Naked

by Stacey Trombley

  I didn’t notice the horror on his face when I wrapped my arms around him. Not until after.

  He pushed me away, his words muffled and unclear through my sobs. The blast to my face, however, was crystal clear. In all the time I’d been with him, Luis had never hit me. Not once. Not until that day.

  I backed away from him, pressing my back against the wall. Then, several things happened at one. Axel turned the corner, and Luis threw up his hands like he was surrendering. I’m pretty sure the fist that Luis took to the face was worse than the one I’d taken. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  The second I saw the flashing blue and red lights, I ran. Leaving Luis behind. The cops didn’t find me until that night. Until I was broken beyond repair with nowhere to go.

  I never saw that day coming. I thought he loved me.

  Now I know it was never love at all. Forty-two days. That’s how long he waited. That’s how long our “perfect” relationship lasted, if it had even existed at all.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Anna. Did Luis Santino ever force or push you to have sex with men?”

  I guess she wants a direct answer.

  I look at Luis, whose face is green. Does he know what I’m about to say? Does he know that his little hooker has grown up? Does he know that I can see through him now?

  “Yes.”

  The room is no longer silent. I hear a few small whispers in the crowd, the rustle of paperwork as Luis’s lawyer tries to find a way around this. And I hear Luis let out an angry, exasperated grunt.

  Did he really expect me to fight for him?

  I’m not here to fight for him.

  I’m here to tell the truth.

  And now it seems like the truth is clearer than ever.

  His eyes meet mine, and I see anger in them. Betrayal. Like this is my fault.

  But he made his own choices. Just like I made mine. Whatever consequences we have to face are our own fault.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I wait back in the cold room, sitting on the metal chairs, drinking water and laying my head on the wobbly table until Sarah comes in.

  I’m not sure what to expect, but a part of me doesn’t really care. I feel numb.

  I pick my head up just in time for her to wrap her arms around me in a huge hug.

  “That was incredible,” she says, though I’m not sure what was incredible or even good at all.

  She talks a little bit about the trial, the parts I didn’t get to see and how things changed once I’d spoken. Both sides were supposed to question me, but Luis’s lawyer said they didn’t want to.

  Apparently the truth was bad enough that his lawyer was afraid to let me say anything else.

  Sarah says I was “that good.” She tells me that she spoke to Jackson, who seems like “a nice young man.” She says that he said to tell me he’s proud of me and he’ll see me as soon as I’m ready.

  After a moment, I ask, “Is the trial over?”

  “The hearing is, but the verdict won’t be in for a little while. The lawyers are considering making some kind of deal for Luis to turn in some of his friends.”

  “Oh,” I say. I wonder if he would really do that. I mean, they lied profusely to help him out, but maybe they were just trying to help themselves. Which is better, saying you had sex with a thirteen-year-old girl, or saying you paid to have sex with her against her will?

  “What about the janitor?” I ask.

  “Him, too. Are you willing to give some names?”

  I nod. “But I don’t know all of their full names. Some of them were there, in the crowd, though.”

  Her eyes grow a little bigger, but then she lets out a long breath, like she’s just too tired. “We’ve done enough for the day. Your mom wanted to see you. Are you up for it?”

  I’m not really sure, but my body seems to answer for me. After years of feeling like I can’t rely on my mom, I suddenly need her. The feel of her arms around me. The quiet security of her love.

  As soon as my mother sees me, she puts her arms around me.

  “I love you, Anna,” she says.

  “I love you, too,” I say, tears stinging my eyes.

  I’m not even sure what I’m crying about. Maybe I’m just too exhausted. My mother holds me tighter, rubs my arms, and whispers in my ear, “Everything’s going to be fine. I love you, and I’m here for you.”

  This feeling is a strange one. Bittersweet. Almost like heartbreak… Somehow this feeling is painful and good. Like I’m raw but healing. Finally, I’m healing.

  I know things between my mom and me aren’t completely healed, but I’m happy to have this little piece of normal. A little bit of acceptance.

  My mom drives me home, and we stop at a little truck-stop diner for lunch.

  We both get a roast beef sandwich with chips. Once we finish, Mom orders an Oreo milkshake to split. I give her my first posttrial smile.

  “Have you talked to Dad?” I ask as I take my first slurp. An awkward conversation, I know. But at some point it needs to be said.

  She shakes her head.

  “I wish he’d been there today.” I say. “Maybe then he could have seen…”

  Things won’t ever go back to normal, but I’ve learned that even the worst of wounds can find their own way to heal, if you give them the chance.

  She shakes her head. “I’m glad he wasn’t there. He never would have understood. Not really…and you didn’t need that extra stress.”

  “He’s still my father.”

  She takes in a deep breath and slowly stirs the remaining bits of her hot chocolate. She doesn’t speak.

  “I don’t want him to come back,” I say. Honestly, I hope he doesn’t. Ever.

  “Will you forgive him?” she asks sheepishly, unwilling to look me in the eyes.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.”

