What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  I hug my pillow the way I used to. Tonight, Mike didn’t yell, and he didn’t squeeze, and he certainly didn’t hit.

  He says he still loves me.

  He says none of this has changed his plans.

  Our plans.

  But even though he was gentle—even though I kissed him back—I was scared being alone in Kyle’s room with him. Some part of me knew that one wrong move, one wrong word, and he’d be angry all over again.

  Was it worth it, that little bit of fear, to get to be with him?

  Maybe he was always angry. Maybe every time he was careful and loving, he was really hiding his fury underneath. Maybe he’s so methodical because it’s the only way he can keep his rage under control when everyone else is watching. Or even sometimes when it’s just us. Maybe even sometimes when it’s just him. That must be exhausting.

  I shake my head. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for him! What kind of woman am I, worrying about what he’s going through?

  What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?

  I never saw the slightest hint of anger in Hiram—not when I pulled away after we made out, not when I didn’t want to kiss him at all, not when I pretended I didn’t know him when we passed in the halls at school.

  I twist the bracelet again. I press it so hard that I actually bend the thin metal, making it even tighter.

  I shouldn’t be so confused.

  I shouldn’t have kissed Hiram.

  I shouldn’t be worrying about Mike.

  I shouldn’t be making myself throw up.

  I should have said something the first time Mike hit me.

  I shouldn’t have stayed.

  I should have kept my mouth shut.

  I shouldn’t go to the protest.

  I should go.

  I shouldn’t be missing him.

  I should be sleeping.

  I shouldn’t—

  I should—

  I shouldn’t—

  I should.

  Twelve

  Junie

  I wake to the sound of my parents’ raised voices. At first, still fuzzy with sleep (I don’t actually remember falling asleep last night), I think they’re yelling at me. They must have found out that I snuck out. I’m grounded—no, I’m already grounded. What new punishment will they come up with? What new deal will my dad propose? Six months without sneaking out to regain his trust?

  But then, as I open my eyes, it becomes clear that my parents’ voices aren’t directed at me. That they’re not yelling here, in my room, but at each other in their bedroom on the other side of the wall. I force myself to wake all the way up so I can concentrate on exactly what they’re saying.

  “We have to let her go, Fee.”

  “She’s grounded,” Mom counters. “What’s the point of punishment if we’re not going to enforce it?”

  “She’s still grounded,” Dad insists. “But this is a school event. Being grounded doesn’t mean staying home from school.”

  Mom says something I can’t quite make out. Dad answers, “This is what we want for her, Fee. We’d be hypocrites to keep her home.”

  I know they’ll let me go today. Because of all the reasons Dad says—they raised me to fight for what I believe in, and this is a school event that I helped organize.

  I could march into their room and tell them the protest has grown beyond my control, that it’s not about Maya anymore. I could even say I snuck out last night, I deserve more punishment, not less.

  If they heard all that, they might make me stay home. And then I wouldn’t have to watch Mike march in a demonstration that was supposed to be against him, and I wouldn’t have to see Tess looking pleased that the event grew beyond our initial expectations, and I wouldn’t have to explain to her that this isn’t what I wanted.

  And I wouldn’t have to see Maya, wouldn’t have to see the look on her face because I called her a liar and blamed her for staying with Mike. I wouldn’t have to hear what she’d say now that she knows her best friend is just as bad as the rest of them.

  I listen as Dad wins the fight (Mom never had a chance), then I get out of bed and into the shower. I rub my short hair dry with a towel. I have to dig a little to find a pink shirt because most of my tops are shades of white and black and navy and gray. I slather sunscreen on my face because Dad always said to wear sunscreen to a protest, because you never know how long you might be standing outside demanding that justice be served. In the picture of us at my first protest that’s displayed in the living room, my face is smeared with white streaks of lotion that Dad didn’t rub in properly.

  “Morning,” I say as I trot down into the kitchen. The races are scheduled to start at ten o’clock. On Wednesday, we agreed to gather on the track by nine. I don’t know if the plan’s changed.

  I grab a banana from the bowl by the sink. Dad’s sitting at the table spooning cereal into his mouth while he reads the paper. Mom’s rubbing phantom grease off the stove with a towel. For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe she has OCD too. The more well-known cleaning kind, not the disorganized kind. Dr. Kreiter said once that my problems could have hereditary roots as well as environmental ones. I thought she was just trying to let me off the hook. Or that she was trying to convince me I should take medication, that my problems were tied to a chemical imbalance and weren’t entirely in my control. At the time, it made me feel helpless.

  “Do you want us to come with you?” Mom offers.

  Dad speaks before I can. “Don’t be silly, Fee. It’s Junie’s event. She doesn’t need her parents there, cramping her style. But we’ll be there with you in spirit,” Dad adds enthusiastically. “We’re so proud of you for organizing all of this.”

  I shrug, grabbing my car keys from the bowl by the back door. There will be plenty of parents there. Mike’s parents never miss a race. Neither do Tess’s.

