April 5th, 2016
Dear Diary,
ever since the morning Stefan and I have seen Damon and Bonnie walk into The Grill together, shoulder by shoulder, she has been avoiding me. At first, I was confused to see them together because of everything that has happened between them only days prior, but after several minutes in a state of confusion a fit of rage found a home inside my rib cage at the same time an ugly thought popped into my mind - she forgave him and went back to him. When I confronted her about it, she just frowned and said that she would never in million years go back to him after what he did to her, but that she did want to hear an apology he had promised to give her when he called her the night before. An apology from Damon? It seemed highly unlikely, so I asked Stefan - with a pang of guilt for doubting my friend - to check out Bonnie's story with his brother. Damon confirmed it, from word to word, which only made it sound fake. Rehearsed. But why? What do they have to gain from lying about the purpose of their meeting? What are they up to? I hate not knowing, and I hate being lied to, which is very ironic since at the moment I'm lying to almost everyone I know. Well, I'm not exactly lying to anyone, I'm simply hiding the truth from them. I would be lying if someone asked me if I'm having supernatural dreams about what I believe are my past lives and I said no, and since no one asked me that question me keeping my mouth shut about it happening doesn't exactly qualify as lying.
When I recalled the memory of that event, I had also remembered this other feeling I had at the time. Like everything is out of place. The way Daisy looked at them when they came in, like she knows them, even though she claims she doesn't. The way Damon and Bonnie stood next to each other, like they are on some kind of a mission, like they have some hidden purpose. They also seemed comfortable standing next to one another, as if they know each other more privately than two people who are just sleeping together should. I had glanced towards her several times during the morning only to catch a hard look on her face, like she's discussing strategic plans with him, not listening to him apologize for the way he had treated her. And when she would see me looking at her, she would give me this half warm, half apologetic smile as if was trying to convince me that everything is okay, that she's sorry and that she will explain everything later. She never did, except from that one sentence I had to basically pull out of her in the school hallway. That morning, from the dream Stefan and me shared to the way the planet was spinning, nothing really seemed right.
"What are you doing?" Daisy's head appears on my shoulder, her eyes peering directly into the notebook in my hands. She sings those words with a curious tone of voice and a matching look in her eyes.
"Nothing," I say, closing my diary with speed almost inhumane, my voice so brazen my mom's cheeks would blush in shame if she could hear me. Maybe writing something private in public wasn't the best idea I ever had, but I didn't really expect anyone creeping up on me in a deserted family restaurant at 10 p.m. "Just writing down things left on my to do list, things I would like to do before I graduate," I force my lips to curve into a smile so she doesn't get the impression that I'm hiding something from her.
Despite my best efforts she doesn't look like she believes me, but she doesn't say anything either. "Oh, graduation, how exciting! Have you sent your college applications in yet?" she sits on the stool next to me, her feet barely reaching the floor.
"Mhm," I nod. I've sent them in a week ago, and while I'm awaiting my acceptance letters they're a topic I'm desperately trying to avoid. Unsuccessfully, but still trying.
"Will I be seeing you at Whitmore?" she tilts her head.
"Definitely not." With some luck, she won't be seeing me at all.
"Hmm, too bad, too bad," she whistles wistfully. She's looking directly at me, but her mind is clearly somewhere else. "Anyway, I wanted to give you this," she puts her fingers into a tiny pocket of her apron and pulls a folded piece of paper out of it. "A list of books I've promised you. You can check them all out in the public library."
I pick the paper up and unfold it, my eyes running over the tittles she has given me. They sound like they shouldn't be available for everyone to check out at the public library. They sound sinful.
"Thanks," I mutter, disposing the paper between the cover and the first page of my diary. Like they're a secret I'm trying to keep from everyone, including myself. "Daisy, I know I've asked you this before, but are you sure you don't know Damon Salvatore?"
She pulls her eyebrows closer together, lines thin like paper cuts creasing her forehead. "Pretty sure," she says. "Well, I do remember seeing him on campus every now and then when I was a freshman."
"Oh," I release a barely audible sound. That still doesn't explain the look she gave him the other day, or the look he gave her in return. Maybe I've imagined it, maybe she was annoyed she has to serve two tables so early in the morning. Maybe he was extra grumpy. "Okay."
