“To entomb with Boris!” I say, cackling but then turning abruptly serious. “If this caught on it would be the worst.”
“Agreed.” He nods, mirroring my seriousness.
“We must vow to never say Em-Boris aloud in their presence, or anyone else’s.” I hold my hand up, palm forward, and he touches his palm to mine.
“Promise,” he says.
“Promise,” I say, and then step away. “Phew.”
“So,” he says, holding the bowl out to me, “if you just want the popcorn, that’s cool too.”
“No, come in,” I say quickly, stepping back to make room for him and wishing I’d put on something more attractive than fleece lounge pants and a ripped T-shirt when I came home from the library. And ideally some makeup. But it would be too obvious now if I changed, much less went to the bathroom and came back all made up and anyway Noah knows what I look like. And is here as a friend. And has Ava. And I have a disastrous record with boys anyway, and really should consider calling a personal moratorium on love and lust and everything in between until I can trust myself not to behave like an idiot.
“We’ll have to watch in my room.”
“That’s fine,” Noah says.
I don’t announce him to my parents, and I feel a little self-conscious as I take him through the house where we have turned on no lights for the evening, and couldn’t anyway because half the bulbs in the house are dead and no one ever bothers to buy new ones much less change them out. Dad didn’t even come up to grab food earlier, and is instead un-showered and eating chips on the rec room couch while watching what could be his fifteenth zombie apocalypse show of the day, and Mom has wisely disappeared into a book.
At least my room is clean. Of course there’s no furniture to sit on besides my desk chair, and something about the idea of being on the bed, on the ratty blankets I’ve been using since Kyle took off wearing my duvet—whyyyyy must I keep thinking about Kyle?—feels odd. And as usual, the worry about it feeling odd when it should just feel totally normal (because Noah is my friend—just my friend!) makes me feel more odd, and then I don’t know whether to just jump onto the bed and start gobbling popcorn, or what.
“I could grab some couch pillows,” I suggest after a too-long moment. “Then we’ll have the side of the bed to lean on, and I can set my laptop on the chair right in front of us.”
“Sure,” Noah says.
When I come back with the pillows, I find him standing in front of his two drawings, a puzzled frown on his face.
Shoot, I forgot all about them. Now he’s going to know that I’ve got his discarded art on my wall—beside my bed no less! And that I rooted through a recycling bin for them.
He turns to look at me and I clutch the couch pillows to my chest, my entire body engulfed in a wave of mortification.
“When did I give you these?”
“Uh . . .”
“I’m surprised I let you have them. This one—” He points ruefully at the self-portrait/building, “I was trying to think of a different way to do a self-portrait, and I decided to model it on this famous sculpture of Che Guevara on the side of a building in Cuba. Didn’t turn out so great, though. You don’t find it creepy to wake up and see that staring down at you?”
Creepy is not what I find it. I shake my head.
“I have a much better draft of this bird, too,” he says. “I’ll give you that instead.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing I’ll keep both. “Thanks.”
We make a comfortable nest on the floor and start working our way through Noah’s binge-watch list, starting with a cooking show, moving on to a reality thing with archeologists and a hilarious narrator, and then some early 2000s comedy.
“Does it actually qualify as binge-watching,” I say, during a break, “given that we’re only watching one of each of these?”
“We’re binging my list, not the individual shows,” Noah says.
“Ah.”
“You feeling any better?” he asks, turning to look at me.
“Better? I’m not sick.”
“No, like, better. Earlier today I thought you seemed a little . . . off.”
“You mean when Emma invited us to the movie?”
He shakes his head. “Before then. You were pretty intense with the studying, and it took you a second or two longer than usual to laugh when something was funny . . . and there was a lot of frowning and sighing.”
“Frowning! That’s probably because of calculus,” I say, wanting to joke my way out of this and keep all thoughts of Boris and Kyle and consent and sexual assault at bay and away from this—from Noah here with me, having a nice time.
“How’s the job?” he asks.
“Harder than it looks. Things move really fast. There are a million things to stay on top of, and you have to do them all while also being charming.”
“Charming’s not a stretch for you,” he says, with one of those slightly crooked smiles of his.
“Ha. You should have seen me Wednesday night. Someone asked me for a water refill and I just pointed to the sink and said, ‘There’s the sink.’”
“Nooo!”
“In my defense—”
“There’s a defense?”
“Yes! I had a group of fifteen small children—different table—and one of them had puked all over the floor and the parents just stood there watching me clean it up. Did not lift a finger, either of them.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead. And then, you’d think if you clean up puke for someone, while continuing to be charming of course, you’d get a nice tip. But no. Still, I like my coworkers and we help each other out and make the best of it. For example, we have this one VIP regular who’s all flirty and insists on these really long, gross hugs. The female servers keep a running tally and at the end of every month whoever’s logged the most seconds of being hugged wins the ‘Most Appreciated’ award.”
“What?”
