Faking Normal

by Courtney C. Stevens

  “Look, Lex, I really think he is. The Captain, I mean. Maybe you just need to come right out and ask him.”

  Liz scrubs at her mascara with the inside of her T-shirt. It looks like black watercolor on her pale cheeks. She says, “Uh-uh, Heather, she can’t do that. It’s not romantic enough. We might’ve had jocks without a romantic bone in their bodies, but they weren’t the Captain. If Hayden is, then it’s one of those truths she just has to discover.”

  “And how would I do that?”

  Heather looks at Liz like this is a no-brainer. “We could plan something. A meet or something.”

  “Party,” Liz corrects. “Let’s make it a party.”

  “I hate parties,” I say, and shudder at the thought of the one in July.

  “But you couldn’t hate a costume party,” Liz says, and she’s on a roll. “Halloween is around the corner.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Heather adds, getting onboard.

  Evidently, the gestation period for a bad idea is about ten seconds. As soon as a glimmer is conceived, it’s a full-grown, star-crossed-lover-and-costume-magic plan. My head is still turning side to side, saying no, but they don’t seem to notice. Or care.

  A noise. A crunching noise. In the distance.

  I put a finger over my lips to shush Heather and Liz. And listen.

  Another crunching noise.

  Something or someone is nearby. Betrayed by dead leaves that crackle in the silence. And sound too loud for an animal.

  Careful not to make a noise, I dim the lantern nearest me and stand to one side of the window to peer out. It could be Bodee, but I don’t tell Heather and Liz that.

  Then I hear a giggle.

  Bodee doesn’t giggle.

  Heather scoots closer to Liz. “What is it?” she whispers.

  “Someone’s out there.”

  When I’m quiet, totally quiet, I hear everything in the woods. Even something that’s usually inaudible, I notice. Like soil as it crumbles under a shoe. But I can barely hear anything now except Heather’s raspy breathing.

  “Shhh,” I whisper, flapping my hand at them.

  Heather and Liz pull Bodee’s sleeping bag up to their chins. “It’s okay,” I tell them, but they don’t buy it until we hear a slightly intoxicated, masculine voice.

  “Oh, fair Juliets . . .”—giggle—“come down. Your Romeos await.”

  More giggles.

  “That’s Collie,” Heather and Liz say together.

  “I swear to God, if they were listening,” Heather says.

  Oh, no. This cannot be good. The guys, the sex guys, have invaded.

  I grab the lantern and Liz takes Bodee’s sleeping bag, as we scramble, hand-under-hand, following Heather to the ground. Lifting the lantern for a better look, I see four familiar faces. One with a beaming smile, and two who look fairly nervous. Hayden, Ray, and Collie. And a half step behind the Rickman High “offensive” line, Bodee stands; his face is unreadable as he looks at me.

  Like a face-off, with the three of us lined up at the foot of the ladder.

  “And how are you ladies this fine fall evening?” Hayden asks in a ridiculously jovial tone.

  “We were good,” I say, when Heather and Liz are silent. Were.

  “What are y’all doing out here?” Liz asks, cutting to the chase, and I can see she is more uncomfortable than excited.

  “Our ladies . . . ,” Collie says.

  “That’s ex-ladies,” I say.

  “Our ladies,” Hayden continues Collie’s sentence, and even in the minimal light and shadows, I can see the grin, “were hosting a campout, and we wanted to . . . make sure you were all safe.”

  Safe. Right.

  From what I can see, Collie’s blood alcohol level might be off the charts, the way it has been since Heather broke it off.

  Why is Bodee with this group?

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “We’re not,” Collie says. “We got”—giggle—“lost.”

  Hayden looks at me as if he can use a little help controlling his drunken buddy. “Look, Lex, can we stay awhile?” He jerks a thumb at Collie, who is swaying on his feet. “He hasn’t shut up about Heather and the fort since he found out from Ray that you girls were camping tonight.”

  “Well, um,” I say, but Hayden’s already got his foot on the ladder, leading the way.

  Ray is on his heels, and Liz looks at me with a shrug, as if we may as well just endure this little raid. I stand there like a chopped-off pine while Heather and Liz head toward the ladder after them.