  She looks up, her eyes red. “But not today?”

  “Not today.”

  She nods. “Actually, Sarah wants us to go to some family therapy.”

  I open my mouth to speak but close it, unsure what to say to that. I take another sip of the milk shake before I speak. “Does that mean she wants you to get back together?”

  She shakes her head. “I think she just wants us to figure some things out. Like you said, he’s still your father.”

  I nod. “That’s good, I guess.”

  I don’t know what will happen with my father, but knowing that my mom’s there for me now—better, that we’re there for each other—lets me know that whatever happens, we’ll be okay.

  She clears her throat suddenly and smiles, all trace of her emotions gone. “How about we go shopping tomorrow? Maybe get some lunch together.”

  I blink. “Lunch? You mean instead of school?”

  “I figure you could use a day off.”

  I let out a breath, amazed at how relieved I am. At least I can let some of those rumors wind down before I face it.

  I realize how silly I was to fear that knowing the truth would push her away. We didn’t lose everything we’ve worked so hard to build. The truth made us stronger.

  We talk about what we’ll do now, and I’m surprised when she tells me she’s okay with me dropping out of school.

  “We can talk about it. I can’t expect you to be a child forever.”

  I smile, thinking of Jackson.

  “I think I’ll finish out the year,” I say. Which is surprising, even for me. But the truth is, the learning stuff isn’t so bad, the looks are bearable, and I actually kinda sort of have some friends now.

  Four years is a really long time, and I’d be insanely old if I went through high school normally. But maybe I can have one sorta-normal year of high school before moving on.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Just a few months ago, I was a prostitute. I feel like I should be in one of those support groups.

  Hi, my name is Anna, and I’m a recovering whore.

  Do they have recovery groups for hookers? T
hey should. We’re just as jacked up as anyone else, drugs or not.

  Mom tells me I can take all the time I need before I go back to school, but after a few days hiding out in my bedroom, I realize I’d rather go back now than keep putting it off.

  I’m not sure what I expected to happen when I go back to school. Once inside, I head for the bathroom, just for a splash of water to wake me up, but I stop when a rather large body blocks my path. When it doesn’t move, I look up.

  It’s Eric, Brandon’s old friend, the guy who asked me if he could buy my services.

  Well, this should be good.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asks me.

  I say nothing.

  “How much money do you make sucking cock?”

  I guess there’s a reason Brandon got along so well with this guy.

  A sly grin spreads across Eric’s face. I guess he’s going to milk this for all he has.

  “So what’s the going rate?”

  I don’t know how to respond. Honestly, the only thing going on in my mind is how much I’d like to kick him in the balls. But talk about making things worse. Instead, I twist away from him and disappear into the crowd.

  I hide in the bathroom and wonder what’s going to happen now as I work on a random sketch of a bush of honeysuckle. Will the whispers and stares ever calm down? Will Jackson forgive me for real? Will I ever escape my past?

  I pause when I hear a set of slow footsteps enter the bathroom. They’re too slow to just be someone coming in to use the restroom or “freshen up” or whatever girls do when they look at themselves in the mirror for thirty seconds.

  I see a set of pink-and-white striped flats stop in front of my stall.

  “Anna?”

  It’s Marissa. Even if I didn’t recognize the voice, the flats are a dead giveaway.

  “Yeah?” I say, making sure I don’t show any weakness in my voice. I’m just tired of being looked at.

  “You okay?”

  “Maybe. Are you?”

  “Kind of.” She’s quiet for a moment, then she sighs. “Winning one big battle doesn’t fix all your problems. Guess that’s a lesson we’re both learning.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I don’t know how to stand up to all of them, how to move on from here.”

  I open the bathroom door to face her. “You need to get your power back, remember?”

  “Yeah,” she smiles. “But maybe you do, too.” She takes a few steps back and then retreats out the bathroom. I’m not sure if we’re friends now. I’m not sure where she’s at, but I do know things are better than before. Maybe we’re both still learning.

  I take a deep breath and run her words through my mind. Didn’t I already face my monsters? Wasn’t that getting my power back? I faced Luis and his friends, the ones who pushed me to have sex with them and then paid me. Wasn’t that enough?

  Then again, if it were enough, would I still be hiding in the bathroom? Maybe I do have a few more battles to fight before this is completely over.

  Class is…interesting. Even the teachers seem awkward around me now. I guess maybe they thought the rumors were, well, rumors before. Now it’s pretty public knowledge. Shit, there was even an article about me in the newspaper.

  Mr. Shelf can’t even look at me now. Mrs. Robert’s eyes just glaze over me.

  Only Mr. Harkins seems unchanged. He keeps pushing me to get better and better at art, and it’s kind of working. He posts my self-portrait in the hallway, and every time I walk by it, I feel a little bit better.

  It’s watercolor, mostly blues and blacks, like a bruise. But on the white background, it doesn’t seem too somber. It’s just a face, no connecting neck or whatever, like I’m floating. The girl is looking down with a hood up over her head.

