What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  Maybe I haven’t given her enough credit. Maybe Maya isn’t the only person I can trust.

  Maybe I haven’t given myself enough credit either. Maybe I can be an activist and struggle with anxiety, even if that means no matter how badly I want to organize protests and attend rallies, sometimes my nerves will get in the way. And sometimes I truly feel cool and aloof, but there are also times when I feel needy and vulnerable.

  Maybe I have to stop trying to be one thing or another. Maybe I need to accept the ways I contradict myself. Maybe that’s what it is to be human.

  I take my hands out of my pockets. They’re still shaking, just a little bit. But I’m done hiding them.

  I’m done hiding me.

  Twenty-One

  Maya

  I glance at my phone—it’s nine o’clock. Not only have we missed homeroom, but now we’re about to be late to our first class.

  I never told Junie this, but I don’t actually mind that she’s always late. It makes everything feel like an adventure—rushing to get to class, to a movie, to dinner. And, it means that she’s never angry at me if I’m running late.

  When Mike was the one picking me up and taking me to school each day, I had to be precisely on time. If I was even a few minutes behind schedule, he wouldn’t talk to me the whole ride from home to school, or during the walk from the parking lot to homeroom. It was only at lunch, sitting at our table, surrounded by our friends, that he’d be himself again—holding my hand, laughing at my unintended jokes. Then again, maybe that wasn’t being himself. Maybe his real self was the silent boy in the car, grinding his teeth because I made him late.

  Actually, no—I don’t believe that. Both versions of Mike are real, because both exist. Along with the competitive racer, and the spoiled son, and the dutiful big brother, and who knows who else. I think about his face when Hiram hit him the other day. He reset his features before I could figure out if he was angry, frustrated, or surprised. At the time, I thought it looked like he was putting on a mask. But now I think maybe he was all of those things: angry, frustrated, surprised, but also calm and collected. Mike could be different things at once too.

  “You ready?” Junie asks as we approach the steps that lead into school, toward Mike and everyone else.

  I nod. Maybe in a few hours, the board of trustees will decide to expel Mike, or Hiram. I glance back and see Hiram leaning against his car.

  “You think Hiram’s gonna go inside today?” Junie asks.

  I shrug. “He doesn’t always go to class even on days when he isn’t waiting to find out if he’s expelled.”

  “He’d go if you wanted him to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you thought you’d feel better with him at your side, or whatever. He’d do it for you.”

  I smile. If I brought Hiram home with me, Mom wouldn’t approve—he looks like trouble. Then again, Mike looked like a dream.

  My bruise has faded so much that you might not notice if it you didn’t know it was there. It would have been easy to hide all traces of it under makeup before I left the house this morning. But today, I didn’t even consider covering it up.

  Maybe the board will open an investigation, interviewing everyone who knew Mike and me—our teachers, our parents, our friends. Maybe they’ll put a process in place so they’ll be prepared if this ever happens again: next time, the accuser will fill out an official complaint; the accused will be put on probation, and suspended or expelled if there are witnesses or additional accusations. Or maybe the board will say I have to go to the police and press charges, letting law enforcement take charge.

  Maybe they’ll simply say case closed, since they can’t technically prove who hit me. Maybe they’ll secretly—or not so secretly—think I’m a slut for being with two boys at once. I imagine Junie lecturing the board members about the perils of slut-shaming.

  Mom and I talked for a long time last night—a nice, thoughtful, surprisingly calm conversation. We both cried, but I didn’t have to comfort her once. She apologized for not noticing sooner; I told her I hid it. She asked about the smoking (she called it my experimentation), but she didn’t seem angry, more concerned that I’d needed something to dull the pain. She said she’d understand if I wanted to move away; I said I hadn’t decided yet. She said no matter what, she’d support my decision. She said she was so proud of me for coming forward.

  “I’m not sure I could have been so brave,” she said, and for the first time I didn’t feel like I’d been a coward for waiting as long as I did.

  “But if I do decide to move,” I asked, “isn’t that just running away?” Running away isn’t brave.

  Mom didn’t answer immediately. She cocked her head to the side and chewed her lip, the same way she does when she’s trying to work out the answer to Final Jeopardy each night.

  “No,” she answered finally. “You’d be leaving a bad situation behind. That’s not running away. That’s an act of strength.”

  I blinked in surprise. Did Mom actually want me to move away? “Are you saying you think I should leave?”

  “Oh, honey, if it were up to me, you’d be living under my roof for the rest of your life.” Mom smiled sadly. “But it’s not up to me. And it’s not as though I did such a great job protecting you while you were here.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” I began, but Mom held up her hand.

  “Parents can’t help believing that everything that happens to our children is our fault. All I’ve wanted all week is to march over to Mike’s house and smash his car with a baseball bat.”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed out loud. The image of my mother trashing Mike’s car was too funny not to laugh about.

  “I thought you loved Mike.”

  Mom looked horrified. “I love you,” she said fiercely. For the first time, it occurred to me that I did have the sort of parent who’d say things like: If you ever lay another finger on my daughter, I’ll kill you. It just wasn’t my dad.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?” I asked. “About wanting to smash Mike’s car?”

  “I would’ve if I’d known it would make you laugh like that.” She smiled. “But I didn’t want you to see how upset I was. I know—” She paused. “I know you think I make everything that happens to you about me.”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t deny it.

  “But that’s another thing about being a parent,” she explained. “I love you so much that sometimes I can’t always tell where I end and you begin.”

  “Oh,” I said softly. I never thought of it like that. Maybe she acts the way she does because when bad things happen to me, it feels like they’re happening to her too.

