What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  I have to keep my cool, stick to my script, no matter how much I might want to get back together. So I swallow, prepared to walk away with the words I rehearsed. My voice refuses to stay even, no matter how hard I try, but hopefully Tess won’t notice. “Like you said, it’s over. Now I have to go be with my best friend.”

  Seven

  The Best Friend

  Maya’s leaning against a pillar up ahead of me. I want to put my arms around her, but I don’t want to startle her, so instead of hugging her, I reach out and tap her shoulder. She still spins around like I burned her.

  “You scared me,” she says.

  This is my first time seeing her black eye. It’s not really black, or even purple—more of a dark pink. I wonder if I’d be able to see Mike’s fingerprints if I looked closely enough—I heard it was a slap, not a punch, that caused the bruise. I’m tempted to reach for Maya’s face, but just touching her shoulder was enough to make her jump, so maybe I should keep my distance.

  Of course, it makes sense that she’d be on edge. Mike is only a stone’s throw away.

  “Let’s eat in the library today,” I suggest. Maya looks surprised. Maybe she thought I’d insist on sitting with the boys to prove that they can’t drive us away. It’s what my dad would want us to do. He’d argue that by walking away, we’re letting them win without putting up a fight. But he’s not here to see how pale Maya looks. I mean, she’s always pale, but right now, she looks like she’s about to faint.

  I should’ve texted her last night. I should’ve said that I was thinking about her, that I loved her, that it was going to be okay. But how could I? I have no idea whether it’s going to be okay or not. I don’t even know what would qualify as okay in this situation. I told myself she was probably getting plenty of calls and texts, and maybe as her best friend, the best thing I could do for her was not to add to the noise.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets and try to make it sound like where we sit for lunch isn’t a big deal. “I mean, who wants to deal with all that drama?”

  Maya stares past me, to the table where the boys are sitting. A sophomore named Eva Mercado sits down across from Mike, leaning forward so he can probably see her bra.

  Finally, Maya nods. “The library sounds good to me.”

  * * *

  We settle at a table in the corner and spread out our lunches, but neither of us eat. I want to ask why she didn’t tell me what was going on sooner, but I don’t want her to feel like I’m accusing her of doing something wrong. Maybe Mike threatened to make things worse if she told. I try to imagine going into Principal Scott’s office to say that Tess beat me up, and just thinking about it is enough to make me sit on my hands.

  But I have to say something.

  “I just can’t believe it,” I begin. Crap, does that sound like I don’t believe her? Quickly, I add, “I mean, I’m not saying I don’t believe it, of course I do believe it.”

  Maya doesn’t say anything, so I keep on talking. “I just can’t believe it—you know what I mean?” I’m rambling, but it’s better than silence. (Isn’t it?) “Where were you yesterday? I didn’t see you all day.”

  Not that it’s actually unusual for us to go a day without seeing each other anymore. For months, Maya has spent her free time with Mike. The first few mornings after their first date, I showed up at her house to drive her to school, but each day Mike had already picked her up. With Mike, she didn’t have to worry about being late to homeroom.

  “I ate lunch in here.” She looks down, and I realize I’ve been staring at her eye. “I sort of just stayed after the bell rang.”

  I nod, remembering that she texted me she was going to eat lunch here. After everything that happened, I forgot. “Right.” Yesterday at this time, Tess was breaking up with me in the hallway outside. “It was crazy out there.” Or anyway, I was crazy out there, trying desperately to keep it together in front of everyone. I scratch at my jeans. My bitten nails are too short to rip the denim, so the skin beneath it is safe.

  “What are people saying?” For a split second, I think Maya’s asking about Tess and me—any other week, our very public breakup would’ve been hot gossip—but then I realize she wants to know what people are saying about her.

  Our classmates have been coming up to me all morning. They think I know something they don’t. They wait for me to tell them something, but I don’t know what to say. Should I thank the ones who express support? Say she’s fine to the ones who ask how Maya’s doing?

  “Oh, you know.” I pause.

  “No, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  Some of our classmates think they know something I don’t—that Mike, track star and all-around good guy, could never have done what Maya’s accused him of. In between first and second period, Mike’s best friend Kyle grabbed me and hissed in my ear: Tell your girl to stop making so much trouble. At first, I thought he meant Tess, but then I remembered she isn’t my girl anymore. He was talking about Maya.

  I’m not about to tell her that.

  “I mean, I think people believe it—’cause like, the evidence is hard to ignore.” I slide my hands out from under my lap. I don’t want to point at her eye—I have to concentrate to keep from staring—so I point at my own instead. I try to think of the gentlest way to let her know the different things people are saying. Carefully, I start, “I think it’s hard because everyone’s always loved Mike.”

  She shrugs. “Right.”

  “Right,” I agree.

  I wonder if Maya remembers that Mike was my first kiss, during a game of Truth or Dare in eighth grade. He tried to stick his tongue in my mouth. I don’t think he ever forgave me for giggling at him.

  I continue, “I heard the track coach said that this could ruin his chances for that college scholarship.” Actually, I heard that the coach was ranting that some silly girl was going to ruin the poor boy’s life, but I’m not about to tell Maya that either.

