What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  Because no matter why he hit me, it wasn’t justified. No matter why, it was wrong.

  And no matter why, he deserves to face the consequences.

  If Mike gets expelled, he’ll never win a scholarship. He might never run competitively again. It could change the course of the rest of his life.

  But maybe what happened should change his life. He’ll surely still go to college somewhere, and he’ll probably still get to run one way or another—he has his whole life ahead of him, just like I do. But maybe the things that happened between us should at least shift his future.

  Because what happened between us changed my life.

  I didn’t always think so. While we were together, even after Mike hit me, I got the same good grades, still wore the right clothes (except for today) and still said the right things so no one—not my parents, not my best friend, sometimes maybe not even me—knew what was happening. I thought that as long as they couldn’t tell, it was proof that it wasn’t really that bad.

  But maybe the things I said and did—or didn’t say and didn’t do—weren’t the right things. Maybe those were the wrong things.

  I thought it was okay because Mike never hurt me so badly that I needed a doctor’s care. But the first slap didn’t leave a bruise and the last one did. It was getting worse, not better. With our whole lives ahead of us, we had a lifetime for things to get worse,

  and worse,

  and worse still.

  Maybe I’m not so different from the women I read about, the ones who were in danger when they broke up with their husbands and boyfriends. I close my eyes, remembering an article I read about a girl whose abusive boyfriend killed her in their college dormitory. She wasn’t that much older than I am; her boyfriend wasn’t that much older than Mike.

  Did that boy tell his girlfriend he loved her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? Did she root for his favorite teams? Did she attend that college because it was his first choice? Did that girl keep quiet about what she really wanted, scared that if she spoke up, he’d hit her again?

  I grab my left wrist with my right and twist Mike’s bracelet. I can’t get the clasp to open, so I slide it over my hand, even though it’s so tight that it hurts. I wish I were wearing Mike’s sweater so I could take it off and stomp on it, but it’s still folded neatly under my bed.

  The march has slowed because everyone is looking at me. They always looked at me—the popular girl in the right clothes, the lucky girlfriend.

  It takes me a second to find Mike’s face again. But then, there he is—his height and his tawny hair and his tightly held fists.

  He’s looking at me too.

  He’s waiting for me to take it back.

  He’s waiting for me to say I was confused.

  He’s waiting for me to let everything go back to the way it was before.

  And he’s not the only one. Surely some of those other marchers are hoping I’ll say something to set their minds at ease. Then they’ll get to keep their golden boy, they’ll get to go back to admiring my good luck in being with him, and they’ll never have to wonder why I retreated to Hiram’s car for a few minutes of relief.

  I guess I can’t blame Mike for thinking I’d go along with his plan today. I went along with everything he wanted for months.

  My skin feels hot and my throat feels tight.

  I drop Mike’s bracelet to the ground and begin walking toward the crowd.

  Fourteen

  Junie

  I’m in the middle of the track, surrounded by other protesters. I look down. Am I hiding? Or just watching their feet so I know when to step, where to step, how to step?

  What was it Dr. Kreiter said to do? Count backward.

  One hundred.

  Ninety-nine.

  Ninety-eight.

  Ninety-six.

  No. Ninety-seven.

  Ninety-eight.

  Ninety-nine.

  One hundred.

  Crap. Wrong way. I picture a blinking red light and sirens and a loud voice telling me to go back. I look desperately at the feet around my own, relieved to discover that at least I’m still facing the same way everyone else is.

  It’s going to be okay. I just have to breathe. I know how to breathe. I mean, I’ve been doing it my whole life, haven’t I?

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  In.

  In.

  I’m holding my breath. Why am I holding my breath? I’m going to hyperventilate. I’m going to pass out. Maybe no one will notice. Maybe no one will see. Maybe there’s enough of a crowd around me that I’ll still be able to blend in and they’ll drag my unconscious body along with them.

  No. They’d notice. It would disrupt the protest. Everyone would see. My parents would find out. Dr. Kreiter would find out.

  I have to breathe.

  I have to breathe.

  I have to breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Fifteen

  Maya

  Principal Scott stands in the center of the track with a bullhorn.

  “It warms my heart to see the student body come together to protest violence,” she says. She doesn’t say violence against women. She doesn’t say violence against me.

  “I commend you for your activism,” she continues. “At North Bay, we condemn violence.” The crowd cheers. Is she talking about Hiram because he hit Mike out in the open where everyone could see? Is that what my classmates are applauding?

  I don’t know exactly how I get to the center of the track, how I end up standing next to Principal Scott. I look behind me—I can’t remember where I was standing when I dropped Mike’s bracelet. The principal puts her arm around me, a very public display of support.

  Could I lose my scholarship if I make a scene? All this time worrying about Mike’s potential scholarship, I almost forgot about the one I already have. (Junie would say that they can’t take my scholarship away. It’s supposed to be for academic excellence, and my grades haven’t faltered.)

