What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  “Sure they know Mike.” Tess shrugs. “They’ve been racing against him since freshman year. And they don’t need to know Maya to want to march against domestic violence.”

  “But this isn’t supposed to be about domestic violence. It’s about getting Mike expelled. We wanted the board going into their meeting on Monday seeing that the student body had a united front.” It’s all so clear. Why can’t she see it? Why can’t everyone see it?

  Tess’s smile falters. “Well, I think that as more information got out—”

  “Information?” I echo. “You mean these ridiculous rumors about Maya and Hiram?” I shout to be heard over the music. Or maybe I’m just shouting.

  I roll my eyes. “God, you’re as bad as they are.” I don’t worry that my words might hurt Tess’s feelings. I don’t worry that I’m doing the same thing she did to me on Monday, assuming she’s wrong without giving her a chance to explain. I don’t worry at all. Instead, I gesture at the crowd like they’re lemmings following wherever Mike tells them to go, believing what he tells them to believe. I turn on my heel, but Tess grabs my arm.

  “I heard he’s planning on marching tomorrow,” she says. “He wouldn’t be doing that if he hit her, would he?” She doesn’t sound like she’s certain, more like she actually wants my opinion.

  “Of course he would,” I answer confidently. “What better way to look like a hero instead of a villain?”

  Tess’s face falls, but I shake off her grip and storm back through the party, looking for Maya. Was it always this hot in here? I fan my face with my hands. Even though the room is pretty dark, I can see that my palms are pink.

  I grab Maya’s hand just in time to hear the word Slut! being hurled across the room. I turn around.

  “Who said that?” I shout. (No hesitation. False sense of well-being. Inner monologue silenced. Well, except for the part of me that’s acknowledging the silence.)

  No one answers.

  “Wow, whoever you are, you’re really brave, aren’t you?” I laugh. “And seriously, slut? Can you think of a more anti-woman, anti-feminist, anti-victim thing to say? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Maya did cheat on Mike—does that mean it was okay for him to hit her? And she didn’t, you know—Maya was the perfect girlfriend, and Mike still hit her. What is wrong with you people?” I spin around to face Maya.

  “What is wrong with these people?” I repeat.

  Maya’s eyes are very bright.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “Don’t listen to any of it. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Maya shakes her head. She says something so softly, I can’t hear it. I lean in, my ear close to her mouth. Her breath is warm on my skin. God, I’m so hot.

  “They do know what they’re talking about, Junie.” Maya’s voice is shaking.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was hooking up with Hiram.”

  Maya blinks away her tears. I take a step back. “What do you mean?” I ask again.

  “It wasn’t all the time,” Maya says. “Only—once in a while. And just kisses, mostly.”

  I shake my head and take another step backward. After everything that happened yesterday, everything I told her, how could she keep this from me?

  Crap, I’m so stupid. The way Hiram burst out of his car to hit Mike, the way he held open the passenger-side door for Maya afterward, how he knew where she lived—of course there was something going on between them!

  All day yesterday, at the beach, at Hiram’s house, I thought we were bonding, getting back to where we used to be. And that whole time, she and Hiram were probably wishing I’d never gotten into the back seat of his car, wishing I’d make myself scarce, cursing me for being such a heavy third wheel. No wonder he took me home first last night—obviously, he wanted time alone with her. And that must have been why he gave me the pills in the first place. He was only being nice to me to get on Maya’s good side.

  “You lied to me?”

  Maya shakes her head. “I didn’t lie—”

  “No, you just didn’t tell me the truth.” Like she didn’t tell me about Mike. Like she didn’t tell me about throwing up.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, but the words sound empty.

  “What else did you lie about?”

  “Nothing, I promise. It’s just—like we said yesterday, we weren’t as close over the last six months—”

  “And whose fault is that? You’re the one who disappeared, not me.”

  “I told you, Mike wanted us to be together.”

  The question that’s been dancing around my brain since Monday bubbles up in my throat. Later, I’ll think that there are so many versions of this question, versions that have been asked thousands of times by thousands of people thousands of different ways: Why didn’t some girl scream even when there was a knife to her throat? Why didn’t another girl bite and kick and scratch even when the man forcing himself on her was a foot taller and twice her weight? Some version of this question has been asked by judges and defense attorneys and journalists and random observers because they think they know something about survival; because they believe they know how they’d behave under circumstances they’ve probably never experienced.

  But right now, I’m not thinking about any of that (no inner monologue), so I ask: “You said he hit you for the first time in January. Three months ago! How could you stay for three months?”

  I turn away before Maya has a chance to respond. Suddenly, I’m grateful this party’s so crowded. It makes it easier to put a bunch of people between Maya’s body and my own.

  A cool hand lands on my arm. I spin around. Tess.

  “Hey,” she says. “Look, I’m sorry about before. You’re right. Of course I believe Maya.”

  I shake my head. “Maya lied.” Not about Mike. About Hiram. But a lie’s a lie’s a lie. That’s what my father taught me. Black and white. Good and bad. Lies and truth.