  “Why?” Maya asks. “It’s not like any of this is going to affect his ability to run fast.” Maya’s the one who clocked his running time, race after race, practice heat after practice heat.

  “Apparently there’s, like, a morality clause to the scholarship that he’d be in violation of if it turns out he really did it.”

  “What do you mean if he really did it? You said people believe it. The evidence and all that.”

  “Yeah, but—” I pause. I remember the conversation I imagined his parents having at the dinner table last night, the slightly less offensive things I’ve heard in the halls. “Maybe it was an accident. Or, you know, a misunderstanding?”

  Maya’s face falls.

  “I mean, that’s just what some people are saying.” Crap. “Some people are saying the opposite. I heard some girls are planning a rally to call for his expulsion.”

  Okay, so technically that’s not true yet, but it could be. It will be. I’ll make sure of it. I’m my father’s daughter.

  That’s my girl.

  “A rally?” Maya asks.

  “Yeah. You know, a protest. Some kind of demonstration.”

  “Will you go?”

  Mom wouldn’t want me to. She’d be worried it would lead to an incident. That’s what she calls the cutting—incidents. Dad doesn’t believe in euphemisms, but he hasn’t stopped Mom from using that one.

  “Will you?” I ask.

  Maya pauses. “If he gets expelled, then he definitely wouldn’t be eligible for the scholarship anymore.”

  “True,” I agree carefully. I don’t want to get her hopes up. “But even with a protest, it’s not, you know… It’s not definite he’ll get expelled.” I remember what my parents said last night. “The school doesn’t have a policy for something like this.”

  My father would say that’s the whole point of demonstrating. To demand the change—the justice—that’s missing from the status
quo. I open my mouth to explain this to Maya—a protest is just the first step—but she doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for a lecture on social justice. Actually, it looks like she’s about to cry.

  I beg my brain to think of the right thing to say. How can I be so comfortable and confident debating hypotheticals with Dad at the kitchen table, but not out here in the world, where it really matters, where saying the right thing might actually help someone I care about?

  “What do you think will happen?” I ask finally.

  Maya shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  I can’t read the look on her face. Is she sad? Maybe she’s angry. I’m angry. Angry because it’s entirely possible that nothing will happen. The board of trustees might decide it’s better to keep this quiet. Mike might get nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Maybe they’ll make us sit through a special assembly about respecting our peers, and then we’ll all be expected to have learned our lesson and life will go on as if none of this matters.

  My father would point out that there’s nothing quiet about a protest. The school can’t hush it up if the students make enough noise.

  But I don’t think Maya wants to hear that either. I try to think of what I should say.

  It’s going to be okay. But I can’t say that, because it might not be.

  I’m here for you. Except, I’m not, because if I were a better friend, I would’ve figured out what was going on sooner.

  I’m so sorry. Sorry that I don’t know what to say.

  I can’t even put my arm around Maya and hug her, because if I touch her, she’ll feel the way my hands are shaking. So I slide my hands beneath my thighs again, and we sit in silence while all the wrong things to say go round and round in my head.

  Eight

  The Anxious Girl

  I have a fifty-minute hour with Dr. Kreiter on Tuesdays after school. (That’s what Dad calls it, a “fifty-minute hour,” because the appointment is fifty minutes long even though Dr. Kreiter refers to it as an hour.) Weekly therapy sessions were part of the three-month deal I made with my parents. In the beginning, I thought the doctor would make me undress at the start of every session so she could check my body for new cuts and scrapes. I imagined all the reasons I’d list to explain away any innocent wounds: I cut myself shaving, my hand slipped when I was helping Mom with dinner, I fell off the bed and landed on a sharp edge of the metal frame. (That actually happened to me when I was six years old.)

  It turned out my hypothetical excuses weren’t necessary because Dr. Kreiter never inspects me. (Plus, I’ve kept up my end of the three-month deal, so there haven’t been any cuts to explain away.) She told me that since I made a deal to be honest about cutting with my parents, she’d trust me to make the same deal with her. I thought that was odd because she didn’t exactly seem like a fan of the deal we’d made in the first place, but maybe she was trying to prove something to me about trust between a therapist and her patient (and the patient’s parents).

  The hospital recommended Dr. Kreiter. She wanted to see me multiple times a week, but my father agreed when I said that wasn’t necessary.

  Of course, my father didn’t know how long this had been going on.

  He didn’t know how many times I’d cut myself, because the earliest cuts weren’t deep enough to leave scars.

  The thing about cutting is that it isn’t an accident. I read an article about a girl who slid into anorexia—she started with a diet and then restricted herself further and further until she descended into illness. Cutting isn’t like that. I mean, I guess there’s probably someone out there who cut herself (or himself) by accident, found it a relief, and then began doing it intentionally—but once you do begin doing it intentionally, there’s no pretending it’s an accident. It’s a choice, each and every time.

  I only ever cut myself on the upper part of my thighs, where no one would see. I did it in my bathroom at night with the door closed. Mom thought I was taking long, soothing baths. It was the sort of thing she’d normally admonish—wasting water in an often drought-ridden state—but much to my surprise, she told me she was glad I was taking time for self-care.

