I Hate You Too, Christina Smith

“Christina!” The barista shouts over the humdrum of the steaming appliances. My shoulder collides with another woman’s as we both step forward and I profusely apologize. Our eyes meet and she does a double take. I clock the woman immediately and wish a sandworm would swallow me whole. 

“Chrissy?!” It takes every fiber of my being not to grimace at the diminutive that I’ve always detested. Being the other Christina, the quiet one, was irksome growing up, especially when she was gregarious, popular, and generally admired. She was the perfect Christina and I was just shy Chrissy.

“Christina, hi…” A nauseating tete-a-tete ensues in which various exclamatory statements are directed at me, and I nod with, what I hope qualifies as a smile, plastered across my face. The pleasant sounds emanating from my mouth must be enough of a volley to keep the dialogue going because time passes, somewhere between thirty seconds and three minutes. Midway through this outer body experience, another cup is placed in front of us. My soul reenters my body and I inch towards it. No longer caring about the contents of the cup, but praying that it opens a portal to an alternate universe. Cup in hand, I look down at my feet still firmly planted on the ground. “No dice.”

“I’m sorry?”

My attention snaps back to Christina’s upturned face. “No ice. I forgot to order it with ice.” It’s the first full grammatical sentence I’ve said, accompanied by a wooden expression. 

“Poor thing, you need your coffee”, she croons. I take in her perfectly tailored pantsuit, manicured nails, and highlighted hair, and feel about three inches tall as I feel her regard me in my leggings and ponytail. If she’s cosplaying as a corporate queen, I’m a work-from-home slob, a cry for help. I have to extract myself from this scene before I weaponize the beverage in my hand. 

“It’s been perishing to see you again. I’ve gotta run.” 

I’m already sidling by when she says, “Wait, wait!”, and grabs a marker off the counter. She writes something across the side of my cup in painstakingly precise digits. “You were always such a quirky girl, I’m glad to see you haven’t changed. Text me so we can catch up.” 

******

Evanescent Prophecy is a disturbingly popular Young Adult series that I created under a penname the summer after graduating college. Procrastination, an unfortunate pastime of mine, ruled my life that summer, and instead of applying to editor jobs, I wrote what would become book one of the series. On a whim I sent in the manuscript to a few publishers and the rest is history. I never did become an editor, but I do have a team of editors that work with me. The fifth and final book was published last year and I have yet to overcome the writer’s block that has plagued me since.   

Pulsating on the white topography of my computer screen, the blinking cursor synchronizes with the beat of my heart. I’ve had too much caffeine. Bouncing my knee as I navigate to the open Chrome tabs, I scan through some of my usual haunts. Even this deviation from writing fails to distract me from the disastrous interaction. I need grounding, I need my own personal whisperer. 

There’s only one person on the planet that knows the extent of my neuroses and can yank me back to reality. We were serendipitously paired up as roommates freshman year of college and have been inseparable ever since. This saint of a woman is my best friend Jess.

Answering my call, but forgoing a greeting, Jess says, “Whatever you write is going to be amazing. Stop reading fanfiction and get words on the page!” Jeez, that’s uncanny. 

Closing a multitude of fanfiction tabs I say, “Actually, that’s not the reason I’m calling. But thank you for that.” 

“Ok. What’s up?”

“I’m trying to talk myself down but I am spiraling.”

“It’s only nine thirty. What happened?”

“I ran into someone from high school. The other Christina.”

Jess sucks in through her teeth, “Uff…that’s a rough start to the day. How awkward was it?” 

“Quite. It was not my best moment… Am I quirky?”

“Hm…Did you zone out during the small talk?” Jess has borne witness to all of my idiosyncrasies and is not one to mince words. 

Christina Smith, the nicest girl in school and somewhat of a confidant, left a lasting impression on me during my formative years. Voted Most Outgoing by our graduating class, she was a social butterfly that floated from one clique to another, the epitome of who I wanted to be. Though we lost contact when we went to college, my protagonist, beloved by my readers, is based off of her effervescence.  

Despite considering her a friend, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a proxy. There when she needed me, but dispensable if and when she got a better offer. Occasionally she would snub me, not invite me to things. If I confronted her she would justify it by saying something like, ‘You’re too quiet, you wouldn’t’ve had fun anyways.’ 

Lost in my thoughts and absently tracing the phone number on the cup with my finger, I abruptly freeze. There is something at the edge of my memory that prickles my senses. With a tug, a recollection starts to materialize.