  Tess’s lips curl into an almost-smile. “Are these things always so confusing?” she asks. “I mean, when I read about it happening at other schools, I always know exactly who to believe.”

  I reach up and slide my hand to the back of Tess’s neck. She gasps. “Your hands are so hot.”

  I pull her head down toward mine. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.

  Nine

  Maya

  I can’t see who says it, but the word rings out so clear and loud that you’d think there was no music playing, no friends chattering.

  Slut.

  Junie starts shouting at the crowd, as if everyone said it, not just a single girl. (I think it was a girl’s voice.) But maybe Junie knows what I suspect—even if all of them didn’t say it, they’re all thinking it.

  Slut.

  “What is wrong with these people?” Junie asks, turning back to me. I don’t think she expects an answer.

  “Don’t listen to any of it,” she adds. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  I shake my head. Or anyway, I try to shake my head, but my muscles aren’t cooperating. They do know what they’re talking about. I cheated on Mike.

  Is that why he hit me?

  But I didn’t start cheating until after he hit me.

  Maybe that’s why he hit me again.

  But he didn’t know about Hiram and me until yesterday.

  Maybe I deserved it anyway. Maybe Mike knew, somehow, that I was going to hook up with someone else. Maybe he knew I was a bad girlfriend. A bad girl.

  A slut.

  I lean in, so I won’t have to shout for Junie to hear me. I tell her that these people know exactly what they’re talking about.

  “I was hooking up with Hiram.” My voice shakes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t all the time,” I add quickly as though the frequency—or lack of f
requency—makes it better, less of a crime. “Only—once in a while. And just kisses. Mostly.”

  Mostly kisses. Mostly Hiram’s gentle mouth over mine. But sometimes, his gentle hands traced my skin. Sometimes they slipped up under my shirt, down beneath my waistband. Always slowly, always hesitantly. Always like he was asking permission, giving me a chance to say no.

  Sometimes Hiram really did ask permission. He didn’t whisper it, but said it clearly. Is this okay? He never seemed the least bit scared that the question would spoil the mood. He never seemed worried that it might give me a chance to rethink my actions and change my mind. I think he actually wanted me to have time to consider my actions, that he would have simply shifted back to his side of the car if I changed my mind.

  But I never did.

  Slut.

  Even Junie thinks so. I can tell from the look on her face, the way she’s backing away from me. She thinks I’m disgusting.

  A liar.

  A cheater.

  A girl who got what she deserved.

  “How could you stay for three months?” Junie asks before she disappears into the crowd. I don’t have an answer.

  Junie wouldn’t have stayed. Erica Black wouldn’t have stayed.

  Maybe the kind of girl who gets hit in the first place is the kind of girl who stays. The kind of girl who cheats rather than leaving.

  If it were some other girl, some story I’d heard in which I didn’t actually know any of the people involved, I’d say there was no excuse for her boyfriend’s hitting her, even if she did cheat on him, even if she did stay.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Isn’t that what I believe?

  “You really screwed up, you know.”

  I spin around. Eva Mercado is standing behind me. Or, rather, standing in front of me.

  “What?” I ask dumbly.

  “You really screwed up. Thanks to your little mix-up, Mike could get into real trouble.”

  “My little mix-up?” I turn back, then remember Junie isn’t there anymore.

  “Or did you lie on purpose? Because if it were me, I’d sure as hell be able to tell the difference between Mike Parker and Hiram Bingham.” She spits Hiram’s name like it tastes bad. Eva barely knows me, but I can tell from the look on her face that she hates me. Before, she hated me because I had Mike and she didn’t. And now, she hates me because I gave him up.

  Did I give him up? We still haven’t broken up, not officially, not technically.

  She continues, “Did you think your little cover story was the only way to save yourself from getting dumped? You know, Mike deserves someone who would appreciate him. Someone who would never hurt him. Never cheat on him.”

  “Someone like you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  I wasn’t thinking about a hypothetical next girl when I came forward. I wasn’t thinking that Mike might end up with someone else and hurt her too. I wasn’t even thinking about whether Mike might be expelled, what kind of consequences he might face. I was thinking about myself.

  I just wanted it to stop.

  Eva thinks I came forward to save myself. Not from being hit, but from being dumped. She thinks I accused Mike to get ahead of the story, save face. But who would come forward and say her boyfriend was beating her to save face?

  It only saves face if you’re also something else that’s worse than a girl who stayed.

  If you’re also a cheating, lying slut.

  Which is exactly what Eva thinks I am.

  “Maybe me.” Eva shrugs, answering a question I forgot I asked. “I’d be better to him than you were.”

  Maybe she’d be a good enough girlfriend that Mike wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe she wouldn’t cheat on him even if he did.

  An achingly familiar voice enters the conversation. “All right, Eva, I think that’s enough.”

  I wish it were Junie. Or Hiram, coming to my rescue again. Actually, I wish I weren’t the sort of girl who needed someone to come to her rescue.

  The kind of girl who gets hit.

  The kind of girl who stays.