“The prize is actually pretty good—a three-course, staff-discounted dinner that everyone chips in for. Still, you really don’t want to be the winner because it means you’ve been rubbed on a lot.”
“Rubbed on! Wait,” Noah says, his dark eyes outraged, “your bosses know about this and all they do about it is let you run a contest?”
“No, they just think we vote on who’s been the most helpful or whatever. They have no idea.”
“Wow, so the job actually sucks.”
“No. I know I’m making it sound that way, but most of the time it’s actually fun in a crazy way. The Singhs—Dev and Maya—are good people. They used to run this huge Indian food factory—wholesale, retail, catering. So they know what they’re doing when it comes to food. Plus the rest of the staff is pretty nice once they know you’re a hard worker and not an idiot, and I’m making good money.”
“Still, it makes me appreciate working for my dad,” he says, shaking his head. “Snowplowing’s quiet, and so’s landscaping. No people, no puke, no hugs. Plus charm is not one of my charms.”
“You arrived here tonight with popcorn you popped yourself. That’s pretty charming.”
“That’s not charm, that’s just trying to finagle an invite. I’d start telling people to piss off on day one.”
“Oh, come on, there are lots of people who’d appreciate your unpolished appeal.”
“Unpolished appeal?” he says, grinning suddenly. “Do I need a shave or something? Is it my cow-tipping habit? The chewing tobacco?”
“You don’t chew tobacco.”
“But you think I tip cows.”
“No.”
“Or do you mean unpolished in a sort of ruggedly handsome sort of way?”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” I say, willing myself not to blush. “Besides, maybe unfiltered is more the word. Like, if someone asked you if the chicken was
good and you didn’t think it was, you’d probably just say so. You never, like, massage your opinions to make them more palatable.”
“Ah, but maybe I need to massage my appeal.”
I roll my eyes.
“What part of it do you think needs to be massaged?”
“Definitely not the ego part.”
“Oh, burn,” he says.
“And not the id either.”
“Oh, hey, I took that psych elective too, smarty-pants,” he says. “Nobody touches my id.”
“Ha.”
“I’d tell those people with the puking kid to clean it up their damned selves. Anyway I like a job where I can think about other things—think, daydream, imagine stuff I want to build. Your job doesn’t sound like it leaves room for that.”
“None,” I say. “But I’m not so into daydreaming these days.”
* * *
—
On my way to sleep I replay the evening, happy and unhappy at the same time. Because there’s always a vibe between Noah and me—a fun banter, a kind of knowing, and trust. If I’d responded to his overtures a year ago after Boris and I broke up instead of thinking I had to wait some respectful amount of time in order to save Boris’s feelings, maybe Noah wouldn’t have gone off and met Ava over the summer, and we’d be together now.
Things would be different: I’d resent Emma and Boris less for falling for one another while I lost my chance with Noah, and Kyle wouldn’t have happened.
And now I’m awake and grabbing my computer and finally giving in to the search I’ve been resisting since Dahlia Brennan’s consent/sexual assault chat.
Because I need to know.
After some horrifying reading (dangers of internet research!) I get out of bed and search for the flyer Dahlia gave me, and wind up on the website about healthy relationships.
I’m expecting it to be cheesy, condescending, and full of moralizing, but it’s actually full of entirely straightforward information. And it confirms that while what I’ve experienced is far from some of the violent, messed-up things that happen to people, some of it has been outside the definition of “healthy.” Quite a bit outside.
Having confirmation makes me feel both worse and better—worse because I feel stupid for having let these things happen, and confused even about what part of the blame is mine and what part is Kyle’s or Boris’s for that matter. But at least now I know I’m not crazy to have been feeling so screwed up.
I sleep poorly and wake up Sunday morning feeling jagged and raw and obsessed.
I’m in the middle of an epiphany—a shitty one. And the revelations don’t arrive in straight, clear lines, they come like cyclones, like explosions. It’s like I have to break apart before I can be put back together, as if I’m Humpty Dumpty or a cubist painting—no part of me fitting back quite right to the other parts.
I’m in flux, fragile, and made up of sharp angles.
And I’m pissed off, not to mention confused.
One of the things that’s making me craziest is wrapping my head around what to do about these not-okay things that have happened. Having just read the results of a bunch of sexual assault cases is a huge deterrent to taking any kind of legal action.
But I am trying to face the situation, which is something.
Beyond that, I guess I just need to be smarter in the future—be smarter, fight harder, avoid situations where I might be vulnerable, and be super clear with myself and anyone I’m with about what I want and don’t want. Set strong boundaries and be prepared to defend them. Of course boundaries might not help with someone like Perry, or someone worse than Perry, but with guys like Boris or Kyle they should. Or might, anyway.
I don’t want to go through life assuming the worst, either. That doesn’t seem fair—not to me, or to the many completely decent and evolved boys/men who exist. But until the Dahlia Brennans of the world fully get the message out, I guess it’s a bit like what you learn in drivers ed—“defensive driving” but applied to sex and men in general.