  “Are you picking Maya up?” Mom asks. Before I can answer, she adds, “How’s she doing—Mrs. Alpert said she went to a party last night?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since then.” It’s not a lie. “So I don’t know how the party went.” That’s half a lie. I know how her night began. I don’t know how it ended.

  “Well, be sure to send Maya our love and support.”

  I nod. I’m scared if I say anything, I’ll start to cry. Then Mom wouldn’t let me go to the protest. And Dad would know I’m not as strong as I’m supposed to be.

  “Call if you need anything,” Mom says. She kisses my forehead before I leave. We’re almost exactly the same height now.

  I need you to come with me.

  I need you to say you’re too worried about me to let me go.

  I need you to say that you’ll love me whether I change the world or not.

  I almost gasp at that last thought. It’s not one I’ve ever thought before. Or maybe I’ve always thought it. Maybe it’s been there, humming in the background, for a very long time.

  * * *

  Of course I’m late. It’s nine twenty-one when I park my car in its usual terrible spot and the track behind the school is a sea of pink. I mean, our entire student body is only a few hundred people, and it looks like they’re all here. Plus some East Prep students are marching. Everyone is holding signs that say END DOMESTIC VIOLENCE and ZERO TOLERANCE! and NO ABUSE IN OUR SCHOOL. Some of the signs are printed on hot pink paper. Some are big pieces of white poster board decorated with glitter and confetti. It’s early enough that the fog hasn’t entirely burned off yet, but people are mostly wearing T-shirts, no jackets. Once the sun breaks through, it’s going to be a beautiful day.

  I don’t see a single sign that mentions Maya’s name. Or any that call for Mike to be expelled. I wonder if they made those signs on Wednesday and then ripped them up and made new ones on Friday. Half the signs I see could apply to what happened in the parking lot between
Mike and Hiram, not what happened behind closed doors between Maya and Mike.

  I didn’t stop by Maya’s house. Maybe she’ll drive herself or maybe someone else will bring her, some better friend. I know I must be the last person she wants to see right now.

  Or maybe the second to last. Because there’s Mike, in the thick of it. He’s even dressed appropriately, in a North Bay shirt that’s been washed so many times the red school logo has faded to pink. I shake my head and stuff my hands into my pockets. This is not the united front I had in mind.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I dig my fingernails into my thighs through the fabric. I can feel my Valentine’s Day scar, and I wonder how hard I’d have to press to open it. I wonder if the people around me can tell what I’m doing but then I realize that—for once I have no trouble believing this—no one is looking at me.

  They’re chanting. Their voices are so loud it takes me a second to make out what they’re saying.

  End

  violence

  now.

  End

  violence

  now.

  End

  violence

  now.

  Protests are always loud. Once, when I was thirteen, at a demonstration in the city (I honestly can’t remember what for), someone placed a couple of speakers right next to my parents and me and started playing music so loud and deep that it made the ground shake beneath our feet. Then he pulled out a bullhorn and joined the chant. My parents didn’t notice when I stopped chanting. Unable to hear anything but the music, anything but this man’s voice, I was frightened. What if the police came and I couldn’t hear the sirens? What if this man wasn’t really on our side, what if he was infiltrating the protest with the intention of setting off a bomb, opening fire, throwing punches? What if he was playing his music that loud to drown out the sound of people screaming when his counterprotest began?

  I feel now the way I did then, even though there’s no one here blasting loud music, no one voice rising above the rest. Somehow, even though they’re chanting against violence, these voices sound violent. It feels as if someone in the crowd might turn against us. After all, Mike is in the crowd.

  But Mike would never blow his cover. Maya was right—he showed up today because he knows it looks better that way. It would have been strange if he stayed home now that he’s told everyone it was Hiram who hurt Maya. He’s playing the victim and the hero—even though she cheated on him, even though she accused him, he still doesn’t think she deserved to be hurt.

  So why am I scared? Why are my hands shaking so hard that even digging my jagged nails into my skin can’t steady them? Why is my heart pounding? Why can’t I open my mouth to add my voice to the chorus? Why does my short, tiny ponytail feel like it weighs a thousand pounds? Why do I feel like crying, like running, like hiding? Oh, god, what’s happening to me?

  Why can’t I breathe?

  Thirteen

  Maya

  I didn’t know we were supposed to wear pink. I suppose I should be focused on something else, something more important, but all I can think about is the fact that I didn’t wear the right thing. I always wear the right thing. I even set my alarm this morning to make sure I’d have extra time to decide on an outfit, but now, here I am, wearing the wrong thing. At Kyle’s house last night, Erica said she had her pink shirt all ready to march—I should have realized what she meant. But I didn’t, so now instead of pink I’m wearing red and white. North Bay colors just in case the meet still goes on after the protest. I wanted to show that no matter what happened, I still support my school. I’m still rooting for us to win.

  I walk from the parking lot toward the track. When I asked to borrow the car this morning, Mom offered to come with me, but I said no, I wanted to do this myself. That wasn’t entirely true—it’s not that I wanted to be alone, but I didn’t want to spend the whole day assuring Mom I was okay, offering her tissues to dry her tears.

