As always, Mike’s given thought to his plan. It’s true: Hiram doesn’t need a scholarship. But couldn’t Columbia rescind his admission if they found out he got expelled?
“You’re the best, My.” Mike kisses me again, a stiff, quick kiss this time. “I better go, though,” he adds. “Gotta get up early for the meet tomorrow.”
I nod. I know Mike’s routine before every race: in bed by eleven, up by seven, an hour of stretches before heading to campus. We scheduled our dates around it.
Mike adds, “Hope the rally won’t delay the races too much tomorrow.”
The rally. Mike’s going to march tomorrow, protesting domestic violence.
Does domestic violence even apply to us, to Mike and me, a couple of teenagers? We’re not married. We don’t live together. Like my mom said, there’s no house to sell, no child custody to negotiate. We have our whole lives ahead of us. In one of the articles I read last week, I saw words like dating abuse and relationship violence. Do those words apply to us?
“Love you,” Mike says before he closes the door behind him and leaves me alone. His scent lingers even though he’s gone. My legs aren’t frozen in place anymore. Instead, they’re shaking. I sink onto Kyle’s bed.
Maybe Mike doesn’t deserve to be expelled, doesn’t deserve for his whole life to change. He’s under so much pressure now, like he said. It won’t always be like that.
Mike never put me in the hospital, never broke a bone. Other women—the ones I read about, the ones who are in danger after they end it, report it—have it so much worse than I did.
I spin his bracelet around my wrist. The silver is cold against my skin.
Everything can be the way it was before.
Mike doesn’t think I’m a slut.
Mike still loves me.
If we get back together, no one would dare call me slut again.
He wants to be with me forever.
That’s what every girl wants to hear.
Isn’t it?
Ten
Junie
Tess is running tomorrow—assuming the meet goes on after the protest—which means she needs to leave the party early. I don’t have my car, so we take hers. I roll the windows down and feel the sweat at the nape of my neck, under my arms, between my fingers, cool in the breeze. Still, I’m hot. This warmth is coming from somewhere inside of me.
I lean over and rest my cheek on Tess’s cool, bare shoulder. With my nose, I nudge the strap of her tank top aside and I kiss the skin on her upper arm, then her neck. She leans into my touch. When Tess turns onto my street, I pull away abruptly.
“Stop the car!” I shout.
“Why?” Tess pulls over several houses down from my own.
I giggle. “Frida and Aaron don’t exactly know I’m out tonight.”
“You snuck out?”
“Well, I was grounded.”
“You were? For what?”
“For cutting class yesterday.” I laugh again. Who decided to call it cutting class?
“You weren’t cutting class,” Tess insists. “You were supporting a friend who needed you.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about Maya. And just like that, the thought of her is gone. I almost start laughing again. Who knew a person could simply decide not to think about something? I’ve spent so many nights wishing I could turn my thoughts off, unable to sleep because I can’t stop going over the day’s conversations in my head, promising myself that I’d keep my mouth shut the next day, that I’d like to bite my tongue to avoid another sleepless night.
It never worked.
The only thing that made it feel better was cutting, but I’m not allowed to do that anymore.
Correction: The only thing that made it feel better used to be cutting. Now it’s Hiram’s red pills.
I unclick my seat belt. Tess looks at me like she’s waiting for something. I’m not sure which of us starts kissing the other first, but for once, I don’t care if it was me. She’s kissing me back, isn’t she? She’s putting her hands in my hair, sliding her fingers down my arms. She wants me as much as I want her.
When we get back together, I won’t wait for her to take my hand when we’re walking down the hall at school. I won’t wait for her to lean in to kiss me goodbye after class. I’ll say I love you first, and I won’t wait for her to text me to make plans.
We kiss and we kiss and we kiss. I don’t check the clock on Tess’s dashboard. I have no idea how much time goes by.
We could double-date with Hiram and Maya. No—I’m mad at Maya. She lied to me about Hiram. Well, technically I guess she didn’t lie to me—she just didn’t tell me the truth. When my parents found out about my cutting, my dad said that withholding information was a kind of lying. He said I had to prove they could trust me again. Hence the three-month deal, the honor code, et cetera.
I told Maya about the cutting, but I didn’t tell her about the pills. I withheld information too.
And Hiram can’t have given me the pills just to get on Maya’s good side because he didn’t tell Maya he gave them to me. When she asked what we were talking about yesterday, he covered for me.
Wait—why am I thinking about Hiram, about my dad, about Maya, when Tess is kissing me? I should be thinking about her, only her, and nothing else. Why can’t I make these thoughts disappear anymore? Why can’t I stop thinking about the words I said to Maya before I left Kyle’s house tonight?
You lied to me.
What else did you lie about?
You’re the one who disappeared, not me.
How could you stay for three months?
Oh, god, I’m as bad as they are. Insisting that a victim has to be perfect to be believed. I’m like one of those prosecutors interrogating a sexual assault victim about what she was wearing, how much she had to drink, as though that makes what happened her fault.
