by Ward, H. M.
This time when I close my eyes, I’m granted a reprieve. Instead of reliving the same nightmare over again, I see Peter’s easy smile. I fall asleep thinking about my body twirling and his strong hands guiding me.
CHAPTER 12
A few weeks roll by and the last of the winter weather is gone. Spring is here. Trees are budding and there are flowers everywhere. The campus is covered in bright, beautiful, colors. It seems to make everyone extra smitten. Couples walk around totally love-struck, not paying attention to anything but each other.
Working for Peter has gotten better, less uncomfortable. I hate to admit it, but I like him. He’s a good teacher and laid-back most of the time. It works out well since I’m usually as tense as a totem pole. Being around him soothes me. I don’t feel as on edge as I usually do. I wonder if he notices things like that. Sometimes I think Peter doesn’t notice much, but I think that’s what he wants me think.
It’s nearly dinner time. I’m on my way to my night class, but stop to check my mail first. I wave at a few people as I walk into the campus center and find my mail box. I turn the little lockbox dial, pull open the door, and yank out the mail. I slap the door shut and walk over to the table to sort it and toss junk mail.
Dusty sees me. He walks over and stands at the table opposite me. “Hey, Sidney.”
We haven’t spoken since our ill-fated date, which has been hard to pull off since he’s in one of my classes. “Hey.”
“I need to apologize. I screwed up the night we met. I shouldn’t have—”
I so don’t want to talk about this. I wave my hands, motioning for him to stop. “No, it was my fault. I—”
“It was not your fault. Come on. Let me say this. I’ve been trying to say it to you for way too long.” I look at him and nod even though I want to bolt. “I was an ass. I shouldn’t have assumed anything, but I did. I’m sorry, Sidney.”
I glance at the mail in my hands as he speaks. Dusty’s words are familiar. I’ve heard them before from another set of lips, from someone equally sweet. Appearances can be deceiving. I look up at him and nod. “Okay. Do me a favor though and let’s just start over?” I don’t want to start over, but he’s been following me around, trying to apologize for too long to blow him off.
Dusty smiles. “Sounds good.” He looks at the mail in my hands and then back up at my face. “You headed to class?” I nod. “Me too. I’ll walk over with you.”
Great. “Uh, okay. Sure.” As I wait for Dusty to check his mail, I look at the letters in my hands. I toss a bunch of junk mail and then freeze on the last envelope. I recognize the handwriting. I stare at it, unblinking. A wave of shock nearly knocks me over. He found me.
“Ready?” Dusty asks.
I stuff the letter into my book, and nod. As we walk to class, I don’t say much. Dusty talks and I listen, or try to….but that letter. Oh my god. It’s been over four years. Why would he send a letter? Why now? I’m nervous, so tense that I don’t realize that we’ve entered the classroom and that Peter is talking to me.
Peter’s hand lands on my shoulder and I jump. My feet literally trip back and I gasp. Peter steps back and lifts his hands, showing me his palms. “Easy, Sidney. Are you all right?” He looks concerned.
The class is watching us. I feel eyes on me. Too many people are looking. I find my plastic smile and put it on. I nod and laugh about being spaced-out. Dusty laughs with me, but Peter doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t tell me, in fact, he says the opposite. Peter even smiles, but I can read him. He’ll ask me about it later, after everyone leaves.
It feels like I’m wearing a turtleneck made of thorns. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. Every time I touch my textbook, I feel the letter through the pages, burning a hole in my hand. I shouldn’t read it. I shouldn’t.
But what if it’s important? What if—?
Don’t read it. It’s not worth it.
The internal debate continues in my mind. I stare blankly. The lesson continues around me, but I don’t notice. Students talk. Someone laughs. A girl’s voice rings in my ears a few moments later, but I have no idea what she said or what Peter said. The letter consumes me.
My palm is pressed to the pages. My fingers twitch. Halfway through class, Peter calls on me. I don’t hear him. My gaze is on the floor and totally vacant. I don’t realize he’s standing in front of me until I see his shoes. I look up. “Sorry. What was that?”
