“Homecoming, Part 1”
a story based on “Swans Crossing”
written by Chris Michalovic
CAUTION! This story contains profanity and features some mature subjects.
Not recommended for younger readers.
Copyright agreement
The basic characters, their initial personalities, certain place names, and
certain events detailed in this narrative are the exclusive copyrights of
Newlifier Limited and Heliosphere Productions, ©1992. All other characters,
places, events, and character development are the property of Christopher
Michalovic. Feel free to distribute wherever and whenever, but keep this
agreement at the top AT ALL TIMES. Thank you, and without further adieu,
on to....
Homecoming.
It was a Swans Crossing High School tradition for nearly 70 years
now, from the old days when it was the Swans Crossing Secondary Academy for
Boys. Every year, graduates from the school came back to the old town on
the Connecticut coast, to walk the village green, visit old teachers and
family friends, to watch the annual Saturday morning football game against
New London High, to relive, for a weekend, the glory days of youth. It was
similar to the Founders’ Day each June, but with one huge exception.
The Bonfire.
Over the years, the Bonfire had taken a legendary, almost mystical
air to it. It was on a Thursday night, the first official event of
Homecoming. There was always the speech from the mayor and the principal
(once the head dean) of SCHS. The pep rally, where the football coach (at
the present, the legendary Stephen “Bull” LaCroix) would egg on the
“Fighting Swans” to victory against the New London Mariners, the longtime
(and most bitter) rivals of SCHS. And then, the bonfire itself.
The members of the senior class would go up to the huge pile of wood
assembled in the village green (a pile that they had built earlier in the
day), each with a single match. After repeating the Swans Crossing high
School creed, each of them would strike their match and throw it upon the
pile of wood, setting off the bonfire. As the pile started to light, all
persons assembled would begin to sing the Alma Mater, starting off in a
solemn, chant-like version, building up in pitch and speed as the fire
grew, ending with a joyous rendition as the entire pile was alight. The
whole thing was meant to represent the passing of the present senior class
getting rid of the old and moving on with the new, while remembering the
tradition and honor of their high school.
As the fire burned on into the night, all assembled would hang around,
looking for old friends and classmates, drinking hot chocolates, rum cider,
or rather expensive beers provided from the bar at the country club outside
of town. It was the great coming together of the generations, with only the
bond of high school holding them together.
On this Homecoming night, November 7, 1996, one recent graduate of
Swans Crossing High School was taking part in the “great coming-together,”
as a rather mystical friend once described it to her. She lit up a
cigarette, took a sip off her cider ( to keep her warm, it was a typical
cold November New England night), and began to look for her friends from
the glory days.
For a few minutes, all she saw was middle-aged people, with the
occasional present student at SCHS. She stopped to talk with a few of them,
but was mainly preoccupied with finding any of the “circle of twelve,’ as
the mystic called it. ‘I miss Saja,’ she thought to herself. ‘Hope he came
here.’
Then, a voice. Familiar, but not totally recognizable. “Hey, is that
you? Sydney Rutledge?” She turned her head, and was looking at the past.
A read-head girl, with a ruddy complexion. She smiled a sweet,
innocent grin, and asked, “It that you, Sydney? I haven’t seen you in 3
months! How have you been! Hold on a second...Hey! J.T.! I found Sydney!”
She shouted into a small crowd near her.
Sydney Rutledge smiled herself. “Hello, Glory.” The two young women
quickly embraced.
“It’s been a long time,” Sydney said to Glory Booth, the girl facing
her. All the memories came back to her, how she was the boyfriend of J.T.
Adams, SC’s resident rocket scientist. How her brother was Garrett Booth,
her boyfriend way back in 1992.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath when she thought of him.
“What was that, Sydney?” Glory asked. Sydney said it was nothing.
“So, Glory, how has it been?”
“Absolutely amazing! I love it at NYU!” Sydney remembered that Glory
was a early childhood education major, something that her parents were not
totally happy about. “My grades are great, I pledged a sorority”-here she
showed Sydney a small pin on her overcoat, the symbol of Sigma Kappa
sorority- “and am happier than I could ever be. How’s it goin’ on your end?”
Before she could answer, a tall, black hair-do guy came over to the
two of them and gave Glory a quick peck on the lips. “What’s up, my dear?”
he said to her.
“Look who I ran into!” Her voice was filled with the cheer and
happiness of a seven year old child on Christmas day. “Sydney Rutledge! I
believe you remember my boyfriend and physics genius, J.T. Adams?”
The two of them engaged in a quick hug. “Well, well. I never thought
I would see you again, Sydney,” J.T. Adams said. “It is good as hell to see
you. How’s life?”
Sydney thought of all she had heard about J.T. in the past year
before responding to how her life, minuscule in comparison, had gone. She
had read in all the papers how the U.S. government had bought the rights to
UB2B, the self-perpetuating rocket fuel he had been working on with his
best bud from the glory days, Neil Atwater. He and Neil had made about 70
million each on the deal, allowing them to never worry about money again.
She had also seen all the accolades he had received, how all the scientific
journals called him the new Einstein, how he was offered a job with NASA at
the Redstone Center in Huntsville, Alabama.
The odd thing was, he turned it all down. There was a bigger passion
in his life, something he loved more than all the engineering and physics
in the world. And that was Glory Booth, his girlfriend ever since the
Winter of 1992. Way back in the Summer of that year, he was ready to give
it all up for her, especially when she was captured by some Russian spies
in order to give up whatever secrets she knew about the project. He feared
for her so much that he promised to give up all science after he and Neil
finished their project. He kept his promise, despite all the honors and job
offers to explain his new invention, how the “AA Boys,” as the press called
them, basically re-wrote physics.
“I’ve been...okay, let me hear about how the Physics King is doing.”
“Well, as you probably know, I gave it all up during senior year.
There was no way in hell I could ever see her hurt. if anything happened to
you”-he turned to Glory- “I could never stand to live. I love you, baby.”
She gave him a hug, and the two of them smooched for a second. Sydney
turned away from the sight, as she could never stand public displays of
intense emotion. They got the hint, and stopped.
“Well, as I was saying,’ J.T. continued, “I gave it all up, and was
at a loss on what I would actually do with the rest of my life, until I was
rummaging around my room last year. I found a copy of the first ever poem
I wrote to Glory, my first expression of the undying love”-he turned to his
girlfriend again- “I have for you.” Glory looked into his eyes, an
expression of pure joy and love.
‘Oh God, I hope they don’t start kissing again,’ thought Sydney. To
her relief (and surprise), they did not.
J.T. broke off the loving stare and took a swig of rum cider. “As I
was saying, before I keep getting interrupted by this beautiful woman
here”-he winked at Glory- “finding that old poem redirected my life. It
gave me meaning after giving up the astrophysics. So, I went to NYU, as you
know, as a creative writing major. God, I love it. I should have devoted
all that time back in ‘92 and ‘93 to my writing, not some rocket.”
“But,” Glory interjected, “if you did, we would not have that seventy
million dollars. How do you think we are going to pay for that dream house
in Virginia we both want? Or our marriage?”
“Marriage...damn! Did I miss something?” Sydney said, a little louder
than she had planned to.
There was an awkward silence for a second. Sydney began to light up
another cigarette as Glory got the courage to speak.
She gave Sydney a cool glance-for Glory detested smoking-and said,
“Yeah, marriage. We already got engaged as soon as I got to NYU in early
September, and we are going to get married as soon as J.T. gets his
bachelorate in the spring of 1999. Look at the ring he bought me!” Glory
put her right hand near Sydney’s face to show her the ring, a beautiful
gold band with a diamond in it the size of Alaska.
