You were children, my mind shouts.
“I’ll take you home. You’re staying in the dorms?”
“Yeah.”
I untangle the sheets and climb out of his bed. I’m still in my dress. Obviously, nothing happened. That says a lot about the guy. He could’ve done whatever he wanted, but he didn’t. He took care of me, kept me safe. “Thanks,” I add.
“Don’t thank me yet. You left the party with me. People saw us together. Nearly every person at that party knows what happens when I leave with a girl.”
My mouth drops open, and I think of the girl he was with in the cafeteria. The one wearing the Mary Janes. Gina said he’s made the rounds. My thoughts are spiraling into a dark place I never even imagined. I glance at Cole. He doesn’t look like that kind of guy. But then I’m clueless. Maybe most guys are like him. Maybe it’s normal.
Is he saying people will think I’m into whatever he’s into? Ugh, it’s so frustrating. While my mind is swimming in wild thoughts, my thighs are lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Mind if I turn on a light?” Cole asks, pulling me out of my contemplations.
“No.” I can’t seem to find my shoes, or more specifically, Gina’s shoes.
The light flickers on and I catch him staring. “So, there might be talk—about you. I’m sorry.”
He’s apologizing? I can’t believe it. There’s no doubt that if Doug had taken me back to his place, the scenario would be different. I might not be a virgin any longer.
And I can’t help but think of Gina. Is that what she meant when she said she asked for it? My stomach twists and my head whirls. I have to sit back down.
He walks over and picks up a glass full of water and two white pills. “I tried to get you to take these last night.”
I take the glass and the pills.
“They’re pain relievers. Nothing dangerous.” I hear the smile in his voice and look up.
“Thanks.” I drink them down in two swallows and set the glass back on the nightstand. The water is refreshing. He’s refreshing. I don’t see or sense an evil bone in his body.
“Let’s go.” He’s at his bedroom door, waiting for me to follow.
I sigh. Pick up Gina’s shoes. I’m not going to put them back on. My feet still throb. “Where are we?” I ask, ignoring the pounding behind my eyelids.
His place is nice. Nothing fancy, but it isn’t disastrous. There are a few dishes in the sink. Empty beer bottles on the counter. The living room has a flat screen, a couch, and two recliners. They look worn, but definitely not trashy. There’s a half bath off the living room, and two more doors on the other side. I’m guessing behind them are bedrooms, and I wonder if he has roommates.
We walk through the living room and he opens the front door. A gust of cold wind blasts my face, making my eyes water. I step out, but he seizes my arm.
“Hang on.” He moves away, leaving the door open.
Cold, I walk over and close out the icy early morning air and raise an eyebrow. “Did you forget your keys?”
My uncle is forever doing that, especially since he bought a new Titan a few years ago. Now all he has to do is push a button to open the car door.
Cole doesn’t answer. Rushes to his bedroom.
The kitchen has a counter with two stools underneath. So, the person in the kitchen can cook and talk to everyone sitting in the living room. My aunt would say the space is functional.
“Put this on,” Cole says, coming back. He hands me a thick red sweatshirt.
My eyes light up. He’s surprised me again. “Thank you, Cole.” I pull it over my head.
He steps closer, and gently tugs my hair from the sweatshirt opening. “It’s way too big, but it’ll cover you up, keep you warm.”
For some reason tears fill my eyes. It shocks me. I’m not much of a crier. I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m glad or sad to find out he’s still so kind—the way I remember him.
Either way, I can’t resist flinging myself into his chest, wrapping my arms around him. He may not know me, but I know him. I know him so well. And I’ve missed him desperately. So much so that I can’t believe I ever thought I’d be better off without him. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t do anything. Just stands there. Finally, I feel his arms encircle me. And it isn’t a courtesy hug. He presses me against him. For a second, I think maybe he’s remembered, but he squashes that thought.
“You aren’t like regular girls, are you?”
I shake my head, but don’t release him. Inhale a deep breath and pretend he knows me, and that he’s overjoyed to see me.
