Picturing You

by Rowan Connell

  Later, though, when Marissa’s group catches me coming out of my last class before lunch, they seem intent on proving that Luke’s speech had no effect on them: they’re still giving it their all. Marissa isn’t with them, but even without her fondness for one-liners, they’ve created a new tagline for me, and it hurts far more than anything else flung carelessly my way. “Like father, like daughter.” That’s what they’re saying. The echoes of the past—mine and Luke’s—have become solid once more, but this time, I get to bear both sets of sins: the seducer they believed my father to be—and which he most likely was—and the role of The Other Woman, previously played by Luke’s mom. Does this mean I’ll have to run away, too, and leave Luke behind?

  Running might qualify as a legitimate option, but only if it meant I didn’t have to lose Luke. To me, he’s worth every ounce of the pain.

  Until…maybe he isn’t.

  I make it past Marissa’s friends, their final slurs echoing in my ears: the weakly creative “Whore of Babylon,” along with the bitingly painful “Daddy’s Little Girl.” The mask of disdain I’ve worn to get through the onslaught is crumbling as I turn the corner and almost slam into Marissa herself.

  She takes a look at whatever pain is showing in my face and stands there, staring at me, her features hard and unreadable.

  “I know why you’re sad,” she says. “I hear the names everyone’s calling you.”

  I stare back at her. This can’t be sympathy. Letting down my guard would be a fatal error.

  “It must hurt,” she says, and my shoulders relax ever so slightly, despite my wariness. “I mean, I’ve heard the stories about how you supposedly tricked Luke into having sex with you while you were lost: messed with him when he was half-conscious from the car wreck, got him drunk, climbed onto him while he was asleep or something.”

  Her tone has picked up a slight edge. It could turn into a blade easily enough. She pauses, and I wait.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care that they’re saying those things about you. I kind of enjoy it, to be honest. But if I believed any of it?” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, because I know the truth: nothing happened.”

  My curiosity has been piqued. She waits for me to respond, but I’m too interested in seeing where this is going to risk altering the conversation’s course.

  “I know that,” she says, “because for one thing, he’d never cheat on me with a freak. I mean, look at you.” Her gaze goes up and down the length of me: nerdy cardigan over a baby doll dress, black tights, Doc boots. “And, for another, even if the others think you’re a whore, you’re really only a prude.”

  She says it and waits, like she’s prepared for that final word to have a big impact, and maybe, because I stay silent after she says it, she thinks it’s hit its mark. It hasn’t, but I can’t stop thinking of the word. Prude. It’s a strange thing for one girl to call another, but it’s also familiar. It’s the word Evan chose when he was trying to pressure me into sleeping with him. It’s a word that didn’t work then, and it’s a word that doesn’t work now.

  I shrug, and a strange, sickly flush of red creeps beneath her makeup.

  “That photo the other day?” she says. “It proves nothing, except that Luke was feeling sorry for you. He used to protect you when we were all younger; I remember that. Nothing’s changed: he still pities you.”

  I know this isn’t true, but I’m shaken, anyway. She’s probably not the only one who will have that thought.

  The quips Marissa used to hurl at me—Ding dong the witch is here, and Vampira lives, or Why is every day Halloween?—were irritating but not all that surprising. She’s showing a knack for the cutting comments, though.

  “We don’t need to do this,” I tell her. “Luke broke up with you before he left; we both know it. He freed himself. His choices are his own, and it’s not my fault if he isn’t choosing you.”

  Marissa grits her teeth, looking like she’s preparing to dislodge her jaw—which I don’t think snakes can actually do, but she just might. “Even if Luke did go for you in the car the other day, or if something actually happened while you were lost, it was only because you were there and he was lonely. If he wasn’t so messed up about his mom, he wouldn’t have gone on the ski trip, and he would never have even looked at you.”