‘Nice rock,’ Sydney thought to herself, and decided to drop the
subject, before she got herself into any more trouble.
“Have you run into anybody else?” she asked, hoping to steer the
conversation away from matters of the heart.
“Not really,” J.T. replied. “We’ve been here since the party started,
and haven’t seen a soul.”
“Even my broth...” Glory added, before realizing her mistake. Sydney
gave the girl a cool glance, somehow making the cool New England night even
colder, if that was possible. Glory knew her error, and apologized humbly.
Sydney had a way of making people do that.
“Well,” she started, “it was cool seeing you guys again. I’m sure
we’ll run into each other before Sunday. Okay?”
“Okay, see ya later, it was...” Glory was saying when J.T. interjected.
“Sydney, do you know about the party? Saturday night?” he asked. She
replied that she had no idea.
“Well, it’s gonna be at Mila’s place. She’s not getting in until
tomorrow, she had a big test today. That philosophy class she’s gotta take
at UCLA is a killer, she told me on e-mail.” He got back to his point after
he saw Glory shiver a bit in the chilly air.
‘Probably wants to go ‘cuddle’ at my place,’ he thought.
“Anyway,” he continued, now a bit anxious to get out of there, “it’s
Saturday night over at her place, at nine o’clock. Booze, food, and music
will be provided, just bring yourself.” Glory began to nuzzle up to J.T.,
a sure sign he had to go, now.
“Well, we’ve got to jet. Nice seeing you again, Sydney, see you
Saturday!” Glory said, and her and J.T. made their exit, with her beginning
to kiss on his neck.
“Hopeless romantics,” Sydney said to no one in particular as they
walked off. She hated romance, after any aspirations of being swept off
her feet by a knight in shining armor was destroyed by Garrett, all those
years ago.
‘Hell, here I go again,’ her mind told her. Even after over four
years after they tried to destroy each other, way back in the summer of
1992, she still could not get over it all.
‘Try to put it out of your heart, you’ve been able to do it before,
for short periods. He is gone forever, you will never see him. He’s
probably got a woman down at Auburn, someone new for him to destroy...’
“Christ,” she muttered to herself. She knew what she needed right
now, besides a Brad Pitt look alike and several screwdrivers. Someone who
she was, or could be, simpatico with. Someone who always agreed with her,
who provided a fake self-confidence that she could use to assure herself.
Someone...
“Oh my God. This is a surprise...and a pleasure. How have you been,
Sydney?”
She looked around to find the source of that voice, a semi-hoarse
voice that sounded like it’s owner smoked about four packs of cigarettes a
day. Before even seeing the familiar pale face with the reddish-auburn
hair, she smiled.
Nancy Robbins.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ Sydney thought.
Good old Nancy Robbins, Sydney’s partner in crime, “loyal” friend,
and drinking and smoking buddy from the glory days. She was the ultimate
yes woman, always ready to do anything to gain the acceptance of Sydney,
her idol and goddess. Always there to support Sydney, no matter the results,
no matter if anybody was destroyed as a result. It was usually Nancy that
helped do the destroying, as she was the Class of 1995’s viscous gossip
queen.
Another thought. ‘Poor girl, she probably has less self confidence
than I ever did.
Hell, I could have kicked her in the teeth and she would probably love me
for it.’
Yes, it was definitely what Sydney needed to boost her confidence.
The two of them coolly shook hands, as the cigarettes they both had
precluded any chance of a hello hug. They stared at each other in silence
for a second or two, as a cold wind from Long Island Sound ripped around
them. Finally, Nancy spoke.
“Well, how have the past 15 months been? Good, I hope.” There was an
odd tone in her voice, Sydney thought, something that sounded like a sneer.
“I hope being stuck here with Sandy Swan and without me was no problem.”
Nancy always had a thing about Sandy Swan, the town’s Mariah Carey imitation.
‘What the hell was it with her and Sandy?’ Sydney thought. ‘Always,
Sandy this, Sandy that. God, I was sick of that crap.’ The truth of the
matter was that Nancy Robbins probably had less self-confidence than even
Sandy, sweet, insecure Sandy. Nancy needed a whipping girl, someone to feed
off of, and she became it.
And then there was the whole Mila thing, but Sydney decided against
even thinking of it.
“Well,” Sydney started, “how has Northwestern been to you?”
“Oh, it has been good, trust me. As long as my grades are good, the
money from mom and dad keeps rolling in, and the fake ID still gets me into
the Halsted Street bars, I’m as happy as I can be.” They both chuckled at
the fake ID mention.
“Still works, huh?” Sydney asked.
Nancy took a good, long swig off her hot rum toddy and responded by
saying, “Yep, as long as I put a twenty and a bs phone number under it!”
She began to crack up laughing, almost like the Wicked Witch of the West’s
eerie crackle.
Sydney smiled, and began to drift back to the past for a second.
There was always Nancy when everything else failed. Whenever everything
else got tough, they would always hop into Sydney’s mom’s ‘57 Ford Fairlane
and drive up to Boston or down to New York City. Nancy would never say no
to Sydney, her idol. They would always get nice and hammered, hit on older
guys (some of them as old as the hills), sometimes go home with them...
‘I hated her, yet I loved her,’ Sydney thought.
Nancy broke up her little walk down memory lane by saying, “So, how
is your mom doing?” A seemingly innocent question, but, just like Glory’s
little slip of mentioning her brother, something that should not have been
said to Sydney Rutledge on this night, if one didn’t want to see the face
of an Ice Queen, a face that shattered a thousand smiles.
Just two days before, on November 5, 1996, Margaret Rutledge,
Sydney’s mom, had been narrowly been defeated in her bid for her third term
as the mayor of Swans Crossing.
Something ran in the Rutledge blood, something that was passed on
from mother to daughter. What that was was the “never-surrender” code,
much like the code of the bushido. Margaret Rutledge had tried a last-ditch,
desperate plan to hold on to her position of power. Something that could
destroy her, if it did not destroy her opponent.
It backfired.
And now, instead of peacefully handing over the town charter to the
new mayor (one of the rituals of the Bonfire), Margaret Rutledge was in her
mansion a few miles outside of town, wondering how she could get herself
out of the mess she had gotten herself into.
It was not something to mention to Sydney, as she was definitely her
mother’s daughter.
She thought she could see a faint hint of a smile on Nancy’s face
when she had uttered those words a few seconds ago. Something was wrong,
she sensed.
‘Time to slay this bitch,’ Sydney thought to herself. It would have
to be quick and painful. But, before she said one of those famous Rutledge
lines that could banish a person, she noticed something.
Nancy had dropped her drink in the moments of silence, and was
frantically looking on the grass of the green, wondering where all the
liquid in her cup had gone to.
She was drunk, as a skunk.
‘Nancy would never betray me,’ thought Sydney. She lit up a cigarette
(she often chained on cold nights, and always did when she was drinking)
and smiled faintly.
“Never,” she whispered to herself.
In the meantime, it was time to watch the mayhem that Nancy Robbins
on a heavy buzz provided.
She got up from her search, grabbing onto Sydney’s outstretched hand
for a little help. “Whoa, thanks, Sydney. Can you walk with me to get
another drink?”
“Sure, no problem,” she replied, adding to herself, “Gotta keep the
party moving.” In a second, the two of them were walking, rather slowly, in
Nancy’s case, to the bar at one end of the village green.
“Glad to see you can still hold you liquor with the best of them,”
Sydney said, with a bit of chill in her voice. Nancy thought the line was
hilarious, not nasty, and began to cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West
again.
“Hey!” Nancy took a defensive tone. “I’ve seen you just as bad as
me, you know. Remember New Years Eve 1994? You were sloshed!” She cackled,
again.
