“Hey, guys,” I say. They both turn. The walk over restored me somewhat, and I feel like I’m presenting as normal, but Yaz stands right up, says, “Whoa,” and rushes over, as does Ben, who gives me a friendly slobber on the hand.
“Hi, Ben,” I say, and give him a fast pat on the head, then discretely wipe my hand on the back of my pants, like he might be insulted if he saw.
Emma nudges Ben away, eyes on me, while Yaz pulls me over to the couch. She pushes me down gently onto it, and stares into my eyes until it makes me feel squirmy.
“What happened?” Emma says.
“Uh . . . family stuff,” I say, unable to fathom how I would find the words to sum it all up for them.
“Shhh,” Yaz says to us both. “Just wait. Don’t talk.”
I’ve been through this with Yaz before, and it’s best to just let her do her thing. She gazes at me and then says, “May I?” When I nod, she lays her head on my chest, above my heart, and wraps her arms around me.
Yaz has top marks in science, is a killer basketball player, and is also a little bit woo-woo, in the sense that she believes she’s reading my aura and/or beaming some kind of moon energy into me right now. What cannot be denied, though, is that sometimes Yaz knows what a person needs, even when they themselves don’t. I don’t need more talking, and I do, apparently, need a really good, long hug.
For a few moments I’m fighting tears, but then warmth steals through me and I begin to relax.
Yaz sits up after a minute or so, and carefully disentangles herself from me.
“Thanks, Yaz.”
She smiles.
“So,” I say, turning to Em and looking for something normal to discuss, “what are you studying for?”
“European History test, but I can barely read my notes.”
“I made really good ones for that,” I say. “You want them?”
“How on earth did you have time?”
“It was a couple days ago,” I explain. “Besides, you gotta do something while you’re waiting for the sky to fall. I’ll scan them and send them to you later.”
“You rock,” she says, perching on the arm of the couch. “Did you hear that Perry posted on Complainers?”
“No,” I say, barely able to drag my attention to Perry after the day I’ve had. “Uh, what did he say?”
“Just a big spiel thanking people for their support, and saying the situation’s been blown out of proportion. And . . .”
“And . . . ?”
“Then he brags about what a nice guy he is that he actually got you rehired . . .”
I groan.
“And about how he’ll be going to the Goat tomorrow night to ‘kiss and make up’ with you.”
“He said that? Kiss and make up?”
“Yep. People should be able to tell just from that phrase that he’s a harasser.”
“Honestly it’s like breathing to him,” Yaz says.
“So . . . ?” Emma tilts her head and stares at me as though trying to read my mind. “Is that enough to convince you?”
“Convince me of what?”
“To speak up! Now is the time to tell your story. I could record it on my phone and then send it to Martina, who has got a gazillion new followers over the past few days, and it’ll be huge.”
“Em, no.”
“Why not?”
“Look, despite all the online stuff, the fact is I don’t have enough concrete, real-world support to go up against him—not without putting my entire future at stake. You might think I’m being melodramatic, but I’m talking about facts. Math. Money. About how, trying to change the world, I might not just fail, but also screw myself over to the point that I’m stuck here in Pine Ridge with Perry Ackerman forever and will never achieve anything.”
“But—”
“You want me to fight, Em, but you’re in a much more secure position than I am. Both of you are. And I’m happy you are. But as of last Monday there are no other jobs for me in this town, unless you include the one Perry offered me at Ackerman, and I need to work.”
“Wait,” Yaz says, just as Em says, “What?”
I tell them about Perry’s phone call.
“That is biblical-scale temptation,” Yaz says, sounding awed. “Wow.”
“And proof that he’s scared!” Emma says. “The photos are clear evidence he was harassing you—”
“But half the people who’ve seen them probably think it’s funny, or that I’m just uptight, or that I encouraged him. Or they believe what Perry’s been saying—that they’re photoshopped. You’ve been reading the comments, tell me I’m wrong.”
“There are people who’re anti-Perry. Lots,” Emma insists. “And even if no one from the restaurant besides Martina and your friend Kyle have come forward, behind closed doors people are talking, things are changing.”
“Yes. And I’m not saying I don’t have faith in things changing, or that I don’t want to do something. I do. And there might be a way. But I don’t want to be stupid about it, and whatever I do, it won’t be before tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, although it sucks, I have to go in there and apologize.”
“But you’re planning something?” Emma asks.
“Not planning,” I admit. “Thinking.”
“Thinking isn’t—”
“Hey, Em,” Yaz says in her most soothing voice. “Ease up. She’s going through a lot.”
“Fine,” Emma says, but she doesn’t look happy.
“Hey, I heard a bit of news too,” Yaz says. “My uncle drove by the Goat the last two mornings, and both times the owner was outside, painting.”
“Painting?” I say.
“Over graffiti,” Yaz clarifies.
“Uh-oh. What did it say?”