  I ran the water while I cut myself. (Even more wasteful than taking actual baths.) The first few cuts were shallow, just enough to relieve the pressure, like opening a window to let in a breeze. I barely even bled.

  In bed at night, I’d lightly run my fingers over my scabs. I didn’t pick at them because I didn’t want to bleed on my sheets and I didn’t want to scar.

  On New Year’s Eve, Mom and Dad went out to a party at their friends’ house, and I stayed home alone.

  Maya went out with Mike, of course.

  School was off for the holidays; technically I had no reason to be stressed.

  Maybe I was just bored.

  But my hands started shaking, and that was that.

  Even though I was alone, I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me like always, though this time I didn’t bother running a bath. I pressed the blade—my special razor blade just for this, which I cleaned with rubbing alcohol in between uses, possibly the only thing I’d ever managed to keep neat and tidy—into my leg.

  Before that night, I’d never cut myself all that deeply. But that night, I wanted to know how it would feel if I did. I told myself I was being scientific about it, like it was an experiment.

  There was so much blood, it should have scared me. Instead of dripping like it usually did, it ran out in a stream. As always, I’d moved the bath mat aside so it wouldn’t get stained, but that night the blood was running too fast. It got all over everything.

  As the clock ticked down to midnight, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing as best I could, washing my bloody handprints off the wall, off the shower curtain, off the mat. I’d taped the wound shut with a row of Band-Aids but all my moving around made it reopen, and I had to start cleaning all over again.

  Eventually, the bleeding stopped, but that was the first cut that left a scar behind.

  It might have gone on like that forever if it hadn’t been for Valentine’s Day. By then, Tess and I had kissed, but we weren’t an official couple yet, so we weren’t spending the holiday together—she’d already had plans with another girl, someone she’d dated on and off sophomore year. Maya was with Mike again, of course. My parents were out on a date.

  And so, once again, I was home alone.

  Once again, my hands started shaking, full of energy that needed to find a way out.

  It’s not as though I was planning to go so deep. I’d read about cutting online—some cutters liked to look closely, to stare at the layers of flesh beneath their skin. I wasn’t like that. I usually only wanted to cut enough to relieve the pressure, and then I’d stop.

  But that night—home alone, the entire evening stretching out in front of me—a little cut wasn’t enough. Every time I came close to stopping, I thought about Tess, out with another girl. Or Maya, out with Mike. Or even my parents, out together. (Dad says Valentine’s Day is nothing more than crass commercialism, but he does it for Mom.) Every time I eased up, loosened my grip on the blade, all I could think was that I was all alone, while everyone else was out together.

  So I went deeper again, like I thought maybe I could cut out the bad parts, the lonely parts, the needy parts. The parts that were sad about being alone. The parts that explained why I was alone in the first place.

  There was so much blood. More than there had been on New Year’s. More than a row of Band-Aids could contain. I tied a towel around my leg, got into my car, and drove to the nearest ER. I didn’t hesitate, even though I knew this meant my secret would come out—the doctors would call my parents, my parents would worry, et cetera. Maybe it was my survival instinct kicking in, but it wasn’t until later that I berated myself for cutting so deep, being so foolish, exposing my secret.

  Luckily (or was it intentional?),
I’d cut my left leg, so my right was free for driving. The blood didn’t scare me, not even as it soaked my pajama pants (the only pants loose enough to fit over the towel) and dripped onto the driver’s seat. Until that night, it never occurred to me that I could do any serious damage with my trusty razor blade. After all, cutting had always made me feel better, not worse.

  The doctors admitted me, and I lay in a narrow bed waiting for my parents to arrive. “You could’ve killed yourself,” one doctor said—I don’t remember which one. I didn’t bother learning their names.

  “I’m not suicidal,” I explained when the staff psychologist came to see me. Dad stood by the bed, while Mom filled out forms down the hall. “If I were, would I have driven myself here?”

  Dad nodded, as if even then, he was pleased with me for making such a rational and clear argument. He didn’t know—I knew because I read it online—that the suicide rate for cutters is kind of sketchy because doctors can’t know who accidentally cut too deep versus who actually intended to kill themselves. But of course, that wouldn’t apply in my case because I drove myself to the hospital. Even the doctors had to admit that it was a sign I wasn’t suicidal, but they still wanted to keep me there for a few days’ observation.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Dad said. There were no chairs next to the bed, though I don’t think he would’ve sat down anyhow. A nurse had dressed my leg with a tourniquet, but we were waiting for a doctor to stitch me up. Apparently, Valentine’s Day is a busy night in the ER.

  The staff psychologist explained that it was protocol to admit patients like me for observation and therapy, followed by an outpatient program. I saw Dad bristle at the words protocol and patients like your daughter. Getting around protocol is practically his job.

  Dad insisted that I be released to my parents’ care. He offered to sign papers stating that the hospital wouldn’t be held responsible.

  So after they stitched my leg, I got to go home. Mom drove me in her car, and Dad followed us in mine.