‘That laugh is beginning to piss me off,’ Sydney thought, not for
the first time in her life. She shook off her annoyedness and smiled the
faint Rutledge smile of slight happiness and slight boredom and said, “Oh
yes, how in hell could I forget?” She chuckled, and Nancy cracked up, for
the umpteenth time in the previous few minutes.
‘If this wasn’t Nancy...’
But then the memories of New Years Eve 1994 came back, a flood of
memories, biblical-flood in size.
Owen Fowler, Swans Crossing’s answer to Donald Fagen, threw a huge
party to celebrate the fact that he had gotten into the elite Berklee
School of Music. It was open only to his close friends, to thank them for
all the years of support. And it was a bash, one for the ages. An open bar,
stocked with every kind of liquor imaginable. A full dinner, imported from
the Manor restaurant in East Orange, New Jersey, Owen’s favorite place
when visiting his Jersey relatives. Music from a badass band, with Owen
occasionally playing keyboards. And, for those who wished to partake, pot,
acid, and XTC in the lounge (From Owen’s Boston connection. As all good
musicians before him, he liked to hit the “stuff” once in a while for
inspiration.)
Sydney’s memories of the night were numerous, but rather hazy. She
remembered the “big twelve,” those from the summer of 1992, all being there
(hell, Owen and her were part of the twelve), and getting extremely
blitzed. Even Glory Booth, who never drank (one of the many things she
learned that night) at any of the other parties, had hit the amaretto
pretty heavy that night. She had a bit of memory about the band, how she
hit on the lead singer after about 8 or 9 screwdrivers. A bit about when
Mila Rosnovsky, who the party was to help glorify (as Owen always had a BIG
thing about her), sang a duet with Sandy Swan (an amazing feat, as Sandy
had just had a very bad experience singing a couple of weeks previous). How
Nancy cursed the both of them out viciously, calling them something that
Sydney did not really want to recall. How Garrett showed up at the party,
how she almost went home with him for “one last time, for old time’s sake,”
as he put it. ‘Thank God I didn’t.’
How she and Nancy, along with a couple of others (she could not
recall at all who else did), went to the lounge and each smoked a bowl of
marijuana, after about God-knows how many drinks. How Nancy had been
looking at her, how she was muttering something about “my goddess, my idol,
how I want to be everything you are.” (Whatever that meant.)
How her and Nancy ended up in the back of a limo at 3 in the morning
to go grab a boat to head out to Block Island (“to the beach house, Sydney,
we gotta keep the party rolling”), how her and Nancy ended up stumbling
around on the beach somewhere in Rhode Island, before ending up at the
beach house the Robbins family owned, As soon as they got in, they both
decided to have a medicinal shot of whisky from Sydney’s flask. How Nancy
gave her that look again, and began to mutter about “my goddess, my idol,”
again.
How her and Sydney began to....
“Kee-rist!” Sydney under her breath, back into reality. Nancy had let
go of her shoulder to go up to the bar, to grab a rum toddy. It had jerked
her back into reality, just as she was remembering something that was not
one of her proudest moments.
‘God, if that had ever gotten out, if anyone had ever heard...’ She
shuddered at the thought of how she would have been destroyed, even beyond
any of Garrett’s wildest dreams. But that would have never happened, as
she was the mayor’s daughter and Nancy was the gossip queen of SCHS. The
two of them never ever talked about it, not even once, and no one ever knew.
She hoped.
Sydney joined the queue at the makeshift bar, as she needed a refill
on her rum cider. Nancy was at the front, getting another toddy, one of her
favorite winter drinks. As she waited in the line, Sydney kept thinking
about her friend and confederate, Nancy Robbins.
At the same time, she was thinking about Sydney Rutledge. Through an
alcoholic haze, two words kept going through her head: ‘Be careful.’ For
all her posturing and all her growth since escaping Swans Crossing for the
streets of Chicago, she still feared-and adored-Sydney.
Sydney got her drink and caught up with Nancy. They began to prowl
around the village green, hoping to find someone.
After a few moments of silence, Sydney began to speak. “Do you know
about the party at Mila’s Saturday night?”
It took Nancy a second to respond, as the alcohol was starting to
have a major effect on her body. She always thought slowly after a few
drinks.
“Oh, no I had not,” she responded, rather slyly. “Will I get a chance
to call the Mila-bitch some more bad names, like last year?”
“Still angry at her?” Sydney asked. She knew that the only reason
that Nancy would harbor any resentment toward Mila Rosnovsky was because
Sydney was the founder of what was unofficially termed the “We hate Mila”
club, a group of girls that were rather angry that the former actress could
waltz into Swans Crossing- ‘My town, dammit,’ Sydney thought-and
practically take it over, dominating the social circles that had taken
generations to create.
‘But that is in the past, I thought. Hell, she ended up with Garrett,
what worse curse could the girl end up with?’
“Yep,” came Nancy’s reply. “Never liked her, never will like her.
Right?” She made a toasting motion with her cup (which, Sydney noticed, was
already almost empty).
“Right,” Sydney responded, weakly, and completed the toast. She was
surprised that Nancy could still be pissed at someone she had not seen in
almost two years.
‘That’s my Nancy, loyal to the bitter end,’ she decided.
That was not the same thing that Nancy Robbins was thinking.
Besides ‘be careful,’ something new had entered Nancy’s head. A
wicked thought, one to put Sydney in her place.
Even though she still adored Sydney, Nancy had also begin to realize
how bad her relationship with “her idol, her goddess” actually had been. It
took a year at Northwestern (and weekly visits to a $200 a session analyst)
for her to understand that it was a very low level of self-esteem that led
her to believe that Sydney Rutledge was everything that she needed and
wanted to be. Because of it, her relationships with a lot of people-
including Sandy Swan and Mila Rosnovsky-had never had a chance to become
anything more than a mutual hatred.
And now that she realized it, it was time to teach Sydney a lesson,
for it was Sydney that allowed Nancy to worship her, to want to be her.
Although it was always unsaid, Sydney knew that Nancy thought poorly of
herself, and she used that weakness-as she used and exploited every weakness
ruthlessly-to create the ultimate lackey, the ultimate “yes” woman.
And now that she realized it, the time for revenge had come.
“Saturday night, huh? Sounds like fun. You know I’ll be there.” And then
came that horrid cackling laugh again.
‘God, I hope she acts better than this on Saturday,’ Sydney thought.
‘But now, it is time to look for the others.’
With a drunk Nancy in tow, following her around like a puppy dog,
Sydney Rutledge began to wander around the green again, searching for more
of her old friends. After a few minutes of roaming in the cold air, she
spotted a figure clad entirely in black, barely visible against the night.
The person was standing alone, looking into the great bonfire, as if he was
contemplating some great mystery of life, or something of a deep
philosophical nature. (Actually, he was pondering where he would get some
food after the Bonfire was over-Burger King, McDonald’s, or Swans’.)
Sydney yelled out to the character, “Hey Saja!”
He looked around, searching for the source of the shout. In an
instant, his eyes met Sydney’s, and he began to walk toward her and Nancy.
‘Saja,’ better known as Bobby DeCastro, was an odd fellow in the
quiet town of Swans Crossing, Connecticut. Instead of being a schemer like
Sydney or a dreamer like JT (he left all of the socialite stuff to his
older sister, Sophia), he was a ‘humble dime-store philosopher,’ as he
liked to put it. For quite a few years, he had believed in the spirit of
‘Saja,’ an ancient Japanese warrior in the bushido tradition. That warrior
spirit, he thought, had entered him, and gave him a purpose in life.