"I did hear things about him, though," she scoots closer to me, her eyes wide with hope I can confirm the rumors she has heard about him.
"What things?" I barely contain my voice from sounding curious.
"About his family. About why he is the way he is," she shrugs, like what she knows is a well known fact, so I shouldn't be surprised upon hearing it. "You know, their kind never did - "
"Their kind?" I interrupt her, my voice hoarse. What does she mean by that? Is she insulting his origins? Does she think it's okay to judge someone based on their unfortunate family situation? I can feel my face getting redder and redder with every passing second. I probably wouldn't react to her words this harshly if people haven't been saying the same thing about Stefan for years now.
There's a panicked expression on her face. She knows she said something she's not supposed to say, something people don't take lightly. "What I meant is that kind of a guy. You know," she leans into me, whispering into my face, "a man whore."
So it's public knowledge. Then how did Bonnie fall for him? A guy with a status like that can't afford to walk around acting like prince charming. Even if he could, Bonnie is smarter than to fall for that act.
She looks over my shoulder, pulling her lips into a thin, straight line. "I think your friend is here," she points towards the door.
I turn around, my eyes locking with Caroline's wide smile and her hand in the air, waving at me.
"You smell like fries," Caroline wrinkles her nose, like she's bothered by the scent, but she very well knows I can see her inhaling it from the corner of my eye. Feeding on it like a drug addict hungry for another shot. "And you're making my Toyota smell like fries. Now every time I get in the car, I'll crave fries. Oh God," she cries out dramatically, "I crave fries now." She could be an actress, I've been saying this for as long as I know her. An actress in one of those Spanish soap operas. She would nail those roles without having to break a sweat.
I unclutch my bag with a smile on my face, pulling out a box of fries out of its depth. I packed them for myself, but she obviously needs them more. She looks into my lap like she's been expecting to see them there, licking her lips with the tip of her tongue. When we come across a red light her greedy, slender fingers reach for the box, like she hasn't eaten for days. She opens it, takes a fistful of still warm fries and shoves them into her mouth.
"Mmm," she murmurs, her mouth too full, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." I watch her in bewilderment as she swallows the fries, grains of salt stuck on her lips.
I raise my eyebrow at her, titling my head to the side. "Did something happen?" I ask sarcastically.
The thing about Caroline is, she's a stress eater. For the most of the year she eats clean, knows kale smoothie recipes by memory like a priest knows Bible verses, brings her lunch from home because she refuses to eat processed cafeteria food, gets up at 6 a.m. for a morning jog and for every dress she owns, she owns one sport top too. Not so much because she enjoys being healthy, but because she's preparing for periods like this, when her brain stops functioning and the only thing her body craves for are twinkies. She's like a bear preparing for the winter, knowing her body will demand insane amounts of sugar once the stressful times come.
She steps on the gas with the first sign of green light.
"What, can't a girl pick up her friend from work from the goodness of her heart?" she smirks, aware of her crazy behavior.
"A girl can," I reach for a box jumping in her lap before the fries spill all over the car. "But we all know what it means when a girl stuffs herself on carbs. Spill."
She's still smirking with her eyes straight on the road. "Okay, I'm going to give you a treasure map. Not a real map, a proverbial map. On the back seat of my car, there's an envelope," she explains with a serious expression on her face.
I turn my head, and the upper part of my body, to look behind. There indeed is a white envelope, right in the middle of the back seat.
"Take it," she whispers. "But carefully. It's a treasure map, remember?" she lets out a hysterical laugh before forcing her lips shut.
I reach for the envelope, and when I see what it says on the front, I gasp. Rhode Island Institute of Design.
"Care, is this your acceptance letter?" I look at her.
"I don't know if it's an acceptance letter, or a rejection letter." She pulls her lips into a tight, straight line.
I turn the envelope around, little white triangle still glued to the square white surface. "You didn't open it?"
"I didn't know how," she swallows. "I didn't know what I would do if it says no."
She starts slowing down, and I notice that we have already reached my house.
"Can you open it?" she asks hoarsely. "Please?"
Caroline never had to face rejection. Everything she ever wanted, she received. She was grateful for everything she got, but she never had to live in fear of not getting it. Yet, this is something that's out of her control. If they say no, she can't use her tears, or flutter her long lashes at them until they change their minds.
