I scramble away from him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Mr. Blair smooths out his shirt. “Hey, that’s all right.” His face softens as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “It’s good to see you having fun.”
I stand there, waiting for a reprimand. But Mr. Blair just pushes his glasses back up his nose, then leaves. I can’t tell if he really meant what he said, whether the warmth I saw in his eyes was real or not.
His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. “I will kill you if you tell.”
I stare at the space where Mr. Blair was, waiting for more shadows to wrap around me, but nothing comes. Maybe he’s not the one.
I shrug and step out into the warmth of the afternoon, a soft breeze brushing against my face. I flash to Meghan and me on the hill, sitting in the sun.
I see her tomorrow!
Excitement fizzes through me, lifting me up until I want to run all the way home.
21
Mom’s not at the door to greet me. Maybe she’s finally letting me be.
I walk in and climb the back stairs to the kitchen, expecting to smell oil paint and turpentine, but there’s a heaviness in the house instead. Mom’s sitting there, drinking chamomile tea, a pile of crumpled–up tissues on the table in front of her. She gets up abruptly when she hears me, her mug rocking against the table. “Kendra, I want to talk to you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
“Your father got a strange call at work this morning. From his friend, Terry Blair. Your math teacher.”
My hands grow cold.
“Your dad thought Terry was calling about their hunting trip, but instead, Terry was calling about you. He says you’ve been acting strange lately. Different. Maybe depressed. He’s worried about you.”
I’ll bet he is. “I’m fine.”
“Mr. Blair didn’t seem to think so. He wants us to come in for a conference. He thinks something might be worrying you.”
“Nothing’s worrying me!”Damn it, why is this happening? “Believe me, I’m fine!”
Mom bites her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. “He said he thought he saw something strange in your pocket— something that shouldn’t be there.”Oh, God! My chest aches with held-in air. He can’t have seen the blade. He can’t have!
“Kendra,” Mom says, and she’s crying now, “you’re not thinking of suicide, are you?”
“Of course not!” I force a laugh. “That’s absurd.”
“Even so—I need to check your pockets. I need to know … . ”
I can’t breathe properly, can’t suck in air. I drop my backpack to the floor, lick my lips. “Mom—” I try to smile, but I know I’m grimacing. “This is all a mistake. I was a little down today; I admit it. I probably flunked my history test. That must have been what Mr. Blair was picking up on.”One little lie isn’t so bad. “But I’m not suicidal. I haven’t thought about it for months.”Not since I’ve been seeing Carolyn.
“And what he thought he saw in my pocket—”Is still there— “was something I borrowed from the art room, to cut some matting. I meant to return it today and forgot.” Okay, two little lies.
I reach for my blade and pull it out, trying to look nonchalant. I’m glad I always clean it off after I cut, glad there’s nothing to give away what I use it for, except a slight discoloration.
“But a blade, Kendra? Why would you have a blade in your pocket? And one without a handle?”
“It made it easier to carry. And I just forgot about it. I’ll return it on Monday, I promise.”I don’t know if I’m making sense. I don’t even care; I just want her to believe me.
“But that’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around like that.”
“I know how to handle mat knives, Mom. I respect them, believe me.” I tuck it back into my pocket.
Mom’s looking at me like she’s not sure what to think.
Sweat trickles down my sides. “Come on, Mom…. Has Carolyn called you? Have you heard any worried reports from her?”
“No, but—”
“Mr. Blair doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I tell Carolyn everything. There’s nothing wrong, okay?” I hug her fast.
Mom clings to me. “Your dad and I were so worried about you.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Mom pulls back and looks me deep in the eyes. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“Yes, I’m telling you the truth,” I say. And I am. Cutting isn’t anything to worry about. Now, the footsteps and the man coming after me—that’s something else again.
The kettle screams, and Mom switches the burner off. “Your dad thinks we should set up a session with Carolyn, to find out what you haven’t been telling us.”
“You can’t do that. My sessions are private!”
“How else are we supposed to find out what’s going on? You never talk to us.”
“I’m not supposed to!” I want to rip my arm open and let the blood gush out. “That’s what teenagers do; they grow away from their parents!”
“Not like this. We’re worried about you, Kendra. You’re so unhappy. And if you won’t talk to us, we’ll have to find some other way of getting the information. We have the right to know what’s going on. Carolyn said as much to me.”
And you pay the bills. I can’t believe this is happening. But money talks. I just didn’t think Carolyn would be like that.
I want to slash my arm as hard and as fast as I can. But I can’t give in; I can’t risk Mom finding out.
I shove my hand into my pocket, touch the sharp edge of the blade, then the smooth warmth of the stone. I won’t let myself panic. Not until I talk to Carolyn and find out what’s going on. Because Mom doesn’t always tell the truth.
22
I shut the door to my room, take out my cell, and punch the speed dial button for Carolyn.
Her voicemail switches on.
I throw my phone onto my bed, pace over to my window, then come back again. The light on my alarm clock blinks at me like a warning signal. I yank out the plug.