Sydney Rutledge always thought of him as a goofball, a bit eccentric,
but usually a good person. He was one of the cool ones to her, as he was
always non-threatening, not a Garrett clone. He also never paid attention
to her schemes and plans, never paid attention to the social order of Swans
Crossing, in total contrast to Sydney, the ultimate socialite.
And for some reason, for some “magical alignment of the stars and the
planets,” as Bobby always said, the two of them became friends, if not
confidants of each other. He had been there to help her after the Garrett
thing, and after the Eric Williamson thing, the man who totally destroyed
any images of romance that were still there after the pain that was Garrett
Booth.
It was truly an odd pairing, the elitist, “normal” girl and the
egalitarian, mystical and slightly weird boy.
‘If he wasn’t from the Philippines...,’ thought Sydney, one of the
reasons that she never ended up going out with Bobby. Her mother would have
killed her if she was going out with one of “them,” as Margaret Rutledge so
eloquently put it.
Also, it would not look good for her image, and to Sydney Rutledge,
her image and social domination over Swans Crossing came first, far
outweighing any need for compassion and sensitivity from a man. In her mind,
she had to go out with a Garrett Booth, had to go out with an Eric
Williamson, had to go out with the big athlete with the thirty thousand
dollar sportscar. Had to, so she would always look good, appear to hold her
dominance over her small realm.
Even if she didn’t want to.
“Hiya, Syd,” Bobby said to Sydney, giving her a good, long hug. He
was the only person allowed to call her “Syd”; everybody else, even her
mother, used “Sydney” instead. “How’s your life been going?”
“Okay, I guess,” she replied, weakly. “Life has been pretty...
interesting since I graduated. How’s it been on your end?”
“Not bad, although I wish I was farther away than U-Conn. My parents
want me to come home every weekend, like I am a baby or something. I only
do about once a month, and they freak out over me. Guess they learned their
mistake after Sophia.” She had been sent away for college, to Europe, and
her parents missed her majorly. They did not want a repeat with Bobby.
“I missed you, you know,” Sydney said to him, almost in a whisper.
She did not want Nancy to hear that.
“Yeah, I missed you, too. It was always cool to have someone to talk
to here, someone I could trust.”
“I miss having someone like that,” Sydney replied, in a quiet, almost
mournful-like tone. He was the only one she actually trusted, the one who
got her through....
The whole Eric Williamson thing.
She first met him at a Christmas party in 1992. He was a junior in
SCHS, the starting tailback on the Swans, and also in the top 5 percent of
his class. When they first met, Sydney felt the same magic, the same warm,
fuzzy, and slightly giddy feeling that she felt when she first met Garrett.
Also, him and Garrett had had a bit of a rivalry going on, with the
football team. Eric had always wanted to play quarterback, but coach
LaCroix always played Garrett, something which he never let Eric forget. He
considered Garrett to be a pompous ass, and did not like what he had tried
to do to Sydney.
It was a match made in heaven.
Sydney had her king, a man who treated her like a goddess. A man who
loved her like no one, not even Garrett, could even attempt to match. Her
confidence was restored by Eric, and for a few months in 1993, she was able
to become the queen of Swans Crossing again, taking away Mila’s thunder.
With Eric at her side as a better king than Garret could ever be, she
thought she was in paradise.
However, as Billy Joel observed in his song “Scenes from an Italian
Restaurant,” the king and queen are always bound to have troubles.
It all started when Mila and Garrett started to have problems in the
fall of 1993. Their relationship was not as solid as it seemed in the
months before; in fact, the only reason that it had lasted so long was the
fact that both Garrett and Mila found the other to be extremely sexually
talented. But a relationship based on physical love can only last so long,
and by the fall of ‘93, the magic was pretty much gone. They began to have
some problems, serious problems.
As Mila was to comment to Glory one day in that fall, “I hate the
guy. He’s good in bed, but bad in everything else. If I have to hear
another arrogant comment from him, I know I am gonna pop him one.”
And so, at a party in early October, when Garrett was giving some
freshman girl the eye, she did.
So ended the Garrett-Mila romance.
The thing was, Eric Williamson (like every other guy at SCHS) had a
thing for Mila Rosnovsky. Like pretty much every male, he wanted a shot at
her, and was more than ready to enter the Mila sweepstakes after she became
available in October. (Even JT, the ultimate romantic that was totally
attached to Glory, wanted to go out with her for a brief time.)
Throughout October and November, him and Mila began to get a little
close. He began to compare Sydney to her, saying such things to her as
“Mila would not wear that dress,” or “Mila would do that to me, why won’t
you?” and other “Mila so-and-so” comments. It began to get on Sydney’s
nerves a great deal. The end was in sight for their relationship, and it
came at a Christmas party in 1993, thrown by the same person, at the same
place, as the 1992 party that brought Eric and Sydney together.
Mila was there, looking as stunning as ever, and being the flirt that
she sometimes was, especially after 3 or 4 shots of Goldschlager, her
personal favorite poison. And one of those that she was working the Mila
magic on was Eric Williamson. (She had a bit of a thing for the man, and
also, taking one away from Sydney was not a bad thought, in her head.)
Eric and her did a lot of talking, to the chagrin of Sydney. And
after a couple of hours (and a few drinks on his part), the two of them
began to do a lot more than talk.
Sydney has gone to the ladies’ room for a few minutes, and when she
got back, Mila and Eric were on the floor, dancing to “One,” by U2, which
had been Sydney’s and Eric’s song. And they weren’t just dancing, either.
Mila had her tongue rammed down Eric’s throat, kissing him deeply,
while his hands were all over her butt.
Sydney, not wanting to cause a scene, simply stole a liter of whisky
from the bar and slipped out, into the cold December night.
She walked around town for an hour or so, sipping on her bottle of
Jack Daniel’s to keep her warm. When she passed Eric’s house, she grabbed a
good-sized stone and attempted to fling it at his bedroom window, but it
wasn’t even close. The same thing happened when she passed Garrett’s house
a few minutes later.
Finally, at about one in the morning, she ended up back at the
village green and drifted into Swans, hoping that maybe one of Jazz’s
famous Mushroom-Swiss burgers could set her soul at ease.
The whole time she had been drifting around Swans Crossing, she kept
muttering to herself, about how Eric was a “fucking bastard,” and how she
was sick of it all. To an outside observer (and she was truly grateful that
there were none on that night), the great Sydney Rutledge looked like a bag
lady that had been just let out of Smithers or Bellevue, imported straight
from Manhattan. She was truly in a bad state that night.
The burger she ordered at Swans did not help, as she just stared at
the thing, and poured some of her Jack into her Cherry Coke. (One of the
unwritten rules that Jazz had set up at Swans was that there could be no
open drinking-it had to be mixed into a soda or iced tea bought there.)
After about a half-hour of this, of her sitting there muttering to herself
and getting more and more drunk and angry, the person who was to be her
savior walked into the place.
Saja DeCastro.
He had been spending the night doing a little meditation (he was big
into Transcendal Mediation), and needed a bit of food before he could go
to sleep. When he saw Sydney, he went into full Saja bushido mode, and saw
that she was a damsel in distress, and she needed help.
Even if it was Sydney Rutledge.
He went over to her table, and grabbed the seat across from her.
“Sydney, you all right?” he asked, concerned.
She did not move, and just continued to stare at her rapidly cooling
cheeseburger.
“C’mon, Sydney. You look like you are in a bad state. Do you want me
to call you a taxi or something?” he asked again.
After a few seconds, she said, in a whisper, “That fucking bastard...
that fucking bastard...why?”
She looked up. “Hello, Saja. Gotta pardon me, I am real...really...
drunk.” It took her a few seconds to form her words, due to her
drunkenness.