"Sure," I say.
As soon as I make the first tear, she closes her eyes. The envelope is light and heavy at the same time. Light, only one paper hiding inside of it. Heavy, her entire future written on it. I pull the paper out, unfold it, and I start reading. I only need to read the first sentence to find out will she scream, or will she cry, which is when I realize what a hard task I've said yes to when she asked me to open it for her. From this moment on, in her mind, I will forever be a bearer of either good, or bad news.
"You know," I say calmly, "My mom always said I have a very smooth name. It goes well with everything." She opens her eyes and gives me a confused look. She opens her mouth to speak, clearly annoyed by my interference, but I cut her off. "So, if you don't name at least one dress after me, I'll be pissed."
She blinks once, twice, three times before she realizes what I'm saying. "I - I got in?" she asks, like she doesn't believe it herself, like she never thought it possible.
"They are very pleased to inform you they can't wait for you to join them next semester at RISD, Ms. Forbes."
She blinks several times more before her eyes fill with tears and her becomes throat raspy from all the sharp, barely successful inhales.
"Care, no, this is good, isn't it? You got in!" I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for her.
"Yes, yes, yes!" she exclaims as soon as my palms fall on her shoulders. "Yes, it's a good thing. I was just so afraid I wouldn't get in, you know? This was my only real option, everything else was a back up that didn't really feel as a back up. I'm not like you, I don't have multiple things to choose from. This is kinda the only thing I'm good at."
"Don't say that," I frown, partly scolding her, something friends can do only in most extraordinary of situations. "You are good at so many things. And you are so talented, you could make magic out of nothing."
"Well," she wipes her tears with the back of her hand, "I guess now I'll have a chance to make magic out of something."
"Elena." Mom calls my name from the kitchen when she hears me coming in. The fact that she's awake surprises me, by this time she's usually either lost in a good book or asleep. I walk into the kitchen with a half smile, still under the influence of Caroline's reaction to her acceptance letter. "I expected you home half an hour ago. Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," I lean against the door frame. "I was with Caroline. She just found out that she got accepted into Rhode Island Institute of Design."
"Oh!" she smiles, beaming at the news. "That's wonderful, I'm so happy for her!"
She has always loved Caroline, despite their polar personalities. Where she was calm, Caroline was dramatic. Where she was neat, Caroline was a mess. Where she was collected, Caroline was emotional.
"Me too."
"Did you eat?" she asks. I'll miss hearing that once I leave for college. No matter where you are, who are you with, or what time it is, my mother will always ask you did you eat. And if you make the face I'm making right now at the mention of food, she will offer you some. "That face means you haven't," she scolds me with her look in a way only a mother can. "There's some leftover lasagna if you want."
"Uh," I moan at the taste of lasagna in my mouth. "Yes, please."
"I'll warm them up for you." She has opened the fridge even before I accepted the food. I sit down by the island as she pushes the plate with two large pieces of lasagna into a microwave.
"Were you waiting for me?"
"No. I couldn't sleep, so I thought a glass of milk would do me good." I look at the half full glass of milk on the other side of the island.
The microwave stops buzzing so she takes the plate out of it, and places it in front of me alongside the cutlery.
"How come Caroline got her acceptance letter before you did?" she sits on the stool across from me.
"She sent her applications way before me," I reply. Caroline knew what she wants out of life, and she knew it since 5th grade. "Plus, different schools have different deadlines."
"How about Stefan?" she asks with a strain in her voice.
"He has applied for several Art schools." Thankfully, those schools value talent more than they do SAT scores or a GPA. Some don't even require SAT's.
"Art schools?" she doesn't even try to hide her surprise.
"Yeah, mom, he draws," I smile. And he's really good. He's so freaking talented, and every school would be lucky to have him. "He can't go if he doesn't receive financial aid, though."
She doesn't say anything to that. What's there to say? I'm sorry your boyfriends father is a drunk who ruined his life?
"For some time there I was afraid you wouldn't go," she admits, ashamed of the words that are coming out of her mouth. Ashamed of her ability to think them, and produce them, and share them with me.
"To college?" Not going to college was never a possibility for me. I don't know what would have had to happen for me not to go to college. I simply needed a bit more time to figure out what I want to do and where I want to go. "Why did you think that?"
