Bittersweet Dreams by V.C. Andrews Page A

continued lecturing him, instead of crying or screaming. “ Smart also means witty but often in an insolent way, and that’s what you mean, I believe. Smart can also mean fashionable, as in ‘That’s a smart-looking suit.’ We also hear it used to mean accomplished, talented, as in ‘He’s a right smart ballplayer.’ ”
    We stared at each other.
    Then he shook his head and walked out, closing my door softly. I had frustrated and defeated him again, but I didn’t feel good about it. I flopped onto my bed and looked up at the ceiling. Sometimes, maybe more often than I’d care to admit, I hated myself. It was as if I couldn’t stop myself from being who I didn’t want to be, who they expected me to be.
    I should have known then. If I couldn’t stop myself, how could I really do anything about the future I really wanted?
    No wonder I was in a car being taken away like someone who was going to a mental clinic.

6

    Before all this, there were many people, even many other students, who thought I was a lucky girl. I had a wealthy father, I lived in a beautiful house, I was attractive enough to draw the envy of other girls and the interest of men who didn’t know me yet, and I was a super-brilliant student, a rock star in the educational system. Because I would never let them, no one ever saw the other side of me, what I might admit now was the tragic side. I didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that I wasn’t as perfect as I was thought to be. I had come to rely on that image, depend on it to get me through any crisis, whether it was of my own making or not. I should have known it wasn’t going to be enough.
    Only my high-school guidance counselor, Mr. Martin, had an inkling about what I was really feeling about myself, what my weaknesses and deficiencies were. When I had first entered high school, he really did try to get me to join some extracurricular activity like the drama club. He gave me a copy of the school play to read and told me I would enjoy the experience. Even though I thought he might be right, I resisted. I didn’t want to be on any girls’ teams, either. It wasn’t because I didn’t like plays or sports. To be honest, I was afraid of the interchanges I would have with the others. Simply put, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to be a teenager after all, and I had yet to fail at anything in my life. Nevertheless, Mr. Martin was persistent, reasonable, and logical. He would call me in to talk with him periodically, stop me in the hallways, or repeat the advice whenever he had an opportunity to speak with my father especially.
    â€œI know they see you as someone very different, Mayfair, and that’s why they don’t warm up to you,” Mr. Martin told me, “but maybe if you join something and they get to know you better, they won’t be so put off by your intellectual achievements.”
    â€œI don’t care that much about making friends here, Mr. Martin,” I said. I couldn’t argue with his premise, so I tried a quick escape.
    But he wasn’t buying it. “Yes, you do,” he insisted.
    Finally, he gave up, even though I was sure that he could see in my face that I didn’t mean what I told him. I wasn’t always as good at hiding my feelings as I thought I was, especially from someone trained to see through the fog of excuses and fears.
    Of course I would have loved to have a best friend, someone else to talk to, to share my intimate thoughts and feelings. Of course I wanted to giggle and laugh over silly things and talk for hours about things that didn’t matter. But I wouldn’t admit it, and I wouldn’t do anything to make it happen.
    Frustrated with me, Mr. Martin became intrigued with the possibility of my being accepted at the country’s most prestigious colleges. While still in high school, I had been able to take a number of college