  What would I have done in the parking lot yesterday if Junie and Hiram hadn’t been there? Maybe I’d have let Mike take my arm and pull me away to some quiet corner. Maybe I’d have nodded when he said, This is all a misunderstanding.

  And,

  Don’t you remember it was an accident?

  Then,

  I just want to talk to you.

  Until,

  We can work this out.

  * * *

  I let Mike lead me down the stairs to Kyle’s room. He keeps his hand on my upper arm, right below my sleeve, almost exactly where he held me in the parking lot yesterday. I can feel each one of his long fingers on my skin. He closes the door behind us without letting me go. We’ve been alone in this room before. We made out on Kyle’s bed less than two weeks ago. This house is so well insulated that I can barely hear a sound from the party above us.

  Mike is standing in front of the door. Did he stand there on purpose, to block my escape, or was it just because he closed the door behind him?

  Everything Mike does is on purpose.

  I’m surprised to discover that my heart is pounding. I read somewhere that the most dangerous time in an abusive relationship—if that’s what our relationship is—is right after the woman tries to end it.

  But Mike wouldn’t do anything to me now, here. Would he? Not in Kyle’s house. Not with everyone upstairs. Not with the rumors swirling. He’s too careful for that.

  He’s standing close enough to me that I can smell him: Ivory soap and Tide. (Not that Mike would know the difference between Tide and any other detergent. I don’t think he’s ever done his own laundry.) And there’s some other scent, the one that always clung to Mike like it was coming from inside of him, a combination of sweat and breath and boy that I memorized months ago.

  Two weeks ago, being alone with him in this room was exciting. I didn’t know how far Mike would take things. Kyle might have come in at any moment; he wouldn’t have bothered knocking on the door to his own room. My pulse quickened, my palms were moist. Mike didn’t ask permission the way Hiram did. Not that he was aggressive about it, but he never asked either. He moved from one step to the next, as methodical as he was about everything else.

  Two weeks ago, in between kisses, my eyes kept darting to the door, to the windows, to the closet. Escape routes. Hiding places.

  For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe I wasn’t excited. Maybe I was scared.

  “Man, talk about a rough week,” Mike says. He lets go of me and collapses dramatically onto Kyle’s bed. His legs are so long that I can see his ankles between his jeans and his sneakers.

  I don’t say anything, and I don’t leave the room even though he’s cleared the way to the door. The kind of girl who stayed doesn’t make a run for it, right? I stand in the middle of the room. My legs feel rock solid. I don’t think I could leave if I wanted to. Mike stands and crosses the room, not quite touching me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head up to see his face.

  “I’m not mad at you, My, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Mad at me? For cheating on him, or for reporting him to Principal Scott?

  “I could never be mad at you. I love you.”

  Did I always feel this frozen in his presence? Did I always worry that I might say the wrong thing? Was my throat always this dry? I manage to nod.

  “Still,” Mike adds emphatically. “In case you thought that had changed.”

  I nod again. He leans down, his face closer to mine.

  “I won’t always be under so much pressure—track and grades and my baby brother. You know how it all gets to me.” He runs his hands though his tawny hair.

  Does he mean he won’t always hit me?

  “It takes two, you
know,” he adds, so close that I can feel his breath. I nod again. I’m half of this relationship, just like he says. A person can’t hit another person if that other person isn’t there.

  His brow furrows, then relaxes. “All you need to do is take it back. Just tell them you were confused, and everything can be the way it was before.” His voice is soft.

  I nod. Again. I don’t move away when he leans down, his lips lingering over mine. “We have so many plans, My. We’re going to college together. We’re going to be together forever.”

  He kisses me. I never noticed before that his nickname for me sounds like I belong to him.

  I kiss him back. Is it a reflex, muscle memory? Am I scared that if I don’t kiss him back, he’ll get angry?

  Or is it that the future he laid out—the one in which we spend our lives together—sounds so much better, so much easier than whatever this is.

  Is it that I love him still, too?

  I feel my body unfreeze and lean into him, pressing my chest against his. I always loved feeling his heartbeat speed up even as he kept his voice calm and even. But tonight, his pulse feels steady and slow.

  As always, Mike ends our kiss, not me. “Just say it was Hiram. Whatever went on between you two, it’s over now. I’ll forgive you. I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

  Mike doesn’t ask what went on between us. Does he care? Even if I never kissed Hiram, my friendship with him was still cheating because I kept it to myself, did it behind Mike’s back.

  But he’ll forgive me. If I say Hiram was the one who hurt me.

  “Everyone already knows the guy’s a creep.” Mike gestures to his face. There’s a shadow of a bruise there, but it’s not nearly as pink and angry as my eye looked the day after Mike hit me. “I mean, he gave me a black eye too.”

  Too? But Hiram didn’t give me a black eye. Mike gave me a black eye. Yesterday, in the school parking lot, he said it was an accident.

  As if Mike can hear my thoughts, he says, “It’s better than saying it was an accident, My. People will still suspect me if you say it was an accident. But if you say it was Hiram, there won’t be any more questions. He’s getting expelled anyway,” Mike adds, like the board has already decided. “And it’s not like he has a scholarship riding on this.”