  “Will you make sure they don’t tear the place down?” I ask Bodee, since Hayden’s already hanging half out of the window, and Ray’s howling at the moon like a wolf.

  Under his breath, Bodee says, “Sorry. It was a keep-your-enemies-closer thing.”

  This leaves Collie, the lantern, and me still on the ground. I’m not sure what to do about Collie, who is in no condition to climb twenty feet.

  In an alcohol-induced haze, he stumbles toward the ladder, tripping over his feet. Before I can get out of his way, all six-feet-two, 195 pounds of him crashes into me. The lantern flies from my hand, and off balance, I slam into the ground.

  His body, like a dead weight, falls on top of me, pressing me down, choking the breath out of me. I am crushed and blinded by Collie and the dark shadows cast by the fort. Every part of him touches me. Accidentally, and then with purpose. His hands, his hot breath, his lips against my neck . . . I am frozen. A scream catches in my windpipe and has no release.

  I have no voice.

  “Heather,” Collie mumbles. “I love you,” he says, and starts kissing me. “Heather.”

  I’m dimly aware of raised voices as the lantern from upstairs casts a dim glow on our entwined limbs.

  The sound of Heather’s name frees me from my panic.

  “I’m not Heather,” I whimper, struggling to push Collie away. He rolls off me as the rest of them reach the ground, scrambling like firemen on their way to a blaze.

  Collie shakes his head to clear it, and looks from me to Heather, who’s standing stiffly by the ladder, hands on her hips. And realizes his mistake.

  “Baby”—he’s still on his knees—“thought she was you. I thought she was you.” He blinks at Heather’s stormy face. “Love you. Came to tell you I love you,” he pleads.

  “He did,” Ray agrees.

  I struggle to a sitting position, elbows on my knees, while I hold back a fountain of tears. Crack. Crack. Crack. Bodee’s cracking his knuckles to keep from slamming his fists into Collie’s face. He steps forward and helps me up.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him. “He just tripped and fell on me.”

  “With his damn lips?” Heather spits out the words.

  I can’t tell who Heather’s accusing. Collie. Or me.

  “Heather, he’s pretty drunk,” Liz says. “And in the dark, you and Lexi sort of favor each other.”

  Heather glares at me. Definitely, a glare. “We don’t,” she says, “look that much alike.”

  But Collie’s nodding his head like an idiot.

  “Hey, now wait a minute!” Hayden’s voice interrupts the escalating tension. “We came out here so he could apologize, not make things worse. Just because the dumb-ass can’t stay on his feet and tell the difference between you two when he’s drunk, well, that doesn’t mean things have to get complicated. If anybody should be mad, it’s me. None of y’all are even going out right now.”

  “Neither are we,” I mumble.

  I feel Bodee’s reaction, every flexed muscle, and wonder what he’s thinking.

  “I’m the one who’s going to complicate things,” a new voice booms across the clearing. “Get over here, all of you,” he shouts at the boys. “You three. Out here. Right. NOW.”

  “Coach,” all three football players yelp at the same time.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  chapter 20

  CRAIG still has on his Rickman pullover and khakis from the game. I’ve seen him dressed this way more times than I can count, but I’ve never quite seen this expression. Anger and sympathy for his players, neither emotion trumping the other.

  “Coach,” Ray says. “We were just—”

  “Leaving,” Craig says for them.

  “But Coach, you got a girl,” Hayden says.

  And Collie whines, “You know what it’s like when you screw up.”

  Does he ever, I think. Craig is so acquainted with the doghouse, he’s added a second floor to make the place more comfortable.

  “Yeah.” Craig repositions his visor so it shadows his eyes and walks close enough to Collie to grip his shoulder. “And I also know intoxication at one in the morning isn’t a good way to fix it.”

  Hayden. Ray. Collie. Craig. The four of them together in a perfect little line. The sight causes me to sway. Bodee’s hand is an anchor. He finds my elbow in the dark, as an undertow of fear threatens to rip my legs out from under me. All my anxieties, all my silence, all my secrets are standing right there in that line of men.

