getlostandruncici: Well, I'm most certainly glad to hear that. Who knows where that split will go? As far as the canon-ness of it all, I thoroughly enjoy some of the material they've given us, and am only trying to put a different spin on some of the occurrences. Glad to see that you noticed. (It was unpleasant to write, as well. Lol.) I certainly appreciate your kind words, and always thank you for reading.
Guest: I definitely appreciate the sentiment, and greatly thank you for taking the time to read and comment.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.
The realization comes to me by way of a nightmare. I'm in a pool, pumping my arms and legs as hard as they'll allow. People are shouting, cheering from all angles. In the distance wait my parents, urging me to push just a little bit faster. At the starting line are friends and old classmates, coaxing me back to where I began. I wade somewhere in the middle of the chaos, torn between both ends of the spectrum. Lost as to which move should be the next. Frightened that regardless of what decision I make, it will ultimately be the wrong one.
My dream vanishes with the sounds of thud, thud, thud. I peel my eyes open to the sight of a scrawny boy with buzzed hair, his too-large head sporting a pair of spectacles that would make Benjamin Franklin seem up to date with the latest fashion trends. He appears taken aback by my abrupt wakening, pointed finger hovering dangerously close to my nose. "Emily?" he asks.
I nod, grunting and lifting up from the common room sofa. Angie wasn't much help last night after Paige dumped my belongings in our doorway, so I was forced to take refuge on the only open semi-comfortable looking surface. It's becoming increasingly clear that nights are now metaphors for my life. Rough, fidgety, and downright hostile; mornings feeling like hell on earth.
"Bobby," the boy says, shifting a folder from his right hand and extending the appendage my way. "Seems like you and I have been paired together."
At this moment, Paige wanders through the area, eyes fixated straight ahead. She doesn't budge when I initially call out, ignoring my new mentor. The second time I mutter an annoyed, "PAIGE," she responds by way of an upwardly extended middle finger. She then rounds the corner, disappearing within a second.
Big-Headed Bobby wordlessly leads me to the cafeteria, where we exchange simple introductions over a lukewarm breakfast. Personal crap that sets him apart from Paige, who wouldn't dare reveal such information. Evidently, in his pre-Piney Groves life, he was a major proponent of huffing any substance deemed huffable. I quickly chalk this up to the cause of his fidgety behavior and tendency to slur the occasional word.
I don't pay much attention to the boy throughout our meal, and pay him no further mind when the bell rings. Paige is too fresh on my mind as I make my way to morning classes, which apparently replace group meetings after one's stay extends beyond the first month. And as I settle into a classroom desk nearest the backmost corner, she remains the most prevalent worry.
Had I not finally gotten what I wanted? The slightest fraction of humanity from Paige? A reasonable effort on her part? Of course I did. And what did I do? Managed to shoot that horse square in the face after a brief moment of embarrassment. Being caught in the wrong, I'll admit.
Though, come to think of it, Paige wasn't necessarily in the right, either. No, she was far too busy holding mirrors up to my flaws. Devising elaborate schemes to make me appear foolish and uncommitted. And then acting as if nothing happened, taking me on random getaways, and then practically drowning me in the facility pool. Passing a near-death experience off as insight.
Jeez, man. If she's vying for the coveted "I'm Not Crazy" trophy, then that girl definitely has some reevaluating to do.
The next few days begin running together. Dreary blurs of events that may or may not have occurred at their given times. Thankfully enough, mornings are no longer accompanied with sharp pains or nausea. Instead, I'm merely trapped in this seemingly never-ending shitty mood. Another accurate representation of Emily Fields, I do suppose. Winning some and loosing many, many more.
The classes are similar to those that I'd be taking at Rosewood. Your basic maths, sciences, and histories. Each is led by the drone of a Charlie Brown teacher. A constant wah, wah, wah that really puts a damper on functioning at full capacity. More so, Hannah isn't sitting in the desk next to me. Joking around with her used to get me through the weekdays, and now that I'm stuck next to a girl that I sometimes can't determine to be either dead or alive, it only makes paying attention all the more difficult.
This morning, though, our lesson is interrupted by an almost silent click of the loudspeaker, signifying that someone is about to speak. Surely enough, Dr. Evans's voice begins reading off a slew of unimportant announcements. Scheduling changes. Procedures for tomorrow's visiting hours. The only real tidbit that catches my attention is that of a swim meet occurring this weekend.
