some kind of edgy hairstyle. When Sam was a senior in high school and
Victoria was a freshman, Sam drove the Jeep Cherokee to school while
Victoria listened in the passenger seat to all the drama of senior-year
friendships, relationships, applications, teachers, homework, or projects.
Sam had a small, subtle nose piercing before most people got them, and
it glittered when she smiled or when her eyes grew big with excitement
as if it was a mood ring. She would run her hands through her hair – at
that point her hair was shoulder-length, wavy, layered bob with auburn
highlights to compliment her natural chestnut color – and effortlessly
give off a wave of cool vibes as if she was an air-conditioning unit.
Victoria remembered thinking Sam may have been the coolest girl in the
world, and then resenting the sentimental cliché in her own thoughts.
That was before that same Jeep Cherokee flipped over three times on the
side of the highway later that same year, leaving Sam with broken ribs,
a fractured pelvis, and a harsh concussion. Although her sister lived,
“Sam” no longer was around. In her place was a stuffy, pantsuit-wearing
Samantha who worked for their dad’s company and always clicked away
at her Blackberry or iPhone or whatever device she absolutely needed to
“communicate with those around her.” Sometimes Victoria wondered if
her mom got into a similar accident at some point in during her lifetime.
Victoria got up from her desk and walked around the room,
wondering what she wanted to arrange or clean in order to regain a sense
of control in her life. On the white walls were rectangular collages from
magazine snippets she made semi-annually to document what she loved
seeing, what made her think twice, what made her question a designer’s
sanity. The collages popped in the otherwise white bedroom. Everything
was white from the night-table to the bed, to the mirror on the back of
her white door, to the baskets that held her clothes, to her walls and closet
and the hangers in the closet. Everything had to be perfect, except her
mom let her choose the sea-foam green comforter and teal pillows that sat
on her bed. To match that her mom got a cursive, sea-foam “V” to place
on her wall as wall décor. Even within her own room she could not escape
her own name. But with the posters Victoria worked to show herself
that she had purpose, drive, and passions outside of working at her dad’s
monopolistic cement company like everyone else. She imagined herself
running through the streets of New York City dressed in black with huge
sunglasses, a fancy coffee cake in one hand, and the other hand holding
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