Y in the Shadows

by Karen Rivers

  Israel’s hands are all over her now, the bus jostling them closer and closer together. She can practically feel the sweat through her two hundred dollar jeans. They’re so soft, but he’s wrecking even her satisfaction with the luxurious feeling of her clothing, his hands rubbing and rubbing them like he’s trying to rub a faded pattern into the front. She moves her legs anxiously and then grabs hold of one of his hands, firmly puts it on his own thigh.

  “What?” he says.

  “Just don’t,” she says. “Just don’t.”

  “Huh?” He looks completely confused.

  “Don’t touch me like that,” she says. “Just don’t.”

  Girls she doesn’t even know are looking at her enviously. Do they really envy this? If they knew how uncomfortable she was, they sure wouldn’t want to trade spots. They probably think they know what she’s thinking; probably imagine it all wrong much like she imagined all the scenes with Tony completely incorrectly. They don’t understand that she needs space and she can’t breathe and he keeps doing it and doing it and she’s stuck. Trapped. He’s not even talking to her; he’s talking to everyone else. Like she’s not even there. She feels both invisible and too visible. He’s so loud. So obnoxious. She steals a sidelong look at Sam, across the aisle, but Sam is ignoring her completely. Pretending to read a magazine. Still hasn’t forgiven her for all the stuff about Yale, how Michael defended the girl. She squints. Her head hurts. She can’t remember now why that was important. She can’t think. The bus is shaking from side to side. Rattling. Like it’s going to fall apart at the next corner, going over the next bump. Just disintegrate, throwing them all up into the air, tossing them down onto the highway.

  She chews her gum hard, swapping out for a fresh piece every few minutes, the sharp sting of the cinnamon makes her feel like she’s in control. Somehow. Even though she’s not. At least her breath is fresh. Sizzling. Biting.

  Israel’s hand refuses to stay still and everywhere he is touching her feels uniquely offended. Her skin is creeping and crawling and positively slithering away from his fingers.

  “Cute sweater,” she says to Aurelia, in front of her. “Totally fetch.” Lately, she’s been trying to reintroduce old language and she heard “fetch” in a movie on late-night TV. “Wicked,” she adds.

  “I totally think so, too,” says Madison, half-turning around. “Fetch.”

  It kind of repulses Michael that as soon as she says something, Madison repeats it. She wants to yell, “Get a life!” but at the same time, it’s flattering.

  She wishes she didn’t feel so mixed up.

  To shut it off, she jams her iPod earphones in. The hands are relentless, but when she can’t hear anything, she feels better. It’s just her in a cloud of cinnamon gum and the music, breathing. Her heart beating to the beat of the song, makes it seem like it’s less work to just keep going. Keep functioning. Closes her eyes.

  She knows Tony — even with the bad kiss, she still wishes things were different — is looking at her in disgust. Of course, he’s disgusted. Israel is his best friend. He’s disgusted with both of them, he must be, or he wouldn’t be human. He must be so mad. Or worse, confused.

  She hates that she’s hurt him. Hates all of this. Wants to redo it differently. Wants to say “no” to Israel. Wants to start over.

  With her eyes shut, she can see Tony in her mind’s eye. How it could have been.

  How it should have been.

  Still, she wasn’t good enough, just like she feared. Not good enough for him, anyway. He made that clear by freezing her out. Not calling. Acting like none of it happened, like the kiss never even happened. Like she doesn’t exist.

  She’s feeling a bit like she doesn’t, actually. She’s losing it, whatever “it” is. She’s losing her grip on The Girls, losing her interest in them, frankly. She’s lost Tony. She’s feeling somehow like she’s slipping up in some irreversible way. Like she’s losing herself.

  Even through her closed eyes, the light is too bright. It’s so sunny outside it’s impossible to believe that there is snow anywhere, that sooner or later they will be skiing. The bus smells close and musty. Her head throbs. A car in the next lane is playing a radio so loudly that the bus vibrates; she can hear their song as loudly as the one in her ears.