The truth is, I don’t know how Maya stayed for three months. I might want to believe that I’d have left or asked for help right away if it happened to me—but how can I possibly know that’s true? I’ve never been where she was. Like I said yesterday, I hurt myself for months without asking for help. I’m in no position to judge.
Oh, god, I’m sorry.
I pull away from Tess.
“What’s the matter?”
“I have to go back to the party.”
Tess blinks. “Go back?”
“I have to make sure Maya’s okay.”
“Oh, baby,” Tess says, running a hand up and down my arm, making me shiver. (Since when am I cold?) “You’re such a good friend.”
“I’m not.” I shake my head. “I’m really not.”
“Of course you are,” Tess counters. “Didn’t you just say you got grounded for looking out for her?” I shrug. “And here you are, planning this protest for her.”
The protest. The protest that’s taken on a life of its own. The protest that’s supposed to be about Maya but isn’t anymore.
“They all think it was Hiram.”
Tess shakes her head. “Not all. And no matter what, everyone agrees that someone hurt Maya, and she needs our support.”
“But do you think it might have been Hiram?”
Tess considers. “It would be crazy for Maya to accuse Mike if it was really Hiram. Maya may be traumatized like everyone says, but I think she knows exactly what happened.”
Maybe Tess would call me crazy, if she knew I feel better after cutting myself than when I’m not bleeding.
“Hey,” Tess says. “It’s going to be okay. I love you.”
I should be so happy to hear her say it, but instead, I’m thinking that Tess doesn’t know about the anxiety, about Dr. Kreiter and my diagnosis. (Diagnoses?) When Tess broke up with me, she said she didn’t know me anymore. But maybe she never knew me at all.
I’m so
cold that I’m shaking.
No. My hands are shaking.
“I’ve got to go.”
“You’re leaving?” Tess sounds incredulous.
I nod.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
I nod again.
“And you’re still leaving?”
I open the car door and stumble onto the sidewalk. I don’t turn around to watch Tess drive away, but I shudder when I hear her engine roaring to life, her car speeding past me. She thinks I rejected her. A few days ago, I’d have preferred it that way. Now, I’m not sure what’s better: Do I want her to think I left because I’m cool and aloof, or because I’m freaking out?
I walk up my driveway and open the back door slowly, quietly. I take off my shoes. The house is quiet and dark.
I tiptoe up the stairs, close my bedroom door behind me with a soft click. I turn on my desk lamp and dig into my backpack for the bag of pills. I google the name printed on the capsule.
Turns out, a false sense of well-being isn’t the only side effect. These pills make patients feel hot, light-headed, impulsive. Their effects come on strong and wear off quickly. (I learned that much yesterday.) They were taken off the market—like Hiram said—because of concerns they could be habit-forming. No kidding. Yesterday, after only one dose, I was already thinking about asking Hiram for more.
I get out my phone and send a text. Why did you give me those pills when you knew they were addictive?
The phone buzzes almost immediately with an answer. You said you needed them.
Did I? I scroll up the screen, looking at the short history of texts between Hiram and me. Hiram’s right: I begged for the pills, promised not to tell anyone, promised never to ask again.
Don’t worry, Hiram continues now. I don’t have any more. And they don’t make them anymore. So you couldn’t have more even if you wanted to.
That does make me feel a little bit better. But then—what if I need them again?
There are still a few in the Ziploc bag that’s currently sitting on my desk.
I count. Three. Three more chances for a false sense of well-being. Three more chances to kiss Tess without worrying whether or not it’s the right thing to do.
Until the pill’s effects wear off.
How can I even know if I really wanted to kiss Tess tonight, if I really wanted to stop kissing her—was it me or the pills calling the shots? I pick up the Ziploc and twist it in my shaking hands, so the pills slide around inside. I could take a blue one now and go to sleep without going over the night’s events in my head, all the things I said wrong.
I shake my head and toss the bag into the garbage can beneath my desk, then glance at my closed bedroom door. The bathroom is just down the hall. I could break open my Gillette ladies’ razor. Mom confiscated it after Valentine’s Day, and I told myself I didn’t mind, that not shaving was a stance against the patriarchy. But I hated having hairy legs, so, after a month, Mom let me start shaving again.
It would be so easy.
But it hasn’t been three months yet.
Did my parents and I ever discuss exactly what would happen at the end of three months? I assumed it would mean that Dr. Kreiter was wrong: that I don’t need medication, or group therapy, or even to see the doctor anymore. If I could go without cutting for three months, I’d have proved that I could handle this by myself, that I can stop myself from slicing my skin.
But now I wonder…have I just been running out the clock? Did part of me think that if I made it three months, I could go back to cutting? Like someone on a diet who reaches their goal weight and goes back to eating the way they did before. Their diet was a means to an end, not a lifestyle change. Maybe that’s why Dr. Kreiter disapproved of the deal I made with my parents. I sit on my hands.
I will not cut. I will not cut. I will not cut.
My phone vibrates with another text from Hiram. You okay, Juniper?
My hands are shaking so much that it’s hard to write back. I’m fine, I type, even though it’s not entirely true.
I shouldn’t have given you the pills, Hiram responds. I’m here if you need to talk.