  “Promise me something,” Mom added. “Whether you go to New York or stay here, I want you to attend a support group for survivors of abuse.”

  Survivor. Another word I hadn’t thought applied to me. But when Mom said it, I thought maybe it was true. Maybe it was a part of myself I hadn’t even met yet.

  Now, I tell Junie about Dad’s offer to let me come live with him. “It was my mom’s idea,” I add.

  “Really?” Junie sounds incredulous. “Your mom’s okay with you moving across the country?”

  “Well, she’s not happy about it,” I concede. “But she said she’d let me go.”

  “Are you waiting until the board meets to decide?” Junie asks.

  “I think it’s more complicated than whether Mike’s going to be here or not, you know?” Junie nods. We both know that even if Mike’s gone, Kyle and Anil will be here. The track coach will still be here. Eva Mercado will still be here. To some of our classmates—and to some of our teachers—Mike will always be golden, and I’ll always be the girl who hurt him.

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter whether or not Mike gets expelled.” I wave toward the school in front of us. “There will always be kids in there who
believe him, not me.”

  Junie shakes her head. “It matters,” she says firmly, and I nod.

  She’s right, of course.

  It matters.

  But, still—even the people who believe me may always see me as the girl whose boyfriend hit her. Maybe the guys will give me a wide berth when I walk down the hallways, as though I might accuse them should they get too close. Maybe some girls will be scared to hug me too tightly, worried they could trigger an unpleasant memory. Maybe the teachers will go easy on me in class because they know I went through a hard time. They’d think they were being nice, but it would just be another reminder. Not that I want to—or ever could—forget. But to these people, I’ll always be Mike’s girlfriend.

  And yes, that’s part of who I am. It always will be.

  But it’s not all I am.

  “Mom and I agreed that I need help—you know, professional help. Whether I go or stay. Not just because of what happened with Mike, but because…” I trail off.

  Because it happened for as long as it did before I told anyone, even if that’s not my fault. Because coming forward was traumatic. Because of the bulimia. Because my relationship with my mother is complicated. Because my parents had a messy divorce, and my father moved far away. Because I’m tired of being different things to different people. Because I sought refuge in Hiram’s car, choosing to go numb rather than deal with what was going on. Because I want to be with Hiram, but I’m also scared of being with anyone ever again. Because Hiram’s going away next year, and I’ll miss him, and I’m scared that if I move to New York, I might be following him, which would be letting another guy determine my future, even if it’s one who never tried to control me the way Mike did.

  Junie doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but after a beat, she grins and says, “I can get you Dr. Kreiter’s number.” I put my arm around my best friend and squeeze.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you too. Whether you go or stay. Whether you need therapy every day of the week or drop it after a month.”

  I grin. “Ditto.”

  Junie puts her arm around me too. We walk toward the school holding each other close.

  I am a girl who loved her boyfriend.

  And a girl whose boyfriend hit her.

  I am a girl who loves picking out her clothes each morning.

  And a girl who struggles to accept the way she looks.

  I am a girl who was charmed by Mike.

  And a girl who is disgusted by Mike.

  I am a girl who wants to escape.

  And a girl who wants to stay in the here and now.

  I suspect there are more pieces I have yet to discover. Maybe the survivor will be next, like Mom said. Or maybe some other part of my personality will surprise me by bubbling to the surface, the way a fighter came out at the protest yesterday.

  Whatever it is, I’ll accept that part too.

  If you or someone you know may be suffering from dating abuse, help is available. Please visit:

  www.loveisrespect.org

  Speak to a peer advocate by calling 1-866-331-9474

  or text “loveis” to 22522

  If you or someone you know is engaged in self-harm, please visit:

  www.selfinjury.com

  Call 1-800-DONT-CUT (1-800-366-8288)

  or email info@selfinjury.com

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful editors, Kate Prosswimmer and Eliza Swift, and thanks so very much to the extraordinary team at Sourcebooks: Chris Bauerle, Sarah Cardillo, Margaret Coffee, Christa Desir, Stephanie Graham, Cassie Gutman, Sara Hartman-Seeskin, Steve Geck, Sarah Kasman, Ashlyn Keil, Kelly Lawler, Lizzie Lewandowski, Katy Lynch, Sean Murray, Beth Oleniczak, Valerie Pierce, William Preston, Dominque Raccah, Jillian Rahn, Stefani Sloma, Todd Stocke, Heidi Weiland, Shane White, and Cristina Wilson, and thanks to Nicole Hower for the beautiful cover.

  Thank you to my brilliant agent, Mollie Glick, and to Berni Barta, Lola Bellier, Austin Denesuk, Julie Flanagan, Kayla Shore, Jamie Stockton, and the entire team at CAA.

  Thanks to Samantha Schutz, and thank you, Jocelyn Davies, Anne Heltzel, Jackie Resnick, and Danielle Rollins, for a conversation that helped spark this story. Thanks also to Rachel Feld, Caroline Gertler, and Julie Sternberg.

  Thank you to my sister, my parents, my friends, and my teachers. And again, thank you, JP Gravitt, for everything.

  “I can’t imagine life without a dog. They constantly remind me of the art of being well-and-truly present, and they also show me how to be joyful, how to concentrate on joy.”

  —Kate DiCamillo

  About the Author

  Alyssa Sheinmel is the New York Times bestselling author of several novels for young adults including A Danger to Herself and Others and Faceless. Alyssa grew up in Northern California and New York, and currently lives and writes in New York.

  Connect online:

  alyssasheinmel.com

  Instagram | Twitter

  Thank you for reading this Sourcebooks eBook!

  Join our mailing list to stay in the know and receive special offers and bonus content on your favorite books and authors!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Books. Change. Lives.