  At least her clothes look okay. She still looks good, even though everything inside her feels wrong. It makes her feel better to know that she’s dressed okay. It makes her feel safe, like if she wears the same clothes as Hilary Duff or Cameron Diaz, she’ll be safe like them. Protected by pretty. Somehow.

  But from what?

  Her breath catches. What the hell is she so afraid of, anyway? She’s seventeen years old. All this is supposed to be fun.

  She tries to relax. Concentrates on breathing. In and out, in and out. Meditation. Hope would be proud.

  Skiing is fun, she tells herself. Skiing is good. She’s a decent skier, has taken plenty of lessons. Can even do some sort of fancy tricks with moguls, fancy enough to be impressive but not so dope that the boys will feel stupid.

  Sam texts her a note that says, NICE TEETH, LOSER with arrows pointing at who knows who. Michael reads it, looks sharply at Sam to see if Sam is forgiving her or maybe she just hit the wrong button. Sam’s face is impassive. Maybe she was talking about Michael’s teeth.

  Aurelia calls something to Sam and Sam laughs so hard that her whole body shakes. She leans over the aisle to get closer to Aurelia, practically crouching on Michael’s lap. Her breath is greasy, like old French fry oil. Her bad breath is pressing in on Michael, squeezing her temples.

  Breathe, she thinks. Breathe, breathe, breathe already.

  Israel’s hand shifts to her waist and she slaps it away.

  “Don’t,” she says loudly. Like she means it, really, this time.

  Touching her in some places is gross but okay, but never, ever, ever that little bit of flesh that sits on top of the waistband of her jeans when she’s sitting. Never that.

  “Baby,” he says. Or at least that’s what she thinks he says; her music is too loud to really hear. “Baby, baby, baby.”

  By the time they get there, she’s dizzy from breathing too much or too little. From holding her breath or not. Her skin feels clammy; she needs a shower so badly, but then she’ll have to redo her hair and makeup and the idea of that seems exhausting. They spill off the bus, all of them, looking like toddlers who are breaking free of their nursery school. Talking too loud, laughing too hard. Drawing too much attention — when did she ever think attention was too much? The resort is small, but groups of people are here and there. Watching the colourful, noisy boisterousness of them. Rolling their eyes, probably. Not staring in admiration as she’d once have thought. She used to believe that, anyway.

  What has changed?

  She puts her head down. The snow crunches under her boots. Her breath hangs in front of her mouth like a reminder that she’s still doing it, still breathing. Spicy cinnamon fresh.

  “I can’t wait to find our rooms,” Israel whispers in her ear. Which makes her jump and shudder, not at all with longing. More with disgust. How did he come to be so close all the time? One hook-up and that’s it, her fate is sealed? And why does he get to choose?

  She shoots him her most withering look, but it bounces off him like a basketball off a backboard. He flashes his brilliant smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. She melts a bit. Who wouldn’t? No one should be as cute as him. It isn’t normal. No one should be that easygoing. That impermeable. No one should be able to duck out of the way of her glare.

  But he does.

  “Yeah,” she says, reluctantly being dragged along. “Can’t wait.”

  A car crunches past them, spraying up slush. The trouble, of course, with spring skiing is that the snow is melting faster and faster, the roads all thick with brown sludgy slush. Not pretty. Not picture perfect.

  She hitches her arms firmly through Aurelia’s on one side, Madison’s on the other. Forces her white sparkl
ing smile to her lips. “C’mon, girls!”

  “You are so lucky,” hisses Aurelia. “First Tony and now Israel. It’s not fair.”

  Michael shrugs. “They aren’t so great,” she says. She wants to say more but she doesn’t.

  “Sure, you can say that,” says Madison enviously. “You would say that. You’re such a bitch.” But she says it affectionately. Longingly.

  “Takes one to know one,” says Michael.

  The Girls’ room is at the top of the chalet. Of course. Four beds for the four girls, like it was made up especially for them, dorm style. A bottle of water and a bowl of fruit on each nightstand. Who eats that much fruit? They don’t even have to ask for it, it seems like they always get special treatment. Like they’re celebrities, only they aren’t. Normally Michael takes this for granted, but just now it makes her feel off-balance.