“That’s the really bad part,” Yaz says, letting Ben climb all the way onto her lap, even though he’s far too big for it, and causing me to have to stand up. “Today it was already painted over when he saw it, but yesterday it was, ‘Go Back Where You Came From’ or something like that.”
“Oh no,” Emma says, and she’s gone rigid.
“Where they came from is the suburbs,” I say, incredulous. “Forty minutes away.”
“They don’t mean the suburbs, trust me,” Emma says, looking grim.
“Obviously,” Yaz says.
“You think it’s because of . . . what’s been happening?” I ask.
“No, it’s because people are racist,” Emma says. “My family’s been here for three generations and people still say racist stuff to us.”
“Seriously?” Yaz says, looking as surprised as I feel.
“Yep,” Emma says. “Never anything as harsh as that graffiti, and usually just insensitive jokes, stereotypes, that kind of thing. But if you think about it—if that still happens to us, when we’ve been here for three generations, and are well off, and when half of the babies in town were delivered by my mom, imagine how it is for Dev and Maya’s family—being brand new and trying to make a go of it in a small town that for years barely had any non-white people.”
“Why don’t they set up cameras? Get whoever’s doing the graffiti arrested?” Yaz suggests.
“You’d have to ask them,” Emma says. “But they probably don’t have a lot of confidence that the cops would care, much less help.”
“Well, okay,” Yaz says, clearly struggling. “Maybe they could . . . try to raise awareness then. Talk to people about how hurtful it is.”
“It’s meant to be hurtful, Yaz,” Emma says, looking more irritated by the second. “And they’re running a restaurant. They don’t have time to give people anti-racism lessons, and they can’t afford to, either. Nor should they have to.”
“Right,” Yaz says, “I see your point. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry too, Em,” I say, not quite sure which part I’m a
pologizing for, but just feeling I haven’t acquitted myself as well as I could have in this conversation, and maybe in life overall in regards to these issues.
“Whatever, it’s fine,” she says, pacing away a few steps, then coming back. “I’m partly mad at myself that I’ve been urging you to make a big stink without thinking about how things might be for them. Not that I don’t think you should take a stand, but . . . it should be against Perry, not them. I hate this.”
“Well,” I say, “as my dad would say, the world is a shithole.”
Emma smirks, then Yaz gives one of her wry grins and says, “Such an inspirational guy, your dad.”
Back at home I text Nita to see if she knows about the graffiti, then scan and send the study notes to Emma. Then I open the binder from Kyle and start flipping through it.
He clearly spent a lot of time and effort pulling information together. There are legal definitions, names of cases I can google, lists of types of charges, statistics, and an entire page of resources, both legal and psychological.
On the final page is a typed letter from Kyle’s mom—whose name is Celia Roth—detailing her experience with sexual harassment and assault cases, and offering me free advice and/or representation.
I’ve just finished reading it when Nita texts back.
Dev doesn’t like to talk about it but yes. It’s been happening less often but he keeps a can of paint in his office and checks early each morning so he can deal with it discretely. He and Maya don’t want to make a big deal, and feel it’s just one or two idiots. That’s what they hope anyway because they have not encountered any other problems besides this since moving here.
That’s awful! I text back, and add an angry face emoji.
Yes. I think it’s also why Dev didn’t do anything to stop Perry and why it’s good you’re coming to apologize. I know it’s not fair, but Perry has a lot of influence. So . . . thank you. Please don’t tell Dev I told you about the graffiti or the paint can.
I won’t.
I get it about harassment. I used to have this guy who’d sit at the bar writing poetry and then read it out loud in this huge voice. Called my eyes “enthralling soul daggers” and asked me, in a different poem, to “suckle at the fingertip” of his love.
Ewwwwwww
Matt gets hit on behind the bar too, fwiw. 5 marriage proposals this year and some very graphic suggestions.
Yuck.
I think there’s something wrong with how people view servers—not just the female ones. Big subject and not all solvable at once but I promise I’ll try to help. We’ll talk more.
Okay.
See you tomorrow?
Yep.
I put down the phone and pace my room, upset. The number of unfair things in the world seems to multiply by the day, or maybe it is just my awareness of these things that’s multiplying. Regardless, it’s frustrating not being able to do anything about it.
Although it’s not true that I can’t do anything. I’ve actually accomplished a lot recently in the changing-things department, and in the being-braver-and-smarter department as well. So maybe I can figure out a way to respect Maya and Dev’s wishes, and not make things worse for them, but still do something about Perry.
I have to try.
I go back to the binder, reread Ms. Roth’s letter.
Then I go to the photos on my phone, and do a quick scan of Dad’s deleted exposé.
I may not be in a position of power at the moment, and I may not feel as strong as I’d like to, but I am not alone, not stupid, and not without resources.
And so I make a phone call.
A few minutes later I pop my head into the kitchen. Mom and Dad are holed up in there, guzzling coffee and going over bank statements. It doesn’t look like fun, but Dad is docile. Meanwhile, Jack has gone to the store and bought light bulbs, and is going through the house replacing all the dead ones.
