Who R U Really?

by Margo Kelly

  “Thea, I love you. I always will. My life is nothing without you. Tell me you still love me.”

  I had to calm him somehow and convince him to move back. And . . . sometimes lying was easier than confrontation.

  “I still love you,” I said in a breath while setting my hands on top of his.

  He grinned, but his mustache still drooped, and I could see each and every one of the greasy blackheads along the rim of his nose. He lifted one hand to my face and cupped my cheek. Then he traced his thumb along my jawline and paused beneath my lip. He leaned in.

  No.

  Air puffed from my nose.

  I did not want this to be my first kiss.

  He closed the distance between us; one hand behind my head pulled me closer; the other hand fingered the wretched scarf beneath my chin. He pressed his lips to mine. The coarse wiry mustache stabbed my skin, and I thought for sure I would vomit. But I didn’t respond at all. And in that moment he knew the truth. I did not love him. How could I?

  Jackson jerked back and belted his open hand across my face. The blow threw me off the swing, my foot tangling in the seat. The world darkened, and I worried I would pass out. I lifted to my elbows. He grabbed me by the front of my jacket and dragged me to the side of the school building, more secluded from view.

  “Wait.” The word sputtered through a mouthful of blood.

  He backhanded me, and I fell on a soft pillow of leaves. He ripped open my jacket and pinned my arms above my head.

  “You said you loved me.” His eyes flared wide. And I finally knew. This is what ugly looked like.

  Jackson held my wrists with just one of his massive hands. With the other, he tore open his wool jacket, and in a flash—before I had a chance to react—he threw off one side of his coat, changed hands, and threw off the other side. He bent down, restrained me again, and worked at the zipper of my pants.

  I struggled against him and remembered Mom telling me how she’d been attacked on the college campus. She’d been lucky, saved by other students. No one was coming to save me, and I couldn’t recall anything that I’d learned in the self-defense classes.

  His classes.

  But then I remembered something . . . and went limp.

  He paused to reevaluate my actions, and in that second, I rammed my knee into his groin. He loosened his hold on me, and I chopped the edge of my hand into his solid neck. He batted it away like a fly. I shoved the heel of my hand into his chin, but he slapped me with so much force my ears whistled.

  He pinned me again and yanked at the waist of my pants.

  I closed my eyes, and an image of Mom floated into my mind. The moment the police tell her I’m dead. The agony on her face. I loved her too much to let that come true. It could not happen this way. Not here in the schoolyard. I imagined where Mom was now. At the store? Did she park at the farthest end of the lot? Wherever she was, she was too far away, and I was alone. Somewhere inside of me had to be the strength I needed to save myself. But I wasn’t sure I could do this on my own. I said a prayer.

  And then I heard a sound. All of the women—mothers, daughters, grandmothers—from the self-defense class yelling and clapping and cheering me on. I focused and drew from their energy and strength. No more intimidation. No more good girls. Our energy combined, we were a tough team to crack. I would not be broken. I opened my eyes and started screaming at the top of my lungs. Shocked, Jackson fought to keep me pinned, but I twisted and kicked and flailed my arms. He moved quickly against my every effort.

  “Stop fighting me!” he yelled. He continued to straddle my waist, and I continued to scream. My lungs ached from the cold air. He backhanded me, again, but before he could restrain my hands once more, I shoved my thumbs into his eye sockets. I remembered Mom’s strength in her final self-defense test. With my legs, I reached up and wrapped them around his torso. I thanked Coach Gavyn for making me run stair laps. I used all of my lower body strength to try to rock Jackson backward. But he was too big.

  I reached deeper and channeled my mother’s life force. I needed her help. In the distance, I heard her vicious primal scream—a gut wrenching roar of defiance—and I jerked my head to the right expecting to see her running up behind Jackson, coming to save my life. But she wasn’t there, at least not in body. And it wasn’t her screaming. It was me. Triumphant energy surged through me like a firestorm, and I realized: I am my mother’s daughter. I roared even louder.

  Jackson rotated to see what I was yelling at, and in that moment, he tipped off balance. I pulled his torso back with my legs. I threw myself forward, and I pounded my fists into his groin. He let out a monstrous moan and cupped his balls. I pulled myself out from under him and ran for the front of the school.

  My shoes pounded against the pavement of the parking lot and kicked up loose gravel bits. I ran even faster when I heard Jackson’s feet hit the gravel behind me. Before I could figure out where my steps were taking me, Jackson grabbed my ponytail and yanked me backward. I stumbled and fell to the ground.

  Exhausted, I didn’t know how much longer I could keep fighting him, but surely he was getting tired, too.