“Sydney, tell me, please. What is wrong?”
“That asshole, Eric, I want to FUCKING kill him...” Her voice raised,
drawing a brief glance from Jazz. She didn’t want any trouble.
“Tell me, Sydney. You will not feel any better ‘till you get it out
of your soul. Tell me, please.” And so Sydney began to relate the events
of that night to Saja.
After she went through the whole sordid affair, she gave Saja this
look, one of utter desperation. She was truly at the end of her rope.
“Saja...it’s not fair, y’know? Two times, twice I thought I found the
perfect man. And each time... they burn me...’ -she began to sob big-time
here- ‘...for that godamned Mila. What does she have, Saja? Why must I
fucking compete with her? Why can’t it just all end...end...end...”
“Sydney, you’re scaring me here. You aren’t thinking what I am
thinking, are you?”
“I can’t fight her anymore. Look at what she has turned me into here-
a drunk raving lunatic. It’s a Friday night, why am I sitting at this
freaking place at 1 in the morning, crying over a cheeseburger?”
“Sydney, you...this is hard to say. Promise you will not get mad at
me?”
“Saja, I can’t get mad at you right now. Hell, chances are you are
the only person that would even talk to me. Go ahead, this night can’t get
any worse.”
He thought for a second, then started. “Sydney, you have a lot of
pain inside you. You, I think, are sick of having to be some great
socialite, sick of having to set an image. Your image is going to destroy
you, Sydney. You are a great deal more than your image, no matter what
anyone else in this bloody town thinks.”
Normally, if anybody had been this perceptive in regards to Sydney
Rutledge, she would have to attempt to destroy them. She hid her true soul
under her image, under the Ice Queen and the Queen of Swans Crossing images.
She was frankly a little sick of it, and for the first time, someone had
dared to tell her.
But instead of anger, a different emotion was entering Sydney. One of
complete trust, something that she had never felt before. For the first
time in her 15 and a half years, she was with someone that she knew would
not betray her. It was an odd feeling, but the greatest and happiest one of
her brief life, greater than any happiness, joy, or sex had ever been.
She looked up from her burger and gave Saja a long glance, not saying
anything. She looked like the Ice Queen for a second, worrying Saja. ‘No,
she can’t really be like that...’
“You’re right, Bobby. You are so right.”
They stayed at Swans for another hour or so, talking about everything
imaginable. From how Garrett was an asshole, to how sad Nancy was, to how
Owen was so attracted to Mila, yet how he would never get her.
He walked Sydney back to her house, telling her along the entire
journey that she was going to be all right in the end, how she was better
than Eric and the rest. Finally, they reached her front door.
“Bobby, there is something I must tell you. It’s hard to say...but I
have to say it. When we go back to school on Monday...”
“Yeah, I know,” Saja said, always the perceptive one. “We can’t be
all buddy-buddy and stuff. It’s gonna take you some time to get all over
this stuff, and if you did it all at once, it will wreck you. I understand.”
Sydney smiled, her first smile of the night. “You’re a good man, Bobby
DeCastro. I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”
The two of them shared a big hug, then Saja gave Sydney his personal
phone number, “in case you have to talk. About anything.” And with that,
she walked into her mansion, and he back to his place.
Back in 1996, Sydney smiled to herself. ‘The end of the beginning and
the beginning of the end,’ she thought, a phrase that Saja used to describe
that night.
She regained her composure, and brought herself to the present. “So,
Saja, have you seen anybody else?”
“Yeah,” interjected Nancy, “like the Mila-bitch?”
Saja ignored her comment and told the two of them, “Yep, I’ve seen
Sandy and Callie here. Want to go see them?”
They both nodded, and followed Saja for a few paces. They got near
the fire, and then saw a tall red-head, talking with a shorter girl with
jet black hair and a pale, frighteningly pale, complexion, partially hidden
by a Boston Bruins cap. As the three of them got close, the tall read-head
noticed them.
“Hey, Saja! Oh, hello, Nancy and Sydney. How have you two been?”
At the mention of Nancy, the other girl turned around to face them.
“Hello, Sydney,” she said, coolly. To Nancy, all she gave was a cold glance,
a look that said “You even talk to me, and I will kill you.”
Sandy Swan had no love lost for Nancy Robbins.
For years, Sandy had to take a torrent of abuse from Nancy. It all
related to Nancy’s lack of self-esteem and worth mentioned previously.
Since Nancy did not like herself, she needed to drag someone down to her
level, in order to feel better about herself. And for years, that person
had been Sandy.
For a long time, Sandy just grinned and bore it, as all the insults
and jokes slowly wore herself down. It affected her self-esteem and
confidence, which is something that a singer (like Sandy) needed in order
to be successful. Without that confidence, everything that Sandy did ended
up failing in the end, no matter how hard she tried to make it work. It
even affected her singing, Sandy’s pride and joy, the thing that she was
best at.
Her singing began to fade. At the Christmas Concert in 1994, Sandy
was supposed to sing three solo songs, including Irving Berlin’s “White
Christmas,” her personal masterpiece. It was supposed to be a high point in
her high school career, the event that would convince the big music schools
such as Berkelee, Julliard, and Illinois-Champaign to come calling.
It was not to be.
When Sandy got onto the stage to start her first solo number, the
only thing that she could concentrate on was one person in dead middle of
front row center, in the best seat at the Colford Auditorium. That person,
who was to stare down Sandy for the entire show, was Nancy Robbins.
Sandy freaked. She could not get anything into her mind, any pleasant
images. She tried thinking of a triumphant concert, her relationship with
Owen (they had been THE item in SC for much of 1994, even an image of
smashing into Nancy’s face with a sharp boot heel. None of it worked, all
she could see was Nancy and her cold, icy stare, a glance that spoke
volumes.
“Yeah, Sandy,” the stare said. “You know you are gonna fail. You
aren’t fit to be in the same town as me. I am everything, and you are
worthless. Don’t even try, because you KNOW you will lose in the end.”
That message, repeated over and over in poor Sandy’s head. Constantly
repeated, whenever she was in school, or hanging out on the village green,
or working as a server at the Big Plate Bar & Grille (the site of an
incident that could have destroyed her 2 months before the concert, if not
for the personal intervention of Sydney Rutledge), or anywhere else she
happened to be. Her relationship to Owen did little to boost her.
They started to go out in March of 1994, after it was obvious to Owen
that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of him ever hooking up with
Mila Rosnovsky, his personal goddess. It was a relationship of two
desperate friends, Sandy searching for someone, anyone, to boost her fading
confidence, and Owen wanting to use his long-time musical partner as a
stepping stone to Mila. It was a parasitic relationship, with each partner
using the other.
And it was not meant to last, but was able to go for eight months
before it finally petered out. The only reason that it lasted the better
part of a year was because of music. Sandy and Owen had been musical
partners for years. They both needed each other, musically, and both feared
that of they broke it off, their previous friendship and musical union
would be ruined with it.
Owen quickly fell into the same trap that Eric Williamson got caught
into with his relationship with Sydney the previous year; her began to
compare Sandy to Mila, just as Eric did Sydney with Mila. Owen was never as
blatant as Eric was , but he still noticed little things about Sandy and
tried to change them to match Mila. For example, he wanted Sandy to
straighten and grow out her shoulder length waves, as well as dye it a
platinum blonde, so it could match Mila’s. He began to buy her clothes that
matched Mila’s (stuff that was well out of Sandy’s price range, as the
Swan family was not filthy rich like many of the others in town),
especially stiletto spike heels, to make her taller (and therefore, more
like Mila) than her normal five foot five.