  She could be right about the last part. Still, I have her on the bit about his mom. “Luke’s mom left when he was ten. Maybe he’s still hurt by it, but you can hardly use that—”

  She forces her eyes to widen, her lips to part. I recognize the expression for what it is: play acting, a mockery of innocence. “Oh, you don’t know? Luke’s mom’s been calling him. She wanted to see him after Christmas, and that’s the only reason he went away. Otherwise, he would’ve been here, with me, all along.”

  I try to think of a comeback—something about how Luke went on the ski trip to get away from Marissa, rather than his mom—but the air’s gone out of me. I’m deflated, empty.

  She takes a look at the injury she’s inflicted, at however my face is betraying my wound, and smiles. I’ve never before seen pleasure and loathing embodied so completely in a grin.

  And people think I’m dark.

  “If you and Luke are oh-so close, shouldn’t he have told you about his mom?” she asks. “He told me…and that should tell you something.”

  She’s right; it does. I just don’t want to think about what that something is.

  “And you know what else?” she continues, because why stop while you’re ahead? “Even if you had screwed him while you were trapped in that cabin, I was his first. You can never have that. No one can.”

  Her eyes have become desperate; there’s a wildness in them. Either she doesn’t know the truth—that he’d hooked up with some stranger at a party before her—or maybe she does and still hopes to hold this over me. I’m too numb to care. She can have this one.

  “He’ll come back to me. He always does,” she says, getting in her final dig, “and you won’t even be an afterthought.”

  I give her a last, hollow gaze, and walk away. She thinks she’s won, and I can’t say she’s wrong.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Marissa’s words are haunting me, but they’re not the only ones. I keep thinking about what Luke said when we first came home, about how we took things fast in the mountains and should slow down. There was nothing slow about this morning, aside from some intensely savored moments, so what does he really want? And if he’s interested in a relationship with me, why did he choose to share what must be painful, deeply private information with Marissa, instead?

  I find myself standing outside the auditorium before lunch, as planned, though I’m pretty sure I no longer intend to meet Luke. I feel raw, maimed, like maybe I’m bleeding from the ears. Not ready to face him, that’s for sure.

  Where are you? he texts.

  My notification dings, and while I’m staring down at the screen, unable to form a response, one of the auditorium doors opens a crack.

  “Hey,” Luke whispers, a bright smile on his face. “Thought I heard your phone. We were supposed to meet inside, silly.” He reaches out and draws me through the door, into darkness.

  “I’m glad you came,” he tells me, cupping my cheeks, touching his lips to mine.

  I press my chin down, lowering my face from his, until he releases me.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  I look up at him. “Why did you want to meet me here?” The quiet around us only emphasizes the coldness in my words.

  “Whoa, something’s up,” he says, taking a step back. “I was just hoping for some alone time with you, but if that’s a problem—”

  “Alone time. As in a repeat of this morning? And I guess this place is your usual spot for that, with—” Marissa has swamped my thoughts, but I can’t say her name. My eyes skim over the shadowy rows of seats, the empty stage, the dark doorways leading to hidden spaces.

&
nbsp; “What? No.” Even in the murky light I can see his jaw harden. “And that’s not what I meant, either. I just can’t stop thinking about you, about how good it felt to be together this morning, about how I don’t want to let go of that closeness. I wasn’t expecting anything physical.”

  “Nothing physical.” I roll my eyes.

  “Okay, yeah. You’re right. It would’ve been nice to kiss you, be near you. I wasn’t expecting you to have sex with me in school, if that’s what you’re mad about.”

  “No? You see, that’s the funny thing. We weren’t supposed to be having sex at all, right? That’s what you said when we first came home. You said we’d moved too fast, and should slow things down. You did say that, didn’t you?”

  He looks away, takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I did. I meant it more like I wanted to go back and do the things we’d missed, like going out to dinner, or ice skating, or making out in the back of a movie theater. Dating, that’s what I meant.”

  “So, we should have the innocence of our first dates, while what? Keeping the sex on the side? Because that’s what it’s sounding like, and it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.”

