Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)
Trisha Wolfe
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It's better to burn out, than to fade away.
~Neil Young
1
Arian
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six…
“Earth to Ari.” Vanessa waves her hand in front of my face, the raffle tickets gripped between her fingers fanning a rush of cool air across my skin. The scents of crisp autumn leaves, spicy lattés, and freshly printed ink mingle together to create a wary but exciting mix of new school smell.
Blinking hard once, I refocus on my coping technique. Five. Four. Three. Two… One.
Release a deep breath. “I don’t even like football.” I half shrug, feeling more grounded, and hope she’ll drop the raffle topic. I’ve only been a Bobcat for about two weeks—and technically, most of that time was spent getting registered, transferred, moved, and settled into my dorm room. I’m not quite Braxton University material…yet. The exuberant school spirit one feels for their college football team is desperately missing within me.
Besides, large group events make my stomach hurt.
“So what? It’s not about the game; it’s about the hotties in football tights.”
When I give zero indication this registers with me, she groans. Then she slips the tickets into her side tote. “Girl, you have got to get out of this funk.” Vanessa links her arm through mine and begins guiding us toward the double doors of East Hall. Her long, ash blond hair whips at my cheeks as she jerks her head away from the wind. “Seriously. You’ve been a major downer lately.”
I force a clipped laugh. “As compared to what…before, Vee?” Vanessa, who requested I call her by her nickname upon our first meeting, is my roommate and the first person I met on campus. She took me under her wing easily. No questions asked. She’s just one of those people who’s very accepting. Like we were BFFs from the very first second. Like in middle school, when you only had to know the other girl’s name and that she also loved the color purple for a lifelong bond to be formed.
She shrugs. “You’re capable of having fun. I just know it. We’ll unearth that inner party girl eventually.”
I shake my head. “Watch out, Braxton,” I say, totally monotone, and she laughs.
I’m not being snarky, really. I’m thankful. If not for Vee’s openness, the only daily interaction I’d have would be the viciousness of my stepmother, Becca. The morning checkin calls, making sure I’ve eaten (appropriately), and the reminder to “not mess up this time.”
The embarrassment my parents suffered at my expulsion from my father’s alma mater will never be forgotten.
They will never let me forget.
I try to keep Mel’s words of wisdom tucked close to my heart during those calls: “Screw ‘em. It’s your life. You live it the best you can. Your way.”
With that encouragement, I pull the door open, and we step across the threshold of the small private college my father paid a hefty donation to in order to enroll me during the middle of the semester.
I’m deposited in front of my first class—Thematic Studies in Literature—as Vanessa releases my arm and says, “I better hear something good from you during lunch. I’m serious.” She lowers her chin, her green eyes giving me a severe glare.
With a twist of my lips, I give her a wry smile. I really do appreciate her attempts to “bring me out of my shell,” as she puts it. The disturbing truth is…my shell, most days, is the problem. When you’ve been conditioned to be at your best one hundred percent of the time, chances are, that may ignite an unhealthy self-image obsession.
Being a Wyndemere means perfection—socially, economically, and physically.
And as the inner push to rise to those expectations starts to swell, the anxiety quickly creeps in—the need to compulsively check my makeup and clothes, make sure everything is flawless, in order to quash the unease.
It’s a double-edged sword.
With a forced exhale, I unclench my fists and jaw, reminding myself to relax, then work to rearrange my strained facial muscles into a smile. “Long as I get my third cup of coffee in, I promise to give you every little juicy deet of English—” I draw a blank. Then hurriedly dig out my schedule. “English three-oh-four.”
Vanessa hikes her eyebrows and points at me as she starts to back down the hallway. “Just you wait. Today will be awesome, and then you’ll totally buy into my raffle idea.”
I offer her a lazy nod, and she shoots me a thumbs-up before she takes off down the corridor toward her first class of the morning.
As students file into the lecture hall, brushing past me one after another in quick succession, I feel the alarming pull at my stomach, the cold sweat blanketing my skin. Tucking my binder closer to my chest, I try one last time to count down the seconds, recalling every trick I learned—reluctantly—at Stony Creek Rehabilitation Center to calm my rapid heart palpitations.
That’s where I met Mel. And even though I tried to come across as cool and aloof, distant, she saw through the guise. She pushed through all my barriers and forced a friendship on me—the only thing to come out of my commitment that I’m grateful for. I have enough acquaintances, but no genuine friends. Until her. If the techniques don’t work, I do have her number saved. One text to her might be enough to get me over the first day hump.