It’s impossible to sit on my hands or stuff them in my pockets while I’m getting dressed. I’d been planning on wearing mascara tonight—I almost never wear makeup, once in a while just mascara and lip gloss—but my hands are shaking too hard to hold the mascara wand steady. I put the unused tube back in the medicine cabinet.
There’s a pair of teeny tiny scissors in there, the kind that come in manicure kits. Somehow they survived my mother’s sharp-objects purge. Maybe she thought they were too small to do any damage.
The blades curl into a point, almost as sharp and thin as a needle. I guess they’re meant to curve around your fingernails. The tips of the blades are so narrow, I could make a tiny little cut, just enough to relieve the pressure. I wouldn’t bleed much. I wouldn’t even bleed for very long.
Before this week, I never wanted to use anything but my special razor blades, the ones I kept clean with cotton balls soaked in alcohol. But on Monday, I considered using the mirror in my glove compartment. And now, I can’t stop staring at these scissors.
I mean, this is a special night, unusual circumstances. Maybe I should cut, if cutting would make me calm. After all, I’m already in trouble, so what’s one more infraction?
No. It’s one thing to be in trouble for missing class and sneaking out. (If I get caught.) Quite another to break our three-month deal. I force my shaking hands to grip the sides of the sink. If I’m holding the sink, then I can’t reach for the scissors. But I’m shaking so hard that my hands slide right off the porcelain. I leave the bathroom without closing the medicine cabinet because I’m scared I’ll slam it so hard, it would break. (More sharp objects.)
What if everything goes wrong? What if the protest tomorrow is a disaster and when I apply to college next year, the scope of my failure shows up on my records somehow? What if Kyle won’t even let us in the door tonight? What if Maya looks to me for help and I don’t know what to say? What if Tess is there with some other girl on her arm, someone who hasn’t been diagnosed with anxiety and OCD, some girl who won’t sabotage her relationship and who can get undressed with the lights on?
I shake my head. Yesterday, I kissed Tess. (Crap, what was I thinking?) But what I mean is that yesterday, I felt good enough to kiss Tess. Yesterday, I was ready to sit at our lunch table before the boys could stake their claim. I need to feel tonight the way I felt then.
Only tonight. And tomorrow. That’s all. That was my plan, right? That’s what I have them for. They’re better for me than cutting would be. (Aren’t they?) At least, they’re not explicitly against the rules. (Except, of course, they are. Just not the particular rules of the three-month deal.)
I dig around in my backpack until I find the bag Hiram gave me. I shake out a red pill—red for daytime, even though it’s dark outside—and put it under my tongue. I don’t want to go back into the bathroom to get a drink of water, so I suck on the pill like it’s candy, waiting for it to soften and shrink before I swallow. It tastes so bad that I gag, but I manage to force it down eventually.
I watch the clock, and when the time is right, I tiptoe down the stairs. I’m not driving, because my parents would definitely hear the sound of the garage door opening. Maya said she’d borrow her mom’s car. She said she’d turn off her headlights and wait down the block so my parents wouldn’t see her.
I open the back door, the one next to the kitchen sink, careful not to let it slam shut behind me. I run down the block on my tiptoes. Maya’s right where she said she’d be. I open the passenger side door.
“Good idea,” I say, “waiting down the block like this.”
She shrugs. “Mike used to do it,” she says. “Bringing me home after a date. Whenever I didn’t want my mom to see us together.”
Crap. I shouldn’t have called it a good idea. I didn’t mean to compliment Mike. What was I thinking? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Why couldn’t I have simply said hi the way any other person would? Commented on her cool outfit? Asked how she was feeling? Something, anything normal.
I take a deep breath and slide my hands beneath my thighs. It’s just a matter of time, I tell myself, before the false sense of well-being kicks in.
I only have to feel like this for a little while longer.
Seven
Maya
Kyle’s house is the sort of house that—before we went to Hiram’s place last night—I would have described as the nicest home I’d ever been to. It’s tucked into the hills with a view of the bay, though not nearly as nice a view as Hiram’s. The house has a long driveway, and I park my mom’s car—she was only too happy to lend it to me for the night—down the street because there are already a bunch of cars parked on either side of the driveway, which has a gate across it, though it doesn’t have a keypad like Hiram’s. The walk up the driveway is steep and long, and if I weren’t so nervous, I think Junie and I would be laughing about how out of shape we are, huffing and puffing our way up the hill.
Mike likes to jog up and down this driveway. I used to sit on the grass by the side of it—because Kyle’s parents are the sort of people who have green manicured grass even during a California drought—and cheer for him. I liked to think that my encouragement helped him, but the truth is, Mike would’ve been running up and down this driveway whether I was there or not. If it hadn’t been me, maybe there’d have been some other girl cheering him on, maybe Eva Mercado, the sophomore who’s always had a crush on him. I was never jealous of Eva, though. Mike always said he only had eyes for me, a line from a cheesy old love song.