Sandy was not a stupid girl, and noticed that Owen was trying to mold
her into a carbon copy of Mila. She rarely acquiesced to his demands,
except for the spike heels ( as she had a couple of amusing ideas about
what she could do to Nancy with them). It was another factor toward her
breakdown. Owen did not want Sandy, he wanted Mila, and would do anything,
including changing Sandy, to have something similar to her. It made her
feel more worthless, gave her negative half more fuel to destroy any
positive thoughts she had about herself. The old thoughts went through her
head again.
“You’re no good, Sandy. Nobody wants you to be here, nobody wants to
see you, talk to you, have anything to do with you. Sandy, you are
WORTHLESS!”
Over and over in her head, like some anti-Christ’s mantra.
Then there was the Big Plate Incident in October of ‘94, which will
be explained shortly.
Fast forward to December 13, 1994, at the Colford Auditorium. Sandy
was on stage, about to sing her first solo, a song about Hanukkah (rather
ironic for Swans Crossing, a town that was predominantly WASP, and where a
bit of the old subtle racism that always had ran rampant through the New
England elite still existed). The music started, and Sandy opened her mouth,
all ready to sing the first lines.
As mentioned previously, all that Sandy was able to think about this
night was the smug, icy face of Nancy Robbins in the first row. How it was
daring her to succeed, and how it was taunting her with painful visions of
failure, humiliation, and destruction.
The fact that she had broken up with Owen a week before, in a
separation that could be described as “messy” at best, a separation that
ended their romance and killed off a big part of their friendship, as well.
Sandy also sensed that Nancy had a big part in that, too.
The Big Plate Incident.
Way back in the late spring of ‘94, Sandy had gotten a job as a
server at the Big Plate Bar and Grille, on the village green. She needed
the money bad, and could not pass up a chance to work at a place with a
great history and reputation as the Big Plate. Hordes of celebrities and
authors had eaten there, and the place had some amazing stories about it,
an amazing air of history. F. Scott Fitzgerald had been there, as had
President Kennedy, William Faulkner, and Ernest Hemmingway (one thing they
all shared in common was their inability to drink a “Flaming Yankee,” the
drink that made the Big Plate famous). It also paid well, seven an hour
plus tips. And all the booze a teen could want, as the owners did not care
how old you were, as long as you could pay (and were from Swans Crossing).
Sandy had been there for about 5 months, having an alright time and
making a ton of money. When she turned 16 in July, she had earned enough
cash to buy herself a great car, a fully loaded 1992 Toyota Camry, jet-
black, with an awesome stereo system and a dark tint. Also, Owen had gotten
a job there as a server (she hoped working together would help preserve
their crumbling relationship), as had Saja, who was the broil cook in the
“back of the house,” as they called the kitchen.
One night in October, a night that Owen had off, Sandy and Saja were
sitting at the bar after close, having a couple of drinks. They were the
only people in the entire place except for Steven, the reclusive and rather
odd kitchen manager. After about three beers, Sandy turned to Saja and
asked him,
“Do you think that Owen is gonna hurt me?”
Saja was a bit stunned by this statement. He had assumed that their
relationship was pretty solid, that their love of music, their professional
partnership, and their longtime friendship was enough to keep them
together. He opened his mouth to answer her, but she cut him off.
“Saja, he is. I...I...well, I know he is going to, dammit. I know it.”
She looked at Saja, a stare that combined bitter sadness and playful
mischeviousness. “Yes, Saja, he is.”
He was thrown off guard for a second. He wasn’t sure if it was the
alcohol in her system (she never had a great tolerance) or his system
talking, but she had this glint in her eyes, this look that said “Please,
for me...”
Thirty seconds later, they were on the bar, she on top of him,
kissing him hard, taking off her shirt as fast as she could. He kissed her
back, half wanting to break the embrace and get the hell out of there, half
wanting to take her right there, fuck some confidence into the poor girl.
The second half of him won.
As they had passionate sex on the bar, neither of them noticed
somebody walking past the windows of the Big Plate, wondering if it was
opened. She pushed aside her reddish auburn hair, and peeked inside.
And saw Sandy and Saja, going at it like two crazy lovers.
Nancy Robbins smiled at herself, and a devilish thought popped into
her head.
‘Gotcha, Sandy.’
The next morning in school, as Sandy and Neil Atwater, JT’s good
friend, were standing by a water fountain talking, Nancy and Sydney walked
by, looking as imperial as always. Sandy muttered to herself, ‘Oh, shit,
here comes the queen and the queen (an accurate prediction of what those
two would become for a night at the end of that year).’
As they passed, Nancy smiled at Sandy, very coy-like, and said in a
‘joking’ voice, “Morning, Sandy. Hope...work was okay last night. See ya
later!” She smiled again, and walked off. Sydney did not say a word, and
just looked on with her nose held high, although to the keen eye a twinge
could be seen, a microbrief expression of surprise.
A second after they passed, Neil looked at Sandy and simply responded,
“What a bitch!.” But Sandy did not hear him, or the noise provided by the
hall traffic and lockers surrounding her. All she could hear and see was a
gray, silverish cloud, and the voice in her head again. Belittling her,
insulting her, degrading her. On the cloud surrounding her, she could see
everybody laughing at her, Owen sitting in a corner, crying and in pain,
Saja in the crowd laughing at her, bragging about having sex with Sandy.
And Nancy.
Nancy Robbins, just in front of her, so close they could feel each
other’s breath. She began to scream, “Welcome to your torment, you
miserable little slut! Fucking somebody you weren’t going out with! You
cheap whore, you nasty girl, prepare to meet thy doom!”
Sandy began to whimper, “No...no, please...I’ll do anything...no,
Nancy...”
“Hey! Sandy, you okay? You’re wigging out on me here.” It was Neil
tapping and shaking her arm, trying to get her out of her state.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m alright, Neil. Let’s get to class.”
While all that was happening, Sydney and Nancy were walking down the
hall, surveying their realm on a sunny and crisp October morning. When the
two got down to the girls bathroom, Sydney grabbed Nancy’s arm and led her
in. They went into an empty stall, where Sydney sat Nancy down on the
toilet. The girls quickly lit up Marlboro Lights.
“Okay, Nancy. What the HELL are you talking about? Did she do
something wrong at work or something?” asked Sydney. Her partner in crime
just sat there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, humming the Rolling Stones’
“Under My Thumb” to herself, and pulling out a flask of chilled bourbon.
Taking a swig out of the flask, she looked up at Sydney, saying in glee,
“I’ve got her, Sydney. I can finally ruin her. Sandy is MY bitch now,
dammit!” she said.
Nancy began to fill Sydney on the details of her story. How she was
walking past the Big Plate last night, at about 11:00 PM, to see if it had
not closed yet. Instead of seeing a busy bar with many people drinking, all
that caught her eye was Sandy totally nude, on top of Saja DeCastro, having
absolutely wild and passionate sex. And how passing this knowledge around
town would utterly ruin Sandy, forever.
Sydney leaned against the pink painted metal of the stall’s barrier,
took a drag off her smoke, and said simply, “No, you will not.”
“WHAT!” Nancy exclaimed, and then clasped her hand over her mouth.
She wasn’t sure if anyone was in the room.
‘Daring to fuck with me?’ Sydney thought. She took another drag and
explained in a slow, sweet voice, “Because I don’t want anyone bothering
Saja. He’s a, well...” she paused for a second, running her hand through
her long brown hair, “...a really nice guy. And I don’t want ANYBODY
bothering him. Okay?”