Why is Hiram being so nice to me? Then I remember: It’s probably because he thinks being nice to me will make Maya like him more. He doesn’t know what happened at Big Night. He doesn’t know that Maya must hate me now.
But he covered for me with Maya about the pills yesterday. I picture him alone in that big house—his dad at work, his mom out of town, all of his classmates at Big Night. Like me on New Year’s Eve, on Valentine’s Day.
Hiram says he’s here if I need to talk, but if I told him what happened tonight, he’d hate me for hurting Maya. Like Tess would hate me, if she knew what I’m really like. She’d never say I love you again.
Good night, I type quickly. I put my phone down and change into my pajamas. I kick the clothes I wore out tonight under my bed because I know I won’t want to see them in the morning, a reminder of everything that happened.
It’s all running through my head: the words I said, the words I heard, the things I did. Not cutting means I have to lie here feeling hurt because Maya didn’t tell me about Hiram. Feeling bad because I said terrible things to her. Feeling guilty because I kept something from her too. Feeling humiliated because of the way I stumbled out of Tess’s car. Feeling certain Tess will never give me another chance. Feeling uncertain of whether or not I want one.
When I was a little kid and I had to get a shot at the pediatrician’s office, Mom would squeeze my hand so tight it hurt. She said it was to distract me from the pain of the needle.
Maybe that’s all cutting ever was. A distraction from all the other pain.
Sunday, April 16
Eleven
Maya
It’s after midnight when I get home. Not because I stayed at the party, but because I got into Mom’s car and drove up into the hills. I slowed down when I neared Hiram’s house, as though I thought there was a possibility I might run into him. But if he was home, he was secure behind the front gate. Eventually I stepped on the gas and drove past.
Now, I go into the bathroom and crouch over the toilet. In the months we were together, Mike never actually said I was fat. But there was something about the way he gripped the skin on my upper arm, around my rib cage. Like there was too much flesh for him to hang on to, too much there for him to dig his fingers into.
I throw up. I haven’t eaten in hours, so nothing much comes up. A little bit of whatever I drank at the party. Some water. Some toothpaste, maybe, because I brushed my teeth before I left the house tonight. Maybe some lipstick, because I chewed my lips on the way to pick up Junie.
I stand and flush the toilet. Wash my hands. Brush my teeth. (Again). I change into my pajamas and get into bed. When we first started dating, I’d hug the pillow and imagine it was Mike. I missed him so much when we were apart, and I hated that we couldn’t spend the night together. The lyrics to one of my dad’s favorite old songs, “Wouldn’t it be nice?” would get stuck in my head. The song is about being in love with someone but being too young to spend the nights as well as the days together. Too young to wake up together each morning. Too young to hold each other close all night long. I wondered how the Beach Boys—years and years before I was born, before I met Mike, before we fell in love—understood exactly how I felt.
I can’t help it; the song is stuck in my head now. Again. Tonight. Even after everything that’s happened.
I kick off the covers.
Why did I want to spend the night with him after he’d hurt me?
Because I’m the kind of girl who stays.
Why did I let him kiss me tonight? Why did I kiss him back? Why do I still have his sweater folded neatly under the bed, his bracelet wrapped around my wrist?
Because I’m the kind of girl who goes back.
But if I lo
ved him, why did I cheat on him with Hiram?
Because I’m a slut.
But if I didn’t love him, why did I miss him all those nights?
Because I’m the kind of girl who stays.
Why do I miss him now?
Because I’m the kind of girl who goes back.
I sit up. I miss Hiram too. Not in the aching way I missed Mike. It’s an easier feeling. I’m certain that if I asked, Hiram would come right over, even in the middle of the night. He’d climb the tree outside my window and sneak inside through the window. He’d spend the whole night by my side if I asked him to. He wouldn’t kiss me if I didn’t want him to. He’d wait for me to kiss him, not the other way around.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I can still smell vomit on my fingertips.
For months, Mike told me that he wanted to be together forever. He held my hand in public every day, and he kissed me goodbye before we headed into different classrooms. And yet, I always felt so desperate over him, like I was always at risk of losing him.
Maybe because I knew—I know—he wouldn’t come if I asked him to. He’d say he needs to rest before the meet tomorrow. In fact, he’d be angry at me for calling in the first place, for waking him up. I’d apologize, of course, but it would be too late.
My heart beats fast, the way it did when Mike and I were alone together in Kyle’s room. Out loud, I say, “It’s okay. You didn’t actually call him. He’s not actually mad at you.”
If I told Eva Mercado about this feeling, maybe she’d insist Mike would have every right to be angry at me—I should know better than to disturb him the night before a race. She’d say being angry at me isn’t the same thing as hitting me. Maybe she’d say that she would know better, if she were Mike’s girlfriend.
I lie back down, twisting Mike’s bracelet around my wrist. Sometimes I wake up having slept on my arm, and my wrist hurts from where the silver dug into the skin all night. But I haven’t taken it off since the night he gave it to me. Valentine’s Day. I was so certain Mike would be my Valentine for the rest of my life. I’d never have to worry about having a date on February fourteenth again.
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