Sleeping Beauty

Abigail Patterson

“You don’t own yourself.”

“What?”

“Can you really tell me that

you own yourself?” Sarah

asked, staring into my eyes

with her forceful hazel.

At my lack of response, she

took off her clothes and

jumped into the water. I

followed in my gym shorts.

We swam to the island, beer

bottles strewn everywhere and

the remnants of last night’s fire

scattered on the ground. She

didn’t talk to me as we were

swimming, she just kept her

head above the water so she

could look at everything and

let the moon glisten off her

bare back for me.

We climbed to the highest rock,

our favorite spot. We watched

the moon shimmering off the

lake, giving pale halos to the

fish below. A lone jet ski

propelled itself illegally across

the water. She didn’t cover up

when it passed by.

“How can you not care so

much?”

“Because I own myself.”

I thought about what she

said as I left her house in the

wee hours of the morning

and on my way to school the

next day. I wondered if she

believed in love.

After ancient Greek history and Old English, I

had a break between classes. Sarah went to

Highlands; I went to State. It’s always surprised

me that she goes to class more than I do. For a

free spirit, she’s crazy about school.

“That’s because I like what I’m studying and you don’t.” I’m

studying to be a professor; she’s studying to study. She doesn’t

like to look at things as a means to an end; she just likes ends.

She always tells me that I’m

dead. Or extremely asleep. That

I’m sleeping beauty and that I

need some daring prince to

come save me from the dragon.

After that she always laughs

and kisses me, to comfort me I

guess. Then she asks me what

my dragon is.

“Calculus?”

“No.”

“Wanting to get into Harvard?”

“Better. Go deeper.”

“Apathy?”

“No.”

“Being boring?”

“No.”

“Not being able to read your mind?”

“Ha! No.”

“I give up.”

“That’s close.”

“Isn’t giving up close to apathy?”

“No. You care, and you’re not even brave enough to

give up. You just don’t start.”

This part always infuriated me. “Care about what?”

“Exactly.”

The week went on.

More class, more

tests. Sarah stopped

responding to my

texts on Tuesday.

She’d told me she

had a test on

Thursday, so I

figured she was

studying.

I got to her house after rush

hour on Thursday to take her

out to dinner. Her car wasn’t

in the driveway, but her and

her brother Jake share one so

I didn’t think it was weird that

it wasn’t there. I rang the

doorbell and before it finished

ringing, her mom opened the

door distractedly.

“Thank god. Do you know

where Sarah is?”

“Uh, she had a test today

and I thought she’d be

home after. Is something

wrong?”

“She’s been missing since

Tuesday. I thought she

might’ve been with you

but you didn’t answer your

phone when I called. I left

messages.” Now she

looked angry.

I had turned off my

phone to study.

“Sarah and Jake’s car is

missing too.”

“I’ll find her.”

I went to all

the places

she hangs

out: I

searched all

over

Highlands,

the library,

our coffee

shops, the

park, the

gas station,

even the

mall.

Nowhere.

I swam to our island, looked in the

caves we lost our virginity in all

those years ago, the ones we lived

in for a week last summer. No sign

of Sarah. The only clue I could find

was a note she left tucked into the

cleft of our highest rock. All it said

was: “I’m not lying.” Was this a

new note? Or did she put it here

years ago?

Why can’t I find her?

I looked in her room, over

her action figures, behind

the posters, in the

crumpled covers of her

bed. No Sarah, no clue of

where to find her. Her

backpack was gone, she

must have taken that

with her. Her phone was

still there on the desk.

She was missing for a long time. I put up posters

with her face on them in case anybody found her.

It was hard to figure out what to say on them:

That was the best I could do.

After two months I had

almost given up. I still

spent all my Saturdays

looking for her. I slept in

the caves on our island.

For a while I got

depressed and slept in

those caves more and

more. What was the

point?

I had told her I loved her once,

and she cried. I couldn’t tell if she

was angry or sad, but she

wouldn’t say anything back to me,

she just sat there and held me

silently demanding that I hold her

too.

I kept asking her over and over

again, “do you love me too?” But

she just kept pushing harder and

harder into me, staining my shirt.

Did she believe in love?

Eventually I got angry. I stopped looking and started

spending my Saturdays doing things she hated. One

Saturday I watched five Jim Carey movies in a row. I

littered on purpose. I smacked my gum. I went to a

Decemberists concert and voted Conservative, just

to spite her.

I even got over that. Saturdays doing

things I had never allowed myself to do

because they bothered her showed me

some things I would have never realized I

loved, or was good at. I learned guitar,

marched on Wall Street, went skinny

dipping. I got more independent, and

more angry at her for leaving me. I

wanted to move away but she, wherever

she was, was holding me back.

I still loved her, and I

hated her for it.

It took another month to find her. She was sleeping under

a bridge on the highway. Her hair was longer and she had

traded in the car for a bicycle, but she looked the same

under the dirtiness. I woke her up and she stared at me as

if she was staring at a ghost.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding you. Where have

you been?”

“Around.”

“Where?”

“I told you - around.” She

looked like the matter was

settled. “I don’t need your

help.” She got up and

started walking away from

me. “I’ve always been fine.”

“And I don’t need yours

either,” I said.

“Since when?”

“Fuck off.” And with that, I

scooped her up and carried

her, kicking and screaming,

to my car. I put her in the

back like a chauffeur and let

her pitch a fit as I headed

back home.

For the first time, I thought all

her rants about the suburbs

murdering creativity and how

it’s “better to live in an asphalt

desert than a consumerist

jungle” were funny. In the past

I’d let her carry on and on and

agree to her opinions, or at

least not voice my dissent.

Now I told her she was wrong.

“What good is it to live

every day starving yourself?

Are you trying to make a

point or something?”

She looked shocked and

shut up for once.

“Why run away to

go nowhere? Why

the hell were you

under a bridge?

Didn’t you know I

could take care of

you?”

“I didn’t want to be

taken care of,” she

said quietly, almost

defeated.

“Well you obviously

didn’t want company.

I’m taking you home,

washing you off, and

then moving out of this

place so you can’t break

my heart anymore.”

A smile started to unzip

the corner of her mouth.

Could she be any more

annoying?

“What are you going to do

when you move away?

Study?”

“Plenty. I don’t need you to

tell me what to do.”

She sat there, fully unzipped

now. There was a cop driving

next to us, but she unbuckled

anyways and climbed over

the back seat to sit next to

me. She still didn’t buckle as

she laid her head on my

(driving) knee. Blue lights

came on.

After I pulled over and

parked the car, I finally

saw her beaming full

force at me.

“I love you.”

“Great timing,” I said as

the cop had me roll down

the window. “Why now?”

“Because you know who

you are. You’re a whole

person. I’m not clouding

you from yourself

anymore.”

It took awhile for that

to sink in. After the cop

left we didn’t say

anything for a while.

Eventually, I kissed her

forehead, and she laid

back down on my knee.

“If I stay below the

window, no other cops

will see me.”

“Fair enough. But if I

slam on the brakes it’s

your fault you get hurt.”

She smiled.

“So, what were really

doing while you

were gone?” I asked.

“Fighting your

dragon.”

The end.