She swallows, afraid the words she's about to say will make me angry. "Because of him. Because of Stefan."
I don't say anything to that. I can hear her rapid breathing, she's afraid I've gotten so angry that I won't even speak to her. So I stay silent until I swallow the last piece of lasagna I was planning to eat. "Mom, do you know what people are saying about Stefan?" I ask.
She nods. "Yes. Yes I do."
You see, the main problem is that the kids didn't make up all that stuff about him all by themselves. The adults started doing it first. Bored housewives who have nothing better to do than to sit for hours at home, coming up with all the stories and theories until they don't know what's the truth and what happened inside their heads anymore. They think about his father, a drunk lowlife, then they ask themselves how his kids are going to turn out, left alone to their own devices. And then they whisper those stories while shopping, or drinking coffee, or knitting. They talk about them in front of their offspring because they think they're not interested in adult rumors. And then, before you know it, those kids grow up and start talking to each other about what their parents said, and soon enough all those stories mash together into a pile of made up shit which is also, accidentally, a pretty powerful weapon to use against someone who can't defend themselves because then they would have to admit that some of those things actually are true.
"So do I. I've been listening to those rumors since before I could connect a face to a name. I've been listening to you and your friends talk about his poor mother, and useless father, and I've heard you saying how nothing good can come out of those kids."
"Elena, I - " she starts, feeling guilty, because she very well knows that some of those words did come out of her mouth. And to some of them she silently nodded.
"Please, let me finish. I'm not accusing you of anything, but I want you to understand something, okay?"
She nods, agreeing to my terms.
"Honestly, everything you said can't even compare to the cruelty of what the kids were saying. Among each other, to him." I sink my teeth into my lower lip. To him. "Imagine every word you said, every story you shared with your friends as a possible truth, running wild fueled by a child's imagination. Some stories were silly, but some of them were painful, and cruel. Like that one time in 7th grade when they cornered him on the school's playground and kept asking him did he kill his mother."
She winches, and her eyes go wide with.. with everything. Pain, disgust, pity. She never knew. Parents rarely know anything about their children's cruelty.
"They started bullying him from the moment he stepped his foot into that school, and they haven't stopped - " Until he started dating me, I think. I stretch my lips until all it's left of them is a paper thin line on my face. "Well, they haven't stopped for a very, very long time. I never made a rumor about him, but I knew people who did." I won't name them, because then I would have to put Caroline's name on the top of the list. "I ate lunch with them, and sat at parties as they made up gruesome stories about him. I knew none of what they're saying is the truth, and so did they, but I didn't say anything. No one said anything because everyone knew that as long as the tribe has a victim, one person to torture and sacrifice to their rage, then the rest of us are safe. We can go and keep our secrets, we can even safely share them among friends, no one will steal them and use them against us. As long as there's balance, as long as there's one person willing to be whipped day after day, we can flaunt our embarrassments and no one will blink an eye. Do you know how many rumors I could have stopped from being made? How many nicknames? Every time I would see him in school, I would either think I'm so sorry or please don't come to school tomorrow, but I did nothing. And every time I see him now, I remember all of that cruelty I've helped create by keeping my mouth shut. I owe him so many smiles. I could spend a lifetime making him smile, and I would still be in his debt.
When I saw him in Summer camp, I was so afraid that someone will find out, that someone will connect me to him, that he will trap me into his newly invented circle of hell with him. And as I remember those feelings, I'm not only ashamed, I'm disgusted by myself. But mostly, I'm in pain, because if I was so afraid to be seen with him, then imagine how afraid he was to be him."
She has her elbows pinned against the hard wooden surface. Her hands are shaking, and she's blinking away tears. For him, or for me? The monster she has helped create, or the monster she has raised?