I can’t keep the blade in my pocket any more—not now that Mom’s seen it—but I have to have it on me. Need to have it. I pull the blade out, pressing it into the tips of my fingers. I don’t draw blood; but just knowing I can helps me breathe.
Then I roll up my pant leg and tug open my sock. The blade slides in easily and lies against my skin, flat and warm. I snap the sock against my leg. Then I roll my jeans back down. Perfect.
I try Carolyn again. No answer, still. Calm. I must stay calm. The blade calls to me, screaming for me to use it, but I can’t risk Mom barging in on me.
I sit down at my desk, getting out my paints and paper with shaking hands. Watercolor this time, not gouache. I don’t know what I’m going to paint until Meghan’s face starts to appear beneath my brush. I lose myself in the act of stroking paint onto paper, letting the pigments spread beneath the bristles.
It’s only when I dab the last detail onto her face, add the brightness of her eyes, that I lean back and look at what I’ve created. It’s Meghan laughing, golden sunlight all around her like an aura. Flowers sprout from her skin, and butterflies rest on her head and shoulders. There are no shadows, no hidden corners of pain—just happiness and light.
I sit back. I don’t think I’ve ever painted something without the pain leaking through; it feels good.
The painting is almost as beautiful as Meghan—one of the best I’ve ever done. But would she like it if I gave it to her? Or was she just being polite at the Java Cup? The mistakes I’ve made start to jump out at me: the brush strokes that are too heavy, the clumsiness of the flowers, the way her smile doesn’t look quite right.
“Kendra? Can I come in?”
I turn to see Mom in my doorway.
What am I supposed to say? No? “Yeah, sure.” I shove my painting on top of the filing cabinet beneath my desk, and cover my brushes under some papers.
Mo
m sits down on the edge of my bed. “I found these in your bag,” she says, holding out some notes ripped from my binder. No, not notes. The sketches of Meghan I did in my classes.
“You went through my stuff?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Well, don’t be. My friendship with Meghan is a good thing. You don’t have to try to fix it.”Or ruin it.
“I don’t want to fix it, I just—”
“You what?”I can’t believe you think you can go through my stuff.
“I just wondered if you’ve really thought this through. You’re obsessed with this—” She looks at the sketches, “This Meghan girl—but what you decide now could affect your entire life. I know you’re still struggling with what that man did to you—”
“What he did to me has nothing to do with this!”
Mom squeezes her hands together. “Maybe you don’t think so now, but in a few years—”
“No, Mom. Not ever.” Nothing as beautiful as Meghan and me could ever come from something as awful as abuse.
“Well, if it’s not the sexual abuse that made you this way, then what is it? Help me; I’m trying to understand.”
“I never asked you to.”I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
Sadness creases Mom’s face. “I know you didn’t. You didn’t even tell me about her.”
Because I didn’t think you’d be able to hear it. Didn’t think you could be happy for me. Guilt presses against my heart: Did I misjudge her? “I love her, Mom. She makes me happy.”
“The way Sarah made you happy? And then so unhappy that you wanted to die?”
I stare at her, my eyes stretching wide. You knew. You must have known all along, and you never said anything. Not about the pills. And not about Sarah. “That wasn’t about Sarah. That was about the memories I was having.” It was about the pain I couldn’t hold.
“Whatever it was, I’m sure this homosexuality didn’t make it any easier. All I’m saying is, maybe you can talk to Carolyn about this. Make sure you aren’t becoming a homosexual because of the abuse.”
Homosexual. The way she says the word feels like a fist in my mouth, like it’s something hurtful, something disgusting. She never talked about even the abuse like this.
“Did you even listen to me, Mom? Did you hear what I said?”
“Of course I did.”
“She makes me feel good. She makes me feel happy.”
Mom twists her ring around her finger. “This is all my fault. If only I’d spent more time with you when you were little. If only I didn’t ask Sandy to look after you—”
“Sandy didn’t make me a lesbian!” I clench my teeth. “How can you be so hypocritical? Sandy’s your friend— and you don’t try to change him!”
“He’s not my daughter!”
But I am. Great. I can see where this is going, now. “I don’t want to change, Mom. I don’t need to.”
She bows her head and goes silent.
I lean forward. “Please—can’t you just try to understand? You say I never talk to you. But how can I, if you won’t even accept who I am? I need you to do that, Mom. I need you to accept me.”
Mom nods and looks at me, her eyes shiny with tears.
“I think I’ll need some time. But you’re right, Kendra; you don’t need to change. And you shouldn’t. Not for me and not for anyone else. That’s something I’ve always admired about you—your passion for things you care about. I wish I could be more like that.”
“I—thank you.” Sometimes she surprises me.
“I’m not saying I understand, yet. But I’ll try. Sandy’s a good man and a good friend, and once I got past him being gay, I could see that. People will see that in you, too.”
Okay… at least she’s trying.
Mom gets up. “You’re my daughter, Kendra, and I love you. I know you sometimes find that hard to believe, but I do. And I want you to be happy. So if you feel this strongly about Meghan, then I’ll support you.”
She reaches out to hug me. I hug her back. For the first time in a long time, I feel like Mom loves me. Or at least she’s trying to.