He smiles at me and points to my textbook, which is open to the wrong page. Peter gives me a look, but doesn’t say anything. “We’re talking about poems. Dusty said they’re emotional crap used to lure in women, that no guy in his right mind would ever write a poem on his own without an incentive.”
I blink. “An incentive?”
Dusty is sitting two rows behind me. “He’s saying it nicely. What I said was that no guy would write a poem for no reason. The poet in this case obviously wanted to get laid.”
“Very eloquent,” Peter says, and shakes his head. Folding his arms across his chest, Peter looks down at me. “And what do you say, Sidney?”
I make a face and look back at Dusty. “Not that.” I turn back to Peter. “A poem is an expression of emotions. It’s condensed language. At its core…” My vision goes black at the edges. I wrote poems. I vividly remember what happened the day I wrote the last poem. The choking sensation doesn’t stop. I can still feel his hands on me. I swallow my gasp and ignore the cold sweat on my back. Clearing my throat, I add, “At the core of poetry is purity—pure emotion, pure desire, pure elation, pure—”
Dusty speaks out, “So a poem can’t be filled with lies? What if the guy just wants to nail you? What if it’s all pretty words? You really think that ancient guys didn’t write this stuff to get a little action? Come on, Sidney, you’re smarter than that.”
Dusty’s words echo in my mind, wakening memories long buried. I clutch the side of my face and sputter, “Oh, come on, yourself. Not every guy is a bastard, Dusty. Isn’t it possible that some poems were written because they were cathartic and had nothing to do with panties?”
He says something back. A few guys chuckle. I close my eyes hard, but the classroom tilts to the side. It doesn’t stop. Dusty’s words ring in my ear, as a buzzing sound grows louder. What the hell is the matter with me? It’s just a letter. Dusty’s just a dick. I already know that. Nothing is going to hurt me, but I feel so threatened. I chase away the panic that’s consuming me and finally hear Dusty again. “…they did it then and they do it now. Guys don’t write poems for themselves. They do it to get laid. If they need an emotional outlet, they punch shit.”
For some reason, this conversation dredges up everything. Before I know what’s happening, I’m gasping, clutching my desk so hard that my fingers turn white. Peter is watching me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t silence Dusty. I stare at Peter’s shoe and try to take long steady breaths. I’m going to have an anxiety attack and freak out in class. My heart is pounding, beating way too fast. A bead of sweat drips next to my ear and rolls down my jaw.
Peter cuts off the conversation. “So all the men in this room feel that way?” I hear movement, but don’t look up. “Very well. For the rest of this class period you are to go to the library and write a poem. It cannot be for a woman and it has to be an expression of emotion. It’s due on my desk at the end of the period. Bring it back here. Got it?” There’s a lot of groaning, and then the sound of chairs moving.
I try to push back and stand, but I barely move before Peter says, “Sidney, I need to speak with you. Stay put for a moment.”
Peter follows the class out of the room, and answers a few questions, telling them to return at 9:20pm with the poem. He tells them if they put in the effort, they get credit. No, length doesn’t matter. A few guys snigger about the size not mattering. Peter responds by telling them that they have to turn in two poems. I hear curses and then silence.
No one is in the room. At some point, I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes.
�
�Sidney?” Peter’s voice is gentle. When I open my eyes, he’s kneeling in front of my desk. His eyes sweep over my face, worried. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Are you all right?”
I sit up and nod. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”
Peter’s gaze is filled with concern. He reads me perfectly. He knows that I’m lying. I see it in that sad crooked smile he gives me. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You’re still pale. Sit for a while.” Peter stands and walks over to his bag, and pulls out a Hershey bar. He walks back to me and holds it out. “Here, eat this.”
I take it and sit up straighter. I’m hoping I can blame this on low blood sugar. “You carry around chocolate in your briefcase?”
He smirks as I bite into it. “Maybe. Truth is, that was going to be my dinner.”
“Oh.” I go to hand it back to him. There’s a big bite mark in it. I have a huge mouth. Peter’s hands brush against mine. Gently, he pushes the candy back to me.
“You finish it.” His hands are still on mine. Peter looks into my face, trying to catch my gaze. “What set you off? It was as if you were somewhere else for a minute.”