I could tell him, look him in the eyes, and say, “No, I’ll never be normal. Because your father killed my parents and got away with it.”
Suddenly my heart jumps. Does he know what his father did? I’d like to think he has no idea. But I can’t be sure. And then I remember why we can’t be together. I’ll always doubt him. Seeing his face will remind me of his father, of the evil in his family tree, and I can’t live with that.
“I’d better go,” I say, pulling away and opening the door.
He looks confused, but swiftly recovers. “Sure.”
Cole leads me to a black Jeep. Somehow, it fits his personality—rugged, efficient, and intense. He opens the passenger door and helps me in. My uncle always said, “If a man gets your door, he’s a keeper. It’s a sign he’ll treasure you.” As he pulls out of his parking spot, I glance at him and wonder if he’s a keeper?
Turns out he lives off campus, though not far.
“Which building is yours? McKinley or Irvine?”
“Irvine,” I answer, keeping my eyes facing forward.
He stops in front of the building and puts the Jeep in park. “Thanks for hanging out with me last night.”
I open the door, forcing myself not to look at him. I’m so torn. I want to smile, tell him I think he’s wonderful, and ask if he wants to hang out. But my brain won’t shut up. Because even if he doesn’t know what his father did, even if he’s completely innocent, it doesn’t change the fact that he is his father’s son. I can’t forget that.
“Thanks for taking care of me. I can’t believe I was such an idiot.” I step out. “See you in class.”
I move to close the door.
“Hey, you still haven’t told me your name. You owe me.” His eyes twinkle, and for a moment I think he actually knows who I am but is pretending otherwise. “I could call you Lover Girl. You’re really, really affectionate.” He snickers.
I blush hot as a shooting star. I try to remember what I did last night that would make his say that. He said we didn’t do anything. Didn’t even kiss.
I almost lose my temper; tell him I don’t owe him crap. If he wanted to, he could easily figure out my name. It wouldn’t be that difficult. He’s the TA of my English class. But I decide to tell him the truth.
“My name is Rosie. Rosie Hansen.” I want to add, “Remember me now? We were next-door neighbors for eleven years. Best friends. Up until your dad shot my parents.” I don’t, though. I slam the door and walk to the building entrance.
I swipe my keycard. The door clicks and I pull it open. His Jeep is still at the curb. I haven’t heard it pull away, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
Is he happy?
Surprised?
Angry?
I’m can’t be sure. A lot has happened in seven years. I really don’t know him. And as I walk to the elevators, I mentally kick myself. I still haven’t noticed his shoes. They’ll tell me a lot.
* * *
Cole
Even in rumpled clothes and her face smeared with makeup, she’s totally hot. When I tell her she owes me her name, her eyes light up like twin fires. Smoldering. And I have to shift in my seat.
She tells me her name and I get the feeling she wants to say more. I almost come clean, tell her that I already know her name—that I chose to be a jerk, and that I’m sorry for teasing her. It seems to hurt her that I’ve been pretendin
g I don’t know her. But now I don’t want to tell her because I’m worried she’ll be mad when she finds out.
Rosie slams the door, and I don’t get the chance to say anything.
I watch her walk into the building. If she had a phone, I’d call her, text her, tell her the truth. Apologize and ask her to let me make it up to her.
But she doesn’t.
At least not yet. And I get a brilliant idea.
13
Most Definitely Not Fine
Rosie
I open the door to my dorm room cautiously. No point waking up Gina. But her bed is an untidy mess of covers and she isn’t amongst them. My throat constricts and I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. It’s four thirty in the morning.
The party can’t still be going, and I’m worried. Gina wrote her cell number on the white board hanging on the door, and I walk to it. Write the number on my hand and head out to the commons area. It’s so quiet. Not a sound, except the rattling of the vents.
Sitting, I dial her number. It rings several times and I get her voicemail: “You’ve reached the voicemail of Gina St. James. I can’t talk to you right now because I’m out having fun, which is what you should be doing. So, hang up and go party. Oh, and if you’re hard up to leave a message, do it now.”