  “All right, that’s fair, and I guess there was a part of me that wanted to take things slower physically, too, and work our way back up. Didn’t you?” He moves slightly closer to me. “You’d be worth the wait, Layls, and I wanted to show you that.”

  “So, this morning, then?”

  “I guess it’s harder to start over than I realized,” he says. A smile begins to surface, before vanishing completely. “Wait, you were with me this morning, weren’t you? I didn’t feel like I was pressuring you or anything…”

  “No, you’re right. No pressure. I’m just stupid like that. I mean, you are a handsome football star and everything, so I should be happy to open my legs whenever you seem interested, right?”

  He draws back like my words have made contact. “Really harsh, Layla.”

  My throat aches. “Is it? Did you forget I can be harsh, Luke? Of course, Marissa’s a bitch, but she’s—what is it? Sad, or soft on the inside. Something like that. Not harsh, like me, so maybe she’s the one you belong with. You probably got to do things right with her, too: hold hands, kiss. You fooled around before you started fucking, right?”

  “Layla, what the hell? I get that you’re mad, but come on. I’m not even sure what I did wrong.”

  “No, you wouldn’t know, would you?” The anger is draining from my voice. I’m giving up. “Never mind, Luke. Never mind any of this.” I start backing away from him.

  “Layla, listen to me. I love your body, and it’s incredible being with you, but that’s not what this is about for me. I thought you understood. Don’t you know how I feel about you?”

  “No, Luke. I don’t. Not at all.” I meet his eyes, still distancing myself from him, and he nods his head a few times.

  “Okay,” he says, watching me go. “Okay.”

  That’s the last I see of him: the stillness of his stance, the hardness in his features, the way his body is softly outlined by some muffled glow coming from the stage. I push through the door and into the starkness of the hallway.

  I head for the art room, for the quiet closet space in between the studios. There will be traces of Luke there, but they’re everywhere, unavoidable. Even as I walk, I understand that there’s truth in what I said. I was ready to sleep with Luke almost right away, not because he’s a quarterback, but because I wanted a path that led straight back to our old closeness. It was a wrong thought, though. Misguided. I’ve missed my Lucas ever since I lost him, but it could be that there’s no way back to him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  On the way home from school, I finally bring myself to drive to the drugstore, because if there’s soon to be another hardship heading my way, I might as well make a collection of them.

  My period is later than it’s ever been, considering it’s never been late by more than a day or so. That’s all I feel, though: late. Not nauseous or weird or…occupied. The delay could be related to the stress Luke and I went through at the cabin, along with the fact that we were nutritionally deprived for two weeks. More likely that than anything else; no reason to imagine burgeoning bellies, or babies, either.

  While I’m at the store, the injuries pile just a little closer to the tipping point. I’m standing in the aisle, holding two separate pregnancy tests, trying to figure out which is more likely to give me the desired negative, when someone comes around the corner and stops. I look up slowly, recognize the face of the continual thorn in Luke’s and my side: Bill Carter.

  My only reaction is not to react. I stand, frozen, the tests in their bright pink and blue packaging still in hand. The awfulness feels too perfect, like there must be a hidden camera somewhere, recording my expression for posterity. How the audience would laugh: The shock in her face! So genuine!

  Bill, for his part, takes his time absorbing the scene. His gaze leaves mine, goes to each of the items I’m holding, and revisits my face. He stares at me, silent, before turning and walking away.

  At home, later, I’ll wonder if I imagined him, if I conjured him up to punish myself for my earlier behavior, for the way I let Marissa dump her pain on me, for how I accepted it, only to shovel it and more onto Luke. But while I’m still in the drugstore, I take both tests to the counter. I don’t remember paying for them, but I know I must have, because when I take the tests into the bathroom with me at home, the receipt is there in the bag.

  Twenty-Seven

  Make Contact

  Ihaven’t spoken to anyone, not since before my run-in with Bill in the family-planning aisle. My mom wasn’t around when I got home from my drugstore errand, and stayed out with Jared until late. Nina and Josie each texted and called, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I never heard from Luke, never reached out to him, either. Eventually, last night, I just turned off my phone.

