by Lucy Smoke
After her initial bout of thanks, she didn't say anything more. She moved closer to the sinks and I watched as she gripped the edge with both hands, her knuckles turning white again. As if realizing for the first time that she wore a tiny purse attached to a gold chain that was slung over her shoulder and rested over her flat chest, the girl began fumbling with the small purse, trying to get it open. I waited a few beats before offering my assistance and she managed to pry it open. Her trembling hands reached inside and retrieved an orange and white pill bottle. I frowned but didn't say anything as she yanked it out and popped it open, slapping a few of the little white pills into her mouth. She turned on the sink with jerking movements where she cupped her hands beneath the running water, and lifted it to her mouth to help her swallow.
"Why are you still here?" she finally asked, her voice sounding slightly stronger than it had earlier. "What do you want?"
I shrugged. "To make sure that you're okay."
"I'm fine."
I waited in silence before sighing. "You don't seem fine," I admitted. "I... don’t know exactly what to do in this situation, but I thought maybe you'd want to talk. So, I'm – "
"I don't want to talk," she cut me off.
Our eyes met, and I knew she was lying. Her face was pale, her hands still shaking even as she put away the suspicious pill bottle. What was I supposed to say? Could I call her out on it?
"Why are you still here?" she snapped again after a few moments more. "I told you I'm fine and I don't want to talk."
"Why don't you leave?" I countered. Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened her posture.
"Fine," she said. "I will leave." She turned to go, and I jumped up.
"No!" I called after her. "I'm sorry, you don't have to go. I'll leave. I'll let you...um...do whatever." I couldn't take away this private, safe place for her. It didn't feel right. I moved to the door despite everything inside of me telling me that I should stay. I couldn't force anything out of her if she wasn't willing. As soon as my fingers brushed the lock above the door knob, she spoke.
"He didn't..." she began. "If that's what you're thinking...he didn't do it...he hadn't gotten that far, yet."
I turned back to her and I leaned against the door with wariness in my expression. Our eyes met and held for several moments. Then, without much fanfare, she turned and moved towards the settee. I relaxed slightly when she sat down and turned to face the door. I let my shoulders sag as I leaned fully against the cold bathroom walls.
When the sniffling started I kept my gaze trained forward, sure she didn’t want me to see her with tears in her eyes. I waited patiently, knowing that if I did so, she might finally open up. I was a stranger to her. Sometimes, it was easier to tell someone you didn’t know the darkest parts of your life. It was getting easier to talk to the guys because they were becoming more important to me, but not everyone operated like I did.
“Sometimes, I can’t talk,” she finally admitted. “It’s even harder to talk around guys.” I wanted so badly to look at her, but I didn’t want her to stop talking. “I don’t know why it happens,” she continued. “I just can’t seem to open my mouth. I shut down and I go away.”
“Somewhere inside?” I asked. I had taken a beginner's human psychology course in high school. I remembered discussing coping mechanisms of people who had experienced some sort of trauma. I felt, more than saw, her nod.
“I can’t...stop myself…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t stop anyone else. I just...want to close my eyes and pretend nothing’s happening.”
I finally chanced a glance at her and my heart squeezed at the tears on her cheeks. That red-hot rage from before barreled straight back through my chest again, making me want to both hit something and cry. I held my breath for a beat or two, hoping that it would disperse. The girl cracked when I looked at her, a rushed sob escaping from her chest. I jerked when she leaned over and shuddered as she placed her hands over her face. Her whole body shook with the burden of her grief and pain. My skin felt electrified. I wanted to touch her and comfort her; it was what I knew how to do, but if she had been...raped...I knew she wouldn’t want a stranger to touch her, right? I thought I had read that before in class. An article somewhere?