“Sorry, I think I’m onto something. I’ll call you later.” I hurriedly disconnect, my mind grabbing onto the tiny thread and pulling. The whole thing starts to unravel. 

A grim memory is loosened as I clutch the cup in my hand. My stomach twists and a flush heats my face. The gears slowly revolve, the cogs clicking into place as memories are replayed and pathos conjured up. I’ve seen this handwriting before, many, many times. 

In the back of my closet lies a shoebox, its contents a catalyst of shame and mental torment. Dumping the pandora’s box onto my bed, I place the pieces of paper in a hellish collage around me. These anonymous notes, the first which I found in the second grade, contain the hateful dregs of an unknown creator. Their commonality is the recipient: me. I received these messages periodically, in lockers, desks, and tucked into my backpack, until I went away to college. The lettering, written with a distinctive and meticulous hand, correlates with the phone number inscribed on the cup.

Years of psychological anguish rush to the forefront. The dirty little secret that gnawed at me in the recesses of my mind, kept me up at night, and fed my anxieties and insecurities, spread before me. The question that echoed within for decades, who?, now answered. 

The second grade was a milestone year because we weren’t considered babies anymore. Reading, writing, and math was part of the curriculum, we had our own desks with a top that opened, and a cubby hole for backpacks and folders. Desk decor was a reflection of each child. Mine was kept neat with an array of Lisa Frank stickers adorning the inside tabletop. Everyone was friends which meant all year long there were birthday parties to go to. I was quiet in the classroom but rowdy and rambunctious on the playground. My best friend was Danny O’Brien. 

The first note hurt a lot. Shoved in the back of my cubby, I assumed it was a nice note. It was common to write notes and put them in your friend’s desk or cubby. “Do you want to sleepover? Y or N”. Anticipating a weekend playdate invite, I reached in, elbow deep, and excitedly unfolded it. “I hate you.” The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Pierced through the heart and teary-eyed, I hastily folded the note and shoved it in my bag. I rushed home with a lump in my throat so painful, I thought I would die. 

Tattling was a cardinal sin at that age. Not only that, but I felt incredibly ashamed. Someone didn’t like me, rather, hated me, I was bad. Hoping this was a one-time incident, I tried to forget. But just when enough time went by that I wasn’t brooding about it anymore, I’d find another. The early diatribes were simple and blunt. “You are ugly.”, “No one likes you.” “Kill yourself”. Each bullet seared through me, leaving an open wound that would fester for weeks. Somebody wished that I didn’t exist. So, I withdrew into my own head.

As the years went on they became more violent, disturbing, and personal. Clearly, not only was this person a bottomless pit of venom, but they knew me, intimately. Scraps of paper turned into page-long vicious tirades, picking on everything from my hair, clothes, and mannerisms. Painfully shy, a description cruel in and of itself, befit me during this time. I was so self-conscious by then, I barely spoke during school hours.

Inundated with inadequacies I have long ago reconciled, my head swims and I close my eyes. The image of the magnanimous girl I idolized, who went out of her way to include me, shatters.  Her facsimile is replaced with a tormentress. A darkness eclipses me and I sit at my desk, fingers thrumming with ammunition. 

I write all day and all night. When I finally stop, anguish purged, I’ve written the skeleton of a book. This catharsis is unlike anything I’ve ever created.

******

“This is the antithesis of Evanescent Prophecy”, says Cheryl over her lobster bisque. “It’s dark, it’s gruesome, it’s unrelenting”, she pauses and my stomach threatens to regurgitate what little of lunch I did consume. “We love it.” 

Thank God. I can’t believe she made me wait until the end of the meal to tell me that. I sigh and down the rest of my water. 

“This character is one that readers will love to hate. What inspired you to go in this direction?”

“I just wanted to try something different,” I say with a shrug. I’m going for nonchalance but I fear I might be coming off as diffident. 

It doesn’t matter, her vision has already been obscured by dollar signs. Smiling from ear to ear she says, “We can’t wait to see where this goes.” 

 Sitting in my car, I call Jess. “How’d it go?”, she asks.

“Phenomenal! They love it.” I’m smiling, genuinely smiling, for the first time in weeks. 

“Well done, dearest. Now all you have to do is complete the cure.”

“What?” Sometimes Jess can be just as weird as me.  

“Finish the book and send that bitch a copy.”

“Oh…” I say putting the vehicle in gear, “I’m already working on a depraved introduction.”