The party is so crowded that no one seems to notice when Junie and I walk in, hand in hand. What was I expecting? That we’d walk in and the place would fall silent, someone would cut the music off, and everyone would turn to stare at us?
Yes, actually. That was exactly what I was expecting.
Instead, the music is so loud that I can’t even hear the lyrics, I just sort of feel the rhythm of the bass. The wall of sliding doors that lead to Kyle’s backyard are open, but I’m sweating despite the breeze coming in from outside. It’s only a matter of time before my makeup runs and my hair falls flat, and all the effort I put into getting ready tonight will be for nothing. Junie leads the way through the crowd—there are so many people in here that we have to walk single file, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. My palm is clammy, but Junie’s is cool and dry. How can she be so calm? I feel like I need to throw up—not like when I make myself throw up, but like I’m sick and I actually need to throw up. I’m tempted to turn around and run down the steep driveway back to my mother’s car. Junie gives my hand a squeeze.
“Maya!” someone shouts. I turn and see Maggie Haobsh, a girl I’ve known since first grade. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Big Night,” I answer lamely, as if I’m not fully aware that most of my classmates probably didn’t think I’d show up.
“Why wouldn’t she be here?” Junie asks, leveling her gaze with Maggie’s.
“No, it’s awesome that you’re here, it’s just—I didn’t know you were up for a party after everything that happened.”
I think about all the parties and track meets I’ve attended in the last six months, while I was with Mike, sometimes with bruises beneath my clothes.
“Don’t worry,” Maggie says. She reaches out and rubs my forearm. “Hiram’s not coming tonight.”
“Hiram?” I echo.
“He may be a loser, but he’s not an idiot,” Maggie says. “And Kyle told him he’s not welcome. But I’m around if you need to talk.” Her voice is syrupy-sweet. I guess in a way, I confided in the whole student body when I went public with what was going on, so maybe they think we’re all really close now. Then again, everyone always treated me like that—I may not have known them well, but they knew me well. That’s part of being popular.
Junie would say I went public with Mike’s abuse, not with what was going on between us.
> I turn to Junie. “Do you know what Maggie’s talking about?”
“No clue.” Junie shrugs. “Maggie’s always been a flake, right?”
“Right.” I nod and continue following Junie across the room.
Someone’s hand falls on my shoulder. “Whoa!” It’s Kyle. “Didn’t think you’d show up. You here to apologize?”
Junie and I echo the word apologize at the exact same time, but we don’t say it the same way. I ask it like a question. Junie says it like it’s a dirty word.
“Yeah,” Kyle adds. He leans in, so close I can smell his breath. Kyle’s on the track team, and he shouldn’t be drinking with the meet tomorrow, let alone hosting Big Night. Then again, Kyle’s a pretty weak runner. Coach probably won’t let him compete tomorrow anyway. I always thought Mike convinced the coach to let Kyle on the team, but I never asked, because it was the kind of question he wouldn’t like.
“You know, about your little mix-up.” Kyle winks. “Or not so little, I guess, but don’t worry. Mike set us all straight.”
“What are you talking about?” Junie asks.
“I’m talking about that shiner.” Kyle gestures at my face. “I told Mike he should kick that loser’s ass, but he said he didn’t want to stoop to Hiram’s level. Or maybe he didn’t want to defend the honor of a cheat like you.”
“To Hiram’s level?” Junie spits. She sounds confused, but I’m not. In fact, it all makes perfect sense.
Mike rarely comes up with a plan at the spur of the moment—he likes to strategize—but I think he might have made an exception yesterday. Because the instant Hiram tried to defend me, he provided Mike with a cover story.
When Hiram got out of his car to confront Mike, Mike guessed that something was going on between Hiram and me. (Even if it was just that we were friends.)
And then Hiram hit Mike, and Mike fell backward, showing everyone that Hiram was the violent one, and Mike was the pacifist.
So Mike said it was Hiram who hit me, the same way he hit Mike. He called me a cheat and a liar.
And now everyone at this party believes that because it’s easier to hate the loser with whom we all reluctantly interact than the golden boy we all love.
Kyle walks away, and I explain it to Junie.
“But that’s ridiculous,” she says. “You said it was Mike. You never even mentioned Hiram. Did you?”
I didn’t, not to Principal Scott. In fact, I didn’t actually mention Hiram to Junie, not even when he was driving us away from school, to the beach, to his house, and home again after. I’ve never mentioned Hiram, not once. I kept him a secret.
No. I kept Mike a secret.
No. I kept Mike’s secret.
Or was his hitting me my secret?
I shake my head. Junie hands me a drink. I take a sip. And then another, and then another, until the plastic cup is empty.
“Maya!” It’s Erica Black. She’s in my history class. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Erica is the third person who sounds surprised to see me. A few days ago, they’d have been surprised if I didn’t show up.
“You are?”
“Of course. I’ve got my pink shirt all ready to march tomorrow.” Junie shushes her harshly, but Erica shakes her head. “Oh, you can’t keep something like this quiet, Juniper. Isn’t the point to spread the word?”