My mind drew a connection – thinking of Mr. Spencer and his stepdaughter, of everything I had talked to Marv about. This girl wasn’t acting out. She was coping, or trying to, at least. I wondered if I should mention the pills. Something told me that even though they came in a prescription bottle, they probably weren’t meant for her. If she was here, in a dance club, where guys like the perv I’d left outside the bathroom could corner her and hurt her, I wondered if she had sought any kind of professional help. I decided to ask.
“So,” I began, “am I the first person you’ve talked to about this?” She nodded, her sobbing easing minutely. “Have you thought about talking to a therapist?”
“My parents have suggested it,” she admitted, sniffing hard. “God, my mom would be so fucking pleased if I did.”
“Maybe you should,” I replied. “Talk to someone, I mean.”
"I can't," she said.
"You're talking to me," I pointed out gently.
She shook her head quickly. "No, this is different. You don't know me. If I told a therapist everything, they'd...well, the police would get involved and I can't...they can't..." Her breath came faster, and she hiccupped once before closing her mouth and breathing heavily through her nose, trying to calm herself. She was hyperventilating, I realized.
"Why would the police get involved?" I asked. "Is it because...of the person who hurt you?" I hoped I wasn't botching my attempt at being understanding and gentle. I had no clue how to comfort someone like this. I couldn't touch her, hold her, hug her. My arms hurt from trying to keep myself from doing so. That’s what I knew. This wasn't. I had no clue how to help except to just be there.
"Yes," she said. "Sort of. I–" She paused and looked at me. I think this was the first time that she actually met my gaze and I realized her eyes were the palest shade of blue. Her face was blotchy from crying, but her eyes were extraordinary – like colored diamonds set into the saddest of faces. "You're not going to tell anyone," she stated firmly. I don't know if she was trying to convince herself or if she was giving me an order. I hadn't said anything about keeping her secrets, though it was an unspoken trust she put in me and I knew that. Unless it was absolutely necessary to break that trust, I would keep them.
She took a long shaky breath and then sat back, leaning against the wall like I was, clutching her purse in her lap. "My family's rich," she said. "They're not Bill Gates rich or anything like that, but I won't have to worry about college–" She flinched before continuing. "If I even go to college, but if I do, I won't have to worry about it. We go on vacations once or twice a year. Last winter..." she paused again, closing her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I can't look at you while I... while I..."
"It's okay," I assured her. "I understand."
She nodded once. "Last winter my mom sent me to this debutante prep course. She's a southern lady, born and raised – my mom. It was supposed to be this two-week course for how to eat, sit, and dance properly in front of gentlemen. It's one of those old etiquette things, you know?" She kept talking, not waiting for me to answer. My heart rate picked up the moment she said the word "etiquette" and I knew whatever she was hiding – or revealing – was important. This was too coincidental, I thought. There was no way...
"Ms. Enders' is supposed to be this elaborate camp meant to churn out debutantes and social elites. I didn't care for it, but my mom was ecstatic that I even got in. It's very difficult. I couldn't say no."
My blood turned cold and as I stared at her, all I could see were the edges of my vision turning steadily darker. I sucked in breath after breath. Her words poured into me as she kept talking.
"Everything was fine," she said. "For the first week, everything was great. The other girls were surprisingly nice. It's a smal
ler group in the winter course. Most girls take the summer course."
She seemed to be rambling, telling me every little detail as it came to her. She took a pause that echoed throughout the cold bathroom. The silence was stifling and overwhelming. A part of me wanted to stand up and leave. Just unlock the door and slip away and forget she ever existed. I didn't want to stay to hear what happened to her. I knew it wouldn't be good, and like a child watching a horror movie, I wanted to close my eyes and plug my ears and still pretend like the world was a safe place. My hands shook, and I squeezed them together so hard that my fingers turned pale against the dark fabric of my shorts.
“It was the last night there,” she said. “There’s always a big party on the last night. It’s supposed to be a practice cotillion because a lot of girls leave and go off to become debutantes. Those things are big with debutantes – the cotillions, I mean. Those dresses…” she trailed off, pinching her lips closed in an effort to hold back a stronger emotion. A shadow crossed over her expression and I knew it was something dark. It takes her another moment before she’s able to continue. “The dresses are to represent young women being presented into society. Ready for marriage.” She spat the last word as if it was vile and distasteful in her mouth.