I smile in spite of the tension in my body. When I hear the beep, I say into the phone, “Hey Gina. I’m back in our room and you aren’t here. I’m… wondering if you’re okay.” I pause. “Sorry I left. I won’t do it again. Promise.” I hang up, frustrated and worried.
I head down the hall and go into our room. Once the door clicks closed, I pull off Cole’s sweatshirt and toss it on my bed. Carefully I remove Gina’s dress and hang it on a hanger. I’m not sure if she’ll want to clean it, so I don’t put it back in her closet but drape it against the door. I set her heels back in their box. The girl is very organized when it comes to clothes and shoes. Everything else, not so much.
Gina suddenly bursts into the room. Her eyes are wild.
I’m in my undies and can’t help the screech that escapes my throat. She barely glances at me before falling on the bed.
“Gina.” I grab a shirt from a drawer, and rush to her bed. “Gina,” I say again. “Are you alright?”
She sits up and I see the rage on her face, feel it radiating off her body, through her pores—like tiny daggers, all aimed at me. “I’m fine,” she shouts. “Can’t you see I’m fine?”
I flinch. Her breath smells of cigarettes. And she’s most definitely not fine. The top of her dress is ripped. So are her leggings. Her makeup is streaked like she’s been crying. I don’t know what to do, what to say. Her breathing is ragged, and she sniffles. Tears fall from her eyes and drip on to her tutu.
Like an idiot I sit there, my hands in my lap, waiting. For what, I’m not sure. But I want her to know I care, that I’m here if she needs me.
Finally, I decide to do what I did last time. I hold out a tissue. She rips it from my hand and wipes her face, blows her nose.
“What happened to you?” she asks through gritted teeth.
I tell her about the four shots, about Cole, and him taking me back to his place. As I talk, her eyes get bigger, and bigger. And I know what she’s thinking. Exactly what Cole said everyone would.
“Nothing happened though,” I finish.
“Right,” she says, standing, ripping her clothes from her body and changing into PJ pants and a tee. “Just like nothing happened with me, either.”
I want to tell her I’m serious. That he was a gentleman in every way, but I’m more concerned about her.
“What didn’t happen with you last night?” I ask gently.
Her anger seems to have abated. “Well,” she begins, sitting gingerly. Her eyes are unblinking. “I didn’t end up going back to Doug’s room with him and another guy. We didn’t have sex. I didn’t…” She trails off and blinks back tears.
I’m in shock. Doug gave me the creeps—the way he looked at her, put his hand on me.
“I didn’t. I—” She stops, breaking down, putting her head in my lap. “Rose.” Sobs rack her body.
I’m frozen. Unsure what to do. How can I comfort her? Clearly whatever happened, she didn’t want it to. My blood boils. If I ever see Doug again, I’m going to scratch his eyes out. She snuggles her head against my knee, and I stroke her crazy hair.
“I’m so sorry, Gina. So sorry.”
She sniffles.
“What can I do? Tell me. If you want me to go over to Doug’s and kick the crap out of him, I’ll do it. Right this second,” I say, furious. Evil thoughts cross my mind. Like drenching him in gasoline and tossing a match. Running over him with a car. Beating him with a baseball bat. And I stop. Abigail would say I’m channeling my anger at Chief Morrison on the wrong person. Doug may be a complete and total jerk, but he doesn’t deserve to die.
Gina wipes her nose on her comforter. “Thanks, Rosie.” With effort, as though she’s in pain, she sits back up. “I drink too much. I like to party. Sometimes I forget guys will take advantage of that. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.” She shrugs. “Nothing that won’t happen again.” She picks at a string on her comforter, pulling and pulling and pulling until finally it breaks off.
I’m baffled. She’s brushing off what sounds like rape. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but she isn’t crying tears of joy, that’s for darn sure. And while I haven’t personally been raped, the act haunts my past, present, and forever. It’s part of me and will be forever.