It's being held at a neutral sight, and the competitors are names with which I'm unfamiliar. High schools, more than likely. Because I have a sneaking suspicion that if Piney Groves were to compete against other facilities of its kind, there would be no swimming at all.
Slightly intrigued and even more envious of those not in an eternal grudge match against one Paige McCullers, I sneak off after history to catch a glimpse of the team practice. Through a square Plexiglas window on the pool's outermost double doors, I watch as a handful of bodies navigate back and forth in the water. Paige stands poolside, barking orders as they continue. Her eyes are narrow, lips pursed, and a single crease resides in the middle of her forehead. She looks as my old coach would have when we weren't making times.
Needless to say, I don't think our team's doing so hot, and there's nothing that I can do to help.
I'm further banished to the common room couch, waking early today on account of Mom and Dad's visiting. It takes roughly forty-five minutes to go through the waiting line, having our pockets and jacket insides checked before entering the foyer. I'm not sure why, but Paige comes to mind yet again. How much effort is involved in preparing for a visitor that may not even show.
As was the case for her, but is most certainly not for me. Mom, being the ever punctual creature she is, stands arm in arm with Dad at the line's front. And when I'm finally situated at a table and the doors are opened, she practically beelines her way to me, wildly throwing both arms around my neck. Dad merely smiles, hugging me in a much more civil fashion.
Moments pass before any of us speak. My mother is far too busy crying, so Dad asks, "Well, how is my little girl holding up?"
"A lot better than Mom is," I joke. Only now do I take into full account that he's wearing his Army bibs. A camouflaged jacket and pants tucked into black high-top boots. "I thought you weren't scheduled to be sent out until later this year."
"Weekend trip," my mother finally chimes in, dabbing at both cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. "Basic training for the reserves. Your father's been asked to help out."
"Fighting the good fight," I hum, taking into account the very rationale they'd given me when I was young and wondering why Dad was always leaving for months at a time. "He's gone to fight bad guys," Mom would say. Up until the age of nine, I firmly believed one of my parents to be a superhero.
Dad smiles and nods. "Always."
The rest of our conversation ensues in this same manner. One-worded answers. Sullen nods and semi-broken glances. Freaked out glances. Small talk about what's going on in Rosewood, how the team is doing, and what my friends are currently up to. "They send their best," Mom says warmly.
My attention strays at this point. Across the room, Paige sits at a table of her own, hands folded and foot tapping in waiting. Her expression is far more hopeful than the last time I saw her in the same position, looking on from the upper landing. Something inside me assumes that after today's four-hour window has passed, however, she won't be as cheery.
Part of me wants to reach out. Invite her to our table, if only to absently converse instead of sitting alone. To kill time until whoever she's waiting on arrives. Another larger part of me refrains from doing so, particularly because having the bird thrown my way in front of a crowd isn't of utmost importance. Especially when the gesture would undoubtedly elicit an onslaught of questions from my parents. Their worry would build. Mom might try handling the situation in her somewhat confrontational manner.
No, it's best that I try ignoring the girl and focus on my parents, whose eyes now meet my gaze.
"Are you feeling any better?" Mom asks in such a motherly tone. The eggshell kind. The "I don't want to sound too accusatory but you really screwed the pooch on this one" type. I eventually nod and force a smile, if only to soothe her woes.
Dad doesn't seem convinced, for he grunts and leans across the table, capturing my full attention. "It's really great getting to see you, my dear." His voice sounds so fractured, and it takes everything that I have not to break down on the spot.
I've never had a specific preference for either parent. They've both been so great. Done their best. Attended my meets, cheered me on. Reprimanded me when I screwed up, and offered consoling words when I was down.
But now, I can't manage to shake the feeling of anger towards both of them. The sickening mix of betrayal and malice of what they did. Crumbling under the weight of Family Services. Sending me here for half of the year. Senior year. Not so much as questioning the rule of every external force that threatened our trio. I could've gotten better on my own. At home, of all places. I could've pulled myself from whatever slump that so clearly dragged me down, though there really was no issue to begin with. They didn't have faith in that. Instead, they gave me my ultimatum—Piney Groves or naught—and surely enough, we're all experiencing the ramifications of their quick, feeble-mindedness.
"Danby's still on the table, you know," my mother says, placing a hand over mine. "This is only a setback. You can still go to college there and swim and achieve everything you've ever dreamed of."