  Maybe somewhere inside, deep down, Principal Scott is conflicted and confused. Maybe, as an administrator, she wants to keep the peace, wants the races to go on as planned, wants her school to win. But maybe there’s another part of her—the part that’s a mother (I know she has two sons)—that’s wondering how she’d react if her child were accused. Or if her child was the accuser. Maybe there’s a part of her that remembers the girl she was when she was my age. Maybe her first boyfriend tried to control her, or maybe she was riddled with self-doubt, or maybe she fell for the wrong guy.

  For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel conflicted and confused.

  The principal continues, “As you know, the board of trustees is meeting tomorrow night. There are decisions to be made, but no matter what happens, I’m so proud of the unity you’ve shown here today.”

  She pauses like she wants to leave time for her words to sink in. I go over what she said in my head. She condemned violence, but she didn’t mention Mike, or even Hiram. She didn’t say what decisions had to be made, or what she believed should happen. She said a lot of words, but managed not to actually say anything at all. Finally, she adds, “Now, let’s celebrate your successful event by competing against East Prep—and winning!” The crowd cheers again, though not as loudly as they did before.

  Half the crowd probably thought the meet would be canceled. Maybe some of them don’t want to see Mike—our best chance at beating our rival school—run.

  At least, I hope some of them feel that way.

  I feel that way.

  For the first time ever, I don’t want to see Mike crouch before the race. I don’t want to see him putting his hands just behind the line, raising his hips as he prepares to spring. I don’t want to see him shoot off
into a sprint. I don’t want to see him raising his arms overhead in victory. I don’t want to see his jaw working as he mentally goes over whether he beat his own best time—whether or not he beat someone else comes second to beating himself—and I don’t want to see the smile that spreads over his face when he realizes he did, or the scowl when he discovers he didn’t.

  I can’t believe how much I cared about all of that, and for how long. Even before we were together, I showed up to every race, I cheered him on, I rooted for him. Now, all of that seems unbelievably dull.

  I turn to look at our principal. She’s smiling. Is she glad this is over? Glad the protest went off without any drama? Glad no one pointed out how empty her platitudes were, how toothlessly she condemned violence? Is she hoping this will all blow over?

  When I told her what Mike did, she said it was a serious accusation. I actually felt bad for putting her in an uncomfortable position, forcing her to consider that one of her favorite students might have done what he did.

  She offered me an ice pack. She offered to call my parents. She offered to send me home early.

  But she didn’t offer to send Mike home. She certainly didn’t offer to expel him. Maybe in a few weeks, when the tumult has died down, she’ll be praised for how she handled this week’s events—elevating the issue of violence among students, allowing them the freedom to protest—without actually making any difference at all, without so much as disrupting a track meet beyond a fifteen-minute delay.

  There was something else in that article about the college student whose boyfriend murdered her: In the weeks before she was killed, she reported the abuse to campus security, but the administration didn’t take any action. Maybe they thought the tumult would die down too.

  No.

  It’s not enough that I told Principal Scott, tucked behind the closed door of her office. I need to tell them all the truth about what happened between Mike and me. I know that some of them won’t believe me. So I’ll tell them again, even if that means some of them will never look at me the same way. And again after that, even if it means some of them will hate me for it.

  This is a part of myself I’ve never felt before. This part of me wants to stand up and fight. It feels bigger than the part that wants everyone to like her, bigger than the part that hates her body, bigger than the part that wants to check out, bigger than the part that loved her boyfriend.

  Or maybe not bigger. Maybe just newer. And right now, louder.

  Angrier.

  I’m angry that I kept quiet, and I’m angry that my world got smaller. I’m angry that they called me a slut, and I’m angry that I kept so many secrets. I’m angry that I tried so hard to remember what led to that first slap, and I’m angry that I ever believed anything I said or did would make a difference. I’m angry that Mike thought I would lie for him, and angry that I ever considered going through with it.

  But I’m not angry at me.

  I’m angry at Mike.

  I twist myself from Principal Scott’s embrace, then reach out and slide the bullhorn from her grasp.

  “I’m Maya Alpert,” I begin. The crowd cheers. Principal Scott’s mouth widens into an O.

  “Thank you so much for gathering today to protest violence.”

  Another cheer.

  “But please remember what started all this—I came to school last week with a black eye.”

  I gesture to my face, to the bruise that’s fading steadily.

  “I came to school with a black eye because my boyfriend, Mike Parker, hit me.” I emphasize Mike’s name, like if I say it loud enough, I can erase any trace of the story Mike told, blaming Hiram.

  No one cheers.

  I take a deep breath. “Mike Parker should be expelled.”

  I see Mike, standing head and shoulders above most of the other kids. Ex-boyfriend, I think suddenly. I’m not going to wait for him to make it official. I’ve already decided.

  There’s a look on his face that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before: surprise. One of his carefully thought-out plans finally fell through.