  It’s Tuesday morning, so that means I only have to survive four more days of this before I can retreat to the back room of the record store for another weekend. A large shipment is due, and I’ll be able to spend hours applying price stickers in mindless peace. Four days of school, then it’s just me and the stickers. They don’t ask questions.

  Best friends do, though.

  Nina leans against my locker before I can open it to retrieve my books for first period. “We’re having a meeting,” she says. She’s heard; she must have. Bill talked, and now the whole school must be doing the same.

  “About what?” My voice rises to a disturbingly high note.

  Nina shoves her hands onto her hips. “Josie and I tried to get in touch with you last night, and you never once got back to us.” She leans forward for emphasis. “I’m not letting you do this. I know people are being absolute shits around here, and I know you went through this when you were younger, when your dad and…and it sucked. But do you remember who helped you get through it? Me, that’s who. And Josie, and a bunch of our other friends. You have us, still…and the ones you don’t have don’t matter. I’m not letting you pull away from me, Layla. You do know that’s your thing, right? You get scared and you shut down and disappear? Well, good luck trying that again.”

  She stares at me, letting her words sink in. “Now, I’m going to the Chamber, and you’re coming with me, and we’re going to talk. Got it?”

  I have it, so I nod, and when she takes my hand, I let her. Panic rises to glaze dampness over my skin as we enter the flow of traffic in the hall, and Nina darts a sharp glance back at me. “Your palms are sweating? Ew, and no more hand holding.”

  She lets go, glaring as she wipes her sweat-contaminated palm down her pleated mini-skirt, but she continues walking, and I keep following, my gaze ricocheting around the space. I’m still not certain if Nina knows about Bill or what he witnessed, but others must. Who, though?

  I catch sight of Luke among the dozens of faces. He gives me a closed-off gaze, and turns his head. Does he know? And was that his response? />
  I hesitate and Nina continues for a few more steps before noticing my absence. She turns around, narrowing her eyes. “What is going on with you now?”

  I hold her gaze, give a shake of my head. “So much,” I say. I glance at Luke, see him lean toward someone, his face dark with anger.

  “What’d you call me?” His voice is loud enough to carry, and the edge in it makes me turn around completely. Something’s happening, and it isn’t good.

  I crane my neck to identify the object of Luke’s glare: Bill. Crap.

  Bill moves closer to Luke, and raises his voice instead of lowering it. “I said, you’re a shit.”

  “What’s your problem, Carter?”

  I’m pushing forward, but already the crowd has begun to thicken and congeal around their tension.

  “It’s not my problem. I guess it’s hers.” Bill’s voice drops at the end, but Luke’s comes back quickly.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I see Bill through the crowd, glaring up at Luke. “I’m talking about her, and what a shit you are. Clear enough?”

  “What, she deserves better? Someone like you, Carter? She thinks you’re an asshole.”

  Bill laughs, sharp and hard. “And you’re not an asshole?”

  I lose sight of them again, trying to push my way past backs and arms, but the crowd keeps growing, tightening. I see Luke once more; he has the front of Bill’s shirt in his fist, and Bill is saying something, keeping his voice low. Luke draws back even as I watch, shock filling his face, like he’s been punched. Except he hasn’t been hit by anyone, not yet.

  “What? What—?” he says to Bill, pain distorting his features. He’s leaning his head down like he’s lost his hearing or like he might be sick.

  “You really want me to say it louder?” Bill spits out the words. “She finally lets you f—” The air goes out of him in a whoosh as Luke shoves him backward. Bill loses his footing, grabbing onto a few bystanders as he falls.

  “You shut your fucking mouth, Carter,” Luke says, standing over him. Even from here, from where I’m struggling to get past the last few lines of people, I can see that Luke is shaking. “You don’t know anything about her—or me.”