  Any passing car would be able to see us fighting in the middle of the parking lot, but there were no cars. He sat on top of me again, and in slow motion, he balled up his fist and cocked it back . . . if he landed the blow, I knew he would knock me unconscious. I wouldn’t let that happen. I clutched his other arm and brought it to my mouth. I bit down with all my strength, and my teeth sank into his muscle. My mouth filled with warm fleshy tissue, and the metallic tang of his blood competed with the sour milk stench of his skin. I struggled against my own gag reflex and clamped my teeth down even harder. He still punched me, but instead of hitting my head, he hit my shoulder. Pain shot down my entire arm, and it went numb. I was running out of time.

  He grabbed his arm where I’d bit him. A large chunk of flesh hung loosely and blood oozed down his hand. I took advantage of the moment and threw some loose gravel into his eyes. He yelled and bent sideways. I squirmed out from under him and took off running again. I didn’t look back.

  I knew where my steps were taking me now. The only place they could: home.

  I ran faster and harder. Tears streamed down my face, but I didn’t care anymore. I knew I wasn’t weak, and I gave myself permission to cry. And I just kept running. I didn’t want to know if he was following or how close he was behind me.

  My house was within sight, and the cars were in the driveway.

  My family was home.

  The front door flew open, and Seth yelled, “What the hell?” He put his hands out like he was going to touch me, but then he pulled back. I waited there panting, unable to speak. Seth yelled into the house, “Mom! Dad!” A tear slid down his cheek, and his hand covered his mouth.

  A car pulled up to the curb behind me, and I freaked. I jerked around to see if it was Jackson. But it wasn’t. Tim stepped out of the car. His mouth dropped open when we made eye contact, and he came no closer. My parents burst out onto the porch, but stopped in their tracks and stared. None of them said anything, at first.

  Then, Mom said, “Robert, call the police. Seth, get a blanket.” She gingerly took me in her arms like she was afraid she’d break me. I sobbed and buried my face in her shoulder. That’s when I realized I was a bloody swollen mess, because I ruined the shirt Mom wore with the blood from my face.

  Mom guided me to the family room and sat me on the couch, never releasing her arm from my shoulders. My body trembled from the exhaustion and the adrenaline. Seth brought a blanket and draped it around me. I wondered where my winter coat was . . . and noticed my shirt had been ripped wide open . . . and that the horrible pink noose still hung around my neck. I swiped at it.

  “Get it off. Get it off!”

  Mom untied the scarf and tossed it aside. “You’re safe now. You’re home,” she said and smoothed my hair.

  “The police will be here soon,” Dad said.

  Between sobs, I choked o
ut the words, “It was Jackson.”

  “What?” Mom asked.

  “It was Jackson.”

  “Who the hell is Jackson?” Dad asked.

  Mom covered her mouth and staggered away from the couch. A few feet away, she let out an agonizing scream that dropped her to her knees. Dad ran to her and clutched her face in his hands.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “The self-defense instructor,” she yelled. “I’m the one who told him Thea played Skadi.” She pounded her fist against her chest. “I’m the one who told him personal things about her. This is my fault.” He embraced her.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered.

  Both she and Dad turned to me and stared for a brief moment, and then Mom rushed back to my side. “This is not your fault.” She rocked me, and we sobbed together. “Everything’s going to be okay. We will get through this together,” she said.

  The police and the ambulance arrived minutes later. Two EMTs cared for my cuts and wounds while the police asked me questions about the attack. The EMTs insisted on taking me to the hospital to finish treating my facial wounds and to x-ray my shoulder.

  I rose from the couch, and Dad wrapped his arms around me. “Thea, I’m so proud of you. You are the strongest young woman ever.” He escorted me outside and helped me into the ambulance.

  Tim pushed past the EMTs and climbed in next to me. He wrapped his hands around mine and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “I’m okay,” I said, but then corrected my lie. “I will be . . . okay.”

  He nodded and held my hands tighter, unable to speak. A tear dropped from my eye onto our clutched hands.

  The police officer came over toward us. He finished saying something into his radio, and then he said the three most beautiful words in the world to me:

  “We caught him.”

  EPILOGUE

  Some old dead guy once said a journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step. Obviously. I only wish I’d noticed sooner where mine were taking me last winter.

  The next year was long and hard, but it was good, too. Janie and I graduated from our counseling sessions. She spent several months in a clinic and then attended private and group counseling. She looks better than ever with her black bouncy ringlets and designer clothes. I went through a couple of counselors before we found one that was helpful, but once we did, I made amazing progress in my own recovery. I still have occasional nightmares about Derek attacking me, but I know that whatever happens to me, I am strong enough to handle it.

  Since the police caught him that day, Derek Felton, also known as Derek Jackson, was prosecuted for six different counts of statutory rape and one first-degree murder. When my story had hit the news, other girls came forward and shared their stories. They each thought they were alone. I had not been his first victim, but hopefully, I would be his last.