I don’t look at him. Shoving the candy bar in my mouth, I bite down. The chocolate tastes like sand. I can’t think about it. I try to push away the past, but I’m caught in a bear hug. The beast has left the leash. I’m speaking. I don’t know why, but I nod. “I was. I’m sorry. It reminded me of something.”
Peter squeezes my hands. I glance up at him and our eyes lock. My stomach flutters. He holds my gaze and doesn’t look away. Peter breathes, and his voice is so soft. “Can I help you?” My gaze shifts back and forth between his blue eyes. I press my lips together and fight off the emotions he’s making me feel. I can’t feel them. Not now. Not ever. I shake my head so softly that I hardly move.
A sad smile moves across Peter’s lips. “I wish I could.” I say nothing. I can’t speak. I have no voice. I just stare at his dark blue eyes. It feels as though I let the lifeboat sail away. I’m drowning in a sea of pain. He reached out, but I can’t take his hand. I can’t tell him what happened, and he can’t fix it. Even if Peter knows, no one can change the past.
A girl walks in behind him. I barely notice her. “Dr. Granz?”
Peter startles and turns around. The girl doesn’t think his behavior is strange, but Peter is too nervous. I see it. I see the way his shoulders tense, the way he slips his hands into his pockets, and the way he steps between us. She’s holding her text book, asking something about Iambic Pentameter and rhyme schemes. He tells her that neither is required for the assignment. The girl’s head nearly blows up.
Peter answers her questions as I finish my candy bar. When I’m done, I go to stand up. Peter points at me and says, “I can’t let you leave. Sit. Finish the assignment in here.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but my voice is wrong. It doesn’t come out when I try to speak at a normal volume.
The girl looks back at me. “You look feverish. Do you need an aspirin or something? I have one in my purse.”
“No, thanks, I’m okay.” Aspirin won’t fix what’s wrong with me.
The girl nods and walks to the door. Before she leaves, she looks back. “Better do what he says or you’ll end up in the nurse’s office overnight. I’ve done that before and it sucks. The cots are horrible.”
I nod and watch her walk away. Glancing at Peter, I say, “I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re a horrible liar. Just sit and write your poem. I won’t bother you.”
I want to say that he always bothers me. I want to say that he’s a huge distraction, but I don’t. I roll my eyes and pull out a sheet of paper. I start writing without thinking. It isn’t until I’m done that I realize what I’ve written.
I’m staring at the page when Peter looks up at me from his desk. “Done already?”
I laugh. “No. I’m going to rewrite it.” I crumple up the page and toss it. The paper sails through the air and bounces off the side of the trash can by the door, and falls on the floor. I jump out of my seat at the same time as Peter. We both head toward the paper, but Peter gets it first.
He smoothes it out. “I’m sure it’s fine. It doesn’t have to be perfect. The purpose was to—”
My stomach is crawling up my throat, and ice is dripping down my spine. I’m stupid. I’m so stupid. I could act like it’s nothing and maybe he won’t even read it. But I know if I fight with him, if I try to take the paper back, he’ll know how messed up I am—he’ll know the things on the paper are more than just a creative exercise. Why did I write that?
Peter’s smile fades as his eyes fall to the page in his hands. He stills. His eyes don’t move. It doesn’t look like he’s reading, but I know he sees it. Peter lifts his gaze slowly. I’m holding one arm with my hand, digging my nails in so hard I’ll draw blood. “Sidney—”
“I don’t… ” my mouth is open, but the rest of the words won’t come. Deny it. Say that it doesn’t mean anything. Say it. But I can’t. I can’t even look at him. I don’t say anything. I’m trembling even though I try not to move. It’s like a chill has swallowed me whole. I’m frozen. Every muscle in my body is locked. I can’t speak, I can’t move. This shouldn’t have happened. I can’t handle it.
Peter is staring at me with his eyes so big and blue. If he didn’t see straight through me before, he does now. Peter looks at the paper in his hands. His grip is loose, as if the poem might bite him. “I had no idea...”
