Leo

The Leo constellation is my favourite. It’s also my star sign. I guess that is why it’s my favourite, Leo’s are self-centered and stubborn: I always get what I want. Don’t get me wrong, I worked for what I have. I was the valedictorian at high school, I had an enviable GPA and I got into Yale and Harvard on merit alone, but I had to sacrifice likeability. People who are loved get nowhere. Fact. So I ditched that sentimentality, for this: perched on a sunbed, at 2am in my parents immaculately landscaped garden, feet skimming cool, pool water staring at my favourite star sign, wondering what happens now? 

Absentmindedly, I get up, and wander into the pool, it's cool; perfectly refreshing. The water parts as I wade through it, further and further. It rises under my shirt, causing it to expand like one of those rings they give the children who can’t swim. I can swim. Obviously. I was captain of the swim team in sophomore year. I realise the water is now skimming my bra, I must look ridiculous. I am standing in the centre of a pool, wearing an inflated shirt and underwear. I am spotlit in cool, moody blue, as a beacon of wealth in the hills of Santa Barbara. My ashen blond curls are piled onto my head like a natural crown; they are slipping, ends dipping in water as I stare up at Leo. At 2am. 

I must look like a nobody to the universe. The stars are so far away, they make me feel tiny. Irrelevant. Now that I've graduated I feel tiny; like a small, oppressed, female ripple in the ocean of the American education system. Tiny. Irrelevant. I don’t like being ignored, there’s another Leo trait, I like controversy and drama. I’d be relevant again if I died, like artists. Something tragic like a car accident, or I could totally pull a Van Gogh and shoot myself in a wheat field. That would hit the press, I’d be all over the news. My parents would cry, my brothers would cry and my boyfriend would cry. He’d hold a memorial for me, and tell stories of our love. I’m not sure I’d use that word, but he’s hot and popular and decent at sex, it makes sense for us to be together. At my funeral they’d be lilies and everyone would wear white and tell stories about my successes. If I died I’d trend on twitter. 

That feels a little extreme. So I share a selfie and I climb out of the pool. I trudge back up to the house. I go to bed.   

“I want you to disown me.”

“I’m sorry Quinn, I think I misheard you darling.”

“No father, I want you to disown me.” It’s the next morning, I had hatched this plan at my 6am yoga session. It was the perfect way to create a scandal and everyone would feel sorry for me. I’d trend on twitter and the sympathy would pour in.  “Quinn, honey, why on earth would we do that?”

“Because I am asking you to.” This was supposed to be the easy part, “just say I got pregnant or stole something.” 

“You’re not pregnant and you haven’t stolen anything.” My father didn’t even look up from his paper. My mother looked mildly unimpressed. This was a hurdle I hadn’t anticipated. I could get pregnant, easily. “I know, but...” I said slowly, trailing off. I stood for a few seconds in silence, my father continued reading and my mother continued her breakfast. “Ok then,” Plans change. “I’m running away.”

“Have fun darling.” He doesn’t look up.

That didn’t go to plan. Looks like I’m running away. I already said I’m stubborn and I never go back on my word. New York. That is a good place to run to; it’s where dreams are made. I’ll go tonight, in the dead of night, I’ll tell no-one. Maybe they’ll send a search party or think I’ve been kidnapped. The PD will get involved. They’ll make a televised plea for my return, my parents will cry, my brothers will cry and my boyfriend will cry. That will trend on twitter. 

I consider for a second that I might have gone too far, but I never go back on my word. 

I’m sitting on a Greyhound bus. It’s not exactly ideal, but I have wi-fi and air-con so it will do. I’ve turned off my location and GPS. I’m in an incognito tab. Obviously. Turns out getting to New York takes a while when you can’t fly. I’m not going to fly, it’s too easy to track. I feel great. Powerful. This plan is brilliant. I sit back, close my eyes and revel in my own brilliance.

I think we are in New Mexico. I saw a sign for Albuquerque a few kilometers back. I become aware that there’s a creep sitting opposite me. He’s in his forties and single. It’s plain to see: he’s overweight, is not maintaining his facial hair and is staring, evidently at my boobs. He is, also, not wearing a wedding ring. There’s a sick part of me that likes the attention. Then I think about that. Too far. And I suddenly don’t like it anymore. He’s making me uncomfortable. He tries to catch my eye, he tries to talk to me. I put my headphones in. I put on my jacket and lean against the window; turned away from him. I feel his cold eyes in the back of my skull. The next stop is Santa Fe and I think about getting off. 

As the bus pulls up, creep stands up. I think he’s getting off. He isn’t. He places his hand on the seat next to me, close to my leg,  “hey little Miss, is this seat taken?”

“Have it,” I stutter, “this is my stop.” 

It’s 6pm and I am standing at the Greyhound stop in Santa Fe, New Mexico. My plan is a mess and I can’t even share a shocking story about being attacked by a creep on a Greyhound bus. I cry. I know I’ve gone too far. The real world is crap. Nobody in this station gives a shit about the tired looking, rich girl standing at the station. Everyone has their own problems, I don’t matter to them. They don’t care how many followers I have or how much this outfit cost. I suddenly feel small again and I want nothing more than to fizzle away into nothingness.

Nothing matters anymore. I have no friends. The only attention I can attract is a creep on a bus.

I only made it to New Mexico. I walk slowly outside. 

I look up and there right above me: Leo. I laugh to myself, letting heavy, fresh tears wet my face. It’s like a wave has engulfed me and I’ve been reborn. Reality hits me like a truck. The impact doesn’t kill me. It’s a lightbulb moment. Not like in those cartoons you watched as a kid. I’m like a stellar nebula, the first spark of life in a star. I have to choose, I can be an average star and disappear into the night or I can be a massive star and burn up into a supernova. A supernova could trend on twitter, but even if it didn’t it looks pretty awesome. 

I call my parents, all the while staring up at the stars.