  The police used DNA evidence to connect him to the death of Red in Hawaii.

  I still can’t wrap my brain around the fact that Kitsuneshin—the guy I’d met playing an innocent online game, the guy I’d debated song lyrics with late into the night, and the first guy to ever tell me he loved me—was capable of something so horrible as murder. My skin crawls when I wonder how I could have been so wrong about him. Red didn’t deserve to die. And I still think of her as a friend. We both loved quotes. I knew her real name. I knew where she lived. And her parents took the time to call me. They thanked me for helping solve Lokelani’s case, and I apologized to them for not speaking up sooner. We cried on the phone together, and they told me about the daughter they cherished. That could have been me. I came so close to dying. But it helps knowing Jackson will spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Officer Ford taught an Internet safety class during school today. I sat in shock while he described Internet predators and how they manipulate kids. On one hand I felt like he was talking specifically about Derek and what he did to me. On the other hand, I felt like I didn’t hear a word Officer Ford said because I was too busy floating above my own body remembering the events. I still couldn’t believe it happened to me. I couldn’t believe how stupid I was. Mom keeps telling me I wasn’t stupid, only naive, and that there’s a difference between the two.

  My counselor said learning from the experience is what matters, because if I grow from it, I can become a better person. But if I don’t learn anything, she warned, I’ll continue to struggle with the same problems over and over. This was a journey I wish I’d never taken, but I can’t change the past. I can only change today, one step at a time.

  Tim and I have agreed to be friends and wait a while to date. What’s the rush? Of course, we’re friends who happen to hold hands when we walk together, and we happen to sit side by side whenever we eat lunch together, which happens to be every day at school.

  And, my favorite quote from the last year?

  It would be such a disgrace, if I fell short and you were not safe.—Lauren Harper

  About the Author

  Margo Kelly is a native of the Northwest, and she has enjoyed a career that has included motivational speaking for business people, church groups, and teenagers. Now that her own children are out of the house, she has decided to actively pursue her love of writing. She has written several young adult novels and is plotting the next one. Margo welcomes opportunities to speak to youth groups, library groups, books clubs, and school assemblies. You may contact her at www.margokelly.net.

  Acknowledgments

  I have been blessed to be surrounded by wonderful people during the process of creating and publishing this story. A big thank you to the team at Merit Press, especially Jacquelyn Mitchard for her editorial insight, Frank Rivera for an amazing cover, and Diane Durrett for her polishing expertise.

  When it comes to agents, I snagged the best one. Brianne Johnson has been an unparalleled advocate in my corner. Her insight and enthusiasm for this story took it to a whole new level.

  My gratitude is endless for my personal cheerleaders and early readers: Wannetta Cooke, Kevin Kolditz, Brooke Hofhine, Lara Leigh Hansen, Jill Koudelka, Gary & Nancy Kelly, Jami Harris, John Cooke, Artemis Grey, Shelby Engstrom, Mary Buersmeyer, Katharine Cecil, Shannon Eckrich, Lisa Terada, Alison Miller, Holly Barnes, and Natalie Malm.

  Melissa Dean was my first critique partner, and I loved her from moment one. We had the opportunity to meet in person at a writers’ conference, and we were instant friends. She has been a huge support along this path to publication. Christi Corbett was my second critique partner, and she never hesitated to call me out on plot and character details that needed improvement. These ladies have been the best critique partners in the world, and I truly appreciated all of the time they spent helping me improve this story.

  And finally, huge thanks to my family: Christopher, Mitchell, Jacob, and Katie. I struck gold when they came into my life; their encouragement and love means the world to me.

  Copyright © 2014 by Margo Kelly.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Merit Press

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.meritpressbooks.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7276-3

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7276-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7277-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7277-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kelly, Margo.

  Who R U really? / Margo Kelly.

  pages cm

  Summary: When the boy she likes at school disappoints her, fourteen-year-old Thea connects with a fellow player of the online game, Skadi, but although he claims to love her she becomes more and more uncomfortable with him and has to cover up their relationship.

  ISBN 978-1-4405-7276-0 (hc)
-- ISBN 1-4405-7276-3 (hc) -- ISBN 978-1-4405-7277-7 (ebook) -- ISBN 1-4405-7277-1 (ebook)

  [1. High schools--Fiction. 2. Schools--Fiction. 3. Internet games--Fiction. 4. Family life--Fiction. 5. Online identities--Fiction. 6. Online sexual predators--Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Who are you really?

  PZ7.K296393Who 2014

  [Fic]--dc23

  2014013255

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their product are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.

  Cover design by Frank Rivera.

  Cover images © Aliaksei Lasevich/123RF; Cathy Yeulet/123RF.