  Craig’s saying something, but I don’t hear him at first. Bodee squeezes my elbow, and I try to focus.

  “Lex, you okay?” Craig’s asking.

  But my head pounds and my lungs burn from holding everything inside. I manage a nod.

  “Mr. Tanner, I’ll take care of everything here,” Bodee says.

  Craig must have agreed, because he marches the boys away from our clearing in single-file silence. There’s no vent, but I start to count. One, two, three, four and repeating again, until I can’t see them anymore. They’re gone, but I can still feel him, the ghost of him, pressing his body over mine, apologizing while he kisses me, crying while he thrusts.

  Bodee releases my elbow as Liz comes to check on me. I dust off my jeans so I don’t have to look at her. Instead, my eyes follow Heather back up the ladder. Though she’s using my sanctuary, right this minute she hates me.

  She can’t hate me worse than I hate myself.

  You let him. You let him. You let him.

  Liz takes my hand; the compulsive dusting off my jeans and the You let him fade.

  She removes a leaf from my hair and tucks the loose strand behind my ears. Quietly she asks, “What really happened with Collie?”

  I untuck the hair immediately, covering my neck with my palm, although there is no way she can make out scratches in the dark. “Nothing, Liz. He tripped and fell on me. Then he called me Heather and kissed me.” My answer is mechanical.

  “Are you hurt?”

  YES, my heart shouts.

  “No,” I say, and turn away from her.

  “But you’re still upset,” Liz says. “Collie’s not exactly small.”

  “I’m fine. But Heather’s not. You should check on her,” I say.

  The working of Liz’s brain is so visible, it’s as if I can clearly see the gears grind into understanding: Something happened. Not what we think. But Alexi can’t talk about it now.

  “I’ll explain it to her; don’t worry, Lex. Why don’t you let Bodee take you home?” she suggests.

  “You still want to stay out here?” I ask. “By yourself?”

  Liz hands Bodee his sleeping bag. “Yeah. I think she’ll need to talk about all this. Don’t worry,” she says again.

  Bodee nods for both of us, and Liz climbs back up the ladder.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  And I do. The path he takes does not lead to my house.

  There is the heat of Bodee’s body and his fingers curling around my icy ones. I don’t remember taking his hand or him taking mine, only that it feels good and safe and right. He knows where we’re going, and each step is deliberate. My numbness ekes away. The ice that’s been packed around my heart since July starts to melt as Bodee’s warmth cauterizes the wounds.

  “It was . . . one of them,” I say.

  “I know.”

  I’m thankful he doesn’t ask which one, because those words are stuck in my throat. By the time he stops, my eyes have adjusted to the dark well enough to see the dome shape of his tent.

  His fort on the ground.

  Bodee unzips the flap and guides me inside. “You’re cold,” he says, tucking the sleeping bag around my shoulders. “Now tell me what he did to you.”

  He just waits for me to speak. And I can.

  “It was a couple of weeks before school started, and everybody got together at my house after the has-beens game, as Craig called it. It was just a normal, fun, summer night; a moment between sophomore and junior year where you really feel you’re different and grown-up. Closer to becoming a senior. Closer to feeling like real life is happening. You know?”

  Bodee nods.

  “God, it was hot; and the pool felt amazing, and we were all laughing and yelling. Of course, some of the guys had alcohol, but little enough that my parents couldn’t see the difference between crazy, hyped-up teenagers and intoxicated ones.”

  “I remember how hot it was that night.” Bodee touches the wall of the tent. “I didn’t even set this up. Just slept outside. Go on,” he says softly.

  “All the guys were diving. We hadn’t heard yet that Ray’s injury during the game was bad enough to keep him out the whole season. I remember Liz sat watching her phone instead of swimming, waiting to hear. We were listening to some dance music, and the guys lowered the water in the pool by a foot doing cannonballs. I thought everyone was having a good time.”

  “Sounds fun,” Bodee says.