Nancy wanted to argue, but could not, for it was Sydney staring her
down. She could never counter anything that the Goddess said. She simply
got up, tossed her smoke into the toilet, and announced,
“Well, Sydney, I’m gonna fuck off for the day, go up to Providence
for lunch. Wanna come?”
Without saying a word, the two girls exited the bathroom, and headed
to Nancy’s Beamer. They passed one of the art classrooms, where Nancy dared
to peek inside and stare down Sandy through the window for a second. As
soon as Sandy glanced up from her project, feeling the old familiar feeling,
Nancy was already gone.
‘Bitch,’ Sandy whispered to herself.
Fast forward two months, to the concert. The music started, and Sandy opened her mouth. But, nothing came out but a small whimper that sounded like “Help.”
She froze on the stage, as the entire assembled crowd of nearly 2,000
stared at her. After a few seconds, the music stopped, as the band and
music department of SCHS wondered what happened. The whole room quickly
grew silent, quiet enough to hear passing cars on the road outside.
And Sandy stood there, mouth open, an expression of sheer torture and
anguish on her face, her eyes pleading for help form anywhere. The crowd
began to murmur, concert-goers proposing ideas on what was happening to
those that sat near them. James Moldoon, the director of the Swans Crossing
High Band and Orchestra, walked onto the stage to talk to Sandy. He got
within ten feet of her before she bolted for the door and freedom. As soon
as she was outside, she hopped into her Camry, and got onto the interstate,
driving west as fast as the six cylinder engine could carry her.
For about 3 hours she paid no attention to where the freeways were
carrying her. It didn’t matter, for all Sandy wanted, needed, and craved
was to escape the voice, to escape Nancy. She kept driving west, until
about half past eleven that night, when she finally and suddenly snapped
out of her trance.
‘Where the hell am I?’ she asked herself, as she searched for some
direction sign. Sandy found one about a minute later, a brown sign
announcing to all that they were about to enter Hershey, Pennsylvania, the
“Chocolate Capital of the World.”
“Christ,” she thought to herself. The last thing (or the first thing)
Sandy wanted and needed was chocolate, her personal therapy method. But,
any port is wanted in a storm, so she ended going to the 24-hour discount
warehouse (the Costco of chocolate), bought a bunch of Hershey’s bars and
a gallon of milk, and checked into the most expensive room at the Hotel
Hershey, the town’s attempt at a big resort.
As soon as she got up to her room, Sandy went into the bathroom, got
the hot tub going at full blast, put in a Tori Amos tape into her Walkman,
and settled into the bubbly water, chocolate Kisses in one hand and a big
glass of milk in the other.
“Now,” she thought to herself, “now what do I do?” The events of the
past couple of months popped into her mind. Everything with Owen, that
night of reckless passion with Saja, Nancy’s constant presence, everything.
How Saja was so nice to her, even when they were consumed by lust. Owen,
the boy who wanted everything and was never satisfied with what he had. And
Nancy, evil little Nancy, her personal anti-Christ.
“Crucify” came on the tape player, and Sandy continued to think. She
let the music fill her soul, let it become part of her. It was the only
thing that could soothe her and put her troubled mind at some sense of
ease. Even though, she kept thinking of Nancy, the evil one. Every time
something bad happened to Sandy, it was Nancy who was always ready to
exploit it, make it a million times worse than it really was. Sandy knew
deep inside that Nancy was the one causing all her problems. She just never
wanted to realize it, and instead turned the negative energy that Nancy was
feeding her into her own.
She took a sip of her milk, just as the line “Got enough guilt to
start my own religion” came over the player. And then, to no one in
particular, she shouted at the top of her lungs,
“AND TONIGHT IT ENDS!”
A second later, she realized where she was, and felt a bit ashamed,
the old feeling. But that quickly subsided, and was replaced with an
emotion unfamiliar to Sandy, yet one that felt extremely good.
Anger.
Pure, intense anger. Hatred toward Nancy, a desire to get revenge.
She thought of her recurring vision of the gray clouds, but instead of
cowering at the image of Nancy cursing her out, she saw herself grabbing
Nancy by the neck, forcing her to shut her mouth, stop that raspy voice that
Sandy feared to hear. Just making Nancy stop, just making her feel worse
than herself, was all that Sandy wanted and needed.
This new feeling felt weird to the teen for a second, as she had never
been taken to fits of extreme rage before. But the uneasiness faded, and it
began to feel good. Better than anything had ever felt before, any singing
or sex had ever felt.
“Yeah,” she whispered to herself, “it ends tonight.”
She cranked up the volume on her Walkman and chilled in the bubbly
water of the hot tub for an hour or so, and then went to sleep.
When Sandy woke up in the morning, everything around her seemed to
look different. She stepped out on to the balcony of her hotel room, into
the chilly winter Pennsylvania air. All around her, like a huge diorama,
was the town of Hershey, and the beautiful farmlands of the Pennsylvania
Dutch country. A light snow had fallen, and everything was covered in an
inch or two of white powder. To Sandy, it was one of the greatest sights
she had ever seen, even better than the view from the top of the Statue of
Liberty. For once, possibly the first time in her entire life, she was at
ease with everything, and ready to, as she once heard someone say, “roll
along the world.” She finally knew what it meant.
After a hearty breakfast in one of the banquet halls, she was back in
her trusty Camry, ready to see how the world felt after her semi-religious
experience of the previous night. As she popped back onto the Turnpike, she
briefly entertained the thought of returning to Connecticut and finding out
what had happened after her flameout at the Christmas Concert.
“Ah, hell,” she said to herself as she crossed over the westbound
bridge of the Susquehanna, “screw ‘em. Gotta have some fun.” With that,
Sandy cranked up her stereo system, popped in a Led Zeppelin CD, and
floored the gas pedal.
Sandy was to have some fun over the week and a half following her
night of collapse. Her first destination was Chicago, where she spent a
night hitting all the clubs (and won 500 dollars in a karaoke contest), She
then cruised down the Mississippi valley, stopping in Memphis to check out
Graceland and the Sun Records museum. Then, the real party began, as Sandy
rolled into New Orleans on a Saturday night.
And saw a ghost.
It was about 1 AM on that night. She had been hitting the bars in the
French Quarter for about 4 hours, getting a nice and comfortable buzz going
on. While she was walking (stumbling was more like it) on Bourbon Street,
one of the people she had somehow attached herself with (a couple of them,
ironically enough, were to become brothers at the same fraternity at Auburn
University that Garrett Booth was a member of) suggested that they go to
Nick’s, a semi-rundown bar out of the Quarter that, for some odd reason,
had a major following. She agreed with them, and they all grabbed a cab.
They walked in five minutes later, and there, at the bar, was her
ghost.
Garrett Booth.
He had just gotten done with his finals a couple of days earlier, and
had decided to celebrate the end of his first quarter at Auburn by spending
a weekend in the Crescent City with a few of his friends and fraternity
brothers. He was the last thing she was expecting to see on her road trip.
He saw her a split second before she did him, and moved in to attack.
Now, one must remember that Garrett did not particularly care for
Sandy Swan. He had always seen her as a threat to Mila’s singing career,
when in reality Mila’s voice was the biggest danger to her pipe dreams.
Still, he saw Sandy as a rival, much like Sydney. She had to be shut down,
had to be used.
He smiled at her as soon as the recognition was made, and went into
full mack-daddy mode (just because he didn’t like her didn’t mean he
couldn’t attempt to sleep with her) and said, “Why, hello, Sandy. I never
expected to see you here, so far away from home. How did you ever afford to
come all the way down here?”
‘Cheesehead,’ she thought. Before she could come up with something
witty and sharp to cut Garrett down to size, one of her traveling
companions for the night, a short black-haired kid named Matt, interjected
by saying “Y’all know each other?”