  The expression on his face—his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide, his brow furrowed—doesn’t make him look handsome. It doesn’t make him look ugly, not exactly. But he looks younger, somehow. Like a kid who’s used to getting his way. He blinks once, twice, like he can’t believe it’s me he’s looking at, like he still expects me to run into the crowd and throw my arms around him, tell him all is forgiven, it was all a misunderstanding. To apologize. Slowly, carefully, I shake my head. I think it may be the first time I’ve ever told him no.

  Maybe Mike hid parts of himself from me every bit as much as I hid from him. Maybe somewhere there’s a part of him that’s frightened and hurt. Maybe I’m getting a glimpse of that part of Mike now, in his surprised face, his open mouth, his wide eyes. I shake my head again, then blink, breaking his gaze.

  The crowd doesn’t seem to know how to react to my announcement. They’re staring at me, and they’re staring at Mike. The arms holding up the signs droop. The chants don’t resume.

  Maybe every single person in this crowd is a puzzle. Maybe part of each of them wants Mike expelled and part of each of them can’t believe he’d ever hurt me. I can’t really blame them for being confused. I was confused for a long time, and I was the one it was happening to.

  I hand the bullhorn back to our principal. She looks at it like she’s not sure what to do with it. Should the races begin? Should she postpone the meet? This time, I don’t feel bad that I put her in an uncomfortable position.

  Maybe Mike won’t get expelled, won’t lose his scholarship, maybe (some of) our classmates won’t ostracize him. But it still matters that I said what I did. It will still make a difference.

  It already has. Right now. For me. I feel different. I’m not sorry for causing trouble.

  I’m angry that I ever felt sorry.

  I scan the crowd again. Despite everything that happened last night, I know Junie will be proud of me for speaking out.

  But when I see her, she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at anyone. She’s crouched on the ground, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s shaking so hard, it looks like she’s freezing, but her short hair is matted around her face with sweat. I rush toward my best friend.

  Sixteen

  Junie

  The crowd stops walking. Everyone’s standing so close together that I’m not sure whether the people on either side of me notice how I’m sort of leaning against them, counting on them to hold me up. Someone says something so loud it hurts my ears. The crowd cheers.

  Someone says something else. The crowd cheers again.

  A pause and then another voice speaks just as loudly. Whoever it is must have a microphone, a bullhorn, something.

  Another cheer.

  And again.

  And—wait. This time, when whoever it is speaks, no one cheers.

  The voice speaks again.

  I know that voice. That’s Maya’s voice. What’s she saying? Why can’t I make out the words? What is this other booming sound that’s so much louder?

  I try to concentrate, but all I can hear is the booming noise. I glance at the people I’m leaning on, but they don’t seem to hear it. Everyone else is looking straight ahead, at Maya in the center of the track. I want to look too, but I can’t see. Not just because I’m so short, but because my eyes are blurry with tears.

  And still, all I hear is boom, boom, boom.

  It’s okay. Maya doesn’t care whether I’m listening to her anyway. Not after the things I said last night.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Oh, god, what is that?

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Oh, god, it’s my heartbeat.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Can a sixteen-year-old have a heart attack?

  Boom, boom, boom.

&nb
sp; The crowd’s dispersing. I want to shout Wait! Please! but I can’t make my mouth cooperate. The only sounds I make are heaving breaths. Without anyone left to lean on, I’m going to fall. Crap, I’m going to faint. I can’t stop shaking. I’m going to lose it. I’ve already lost it. If I ever had it to begin with, which, I mean, I probably never did.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  My shaking hands are still tucked into the pockets of my jeans. How is this feeling better for me than cutting was? I press my nails through the fabric into my skin. I want to go home, close the bathroom door, take out my razor, and cut.

  Then I remember my razor isn’t there anymore. I threw it away. And I couldn’t get home now, anyway. I can barely stand upright, let alone drive.

  I rip a hole in my pocket and press my fingernails—bitten almost to the quick but still sharp—against the scar on my left leg. I close my eyes and imagine slicing it open, imagine the skin and the scar tissue and the blood. Could I go deeper than I went before, deep enough that I could see the fat and the muscle and maybe even the bone? Can a person survive cutting herself that deeply? Would I pass out before I made it that far?

  When I overdid it on Valentine’s Day, I drove myself to the hospital.

  I wasn’t scared then, but I am scared now—of what I might have done to myself, what I might still do, what I want to do. Back then, I was so sure I was in control—I was certain I’d never end up like one of those accidents I’d read about, the ones that made suicide rates among cutters so hard to determine—because I drove myself to the hospital.

  But I needed to drive to the hospital because I’d had an accident in the first place.

  And now I realize I was lucky I was able to drive myself to the hospital.

  What’s more, what happened that night wasn’t entirely an accident. I mean, I hadn’t meant to hurt myself so badly I’d need stitches, but I had meant to hurt myself more than I ever did before. That night, I knew that Tess was out with some other girl, that Maya was out with Mike, that my parents were out together—and all the while, I was home alone. I didn’t cut deeper just to see what would happen. I cut deeper because I needed to cut deeper. I needed the cutting to hurt more so the rest of me could hurt less.