  She lies down. The bed is hard and uncomfortable. She closes her eyes, the other girls racing around, unpacking, ironing or curling their hair. The smell of hot hair appliances saturating the potpourri of the air. Her hair is getting rumpled on the pillow, but for once she can’t bring herself to care. She almost wants to look ugly.

  She can’t keep her eyes closed. Can’t shake the idea that someone is watching her. A creepy feeling. Ghost fingers crawling on her skin.

  “It’s creepy here,” she says.

  “It’s super nice, I think,” says Aurelia. “I came here with Mummy and Daddy before Christmas. Wait until you see the hot tubs. Wicked. Let’s go eat.”

  “Eat!” says Sam. “I can’t eat. I’m too fat.” She pinches her nonexistent belly. “Gross.”

  “You aren’t fat,” says Michael automatically.

  “Let’s call the boys and see what they’re doing,” says Aurelia. “I’m so over this part already. The bus? Deadly. So over it.”

  “I’m tired,” says Michael. “I think I have a headache.”

  “No, you don’t,” says Aurelia. “You just need to get changed, fix your makeup. Come on! It will be great.” Her tone broaches no room for argument.

  Michael drags herself up, feeling like she’s moving through mud. Maybe she’s getting sick. But not like the flu. Something really bad. Like leukemia or herpes or something. Something gross. Something that gets into your blood and kills you, or at least ruins your life. Something that makes you ugly. In the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face. She’s seen this in movies, on commercials. It always looks pretty, refreshing. Frankly, it never results in what she sees in front of her: smeared mascara, skin showing under her makeup. Bags under her unconcealed eyes. Hair flattened at the top. She sighs and reapplies. Fixes her hair. Takes her time, The Girls can wait. They’re used to waiting for her. She is, after all, in spite of Sam’s defection, the leader. She’s still the prettiest. No matter what.

  She can hear them shrieking in the other room. It sounds like a pillow-fight. Sometimes she wishes ... well, she wishes they weren’t so immature. She wishes they’d leave her alone. She’d take a bath. Watch some TV. Go to bed.

  Alone.

  She can hear boys’ voices now intermingled with the girls. Great, she thinks. They’re here.

  She brushes her teeth, fixes her lip gloss. Looks at herself in the mirror. At least she looks the part, she thinks. At least she has it half-right. Forces herself to smile, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight like the ballerina she was as a child. She launches herself back into the fray.

  By dark, they are all drunk. Outside. It’s snowing. Cold, but she doesn’t really feel it. Oh, that’s because she’s in the hot tub. She only barely remembers getting in. The burning of the water on her skin.

  The taste of wine is bitter in her mouth. In the reflection in the window, her teeth look black.

  Where are the teachers? The chaperones? Michael squints into the shadows. She can’t see any of them but they must be around. Submerged in the hot tub, she’s boiling hot. Sweating. She must look like a lobster. Awful.

  Israel has gone somewhere. Where? She can’t remember. Oh, to take a piss. That’s right. That’s what he said.

  Gross.

  Although it’s a good thing because when he isn’t pressing in on her, she can breathe better. She should probably get out of this tub before she gets too hot, passes out, drowns. But she’s too drunk. Leans her head back and rests it on a towel. The night is dark and starry. Pretty. Cold. Crisp. Yet so clear. Where is everyone else? She frowns. Her posse has left her side, she can hear them yelling and screaming. The stars pepper the sky like an infinite number of holes filled with light.

  Oh, that’s right. Tobogganing. The Girls went tobogganing. The whole act of doing that seemed cold and messy. She bowed out and they all left, everyone. Giving her and Is time alone. He was demanding it. He was telling them to go. It felt wrong, but she didn’t stop them. She felt so foggy.

  Alone with Israel.

  Oh, that’s worse than tobogganing, she thinks. But it’s too late to toboggan and the heat of the tub is making her feel so sleepy.

