by K. M. Walton
Brandon pulls my jeans down from the ankles. He can’t see me naked. I’m too fat. The room is suddenly plunged into darkness. The music from downstairs seems louder in the dark. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust. I’ve missed my opportunity to sit up. To get out of this room. Brandon straddles me again.
“I want to go,” I say out loud.
In one snap, he undoes my bra, and my boobs are freed. He squeezes them both. I try to push him off me, but it is like trying to move a car. I bite my lip and close my eyes. I’m falling, falling, falling.
And shattering.
Then he pulls my underwear down and says, “Stay still.” Just like that, he’s inside me. I squeeze my legs closed because it hurts.
He scolds me like I’m a child. “Dell, stop!”
Brandon jerks a few times, and then his body goes stiff.
He pulls out and rolls over on his back, panting and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I told you to stop,” he says nonchalantly.
Tears roll down my temples into my hair. I have nothing to say. I make no move to cover my nakedness. I lay there like a blob of inhuman matter. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and do everything in my power to smell the “perfect love smell” of my little sister. I need to smell love right now. It doesn’t work, because it never works, and all I smell is sweat.
Brandon is fully dressed and standing at the door. He turns around and says, “Don’t tell anyone. This never happened.”
The corner of the room gets light for a second as he leaves, and then it goes dark again. I am alone with the daisies.
Bitter Acid Burns
CARA SPENT THE NIGHT DANCING AND TALKING—not drinking, so she drives home. I say nothing to Cara about what happened with Brandon. If I open my mouth, I’m going to vomit. I grip the car door handle to steady my spinning head and let her go on and on about how much fun she had dancing. She didn’t even realize that I’d disappeared for twenty minutes. How could she not notice? I would’ve known if she’d up and vanished at a party.
I am home by eleven, and my mother is in her bedroom with the door closed, watching the news. I knock to let her know I’m back on time. “Good night, Adele,” she calls over the drone of the news. Just once I wish she would invite me in. I’d sprawl across her bed, and we would talk about my night. But this never happens.
“Good night,” I call back. It’s probably better she keeps her door closed. I don’t want to see her pill bottles scattered everywhere, and I’m sure she doesn’t want to smell the beer on my breath. I try my best to be quiet in the kitchen, but I bang into just about everything. My mother never comes out. I make myself a huge ham-and-cheese sandwich. It’s so thick I can barely get my mouth around it. But I do.
Then I make myself a second sandwich. I am slowly starting to feel un-hollow. And way more sober.
I open the freezer to grab an ice-cream bar, because I can never eat something like a sandwich without finishing it off with something sweet. The cold fog hits my face, and I inhale it, filling my lungs. I close my eyes. Images of bouncing red cups, exploding beer cans, and sex I didn’t want to have invade my head. I suck in a second, deeper breath. It would be nice if the cold would deaden the memories of the night. I want to slam the freezer door shut with all of my might, but that would wake everyone up. Instead, I take two bars and gently close the freezer.
I sit down at the table, rip open the first package, and take an enormous bite. Flakes of chocolate coating land on my lap. I don’t bother to brush them away. As I open my mouth to take a second bite, I gag. As far as gags go, it’s a decent one. Bitter acid burns the back of my throat.
I barely make it to the toilet before everything comes up. And I do mean everything. I swear there are pieces of my heart in there too. All covered in vomit.
How could I have let Brandon do that to me?
I crawl into bed, trying not to wake up Meggie. I stare at the ceiling, and thoughts start slamming into one another. I am no longer a virgin. I had sex. I didn’t want to. Was I raped? Isn’t rape, like, violent and forceful, with blood and anger? Could I have really stopped him? Did I try hard enough? He didn’t even put a condom on. What if I’m pregnant? Oh my God. Maybe I wanted it. I had a guy’s penis inside of me. Someone else’s guy.
Sex is a rite of passage—that’s what my seventh-grade health teacher told us—and Brandon stole that from me. I wince. He saw me naked. He squeezed my boobs. I’d told him to stop.
I can’t tell my mother. We don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. Our brief exchanges fall apart pretty quickly these days. My stomach clenches as I imagine how that conversation would go.