Well, this conversation took a turn rather quickly.
"She's right. You'll be home in no time, and then we can start preparing what needs done for your future," my father agrees.
And then they jump into this spiel of possibilities, possibilities, possibilities. How they're endless with my talent. That maybe Spencer could give me a few pointers in applying to other schools. That I should use the down time in Piney Groves to weight my options and come to some drastic conclusions.
All of it sends my head spinning. Wishing that they'd leave the topic alone. Allow me to tackle each day as it comes and nothing more. That's not the way things work in the Fields household, unfortunately. Every menial task is in preparation for a much bigger one. Like breakfast somehow affects next year's Christmas dinner. I fall silent and look back to Paige. At least my issues with her are a bit more black and white and ten times easier on the mind.
Eventually, our hour together comes to an end. Mom immediately reverts back to her crying stage, and I hug her, trying to maintain a composed façade. Only when Dad leans into my ear and whispers, tears seeping into his words, that he loves me dearly is it that I lose all resolve. And with three fresh streams of salty, hot water streaming down our faces, we're forced to say goodbye.
I catch BHB later as he scours over an array of pamphlets. Some of the names are familiar. Colleges located all over Pennsylvania. One of them is the state's main university, where Spencer has rambled many times on applying to.
The mere sight of his research is enough to send me away, wishing that after all of today's events, I could resort back to Mom's medicine cabinet. Pop one of the chalky white caplets and float away on the cloud I so frequented.
Maybe this is the valuable insight that Paige has been striving for. Though I can't quite determine why her concerns are any of my own, it only feels right to ultimately make things right with her. If only to appease my conscious. To thwart off the guilty notions that plague my thoughts. Especially considering that she's popped into my head all of twelve times today, and it's really starting to annoy me.
Whatever the case may be, I decide to go looking for her. Lay my pride to rest and simply apologize for acting so irrationally.
After dinner is when I decide to go. Venturing out to the only spot I know where she might have disappeared—her second favorite place on this earth—I'm stopped short, just underneath the shade tree from the other day. Sounds of heavy breathing trickle into the fast-approaching dusk. I look up to find a pair of legs dangling freely from the balcony. Dr. Andrews's cry spot. Surprisingly enough, the brunette has her face propped against one of the metal bars, taking steady drags from a cigarette.
"Those really take a toll on your times," I call out. She doesn't respond, but flicks the stick of white through the railing and my way, where it falls just at my feet. With this slight acknowledgement, I inhale sharply and dart back inside, tackling the outer staircase two steps at a time.
As luck should have it, Paige has not moved from her perch. And when the heavy door creaks open, she doesn't look back. Instead, she allows her frame to hunch over even more, body weight pressed firmly into the balcony railing.
In the doorway, I stifle a moment, nervousness settling in. I employ my mother's old tactic, counting to three and diving into whatever situation presents itself. Three eventually comes. As does ten. Twenty-five. Fifty. "Christ, Fields. Just do it," I mutter. "Nothing's going to happen."
"Not a doctor. Not a shrink. And most certainly not deaf," Paige eventually breathes, breaking what I thought to be an internal monologue.
With a steady breath, I wander back into the cool night and sit next to her. Then we're both just here, our feet dangling and swinging in tandem. Bugs chirp into the surrounding darkness. A breeze floats by in the gentlest way. All around, things fall serenely into place. Calm. Quiet.
Oh, how I wish my thoughts were the same.
"The future absolutely terrifies the hell out of me," I practically whisper, like someone admitting to murder in a confessional box. "Things manage to speed and crawl by at the exact same time. I guess I enjoyed making things just—stand still. It's not much answer to your question, but it's all I've got right now as far as explanations are concerned."
Silence then returns, swallowing the admission.
Paige barely glances at me with sunken, sleep deprived eyes before eventually shrugging. "You're right. It's not. A little too sentimental for my taste, actually. A bit self-righteous. Mushy, like squash," she snarls. "But a starting point, nonetheless."
"If you're referring to the other day… I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Pissed off and angry. I never meant to say what I did."
"But you did," she quickly returns, looking away.
I huff loudly, realizing how I've underestimated how difficult this conversation is going to be. Rainbows and sunshine? Negative. We've been dancing too much along the lines of "who's going to punch the other first?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I did," I offer. "And I'm sorry for that. If I had known—"
"You don't know anything," she interjects matter-of-factly.