  The protesters are a sea of pink walking around the oval track, holding up signs, chanting words I can’t quite make out.

  I see Mike before he sees me. He’s right in the middle of the crowd, but he’s not chanting. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. His hands ball into fists and then release. He’s saving his energy for the race. He’s waiting to run.

  His eyes dart from one side of the crowd to another like he’s looking for something. Then his gaze lands on me and keeps still, even as he continues to march. The group is moving slowly around the track, so slowly it must be very frustrating for him. He nods at me, and I realize it’s not the race he’s been waiting for.

  He’s been waiting for me.

  My heart starts to pound like it did when we were alone together last night. I break Mike’s gaze and turn back to face the parking lot. There, in the back, is Hiram’s brown car. Hiram stands leaning against it, showing his support despite what everyone marching on that track—or at least, some of them—thinks about him. I can’t make out the features of his face from here, but I imagine he sees me too. Maybe he’s nodding too, but not like Mike. His nod would be one of support, not expectation. Of course, Hiram doesn’t know what Mike asked me to say, but I think he would’ve come even if he did.

  My pulse slows, dropping back to normal.

  Hiram never hurt me.

  Hiram, my secret friend. But everyone knows about him now. Mike knows about him now.

  Mike doesn’t care about what went on between Hiram and me. He says he’ll forgive me. Mike doesn’t know that I kissed Hiram first, not the other way around. I wanted to know what it would feel like, to kiss someone like Hiram, who let me come to his car day after day and never asked for anything in return.

  I thought Mike wasn’t aggressive about that, but maybe he was. Because he never did ask—not the first time he put his hands up my shirt or down my pants, not the first time he unhooked my bra or moved his mouth from one spot to the next. It was as though I’d given him all the permission he needed as soon as I said yes the day he asked me out. I don’t know if I would’ve stopped him, had he asked along the way—I wanted to be with him too. But maybe he should’ve asked. At least once.

  Standing on the grass between the cars and the track, it occurs to me that my friendship with Hiram is the only one that Mike never interfered with. Spending time with Mike couldn’t keep me from spending time with Hiram because Mike never knew I was spending time with Hiram in the first place.

  I told Junie that Mike wanted us to be together all the time, as much as we could. I press my fingers to my temples. Maybe he really was keeping me from Junie so I couldn’t confide in her.

  I close my eyes, remembering all the nights I sat next to Mike, rooting for his favorite basketball team. Did I forget that I don’t even like basketball?

  I nodded along when he talked about going to college together—Berkeley, UCLA—and I never told him that I’d always wanted to go to college on the East Coast because that would’ve interfered with our plans.

  His plans?

  He said we’d move in together after college, and I thought that meant he loved me. But maybe if he’d loved me, he’d have asked where I wanted to go to college, where I wanted to live after graduation. If I wanted to live together.

  I shake my head. They were always his plans.

  I open my eyes and face the track. There’s Eva Mercado, a few steps behind Mike.

  Will he ask her out, the same way he asked me? Will he laugh at her, the way he laughed at me? Will he laugh at her mother, the way he laughed at mine?

  For the first time, I wonder whether Mike isn’t as good as I thought he was. Like, maybe he isn’t always a good big brother—maybe he insisted on having the good bedroom upstairs instead of letting Ryan have it. And maybe Ryan has activities after school every day because Mike never offered to babysit.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter if Eva—or anyone
else—might be a better girlfriend than I was. Maybe Mike didn’t hit me because I wasn’t a good enough girlfriend. Maybe Mike hit me because he was—is—a guy who hits.

  And maybe he’s not a good boyfriend either.

  And how can he love me like he says he does when I stayed so quiet? Not just in Kyle’s room last night, but all this time. Mike can’t know someone who never spoke up: who never told him where she really wanted to go to college, what she really wanted to watch on TV, when she wanted him to stop.

  Hiram listens to me. Junie listens.

  They do more than listen—they ask.

  And maybe sometimes I’m frightened to answer, scared that my answers might make them like me less. But I’m never scared that my answers will make them hit me.

  Mike hasn’t texted, hasn’t called, hasn’t even emailed, since Monday. What if I hadn’t been at Kyle’s last night? What if he never had a chance to pull me aside and tell me to blame Hiram?

  What was his backup plan? (Mike always has a backup plan.)

  Was he going to stand up, in front of everyone, point to his lightly bruised eye, and accuse Hiram? Maybe he’d have called himself a victim of violence too. Would he lie so well that everyone would believe it? Maybe he’d even believe it.

  I take a deep breath. Maybe Mike did learn to hit from his father. Or maybe he really is missing a magic gene that everyone else has.

  But maybe it doesn’t matter why.

  Okay, yes, I know it matters. If he’s going to get help, if he’s going to stop himself from doing this to the next girl and the next girl, of course it matters. He needs to hash it out in therapy and confront his demons in order to overcome them. And I hope he does. I hope he admits what he’s done and asks for help someday. Someday soon.

  But maybe—just for now, just this once, just for today—the why of it all also doesn’t matter.