It isn’t fair, but I have to be tougher, more perceptive, and alert for signs of trouble.
And so I will.
* * *
—
Sunday afternoon, Dad is in some kind of zombie-TV-induced fog. He doesn’t appear to have moved from his spot in front of the TV, and when I mention it to Mom she just shakes her head and says, “At least he’s quiet.”
Then she asks about my missing duvet and I tell her a big story about Emma borrowing it for a science project, and resign myself to having to get it back from Kyle.
Every time I’ve seen him since that night I’ve felt so gross and embarrassed and mixed-up, and now I know why. He raped me. Kind of. Only it wasn’t “kind of.” I said no and he did it anyway. The fact that we were drunk and naked and doing all the other things we were doing doesn’t change that. The fact that I paused things to get a condom and then just sort of gave in and participated also, supposedly, doesn’t change that. But it does confuse me.
Because what was that? Thirty seconds of rape and then the rest of it consensual? Even though I never actually consented?
I’m mad at Kyle and disgusted with myself.
Still, I need the duvet back.
9
BURN RUBBER
“I have the item” Kyle says when I walk into work Sunday night.
Then comes “Libbyyyyyyy” and Perry and the hugging, and the salad, and the mousse tower and me finding out how fast my decisions and paltry self-declarations can fly out the window in the face of someone like Perry—his demands, his complaints, his eyes and hands and words coming at me, landing on me—until I feel like I’ve been slimed.
And then there’s me, losing it.
Me, and the pitcher of sangria.
Me, Perry, the sangria, and the skittering ice cubes and chunks of orange and then total, stunned, shocked silence.
And finally there’s me, realizing what I’ve done, and starting to move.
The next thing I know I’m out in the parking lot, hands shaking as I unlock Betty—my vintage three-speed—then shove my helmet on, swing my leg over, and ride out of there like the hounds of hell are chasing me.
Ten minutes later I turn onto the far side of my driveway and stop in the dim space between the car and the branches of our neighbor’s willow tree.
I’m just stepping off of Betty, and still gasping for air, when I see the headlights approaching from the same direction I just came, and a fresh batch of adrenaline floods me.
Perry?
No, that’s irrational.
And yet it’s irrational that he would grab my butt in front of dozens of people, too.
I nudge Betty’s kickstand into place and back into the darkness of the willow branches. What do I do if it’s him—crawl into the bushes? Hide in the backyard? Run to the front or side door, lock the doors behind me, and tell my parents to call the police? My keys are in my backpack, which I’ve left near the bike, so I’d never make it. My phone is in there too.
I’ll just have to run.
If it’s Perry and I’m not just being a paranoid freak, lurking here in the foliage.
The car pulls up in front of our house, turns off, then a door slams and there are footsteps. I peer through the willow branches and then breathe a sigh of relief when I see who it is: Kyle.
Oh, the irony of that being a relief.
He’s headed to the front door. I step out of the tree cover, intercepting him.
“Hey!” he says in a too-loud voice.
“Hi,” I say in a loud whisper, and put my finger to my lips, then jerk my head toward the house to indicate that I don’t want to draw my parents’ attention.
“Sorry,” he says, nodding and using a lower voice. “I texted. Said I was coming to see if you were okay, because I saw what happened. That was awesome.”
“No, it was great. Totally deserved,” Kyle says, brimming with indignation. “I know everyone in Pine Ridge loves the guy, but he’s a turd. And now thanks to you he’s a wet turd. Ha ha!”
“Eww. And shhh,” I remind him. I’m tempted to drag him into the shadows in case Perry does show up, but really shouldn’t, lest he get the wrong idea (as we’ve seen he’s prone to).
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“Dev’s pretty upset with you,” he says, turning abruptly serious.
“Yeah, soaking a customer who’s giving you trouble isn’t exactly one of the strategies suggested in the server manual.”
“I’m studying that manual right now and it doesn’t cover people like Perry. The dude needs to be outfitted with, like, a shock collar or something.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“Listen,” Kyle says, “everybody in there knows what Perry’s like. Dev included. The guy was so out of line tonight. That garbage about the desserts and his hands on you all the time, and acting like you were a dish that’s on the menu. You were provoked, Libby, and by the way I said so.”
“You said that to Dev?”
“Yeah, straight up. And Nita and Brianna backed you up, too.”
“Wow, thanks.” I pause and give my head a shake, trying to rearrange my already-rearranged thoughts about Kyle’s actions toward me to include this. “Dev’ll still fire me, though.”
“Maybe. I think he’s scared of Perry. You shoulda seen him—hustling around, patting at Perry’s suit with paper towels trying to soak up the stains, and apologizing over and over. I’ll bet you could press charges. You’ve got a ton of witnesses.”
“This is Pine Ridge—no one here is going to say anything against Perry.”
“I would.”
I can tell he means it, and that fact is making my head hurt. How is he this person, and also the person who pushed past “no” without a single thought for my feelings?
He Must Like You Page 7