I looked down at her clothes and noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a speck of white. No filigree or embellishments on her dress, no pinstripes, and nothing on her heels. Everything she was wearing was dark colored and, somehow, I knew that was purposeful.
“About halfway through, I started not feeling well. They let girls have sparkling water and juices for the most part, but some of the girls that were there spiked their drinks and I had some. I thought I had just had too much. One of the guys – a couple of family members of the girls and, I don’t know, sons that were from wealthy families were invited. They escorted some of the girls. My escort took me back to my room and I fell asleep.”
“Or so I thought. I had the worst nightmare.” Her breath sped up again and this time, I reached over to take her hand. She squeezed it in hers, not bothering to look at me, and clutched at it like it was the only thing keeping her in the present. It felt good to finally be able to do something for her. “Someone came in,” she inhaled deeply, “and he undressed me. I-I couldn’t really move my legs or arms. My escort had practically had to carry me to my room. I was so limp. He just pulled down the top of my dress and slid the bottom up until I was bare.”
My eyes burned and then it was I who was squeezing her hand. I held her like my own lifeline as she did me. Two girls sitting in a dance club bathroom each holding onto the other like we were all that was left in the world. There was something beautiful in our connection in that moment as more tears sprang to her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks once more. Something beautiful...and something tragic.
“I faded,” she admitted, “I don’t remember most of it. I didn’t see his face. It was dark in my room. Usually, I would have kept it locked, but Cal – my escort – he didn’t have the key to lock it from the outside when he left. I laid there and sometimes I could feel cold hands on my thighs, around my neck...on my…” She gasped, her chest shuddering for air, and I couldn’t resist anymore. I grabbed her shoulders and jerked her towards me. She collapsed with heaving sobs against my chest, clutching at my shirt, at my hand. “I-I didn’t remember his face,” she cried. “I thought it was just a bad dream, a nightmare.” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes as I held her. “I wish it had been…”
Her last words broke my heart and scattered the pieces over the bathroom tile. I clenched my teeth so hard, my jaw hurt. My nostrils burned. My eyes watered. I needed to ask her the question hanging in my mind...there was something missing.
“How did you find out it wasn’t a dream?”
She was quiet. So quiet, I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, in the smallest voice, she whispered, “They sent me pictures.”
Chapter 9
“Will you be okay?” I asked as the girl got into the cab on the corner of the sidewalk just in front of the dance club.
She cast a sad smile back at me. “I’ll be fine.”
Whether it was the truth or not, I couldn’t say. But what else could I do? I couldn’t stop her from leaving. I didn’t have the right. She paused before closing the door and looked back at me. “Thank you,” she said, “for listening.”
I nodded. “I still think you should talk to someone. The police or a therapist or both. They can’t get away with this.”
“Blackmail,” she said with a hollow laugh. “Who knew a freaking teenager could be blackmailed? Thanks for the advice, but I probably won’t take it.”
With that she closed the door and the cab pulled away from the curb. I stood there on the sidewalk with the warm, summer night air brushing over my calves and arms. Inside of me, though, a fire burned hot. Overwhelming in its anger, the blaze shook me to my very core. It could not be a coincidence that I had met her...whoever she was. I realized I didn’t even know her name. For all I knew, she could have been Mr. Spencer’s step-daughter, Sarah. It was like I told Grayson, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
I went back inside in search of Erika, surprised she hadn’t noticed that I was missing for so long. I found her at a different bar this time. There were three in the entire club and she, of course, was at the furthest one. When I reached her, and touched her arm to gain her attention, she whipped around and stumbled on her feet, obviously drunk.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Harlow where’ve ya been, girl?” She smiled and draped an arm around my shoulders.