“Stop.” My voice shakes. I curse my body, curse the memories that never fade away. “Don’t, okay? It’s nothing.” I don’t look at his eyes. My gaze is locked on Peter’s chest. If I look into his face, I’ll crumble. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bunch of words on a piece of paper.”
I try to sound as though it’s nothing, as if I write intense poems all the time. I pretend that I didn’t just bleed my heart out onto a sheet of loose leaf. What the fuck is wrong with me? I pretend. I throw on my fake smile and stare at his shoes. I try to lift my gaze, but it feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my head.
“That’s not what this is.” Peter’s eyes are locked on my face. I’m breathing too fast, but every time I try to slow it down, it just gets worse.
“How would you know what it is or what it isn’t?” I look up at him. Mistake. His expression, those haunted blue eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he looks at me—it’s like he knows. My fingers twitch by my sides. “I’m not standing here. I’m not having this conversation with you. I don’t have to listen to you pretend to care about me.” I turn around to grab my books. I gather them into my arms and head toward the door.
Just as I’m about to pull it open, Peter says, “I’m not pretending.”
His eyes are on my back. My spine is so stiff and so brittle. There’s too much pressure on me. I’m cracking, splintering in a million different directions at once. There’s not one weak spot anymore. Weakness consumes me whole. “Don’t say things like that to me.”
Peter steps closer. I hear his steps traveling toward me. Slowly, he takes another step. His voice catches in his throat when he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you that night. I wasn’t myself—”
“Neither was I. It’s fine.”
“But it’s not.” Peter’s directly behind me. I won’t turn. It doesn’t matter what he says. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. “I didn’t know, then. I didn’t know how smart you are. I didn’t know you hide behind that sharp tongue. I didn’t know why you were down here, and I had no idea why you sat down at my table, but I was glad you did. I’ve thought about that night over and over again. I wonder what would have happened to us if the phone didn’t ring. I wonder what it would feel like to hold you again. I think things that I shouldn’t. I dream things that I shouldn’t. I want things that I shouldn’t and it’s all because of one reason—I do care about you.”
I gasp as if someone punched me in the stomach.
I hold onto the door to keep from falling over. I look over my shoulder at him. Peter means what he says. I see it in his eyes. Chills race over my skin. I stand there too long, staring at him in shock.
Peter taps the wrinkled paper in his hand. “Please tell me that this didn’t happen in the last few weeks. Tell me that this isn’t because of something that I did.”
I stare at his face. I stare and drink him in like I’m dying of thirst. Shock has rendered me silent. My hand drops from the door. My lungs heave in air as I turn to lean back against the door. I hit it too hard and my weight pushes the door open. I start to fall backward. Peter reaches for me. His hands slip around my waist and he pulls me toward him, pulling me upright. The door clicks shut. He doesn’t let go. His eyes are locked with mine. His body is pressed tightly against mine. Our gazes meet.
“Don’t tell me that you’re all right. I know you aren’t... There’s something about you.” Peter takes a deep breath and lowers his gaze. When he looks up again, he says, “And I can tell.”
My lips twitch like they want to spill my guts, so I lock my jaw. I shake my head and try to pull out of his arms. Peter doesn’t allow me to step back. “Part of the poem is about you. Part of it isn’t.” Part of it’s about Peter, and part of it’s about them.
I’m hyperaware of my body, of my breaths that seem too long, but not long enough. I can’t breathe. I haven’t spoken about that night since it happened.
Peter’s eyes remain fixed on my face. “The part at the beginning of your poem—the starting over, the tender kisses, the girlish giggles—that part is about me?” I nod. I hate myself, but I nod. “The part after that with the starving kisses, clawing hands, the taking without giving…” he’s breathing hard. Peter’s lips mash together before he speaks again. “This is about rape. Sidney, if some guy did something to you—”
I lean into him. I press my face against his chest. Peter’s heart is beating so fast. “They’re old wounds,” I tell him. “I wrote without thinking. It’s what poured onto the paper.” I take a deep breath and pull away. Peter releases me. “That part had nothing to do with you or your coffee from that night.” The corner of my mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile. It’s the saddest smile ever. Peter’s expression says as much.