“I was always the nerdy kid. Braces, acne, glasses, the whole nine yards.”
A forlorn expression stretched across Barry’s face. He chatted with his therapist about the scarring high school memories that haunted his dreams every night.
“It’s hard to imagine you ever being nerdy,” the therapist smiled, checking out his physique and striking features.
Barry Evans was a real life manifestation of the nerd-who-grew-up-to-be-rich stereotype. He not only was rich and successful, but extremely handsome as well; a modern Adonis with a seven-figure income.
“Yeah, I can’t stop having these awful dreams. The one face that always haunts me is Margaret Chenowith’s. That bitch has been lingering in my dreams for years.”
Every therapy session with Barry went this way: 10 percent talking about emotion and the other 90 percent talking about Margaret, the captain of the cheer squad, and the love of Barry’s life. She had used that to her advantage. She and her friends had tormented him for liking her to the point where Barry contemplated suicide.
“Barry, you’re paying me $300 an hour for me to tell you something you already know. The root of your problems is this Margaret girl. If you can just get rid of her mentally, your mind will clear and your sleeping will improve.”
This conversation went back and forth until the hour was up, and Barry then made his way down the busy city street. He visited his favorite and trusted tailor to pick up his weekly order.
“Um sir… we no have your order,” the woman replied meekly behind the counter, her broken English barely heard over the timid clicks of the computer keyboard.
Barry’s fists clenched and a fire arose in his soul, but he maintained his cool and calm exterior.
“You must be mistaken. I paid extra for it to be ready by this time exactly and as God as my witness, my Givenchy custom suit is sitting back there in your shitty room next to a bunch of ragged, poorly sewn, Salvation Army garbage,” he said in a monotone voice, just barely above a whisper.
The girl shrank in fear.
“I’ll—go get m-manager.” She ran into the back room.
A woman walked out quickly and typed away at the computer on the cashier desk.
“Name please,” she didn’t take her eyes away from the screen.
“Barry Evans.”
The woman stopped, her mouth slightly ajar.
“Barry Evans? Did you by chance go to Crestwood High? Class of ’86?” she asked, now making direct eye contact with him.
“Yes. Listen, I don’t have time…” He analyzed her face closely. Familiar green eyes, strawberry blond hair, a worn face that seemed as though it once could’ve been considered beautiful in its youth before years of wear and tear got to it.
“M-Margaret? Margaret Chenowith?” Barry stuttered.
“Yes! My-oh-my you look different! I couldn’t even recognize you at first. How have you been… are you married?” she replied in a flirty tone, leaning slightly over the counter.
“No. You?” he said flatly, with just a hint of nervousness to his voice.
“Oh well, we should catch up a bit sometime.
“I would love to, but I have a gala to attend for work tonight. How about tomorrow night?” He faked all the confidence he could. He wrote down his number and address before she could even respond. “See you at eight.”
Barry freshened up and gazed in the mirror. I have a date with Margaret Chenowith.
He spritzed on some of his nicest and most expensive cologne and slicked his hair back. He sighed as he looked at his reflection. God you’re sexy.
The doorbell rang, and he sprinted to it only to find Margaret wearing way too much make-up and an unflatteringly small dress. The only way to describe such a horrendous sight would to think of a sausage link dipped into bright orange foundation.
“Gee Barry, I wasn’t expecting this.” She gawked as she entered his luxurious penthouse. She ran her fingertips along the expensive paintings lining the off-white walls. The smell of fresh linen floated through the air. Barry’s house was meticulous. She sat on his couch, adjusting herself on the fine leather and immediately pulled out a single cigarette from her now empty pack.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes, actually, I do Margaret. One cigarette contains acetone, arsenic, methanol, cadmium. Second hand smoke can…”
“Wow Barry! Still a huge nerd, I see.” Margaret smirked and put the lone cigarette back in its cardboard home.
Barry forced a fake chuckle. “Chateau Margaux?” He offered, making his way to a dark wooden cabinet.
“Oh, I didn’t know you spoke French. What does that mean?” Margaret giggled.
Barry glared at her and took two Swarovski crystal wine glasses out of the cabinet. He shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a small pill out of one of the drawers, dropping it into the crystal before pouring the dark red wine. He carried the two wine glasses into the living room, making note of the tainted one.
Margaret picked up the glass and brought it to her lips. She paused before taking a sip. “Oh my, I shouldn’t be drinking on the first date; Momma always told me not to.” She winked and set the glass down.
Barry’s eye twitched a bit before he made a throaty and over exaggerated laugh.
“It’s pretty funny actually. I would’ve never given you a chance in high school but now look at you! What more could a girl want!” Margaret said, scooting closer to Barry and resting her hand on his thigh. She leaned into him until Barry sprung from his seat.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He ran off into the bathroom with no other explanation.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror and splashed water on his face.
Get a hold of yourself.
He continued to stare at himself until he got an idea.
“If you can just get rid of her,” His therapist’s voice echoed in his head. “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.”
The voices mangled together and became louder and louder. His fingers trembled as he clutched the sides of the bathroom sink, his knuckles turning white from the strong grip.
Finally, something clicked. The voices stopped.
Barry adjusted his tie and re-slicked his hair.
“Took you long enough. You really know how to keep a girl waiting,” Margaret scoffed as Barry re-entered the living room.
“You know, Margaret, I’ve been waiting for the moment I could get a date with you.”
Barry sauntered into the kitchen.
“For years, I wished you would notice me.”
He went to a drawer.
“Just waiting for you to like me back.”
He grabbed a butcher knife from the drawer and hid it behind his back.
“And now I finally have you.”
He walked towards the couch.
“And you know what I realize?”
Barry crept up behind the couch.
“You aren’t worth it. You peaked in high school, and you live a miserable and mediocre life. I feel bad for you, but I’m just out of your league, Margaret. You’ve been the loser this whole time.”
Barry grabbed Margaret’s head swiftly and dragged the blade across her throat until her neck oozed with blood as red as the Chateau Margaux.
He followed his therapist’s advice: He got rid of her. After the mess was cleaned up, Barry had the best sleep of his life.
Gabrielle Vincent is a junior at CASA Charter School.