“I’ve been in the bathroom,” I replied shortly as I noticed one of the guys from earlier sidle up close to her.
“Who’s your friend, Baby?” I narrowed my gaze as the guy slid his hand around Erika’s middle.
She shifted, uncomfortable, but tried to laugh. “This is my friend.” She enunciated each word, obviously drunk but wanting him to think that she was sober. “I came here with her.”
“Yeah.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her away from him. “We should really be going. I texted Knix, he’s sending Texas back to get us.”
The guy frowned. “Hey, what’s the rush?” he asked. “We were having fun. Stay. I’ll buy your friend a drink if she wants one.”
Erika shook her head and I had to catch her as she stumbled again. So much for trying to keep her inebriation under wraps. “Thank you for the offer,” I said, “but no thanks, we’re leaving.”
“Fucking teasing bitch,” he muttered before turning away.
Erika sighed and slumped against me. “I’m so glad you came when ya did, girl,” she slurred. “He’s a pushy pusher that one.” She paused. “Oh shhiiiittt, I wasn’t watching you.” Her eyes met mine and started to water. “I’m a bad fwend-fire-end. FRIEND!” Her eyes lost their misty sheen as she finally managed to get the word out correctly and she looked at me triumphantly.
I rolled my eyes and hefted her against me, letting her use me as a walking crutch while we made our way towards the front of the club and back out onto the sidewalk. We only waited for a few minutes before Texas pulled up in the SUV. He got out, his wide eyes following Erika as she tried, and failed, to open the back door by herself. I sighed again and leaned around her, popping the handle and pushing her butt into the backseat of the vehicle. She fell, face down, and lay sprawled across the entire back. I left her like that, only reaching under her to wrap the middle seat belt around her waist for extra protection before I crawled back out and closed the door.
“I got out to see if you needed any help,” Texas said with a frown. “But it looks like you’ve got it handled.” When I didn’t reply, his frown deepened. “How did she get drunk?” he asked. His eyes trailed down to the backs of my hands. I raised them, so he’d have a better view.
“I think you know how,” I said, showing off my X-less hands before turning to climb into the front passenger seat.
Texas looked at me for a moment, confusion plain on h
is face, but I was feeling too much. I couldn't say anything more when he climbed into the driver's seat next to me. Thankfully, he didn't force me to. We drove in silence – no talking, no radio – to Erika's parents' house and I gently helped her stumble in. Her father was dead asleep in his room and her mother was apparently working another overnight shift.
When I got back into the SUV, Texas finally turned on the radio. The soft lilting sound of classic rock filled the silence between us. I thought about how I would convince Knix to let me – the entire team, hopefully – go to this camp. I was angry right now, I knew. I was furious. I wanted to hurt someone, punch something, break something. I couldn't breathe right if I thought about the girl's face and tears and pain. It was a heavy weight in my chest that I knew I couldn't keep bottled for long. If I tried, I would explode.
We pulled up to the house and all of the lights were on. Knix was standing out front with his arms crossed and a stormy expression on his face. I looked at Texas. "You told him?" How could he have – while I had been inside, putting Erika to bed, I realized. All he would have had to do was send him a quick text. Texas glanced at me, an apology clear in his eyes. I frowned at him. "Thanks a lot," I snapped.
"I'm sorry, Harlow, but it's my responsibility to tell him everything that involves the team."
I didn't reply as we ascended the front steps. "Inside." Knix said. I trudged by him into the house with my fists curled tightly.
Marv and Bellamy were already sitting in the living room. Marv, dressed the same as he was before, in his classically semi-formal attire. The only difference was that his top buttons were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up. Bellamy wore sweats and a t-shirt. I sat down on a chair separate from the others, though there were open spaces next to the guys. My anger was building and though I knew it wasn’t good, I didn't want to sit near them because they could easily diffuse it. It was harder to be mad at them or mad in general when they made me smile.