“Of course, but—”
“So?” Erica says. “Word has been spread. Believe me, everyone here is ready to march.”
“Everyone?” I echo, glancing at the crowd about us. Mike never really liked parties—he said he preferred to hang out just the two of us—but we always went. We have to at least show our faces, he’d say.
Thinking about the state of my face tonight, Mike’s choice of words is almost funny.
“Almost everyone.” Erica practically giggles. “It’s a miracle that loser wasn’t expelled a long time ago.”
Erica is also the third person I’ve heard call Hiram a loser. I try to remember if I ever called him that, before I started hanging out in his car. Maybe since then too.
“Hey,” Junie says softly, leaning in close so I can hear her above the music. “I’m going to try to figure out what’s going on. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”
“I told you what’s going on,” I begin, but Junie’s already dropped my hand and disappeared into the crowd. And Erica’s still talking. She’s practically shouting, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hear her.
“Just so you know, no one blames you.”
“Huh?” I ask dumbly.
“No one blames you, you know, for getting confused. You’re the victim here, and none of us would ever blame the victim.”
“Of course not,” I agree. I know it’s what she wants me to say. I’ve always been good at knowing what people want to hear.
“Trauma can confuse a person. PTSD and all that. I read it can even give people hallucinations, you know?”
I nod, though I don’t know.
“It’s not like anyone doesn’t believe someone hurt you.” Erica takes my arm like it’s urgent. “You have to know that, right? That everyone believes you.”
I nod again, but they don’t believe me. They believe Mike.
Can I blame them? Mike spoke up as soon as he got hit. I didn’t.
“At least Hiram showed us all who he really is. My god, did he force you?” The urgency is back in Erica’s voice again. “No one would blame you for that either.”
She adds, “If it were me, I would’ve gone to the police the first time he hit me.”
I blink. Erica believes that it was going on for months, but she doesn’t believe that I know who was doing it.
“Why did you wait?” Erica asks. “Did he say he’d hurt you worse if you told?”
Here she is, on my side, ready to march tomorrow—and yet, she still thinks I did something wrong. She believes that if it happened to her, she’d have stood up for herself right away.
Maybe she would have. Maybe Erica is strong like that.
Mike never threatened me. Threatening me would’ve been acknowledging what he’d done, and he never did that either. Unless you count the way he kissed my bruises.
But then, why did I wait? Why didn’t I come forward sooner? What kind of girl stays after her boyfriend hits her?
What kind of girl gets hit in the first place?
Did Mike see something in me, some sign that I’d keep quiet, at least for a while? He’d have been as thoughtful about choosing me as he is about everything else. Why else would he have picked me when he could have had anyone?
He could have chosen Erica, but maybe he could tell she’d stand up for herself right away. Unlike me.
Erica interprets my silence as discomfort and says, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” Then she says, “Mike didn’t even try to fight back, poor guy, even after everything that happened.”
Poor guy. Why is it easier for her to believe I cheated on Mike than to believe Mike hit me?
But then I remember: I did cheat on Mike. Maybe they can all tell it’s true, like my bruise is Hester Prynne’s scarlet A.
But Mike gave me this bruise.
“You look like you could use another drink,” Erica says.
I nod again. Nodding seems to be more than enough to keep this conversation going.
Eight
Junie
I’m looking for Tess.
And not only because I’m feeling good (false sense of well-being) and I want Tess to see me feeling good. And not only because the last time I was feeling this good and I saw Tess, I kissed her. And not only because I want to see Tess, period.
I’m looking for Tess because I think Tess will know what the heck Erica was talking about, how everything got so twisted and turned around.
I can’t
remember why I was embarrassed about kissing Tess yesterday. She’s my ex-girlfriend, and we had a moment. Things like that happen between exes all the time. Plus, I want her back. (Don’t I?) How else was she going to know I’m interested?
It’s easy to find Tess, since she’s taller than every girl in our class (and taller than at least half the boys too). Her hair makes her taller still. Her dark eyes are rimmed with black eyeliner that swooshes into wings at the edges (she told me she calls it her Cleopatra look), and slick-looking clear gloss makes her lips shine. Unlike me, Tess knows how to wear makeup. She tried to do mine once, but I thought I looked like a clown. She’s wearing tight black jeans that stop above her ankles, black ballet flats, and a high-necked black tank top. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra.
“Hey!” I stand on my tiptoes to hug her hello. Her skin is warm. “I just ran into Erica Black,” I begin. “She said that news about the protest has spread.”
Tess’s plush lips widen into a smile. Her teeth are so white, they practically glow in the dim light. “Isn’t it great?” she says. “Kids from East Prep are planning on marching with us. Even if it means postponing the meet.”
“But they don’t even know Mike and Maya.” I don’t stop and think before I speak, don’t go over the words in my head and wonder, after they’ve been said, if they’re okay.
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