"I loved that camp, it's where I felt safe, and if he came up to me anyplace else I doubt I would ever gather enough courage to speak to him. But it was there, and I did find the strength to be kind and polite, like you raised me to be. And I spoke to him little by little, day by day. Then came the days when I was making up words to talk to him just to hear him speak. And then came the days when he started making me laugh. I always knew those rumors aren't true. They were just fragments of stories people shaped into something unrecognizable. I knew that he's a normal boy, with same thoughts and problems like the rest of them. I knew the rumors are fake, but it was still hard to think of him as anything other than a symbol of mockery. What I didn't know is how utterly wonderful he is. Smart, gentle, funny, lovable, talented, giving. If only they've allowed him to be one of them, maybe I would have found out sooner, and maybe I would have had more time to love him. When the school year started, I wanted to tell everyone that we're dating, because by then I didn't care anymore about the foolishness of others. I didn't want to live and love in secret. And for the longest time, he wouldn't let me. While everyone else were painting him as a monster, he was doing the same to them. They stole something from him, a life he could have had. And maybe that life would have made him a different person, but it was his and he was entitled to it. He wanted to protect me because he didn't trust them, people who were my friends, people among whom I've found comfort were the same people who had hurt him time over time over time until he became numb to that pain. We didn't just lead different lives, we lived in completely different worlds. And it was hard. Sometimes it was so hard that all I could think of was I don't need this. But we survived because, as it turns out, I not only need this, I want it."
As soon as I finish, she speaks up, tears running down her lips. "Elena, sweetie, I don't know what to say. I had no idea.."
Of course she didn't. She's not a bad person, and if she ever thought that innocent stories to kill time are causing pain to a little boy, she would end them once and for all.
"Do you know our guidance counselor told me the same thing? That she would hate to see me throwing my future for him. Stefan.. well, he has lost faith in a lot of things due to his upbringing. You know, once the kids cast you out, the teachers do too. They label you as lazy, or socially awkward, or anxious. They tell you that you're not trying hard enough, or that you refuse to fit in. And they told him that so many times that he actually started believing them. None of the teachers took interest in him - our Art teacher never recognized his talent, and our English teacher never cared to find out his opinions on our reading materials, even though he was one of the few who would always read them. It's their failure, but it's reflecting on him. Despite it, he has never tried to hold me back. I don't think anyone has asked me more times when am I planning to fill out my college applications than him. When I told him I have to study, he was always respectful of that. And let's say that there's some alternate universe in which I'm ready not to go to college to be with him, then there has to be one where he lets me do so. Because, mom, if I ever did such a thing, I wouldn't be the girl he fell in love with."
She doesn't say anything to that. She doesn't have a response ready, and she doesn't come up with one. She just continues staring at me until her eyes fill with so much water that she can't blink through them. That's when she gets up, comes over to my side, puts her arms around me and kisses me on the temple.
Over and over and over again.
STEFAN'S POV
How to tell the person you love that they're a villain in all of your dreams?
I haven't been blessed with Elena's dreams. They may have left her trembling, sweaty and in tears, but they were dreams of happiness, laughter and love. I assume that made them torturous in their own way.
My dreams are always about war, destruction, and broken I love you's. I've probably loved her so very much to be willing to destroy the world for her. But once you do that for someone, once you give up everything that's yours to give, and some that's not, how do you not end up resenting them? Would someone who loves you back really go to such lengths as to ask you to give up so much of yourself for them?
When I fall asleep, someone starts whispering into my ear. Multiple someones. The voice is not always the same. Sometimes it's male, sometimes it's female, sometimes it's so heartbroken that it can't finish a sentence. This isn't your body, you're so much more beautiful inhabiting your true skin. This isn't the name your mother has given you. This isn't the world you've been born into, in your world you have a place and people shudder at the sound of your name.
Elena doesn't want to hear any of this. And why should she? She has a family that loves her, friends who are always at her disposal, and a bright future ahead of her. I have none of those things, and the idea that I don't belong here sits well with me. The only thing that bothers me is this - if there's some other world, is she in it as well? Because if she's not, I'm not sure I belong there either.
I pull myself out of my bed. I don't have any plans for today. Elena is with Caroline and Bonnie, which means she won't be available until later today. I could call Lexi to see what she's up to, unless my brother occupied all of her free time.
There's some mail laying on the floor in front of the front door. I walk over and reach down to pick the pile up. Bills, bills, bills. Something addressed to me. I place the mail on the table and start tearing at the envelope. I unfold the neatly folded paper, and I start reading.
Dear Mr. Salvatore, we are sorry to inform you that your request for financial aid has been declined.
AN: If you have a friend willing to give up fries they have saved for themselves, keep them.