23
I hear Mom walk quickly down the hall, like she can’t wait to get away from me. I can hardly believe that she admires something in me. She’s never said that before.
Her bedroom door squeaks, and I know she’s gone to lie down, worn out by our conversation. Or maybe by all the emotion she tries to lock inside of her. I hear her shoes hit the floor, hear her sigh. I try not to let guilt swallow me up.
I stare out my window. There are shadows in the backyard that the moon doesn’t light up—shadows that move and flit through the night the way they flit through my mind. They’re probably just raccoons, rooting through our garbage, but I can’t help thinking about the footsteps following me home. I wish it was Monday already. Wish I was in Carolyn’s office. I have so much to tell her.
I run my hand through my hair. No, I wish it was Saturday and I was with Meghan, not stuck here in my room.
The side door slams. “I’m home!” There’s the creak of the bed as Mom gets up, the shuffle of her slippers going down the hall, and then her voice, thin and high. Dad’s voice rumbles back.
I dive into bed, switch out my light, and pull the pillow over my head.
Their voices rise and fall, then there’s quiet. Footsteps thump down the hall.
“Kendra?” Dad says softly.
Maybe if I pretend I’m asleep, he’ll go away. I keep my eyes closed, make my breathing slow and steady.
“Kendra, I know you’re awake.”
Shit. I lift the pillow off my head and turn over. Dad’s in my doorway, hands shoved into his pockets the way he does when he’s nervous.
“Your mother and I are worried about you. I know you’ve been having a rough time lately—”
Not another talk. I can’t stand it. “I’m fine, Dad. I already told Mom that.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well, I am. Why can’t you both just stop worrying about me?”
“It’s part of our job.” Dad clears his throat. “Do you think this lesbian thing could have anything to do with, you know, the sexual abuse?”
“God, not you, too! Can’t you leave it alone? It’s not the problem you guys think it is.”
“It’s not that simple, Kendra. Saying there’s no problem doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Why is it a problem? Because if I like girls, I’ll be different from you?”
“No. Because if you choose to be lesbian, you choose a hard road. People are afraid of what’s different. They’re afraid of what they don’t know. And people can get pretty mean when they’re afraid.”
I’m not sure it’s a choice. The way I was drawn to Sarah, the way I feel about Meghan—it’s so strong. “Is that what got Mom all twisted up? She’s afraid of me being different?”
Dad jingles the change in his pockets. “I guess so. She’s afraid of how other people will treat you. She’s afraid you’re making things harder for yourself. She’s worried that on top of everything you’ve been through, this will be too much.”
“Too much for me or for her?”
“Good question.”
He’s really listening to me, taking me seriously. Why can’t Mom and I talk like this? Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know me, not really.
Dad’s still jingling the change in his pockets. I’ve never seen him so nervous.
I rub my eyes. “Is there something else you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes.” Dad clears his throat again. “This knife Terry saw. Um, I mean, Mr. Blair. You’re returning it to school on Monday, right? That’s the last we’ll see of it?”
“Absolutely. You’ll never see it again.”I’ll make sure of that.
“Good, good. Well, sleep well, Kendra.” Dad hesitates, walks in, then kisses my forehead. “I love you, kitten. We’ll get through this. Just hang in there.”
“Yeah. Night, Dad.”
Dad turns and walks down the hall, his footsteps heavy and slow. I hear the creak of the bed again, and then their voices murmuring.
I want to tell them to stop worrying, but I can only say it so many times and they don’t seem to listen, anyway.
I stare up at the ceiling, thinking I won’t be able to sleep. But I close my eyes, and I do.
24
I avoid Mom and Dad all morning, and wait for Meghan to call. I clean my desk, roll up the painting I did of Meghan and slide it into a cardboard tube, and check my cell. I look at my homework, put the books back down again, make a few doodles, and stare out the window until the phone rings.
Seconds after we hang up, I’m out of there with the tube in my hand. “I’m going to meet a friend. Back later!”
The door slams behind me. I start off down the street, pretending I can’t hear Mom calling after me. My feet hardly touch the sidewalk. The air smells of freshly mown grass and flowers. The sun is warm. And Meghan is waiting for me! I laugh out loud.
The closer I get, the tighter my stomach gets. I toss the tube from one hand to the other. I don’t know any more if the painting is such a good idea. Maybe she’ll get weirded out. Maybe it’ll look like I’m coming on too strong.
The back of my head prickles with that being-watched feeling. I whirl around—but there’s no one there who could be him. Just a woman walking a dog, a guy on roller blades, and two girls giggling together.
His hand, gripping my wrist. A handkerchief falling to the floor.
I pick up my pace until I’m almost running, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.
A car passes me slowly, rolling by like there’s a shaky old driver behind the wheel. Or someone who’s tailing me. I run until I reach the Saturday-morning shopping crowd; then I slow down and try to blend in. The air smells like coffee, fresh bread, and car exhaust.
Meghan’s standing outside the Java Cup, looking like she’s drawn all the sunshine to her skin. I want to hug her, but I don’t know how to do it without looking stupid. So I hang back.
“Hey,” she says, grinning like she’s glad to see me.
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