Me: Mom, I got wasted at a party and some guy held me down and had sex with me.
Mom: Pass me my pills.
I should tell Cara. I look at my phone but make no effort to reach for it. I can’t do it. What just happened to me at Melissa’s party is something I should want to tell my best friend, but I don’t. I mean, I’ve had forced sex with a very popular guy; I should tell someone. The thing is, I know telling anyone would be social suicide. Even Cara.
I punch the mattress. I think that was rape. Why am I not crying or something? I grab my phone and then drop it onto my chest. I can’t even watch magic.
With my stomach empty, I feel hollowed out, a pumpkin scraped of its gooey insides. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I want to lay in the darkness forever.
• • •
The apartment is quiet when I wake up Sunday morning. I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. It must’ve been the beer. My eyes examine the water-stained ceiling as I take stock of last night. Nothing has changed. I was drunk. Brandon knew it. I was raped. Brandon’s last words—Don’t tell anyone. This never happened—ache in my head. I wonder how we will act the next time we see each other.
I curl into the fetal position and listen to the birds. Their peppy chirping captivates me, because happiness and its trappings remain a dark mystery. I palm my head and run my fingers through my hair. My skin hurts. I was raped and I can’t tell anyone. I cover my ears because the birds annoy me now. My brain can no longer appreciate the good and the beautiful—it’s too busy cranking out shame and misery.
Eventually, Meggie’s demands to get out of her crib snap me out of my pity party. She pads behind me, dragging her blanket, as we walk into the kitchen. I see the note from my mother immediately. It’s lying next to my abandoned ice-cream bar.
Adele:
This waste makes me angry. We are not made of money. Please clean the toilet today. It’s disgusting.
I crumple her note, grab the now-liquid ice-cream bar, and throw them both in the trash, where they belong. The morning disappears in a mixture of television, science research, eating, and toilet cleaning. I print out my project during Meggie’s nap. I got permission to write a research paper because I didn’t want to ask my mother for money to buy new materials. I did the bare minimum just to get it done, and it shows. My paper’s only two pages. Who cares? I seriously don’t.
The first word Meggie utters after her nap is “park.” We both chow down some lunch and head to the good park, the one just past school. I walk on autopilot. Then I hear the familiar crack of a bat as it makes contact with the ball. I stop dead on the sidewalk. The softball field is right on the other side of the chain-link fence and is covered with recognizable blue-and-white uniforms. What is the matter with me? Why would I come this way? Half of my team has spotted me. Damnit, damnit, damnit.
In order to get this over with, I drop my head and pick up my pace. Despite this genius plan, I am one hundred percent un-missable.
I sneak a glance at home plate just as the catcher springs into action to rescue a wild pitch. She throws it back to our pitcher, and then our eyes briefly meet. My stomach flips. I half expect her to wave or acknowledge me, but she doesn’t. As I pass the pitching mound, I listen for someone to shout hello. Only traffic noises from the passing cars and the click-clack of Meggie’s stroll
er wheels fill the air. The entire team watched me walk by—I know they did. Unbelievable.
I take a right at the STOP sign so I can distance myself from the field. I don’t want to be near them.
Each step I take pushes softball further into my past. From behind I hear another crack of the bat—the hit was huge, I can tell—but I have no desire to turn around. I walk away from the field, away from a team that barely accepted me. I wait at the light, staring down at the top of Meggie’s little head. A sniff of love is exactly what I need right now.
I’m bent over, inhaling my sister’s perfect smell, when it dawns on me—I don’t miss softball. It was never my passion. And the fact I’m not longing to play or boo-hooing over getting cut proves that it’s over. In fact, I’d like to dig a hole in the ground and bury softball. There’s a ton of other crap I’d like to throw in that hole too: Brandon, DD, my mother’s pills. I’d fill the hole with dirt, pat it down with my bare hands, maybe even hum a tune while doing so. Then I’d dance on top.