“Can I borrow the car?” I ask.
Mom and Dad wave me off with distracted nods, and I go to meet with Celia Roth.
* * *
—
Later, I drive out to Noah’s.
“Hey,” he says when he opens the door. “I figured I might not see you until tomorrow at school.”
“Well, I don’t have much time and I’m so tired I feel like I’m going to fall on my face, but I wanted to see you.”
He smiles that smile that kills me. Most of his smiles kill me.
“You want to come in? I’m here solo.”
I step into the foyer. “I’ve been sexually assaulted,” I say without preamble.
“I know,” he says, the smile disappearing. “Perry.”
“Not just Perry.”
“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Shit. Really?”
“Yeah. It’s nothing major. Or I thought it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything, you know, violent. But the other night when we were . . . uh . . .”
“Kissing,” he supplies.
“Yeah. I had a kind of flashback. It was so sudden and unexpected . . . and obviously I freaked out.”
“Wow. Okay,” he says, staring intently at me. “So . . .”
“So I’m going to get help about it. I already started. Yesterday. I talked to that woman who came to our school, the public health nurse. I’m going to go see her a few times. She called the flashback an ‘intrusive memory’ and says I may have unprocessed trauma. Which means I have to process it, I guess.”
“Makes sense.”
“She did say that this stuff—these, um, kinds of symptoms— usually fade, especially once you start to address . . . things.”
“Good,” Noah says, but he looks a bit at a loss.
“They could fade really fast, like a couple of weeks, even. Or not,” I say, bracing myself. “You might want to take this into account.”
“Take it into account how?”
“About us. Me. That it’s not just my bonkers family and my financial woes and my work problems that are part of the package. It’s this, too,” I say, and then raise my hands in a mock cheer. “Surprise!”
“Listen,” he says, expression grave, “if you don’t want . . . if this changes things and you just want to be friends, I understand.”
“Is that what you want?” I say, a cracking feeling beginning in my chest, even though I was prepared for this.
“If it’s what you want,” he says. “Or . . . need?”
“Noah!”
“What?”
“I’ll handle the part about what I want and need. What I’m asking is what do you want? Do you want out?”
“I . . .”
“Because that’s not what I meant. Unless it’s what you want because I’m too complicated and messed up. If so, I get it.”
“You’re not too messed up.”
“What if I can’t even kiss you?”
“Well,” he looks down, and then back up, and kind of rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to shake something off. “Not gonna lie, that would suck.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But, we could do other things. We could develop some new . . . kissing alternative.”
Despite the intense situation, I start laughing.
“I’m serious. Hey, for example, my little cousin, she likes to do this thing where she sticks her tongue into the inside of her cheek, you know, so her cheek sticks out.” He demonstrates this. “And then she gets other people—only really special people, of which I am one—to do the same, and then touch the pushed-out part of their cheek to the pushed-out part of hers. And then, in the advanced version, if you manage to graduate to that, she moves her tongue inside her cheek, and you try to follow with yours, inside your own cheek.”
“What . . . ?”
“It’s harder than it looks, but a very specialized means of comm
unication.”
“And this is your plan?”
“Admittedly it’s not sexy,” he says with a grin, “but it is fun. Or, like, we could do trust-building stuff where you close your eyes and fall backward and I catch you, or we could build a raft together or something . . .
“And if it sinks?”
“I think it’s the building that’s the point,” he says. “But this woman told you the problem would fade, so maybe we just wait, stomp, hold hands, and go slow.”
“Okay . . .”
“Or . . .”
“Yes?”
“I mean, we could just keep testing out the kissing,” he says with a deceptively casual shrug. “Test it, pause, test again, and just be really careful. And . . . if that memory thing happens, we just stop and take a break and, like, don’t freak out about it. That’s, of course, if you’re willing.”
“How about now?”
“You sure?”
In answer, I reach for him and very carefully kiss him, then stop.
“Okay?” he says, and I nod and go back for another kiss, and then another, very slowly. And then, because I’m going to die if I don’t continue, I continue. Carefully. Slowly. He kisses back, also carefully and slowly, pulling away every so often, just far enough to look into my eyes and check, before coming back. A few more kisses and he checks again. “All fine?”
I nod, more than fine except for the fact that he’s stopped.
“Should we . . . maybe quit while we’re ahead?” he says. “Like, maybe we could aim to . . . I don’t know, build toward a streak?”
“Of kisses where nothing goes wrong?”
“Yeah . . . or not . . .”
“How do we count them,” I ask. “Per kiss, or per kissing session?”
“Whatever gives us the greatest feeling of accomplishment without detracting from the . . . experience. But Libby,” he says, still serious, “are we . . . have we decided?”
“About?”
“Well, we were going to give it a few more days, but I feel like we’re both leaning toward . . . August sucking. Or is that just me?”
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