“If they hurt you, you should report it. I can go with you.”
She laughs, a harsh dismal laugh. “And tell them what? That I came on to those guys? I asked for it. I wanted it. And then it hurt, so I asked them to stop. They didn’t.” She shrugs again, closes her eyes, and more tears fall.
I grab her another tissue feeling like a total idiot, a complete moron, an awful friend. What can I do? God, help me.
Gina grabs the tissue from my outstretched hand. “They’ll tell me to stop drinking, stop putting myself in those situations. They’ll look at me and blame me. And then they won’t do anything about it.”
I shudder at the thought that to a degree she’s probably right. The situation could’ve happened to me just as easily. If Cole hadn’t shown up, if someone else found me— “I’m sorry, Gina,” I whisper. “I won’t let this happen again. I’ll be a better friend. I won’t leave you alone at a party, I promise.”
She falls back, her head smacking the pillow. “Don’t get all Mother Theresa on me. What happened isn’t your fault.” She throws her arm over her eyes and sniffles.
I press my head against her pillow, so our heads are touching. “Still, if I’d been there, maybe I could’ve stopped them, or done something.” I hate feeling helpless. “The next time I see Doug I’m going to kill him, I swear.”
“Thanks, Rosie. Really. You’re a good friend.” Her voice is quiet, and I look over at her. “I’m going to sleep. Talk to you later.”
I climb off the bed, pull on a pair of jeans, ballet flats, and Cole’s sweatshirt. Then think better of it and throw it on the floor. Pick up one of my sweatshirts and claw it on.
It isn’t as soft as Cole’s. It doesn’t smell like him. Frustrated, I grab some gum and my music. The piano rooms open at five. I should get there in time.
And I need to play. Play until my fingers are raw. Until I can’t see Gina’s devastated face, or Doug, and the way he looked at her. I need to play until I can’t see the blood, so much blood, and the way my parents were laying still, so still on the carpet. I have to play until I can’t see the smug smile on Chief Morrison’s face when he walked into the interrogation room. I need to play until the pain stops, until all I feel is the music and the keys. The staccato and legato. Until it all disappears, and there’s only the melody.
14
Texting Shame
Rosie
When teachers prepare you for college, they never mention the
dark underbelly. They talk about the classes, finding a major, living on your own, socializing with peers your own age, and getting a degree. They don’t say anything about the parties and the drinking. They leave out the boys, and the way our bodies thrum for more than books, studying, and tests. They don’t tell us what happens at night, when classes end, and real life begins.
That’s where the authentic learning takes place. The difficult decisions that affect the rest of our lives. The real teacher—when the sun is no longer visible and the moon glistens against a blanket of darkness.
“There’s another party tonight,” Gina says, half-heartedly. She’s lying on her bed on her stomach, her Psychology book propped open. I’m not sure if she’s reading it or perusing through the pictures. Psychology is her major. “Want to go? You might see Hottie TA again.”
At the thought my heart lurches. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Forcing my face into a mask of composure, I glance up from the Sudoku puzzle I’m working on. Gina’s smirking like she knows what’s going on inside my head. That my body is screaming “yes”, and my mind is saying “no.”
Without giving anything away, I say, “I have that paper due in English. I was gonna work on it in a little bit. Plus, I need to do laundry. I should probably—”
She holds up a hand. “Yeah, me either,” she says, snickering.
I let my composure falter and release a giant sigh. “Good.”
Gina looks better. Seems a little better, too. She’s showered. Wearing cutoffs and a white tank, but I’ve no clue what’s going on under all of that blond hair.
“Want to do laundry together?” I ask, false hope in my voice.
Neither of us has been to the basement laundry room since our Resident Assistant gave us the tour.
She puts her forefinger to her lip and looks at the ceiling, as though she’s trying to answer the mysteries of the universe. Finally, she says, “Hmm, it’s an exciting prospect. But no. I’ll have to pass. Have fun though.”
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