  Then, with a splash, he is back in the water, head under the surface, bursting back through like a whale breaching.

  “You’re so hot,” he says, lurching toward her face. Is that supposed to be sweet? She shakes her head, and he assumes that she means she isn’t.

  “What do you mean?” he says. “You’re the hottest of all the girls here. Everyone wants you.”

  “I know,” she says, which comes out bitchier than anything, but who cares. She doesn’t care what he thinks of her.

  “Tony thinks you’re hot,” he says.

  “I wish,” she says.

  “What?” he says.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “I get it,” he says. “You’re just with me to get to him.”

  “No,” she says honestly. “He just wasn’t into me.”

  “Bullshit,” says Israel. “That’s bullshit.” Then he moves in for the kiss. She’s too drunk for this, she thinks. His hands, tongue, everything are everywhere like a sea creature with too many suction pads, wet and sloppy and all over, impossible to remove.

  “Stop,” she says.

  “Come on, baby,” he says. Where does he get his lines? They’re so dumb. They’re so trite. She slaps at him, and he pushes her arm away like a twig.

  Suddenly her vision tunnels. She feels like she’s watching herself from far, far, far away, too far away to help herself.

  “Stop it,” she says. “I have to get out. It’s too hot in here.”

  “You’re too hot,” says Israel. His tongue is attacking her. Horrible. She pushes at him.

  “Get off,” she says. She’s getting scared. Her voice sounds like it’s being held under a mute button. Muffled. “Stop it.”

  He is up in one motion, pulling her out of the tub. Then what? She’s not sure how it’s happening, they are beside the tub and he is on her.

  It’s hurting.

  He is hurting her.

  She’s pushing at him. She must be at least scratching him but his body is like a stone statue, impermeable. She can’t move him.

  She can’t breathe.

  She’s gasping for air.

  “Fuck off,” she says. “Get off me.”

  She can’t move.

  She’s definitely crying. God, it hurts.

  Bile is rushing into her mouth. Good, she thinks, if I throw up he’ll stop. She dry heaves, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going. She starts to black out.

  Her body a million miles away, like she’s been transported up to one of those stars and can only just barely see herself in the distance.

  His hands are pulling her, pushing her. Bruising her skin. Why is she naked? She’s so cold, or is she?

  Someone else is shouting. And then he’s off her. She rolls away. Closes her eyes. Shivering, she can’t move.

  Oh, no. This isn’t right.

  There are people. There are people, more and more of them, gathering, shouting. Watching. She closes her eyes tight, wills herself n
ot to cry or vomit or somehow embarrass herself even more. She has no idea what to do now. No idea. She can feel snow under her hands. Where did it come from? She’s freezing. Is she dying?

  Who are the people? Her friends? If so, why aren’t they propping her up, wrapping her in something warm, getting her out of there?

  Why isn’t anyone helping her?

  “She’s passed out,” someone says. And she wills herself to do it, wills herself to let go so she’s gone, everything black, and she’s so relieved and is she really passed out? Yes, she is. Nothing now. Nothing left.

  Not now.

  Not tonight.

  Someone is lifting her, dragging her. That’s okay, then. Someone’s got her, after all.

  ****

  Yale

  Chapter 13

  When I realized what my parents were doing, I confronted them. Not like I wanted to, because I chickened out and, besides, they weren’t really reacting the way I thought they would. You know when you storm into a room and you’re planning to say something, something really meaningful, and then you expect the person you are addressing to say a certain thing and they don’t say it? And you’re kind of left hanging? It was like that.

  I guess I started with, “I know you’re robbing banks.” I felt like I was in a bad movie, to be honest. I felt like I was reading a line.

  Mum was sipping coffee at the table, flipping through the classifieds. Dad was frying an egg. His hair was sticking up all over like he’d done it on purpose with mousse, but from the imprint of a keyboard on his cheek I could tell it was more that he’d just fallen asleep at his desk. Again.

  They didn’t really answer. Or react. I kind of thought they’d yell or get mad or deny it or something. Anything.