  It’s me, I guess, though it doesn’t look much like me anymore. The girl in that picture is hiding. But for better or worse, everyone sees me now. I’m exposed. Naked.

  Then someone sits at my table. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see him until he was here.

  Jackson.

  He smiles at me, and my heart stops. He sits beside me without saying much as we work on finishing our third-quarter projects. It’s nice just to be near him, to know he doesn’t hate me. But I still wonder where exactly we’re at now.

  I try to ignore my unresolved feelings with him and focus on my artwork. I’m drawing a black bird taking flight, except this section is on “pointillism,” so it has to be drawn with hundreds of little dots. You get shading by putting more dots in one spot than another.

  “Any idea what you’ll do for your last project? It’s a big one,” Jackson eventually says.

  I groan and press my head to the table. “No. No clue.” I look up. “You?”

  Mr. Harkins wants us to do something that “makes a difference.” He tells us a few examples, like how last year one of his students brought in an old fuzzy picture she had of her birth mother whom she’d never met. All she had was the picture and a name. She painted the picture and posted it all over the internet with the first name, hoping to find her.

  It took a few months, but eventually a friend of a friend pointed her in the right direction, and she found her.

  Another year, a girl painted a picture of her father in his army fatigues hugging her little sister and sold them to raise money for a charity that supported veterans after their service.

  Now she wants us to do something amazing.

  I look to Jackson, sure he’ll know something fantastic to do for this kind of project.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You should have something good, right? I mean, you’ve got a killer story.”

  I shake my head. “But I already told it and no one cares. I’m back where I started. Besides, who would that help but me?”

  “I think people care more than you think. But if you don’t want to do something about yourself, pick something else you care about. Something that bothers you.”

  I’m looking at him, thinking about what to say, when I realize something is different between us after all. Something’s missing. And then I realize what it is. That cold, heavy fear I’ve lived with for so long. It’s gone.

  I take in a deep breath. “What about you? What ‘issue’ are you going for?”

  His face turns a little red, and now I see the old Jackson. The one who blushed when he first saw me. I wonder if he could ever be that boy again. I wonder if I could ever be the girl he thought I was.

  “I was thinking maybe drugs, you know, since my mom… Or I was thinking maybe something to support people who come forward as witnesses. You know, like you did. It was brave.”

  “Oh,” I say, totally taken off guard. He thought I was brave? “I just told the truth.”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe you don’t see it, but it was brave. You could have kept it inside yourself until…”

  He doesn’t have to say it. Until it was too late. He knows better than anyone.

  “I think you should do the one about your mom,” I say. “That’s part of who you are, you know?”

  I think about the Jackson I first met, seemingly confident and at ease but hiding his own fear inside…and then I think about the Jackson who came between me and the janitor. Defending me because of who I am, because I was too weak to tell the truth before it blew up in my face—again. Because I was too scared to trust someone to help me.

  The bell rings a few seconds later, and I’m not any closer to coming up with an idea for this project. I don’t even know what I want my project to be about. Do I really want to go the obvious route and make my life even more about my past than it already is? Seal my identity with the horrors of my past? I’ve faced them. Now I want to move on.

  Does it make me selfish to want that?

  I don’t want to be a former hooker forever.

  I enter the crowded halls, too distracted to even pay attention to the strange looks. They’re just background noise at this point. A part of life.

  But then
I look up into the faces that surround me and I realize how many of them I don’t know. I don’t have any names to go with their faces, any memories of them. I don’t know their secrets the way they know mine.

  But they have secrets, too. Secrets they’re terrified will destroy them if they let them out.

  Jackson’s mother overdosed on drugs years ago.

  Marissa’s boyfriend used a sex tape to blackmail her.

  Jen was raped and called a slut for it.

  I slept with men for money.

  Most of those are secrets no one knows about, with the exception of mine.

  I look into the sea of faces and wonder: what are all their secrets?

  Are we really all that different, after all?

  I smile when I think about Jackson, before he knew the truth about me, before he knew I was lying to him, before one of my ex-johns threatened him in front of me, he told me something.

  “Everyone’s been through something… I mean, what’s normal, anyway?”

  How can I prove that Jackson was right all along? My story might be a bit more intense than theirs, but so what? I’m not normal, but neither are they.

  I think I know what my final project will be.

  I spend the next three weeks planning my project. Truthfully, it’s not really that hard. Not now that I know what to do.

  I don’t know if this will turn out the way I hope, because it’s not just about me. This is about everyone in the school and if I can give them the courage to admit who they really are. They don’t have to tell me. They don’t have to tell anyone they don’t want to tell. But if I can use my past for something good, if I can use it to inspire people, maybe I can do more than make peace with what happened. Maybe it can become something I’m proud of.

  I may end up looking like a fool—again. I guess I can’t get much worse than the town whore who got attacked by the janitor after homecoming.

  The point of this project is that I’m a freak, just like everyone else. If I’m not brave enough to risk more social embarrassment, how can I expect anyone else to be?