“Yeah,” Sandy mumbled, almost to herself. “We went to school up in
Connecticut together. He already graduated, and goes to, oh hell, where is
it? Alabama?”
Garrett gave her a cold stare, as it was always considered a major
insult to tell someone from Auburn that they had anything to do with the
University of Alabama, their most hated rivals.
“Auburn, Sandy. I go to Auburn. Not Alabama, dammit!” He was pretty
messed up at this point in the evening (as usual), and was getting highly
annoyed over something not that big.
Matt looked at Garrett, and said “Auburn! Cool. That’s where most of
us are going to school next year. Let me introduce you to...”
Sandy used this inadvertent distraction to quickly sneak out of the
bar and go to her hotel room. The last thing she wanted to deal with on her
flight from the reality of Swans Crossing was Garrett Booth, someone who
wanted her to fail. She was sick of all the people who wanted her to mess
up for their own personal gain. And since she was spending a week getting
all the old angst out of her system and replacing it with a “Screw the
world” attitude, seeing someone like Garrett was not what she needed.
When she arose the next morning, Sandy saw that it was already the
21st of December. Although she wanted to continue her run with a trip to
the Florida beaches, she needed to be home in time for Christmas (also, she
was running toward the end of her finances, as she was close to maxxing out
her emergency Visa card and had nearly emptied her bank accounts due to
repeated trips to ATM machines). So, she hopped back into the trusty Camry,
and did the 1500 mile drive from New Orleans to Swans Crossing in 22 hours
nonstop, which she considered to be a land speed and an endurance record.
As she got about 30 minutes from her hometown, Sandy decided to
chance a phone call to one of her friends, to tell then what the hell had
happened to her. She pondered who to call.
“Owen? Nah, he’s probably trying desperately to hit on Mila again.
Screw him. Saja? Not after last month. He still thinks he hurt me. Nancy?
HAH!” she laughed, losing sight of the road for a brief moment and almost
hitting a car on the I-95 rush-hour traffic.
“God, I’m beat,” she commented to herself. Then it dawned on her who
to call.
Glory Booth.
She punched in the numbers of Glory’s private line into her cell-phone
and waited.
At this moment in time, Glory was fast asleep in her bed. She had
been out with JT the night before at a poetry reading of his in a New
London coffee house. (This was just after he and Neil had sold the rights
to UB2B.) They had been out to about one or so, and then went over to his
place to fool around a bit, and....
Anyway, she hadn’t gotten in to after four, and was practically
comatose when the phone rang.
It rang about three or four times, and then Sandy heard a very groggy
“Hello?” on the line.
“Glory! It’s me, Sandy! Wake up!”
Glory was highly surprised by this, and summoned some energy almost
immediately. Sandy relayed the events of the past week to her friend,
including her experience in Hershey and seeing Garrett in New Orleans.
Glory wasn’t surprised that Sandy saw her brother drink in a bar.
She also filled Sandy in on SC events of the past week, how everybody
was freaking out about what had happened to her (“Your mom has gone
apeshit,” was how Glory put it, very strong words for her), and about
Owen’s party, how he wanted her to sing a duet with Mila.
“Guess he wants to make amends with you, Sandy,” Glory said.
“Yeah, he does, the little dumbass. It’ll be fun, to say the least.”
Sandy’s mind filled with images of how it would be her ultimate revenge,
against Owen, Nancy, Mila (she’d FINALLY show Owen that she sung worse than
William Shatner with a sore throat) and the rest.
The girls ended their conversation, and Sandy rolled into her
driveway after being gone for over a week. Fortunately, her parents had
already left to go to work (it was Monday morning when she got back), so
she would not have to deal with them until after she got some much needed
sleep. She entered her house, and collapsed in her bed, sleep coming almost
instantly.
The next few days were pretty uneventful, as she was able to explain
what happened to her parents. They were so concerned with her well-being
that they did not care about her week long disappearance, just as long as
their daughter was alright.
A few days later was Owen’s big party. Sandy was rather surprised
that Owen wanted her to be there, after their breakup and everything. As he
explained to her the night before, “We may not particularly like each other
anymore, Sandy, but there is the music.” He was able to appeal to Sandy’s
professionalism as an artist to get her to show, and to sing the duet with
Mila. Sandy savored the chance to show them all up, to prove that she was
not little, insecure Sandy Swan anymore.
Her and Mila got up on the stage at about 11:00 or so, all ready to
sing a duet of “Silent All These Years” by Tori Amos (Owen let Sandy choose
the song), one of Sandy’s personal favorites. To ensure that she was at the
peak of her ability, Sandy hadn’t even had a drink in the 3 hours she had
been at the party, while Mila had had a couple Screaming Nazis and a
Flaming Dr. Pepper. The music began, and the last thought on Sandy’s mind
before the singing was to start was “This is gonna be FUN!”
They sang for a minute, Sandy with perfection, Mila not so. Mila
could never sing to start with, and the added facts that she had a pretty
decent buzz going and did not like Tori Amos made it even worse. She sung
on, oblivious to the fact that her voice was causing everyone to want her
to shut up. Sandy, meanwhile, sounded like the diva that she was.
No one wanted to stop the scene, and cause a social fopah, except for
one highly drunk redhead with a gravely voice.
Nancy walked from the back of the room up to the stage, and began
letting the two girls have it. Her verbal assault on Mila and Sandy was so
vicious and rude that it can not be put into print. Suffice it to say, it
was a brutal insulting session, with no holds barred. (When Nancy got
messed up, there was no holding back.) During the attack, Mila stopped
singing and began to yell back at Nancy. Sandy, on the other hand, attempted
to go on singing, but was finding her newly-found confidence fading rapidly.
Her voice grew fainter and fainter, and also began to crack, showing signs
of strain. Fortunately for her, Owen stopped the music so he could hear the
verbal war between Nancy and Mila. With the music stopped, Sandy retired to
another room in Owen’s house to collect her thoughts for a moment.
She did not cry, did not wig out. On the outside, anyway. Inside, her
mind and soul had ceased to fight, they had finally given up. They were
saying “What’s the purpose? You can never beat her, she will win in the
end. All you can do is damage control, show the world it does not affect
you. Let your emotional state get torn up, let your soul be destroyed, as
long as SHE DOESN’T KNOW.”
And that is what Sandy did. Over the next few months after the party,
she began to change. Her clothing style changed from the usual popular
stuff she always wore to a wardrobe dominated by blacks and grays. She dyed
her hair black and straightened it out. Her partying habits changed and
friends slowly changed, as she hung out more and more with Swans Crossing’s
“freaks” community, the few potheads, neo-hippies, and Gothic girls that
the town had. It was all an attempt to escape Nancy and the social circles
that she believed had led to her destruction. Some of her friends, mainly
Glory and Saja, tried to help her, tried to bring her back, but she as too
far gone. She could never go back.
The most important change that Sandy Swan put herself through after
that night related to her pride and joy, her singing. To put it simply, she
stopped. Entirely. Even singing in the shower or in her car to the radio
became a no-no, as it brought the pain of Nancy back. Sandy’s mind had
convinced her that it was her singing that had caused all the pain in the
world to her, that it had given her enemies a chance to hurt her. She
refused to sing even after she escaped Swans Crossing for U-Conn in the
fall of 1996. Her life had drastically changed since Nancy had caused all
the torture and anger, and Sandy would never forgive her for it.
Yes, Sandy Swan had no love lost for Nancy Robbins.
-End of Part 1-
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/hollywood/hills/2262/fanfic
geocities.com/hollywood/hills/2262geocities.com/hollywood/hills
geocities.com/hollywood
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