As Meggie plays in the sandbox, I text Cara. I’ve sent her four messages, but so far, no response. The brief bit of peace I felt from Meggie’s smell and letting softball go is long gone. I am in full-on panic mode. I’m worrying that our friendship is over, that she has replaced me with the jumping girls. Or that she somehow found out about what happened with Brandon. I rummage through Meggie’s diaper bag and grab every snack I can find: a teething cookie, toddler fruit snacks, a squished oatmeal bar. I swallow the last tasteless bite of oatmeal bar, reach for the bag, and in an effort to find more food, haphazardly pile the contents next to me. I’ve eaten everything. But I find an old pair of sunglasses and put them on. I can feel the tear factory gearing up.
Of course I’ve lost Cara to the jumping girls. I don’t fit in and she does. Shit, who am I kidding? I don’t fit in anywhere or in anything. Maybe if I go on a diet and lose weight, she’ll act like my best friend again. But the problem is, imagining Cara and I skipping off into the sunset, chanting “Best Friends Forever!” is not only stupid, it’s unrealistic.
But mostly, it’s stupid.
The Ugly, Ugly Walk
I’M IN BED WHEN I TEXT CARA ONE MORE TIME:
You okay? I’m worried.
No response.
I can’t fall asleep, so I try watching some magic videos. They’re not helping, and I turn off my phone. My eyes are heavy, but my thoughts won’t let me sleep. I toss and turn for what feels like hours, trying to get comfortable, trying to quiet my head.
I give up and stare. Sometime after four in the morning I conclude that sleep won’t help me, it won’t stop my pain. I should just stay awake and feel the hurt. I let it weigh on me. Holding me down. It’s a bottomless, heavy ache, so deep I swear it’s in my bones.
I turn my phone on before dragging myself out of bed, and I see that Cara finally texted me back. I read her text ten thousand times:
Phone died. I am sorry, Dell.
Her phone never dies.
I fixate on the “I am sorry, Dell.” It’s so final. There’s nothing to respond to. No opening or invitation to text her back, so I don’t. And she was sorry about what exactly? Her phone dying? Was she apologizing for something else? I devise every possible scenario, each of which crumbles to dust, leaving only one option: She ditched me for Sydney and her friends.
My mother calls from the kitchen, “Adele, get in the shower!
I zombie-walk to the bathroom to get ready for school.
With my towel wrapped around me, I stare into my closet. It’s full of clothes, but I’ve never worn most of them. I reach up, ruffle the tags, and shake my head. I grab my usual jeans and T-shirt. My bed squeaks underneath my weight as I sprawl across it. This routine of sucking my gut in so my zipper goes up starts my days with heaping servings of self-loathing. Every morning begins with a: “Good morning, Adele, you beast.”
I check my phone for new texts from Cara. Nothing. I do a few twists and turns in the mirror and cringe.
Meggie’s voice makes me jump. “Dehwy? Get out?”
I smile. I really don’t want to smile, but I can’t help it. She is too cute. I walk over to my sister’s crib. “Good morning, Meggie-bideggie.” Her curly brown hair is adorable. It’s bouncy and shiny and compliments her big brown eyes.
Meggie throws her arms out, and I pick her up. My little sister and her blanket come out of the crib as one unit, as usual.
“You love your blankie, don’t you, Megs?” She nods. “Okay, I gotta go, girl. Come on.” Meggie nuzzles her warm head into my neck. She wraps her little arms and legs around me. I rub my lips on her baby-soft hair and breathe her in as I carry her into the kitchen. When I go to put her into her high chair, she clings tighter. I hug her back and whisper, “Love you too.”
“Again, Adele?” my mother barks, looking me up and down. “Are you wearing the same jeans? My God, your grandmother spent hundreds of dollars on clothes for you, and you wear a grubby Simpsons T-shirt?”
I am in no mood to argue with her. I don’t have the energy. “Happy Monday morning to you, Mother.” I stare at her. She used to look good in the morning. Fresh and smiley. She can’t seem to muster up pretty—or happy, for that matter. She only looks dull or really dull.
“You have a closet full of clothes I’ve never seen you wear! I don’t get you.”
I mumble under my breath, “Yeah, I know.”
