deep it makes me want to just fall all the way into them.

“I said, I didn’t say anything. I was just trying to get your attention.” “Oh.” I pause. “Why?” “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “To say hi.” “Oh. Hi?” I say it like a question, only because I’m really confused about what’s going on here. “Hi,” he laughs the word.

I’m glad to be around her again—she makes me feel like maybe I really am normal. Like things really will be okay.

I look down. It’s the dandelion, the in-between one.

I am afraid. But in this other way, I’m also more afraid of being afraid. Afraid of not doing it too. Afraid that maybe I would be too afraid to ever do it. That Kevin would continue to control me in these ways I had never even dreamed of. And suddenly the thought of having someone else there in place of him is something I required-wanted-needed, in the most severe of ways.

He reaches for my hand. My heart stops. He doesn’t seem to notice, as he leads us through the parking lot, that everyone is staring at us.

But that’s when I see these guys—guys I’m sure he’s friends with—staring and pointing and laughing. “So, where you wanna go?” he asks me, clearly not seeing what I’m seeing. Not living in the world I’m living in.

My stomach clenches because I can’t forget the fact of the matter, that the last time a boy had his hands on my neck he was choking me.

want to tell him I was confused too. I want to tell him how happy I am to see him, how thankful I am he’s not looking at me the way everyone else has been looking at me today.

And whatever he thinks my body is, it isn’t. My body is a torture chamber. It’s a fucking crime scene. Hideous things have happened here, it’s nothing to talk about, nothing to comment on, not out loud. Not ever. I won’t hear it. I can’t.

focus on him, on the way he breathes. And then I count all the ways he is not like him, the ways this is not like that, the ways I am not like her. And then someone switches off the circuit breaker in my mind and everything just stops. Like wires are cut somewhere. I am disconnected, offline. And then things fade to this still, calm, quiet nothingness.

Then I look around. He’s turned the living room into shambles. The afghan that’s usually on the back of the couch is pulled down and twisted, stuck in the crevices between the cushions. The couch’s matching pillows are on the floor and have been replaced by two pillows from his bed, positioned at TV-watching angles. The coffee table is covered with stuff: a slightly ajar pizza box, multiple cans of soda, a plate with half a pizza crust left on it, three different remote controls.

“Sometimes”—I’m not sure if I should say something this terrible out loud—“sometimes, I don’t think I believe in God.” Because what kind of God lets bad things happen to people who so desperately try to be good?

And I’m terrified he’ll see through the tough iceberg layer, and he’ll discover not a soft, sweet girl, but an ugly fucking disaster underneath.

“You’re lucky there wasn’t a train coming!” Josh’s voice says, pulling me back into the present. My eyes refocus on his bedroom ceiling. He’s still laughing. I had stopped. “Am I?” I accidentally say out loud.

“Tell me another secret.” But he’s quiet. After a while, a very painfully silent while, I think maybe he has fallen asleep, so I pretend to be sleeping too. But then I feel him press his face into my hair and breathe. Quietly, almost inaudibly, he whispers, “I love you.” His big secret.

I stand more still than I ever have before. I’m scared. Really scared he’s about to leave me. And more scared because I don’t want him to.

He pulls me into him, and I let my body fall against his side. And I don’t even care who sees us right now. I just hold on to him as hard as I can. Everything that’s been coming between us seems to dissolve, and for once I don’t feel like a complete liar. For once I feel calm, safe. Terrifyingly safe.

I just nod. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. It’s okay? It’s not. And it’s not okay that he brought Kevin here—again.

“What, are you sleeping on the floor?” he asks, stepping over my sleeping bag.

“Oh, now you’re worried?” It spreads to my vital organs, engulfing my heart and lungs in thick black smoke. “Wow, well, isn’t this just a great time to start worrying about me,” I hear myself growl. “Thanks a lot, but that really doesn’t do me any good now!”