  “It was. Except over in the glider, Heather and Collie started arguing. And then Kayla got miffed at Craig, because he was spending time with the guys after the game instead of her. I didn’t know their lives were falling apart; I was just thinking that Dane had been awfully flirty with me and wondering what that meant.”

  “You liked Dane?” Bodee asks.

  “I liked the idea of him. At the time,” I say.

  “Then almost at the same time, Heather slaps Collie, and there’s this huge scene. And then Kayla starts yelling at Craig, and she drives off in a huff to some girl’s house for the night. Craig is pissed, super pissed, that Kayla broke up with him in front of his guys, and Heather tells everyone she never wants to speak to Collie again. Selfish asshole, she calls him; and she leaves. That kills the party. Kills it. And then before I know it . . .”

  “You’re alone with a rapi—,” Bodee says, after I can’t finish the sentence.

  “Yes.” I cut him off before he can finish the R word. “Mom and Dad had gone on to bed because Kayla and Craig were there.” Bodee can’t see my eyes, or the tears that don’t fall, but he puts an arm around my shoulders.

  “But we’d been alone tons of times. He was hurting, and I hated to see him hurt like that. So I pulled up a chair next to his. We talked about the game, and girls, and why girls are so complicated and guys are so simple. And I said she’d forgive him.”

  “Did you believe it?”

  “She always had before,” I say. “But he didn’t think so. ‘This is the end. The real end,’ he said over and over. And he was so upset. I couldn’t convince him.”

  As I talk and remember his words and his rawness, the gap between the story I’m telling and the story I lived narrows. “He stands up behind me, and I hear the metal legs of the chair scrape on the concrete, and then he’s gripping my shoulders, massaging them. The music is still on. “

  “Did that worry you?” Bodee asks.

  “No. We were comfortable with each other. Honestly, I didn’t think much about it.”

  Not at first.

  I remember his strong, tense hands gripping my shoulders, and the memory pulls me back into the smell and feel of July. He’s kneading my muscles and dipping lower. Lower than is comfortable for me, but he’s not thinking of me. He’s just distracted from the pain of losing her, and I don’t tell him it hurts a little.

  But then hi
s hands aren’t just on my shoulders.

  “He started touching me. Lower. Not my shoulders. And then he pulled me out of my chair,” I say. Beside me, Bodee twitches, and I’m conscious of his tension.

  That night I feel his tension. Shock holds me in place, and I don’t move away. I’m still wet from my last dip in the pool; my hair sprays droplets of water, my feet leave wet footprints as he spins me around to face him.

  “‘You look alike,’ he tells me. I tell him my hair’s longer than hers. That she’s prettier.”

  “Can’t be,” Bodee says.

  “It’s all so weird, so impossible, I can’t speak when he touches me. We’ve always been friends. Always.” Past and present blur as I say, “But tonight he can’t wait to be okay; he kisses me. My neck. My cheeks. My mouth. I struggle a little and try to say she’ll come back, but I can’t.”

  “She didn’t come back,” Bodee says.

  “Not that night,” I say.

  Not when he guides me to the back corner of the deck. Not when he slips my one-piece down and lays me back.

  And I let him. Allowed him. We weren’t drunk, and I didn’t want him. So why? That question won’t go away.

  Bodee squeezes my hand and lets me know I can finish. And I want to. This telling—every word of it—is like tearing a strip of duct tape from my skin. “When I hear him rip the plastic of the condom wrapper, that’s when I’m aware, that’s when I really understand what he wants.” The tears I’ve tried so hard to hold back flood my cheeks. “I’m not that girl, but I can’t tell him no. The why of it doesn’t make sense now, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t stop him. And I hate that I didn’t. Bodee, I let him.”

  “Lex, this is not your fault. He took advantage of you, of your vulnerability.”

  “I appreciate you . . . defending me, but . . . I was there.”

  And I’m there again. This is the reality of my world: the scent, the tearing cellophane, the snap as the condom stretches into 3-D protection. Not bought for me; not meant for me, but at that moment it doesn’t matter to him. His eyes are closed, his breath is in my face, his arms strain to hold his weight, and he forces himself inside me.

  And he doesn’t fit. Even after he moves, he doesn’t fit.