“What? Stop talking with marbles in your mouth.”
I sit at the table and push my sliced strawberries through my cottage cheese. I know my mother is watching, so I rearrange the fruit without eating.
“I’m trying to help you, Adele,” my mother says. God, she looks wiped out. She must not have slept again last night.
“Stop trying,” is all I can say.
• • •
The walk to school is an ugly, ugly walk. My thoughts are so heavy, I don’t know how my feet aren’t sunk into the sidewalk. A few times I stop and lean against a tree, just to calm down. What if everyone knows what Brandon did to me? That he thought it was some kind of a joke?
I see Cara up ahead at our usual spot out front, but she’s standing with Emma and Melissa. I’m out of breath and sweaty when I reach them. “H-hey.” Cara and Emma share a series of quick looks and an outbreak of laughter. This behavior cements what I already suspect: Cara was out with them yesterday and chose to ignore my texts.
“Dell, did you see us dancing at the party?” Cara asks with an over-the-top smile. I’ve seen that smile before. In fact, I know it well. It’s the same fake smile we practiced in eighth grade, imitating the popular girls—namely, Taryn—to make ourselves laugh. I break eye contact with her mouth and study the rest of her face for signs that she’s joking. I don’t know, I think she’s trying to impress Emma and Melissa.
I nod in response to Cara’s question, so I don’t sound all breathy, and sit down on the wall. I’d like to ask Cara a million things, but questioning her about why she didn’t call me yesterday would make me look like a fool, like a pesky, needy dweeb. Where were you, Cara? Do you still like me, Cara? Are you still my best friend, Cara? Why did it take you so long to text me back, Cara?
I play it cool, put my earbuds in, and pretend I’m listening to music. I watch Cara and the other two girls. They’re just so pretty, all three of them. Me? I look like I just ate three pretty girls for breakfast.
Buses drop off hordes of kids, and everyone congregates on the front walkway and grass. I spy Chase and Jacob the table-lifter and watch them playfully shove their way to the hill. If they’re here that means Brandon can’t be too far behind. I slump down in my best retreating-turtle imitation and wish myself invisible. I know I’ll have to see him eventually, but the thought of interacting with him right now cracks my heart straight down the middle and just might kill me. Then everyone would have to step over my dead body on their way into school.
Cara turns to Emma. “Oh my God, Em, my legs are killing me.”
Em? She’s
calling her Em?
Emma and Melissa squeal back at the same time, “Me toooooooo!”
Melissa stares at me for a second, then pulls Cara and Emma in toward her. “She can’t hear us, right?”
I move my head to the imaginary music. Cara and Emma both turn to look over at me. Even if I actually were listening to blaring music, I would’ve been able to tell they were about to talk about me or say something they didn’t want me to hear. Heat surges to my face.
“Like Taryn said before, Dell is too big to run anywhere. It would be so embarrassing if anyone saw us with her. You know?” Melissa snickers. “So let’s run that same trail next Sunday,” she says. “Maybe we can get Taryn to come too.” Cara and Emma nod.
Cara isn’t coming to my defense. Her nod, agreeing with what Melissa just said about me, burns and chars my heart. It’s a pile of black dust.
And shit, they were together. They were off having fun while I stuffed my face with toddler snacks, reliving what happened on the daisy quilt.
Taryn and Sydney stroll over. With each step they take, I silently plead: Please don’t let Taryn know about what happened with Brandon. They glance at me for a second before joining the other girls and turning their backs to me. I don’t think they realize I was technically “with” Cara, Emma, and Melissa.
“Show them,” Taryn demands. Sydney pulls her hair back to reveal a whopping hickey. The five girls exchange grins. I play with my phone.
“Slut,” Taryn says. Everyone laughs. “While I’m stuck talking to my fat cousin all night, she was having her neck sucked by Chase, and you guys were having fun dancing without me. Brandon said the party sucked because he missed me so much.”
There’s a chorus of “awwwws.”
I drop my chin to my chest. Brandon is a lying prick. I rock back and forth, pretending to jam out, but in reality I’m pretty close to passing out. The motion is helping me stay upright.