"No. No, I don't," I breathe, gradually becoming more annoyed with each millisecond that this exchange persists. "I'm really trying, though. But you're not exactly giving me be the benefit of the unknown doubt, either."
At this, she sarcastically chuckles and reaches for a piece of loosened concrete, chunking it over the railing. "Seems about right."
Ignoring her blatant disregard, I say, "Today, you were expecting someone. They didn't show."
"Emily."
"Paige."
We're then teetering around in some sort of Mexican stand-off. Waiting for the other to cower. Staring each other down. Admittedly, I'm surprised that she hasn't up and left yet. Granted, I'm the one encroaching. Asking twenty questions. Trouncing into foreign territory. Practically doing cartwheels all over the unsteady ground of No Man's Land. You get the picture.
Paige simply chuckles again, biting her lip so much that it turns white. "He just forgets is all," she eventually mutters, eyes shifting away. But the way her voice quivers with each word suggests that maybe she's trying to convince herself of the matter, rather than stating fact. Still, though, she repeats, "Yeah. That's it. He's forgetful." Heartbreakingly insistent, this girl.
"A starting point," I try joking, mimicking her tone from before. And when another tense moment passes, I address the elephant in our too-cramped room. "Listen, I screwed up. That much is true. We both have," I say in one breath. "But I also know that you've had my back up until this point, and it's about time that I return the favor. A swimmer to swimmer agreement. An I.O.U of sorts. Agreed?"
In a split-second, her head cuts back up. "We're not in cahoots," she retorts.
"Cahoots?" I faux-laugh, having to suppress a snort at the word. "Fair enough. Do I at least get my bed back? That couch is kind of screwing up my perfect posture."
My former mentor finally cracks a smile, shaking her head. "After the multiple stunts you've pulled? My vote's for another week of couch duty, minimum." She then pulls out another cigarette, to which I cringe and take it as my cue to leave. And when I'm finally in the doorway, Paige calls out in her steely tone a last time, "This doesn't make us friends, Fields."
Remaining turned to shield the smirk that forms on my face, I say, "I'd expect nothing less."
The next day is as uneventful as the others, filled with monotonous happenings. Meet with BHB at breakfast, retrieve peppermints and refrain from mentioning the doctor's daily boohoo sessions, go to class, eat lunch, casually pass by Paige, act even more casual because we're not in cahoots or anything, and repeat. For the most part, at least.
This morning, though, my spirits feel lighter. Maybe it's the halfway making amends with Paige. Maybe it's the fraction of belief that I have in regards to the next five months. No enemies. No fuss; no muss. Either way, today doesn't seem nearly as hard to tackle, which is really saying something.
When I meet with BHB at breakfast, his mood is as chipper and talkative as usual. Seriously, this kid can go on for ages. And with the way that his pair of glasses that rests on his disproportionate head bounces with each word, it's quite the sight.
Anyway, he's practically hopping from his seat at the cafeteria table, rambling on about a topic that I'm not paying much mind to. That is, until he says, "It's exciting, gaining such a strong addition for the team. Someone besides Paige with actual experience."
"Do tell," I eventually tease, "who is this exciting new swimmer?"
BHB seems a bit thrown off by my question. As if I'm supposed to already know the answer. He doesn't say anything, but nervously cocks an eyebrow before standing and waving a single finger, motioning for me to follow. I do, primarily because it seems to be the only thing that I'm capable of nowadays.
We bypass a lone security guard and venture down the winding hallways until I'm standing in front of the very set of doors I seem to be drawn to. BHB then points a lanky finger to a corkboard on the rightmost wall. Tacked to the piece is a single sheet of white paper.
Names are typed in uniform order. Last-comma-first. The top line clearly recognizes this list to be the roster for this weekend's swim meet. It's of no concern to me, and I look back to my mentor confusedly to portray the point, but he merely gestures forward.
My eyes skim the list, ticking unfamiliar names off with each level that they descend. That is, until I reach the very bottom.
BHB was right to be confused by my questioning. He was right to cock an eyebrow. In fact, I am currently doing the same.
Then again, I have every right to do so, as well. After all, you'd do the same if you were seeing what I am. Is this a joke? Another sick prank?
In bold, black lettering, the two words stare at me from the list's bottom line. Last name-comma-first.
Fields, Emily.