by K. M. Walton
“Relax.”
“You’re not going onstage in a T-shirt and jeans. Seriously,” she says.
“I know. God, you are a pain in my ass. I’ll figure it out.”
Figure what out? the voice in my head antagonizes. You’re not going shopping. You’re dropping out of the show. You have no nice clothes that fit you. Your mother works two jobs and spends any leftover money on diapers and pills. Your father’s extra coin goes directly to the one and only Donna Dumbass. You have no money. You are enormous. But you’ll figure it out.
Right.
Letting Go of the Rope
IF LUNCH IS MY FAVORITE SUBJECT, YOU’D FULLY expect that phys ed would be the fat girl’s nemesis. It is, but it’s not because I’m unathletic (I could probably out-athletic 80 percent of the guys in my class); it’s the changing for gym and getting undressed part that makes me want to throw on an invisibility cloak. Taryn and Sydney are in my gym class, and so is my former teammate Amy. And having anyone—especially those three—see me without my clothes on isn’t going to happen.
I’ve developed a system for the days I have gym. I wear my gym shorts all day, then I dart to the locker room like a lunatic so I can throw on my T-shirt before everyone else arrives, then wait on the bleachers for all of the slow/skinny people.
Darting anywhere is difficult, so I’m sitting and panting when Coach Lein walks into the gym with a bundle of rope over his shoulder. “A little help, Turner.”
Together we unwind the rope and lay it in a straight line. He tells me we’re doing tug-of-war today. I nod and sit back down as relief floods my brain. Despite my athleticism, I hate when class involves running of any kind. I’m sure the reason is glaringly obvious.
Kids trickle into the gym. Sydney and Taryn strut across the gym floor. They’re like salt and pepper shakers—one with bright blond hair, the other with jet-black. Both have rolled up their shorts so much that if they bent over, we’d all get an ass show. Taryn is petting her hair while Sydney arranges her T-shirt so a bit of her stomach shows. They stand off to the side and ignore everyone but each other.
Coach Lein blows his whistle. He announces the plan for the class and picks Amy and some guy with the hairiest arms and legs on the planet to choose tug-of-war teams. Ape-man chooses Taryn and Sydney right out of the gate. He probably has a boner for both of them. Amy chooses one of the football players and one of the flip-cup guys from the baseball team. She’s going for strength.
They go back and forth, choosing their teams, and I look around. There are only three of us left. I want that cloak right now.
“I’ve gotta grab the stopwatch from my office,” Coach Lein says. He jogs off.
“I want Dell,” Amy announces.
Taryn and Sydney snort. “Cows are strong,” Taryn says loudly.
“I want to win, beauty queen!” Amy yells back.
Amy waves me over. For a split second I fear my feet won’t get me there—the embarrassment seems to have temporarily frozen me. But when I drop my gaze to the floor, my body moves.
Coach Lein returns and starts shouting commands. Amy puts me at the end of our rope. I figured she would. I’m bigger than the football guy. Coach goes through the rules, then yells, “Go!”
I barely grip the rope because I don’t care about winning or getting a good grade in this exercise. I get jerked forward a bit. The football guy is right in front of me. He looks over his shoulder and barks, “Do something!” Oh, I want to do something, all right. How about my foot slips and kicks you in the nuts?
The gym fills with voices bellowing, “Pull!” Then Taryn’s voice cuts through. “Moooooo! Moooooo!”
I let go of the rope.
My team stumbles forward, everyone tripping into one another while the other team falls back on their butts. Apparently I was doing more pulling than I’d thought.
Sydney lands on top of Taryn, and they laugh like hyenas. Amy is in my face, asking me why I let go. The football dude is shaking his head.
I let my shoulders answer for me, and I look away.
• • •
The next morning there is a hand-drawn picture of a cow taped to my locker. BEWARE OF THE RAPIST BOVINE is neatly bubble-lettered underneath. I rip it off, crumple it up, and look around for who did it. Everyone seems to be minding their own business. How many people have already seen this? My mouth goes dry.
On my way to homeroom, I regroup in a bathroom stall. I un-crinkle the page and stare at it. The cow is so fat. The lettering is girly. I shake my head, hoping it will erase the image like an Etch A Sketch. I feel light-headed when I get still.
I’ll bet Sydney wrote it. She’s the only one who suspects that anything happened.
Unless.
Unless Sydney told everyone. What if everyone knows that I had sex with Taryn’s boyfriend? What if Taryn knows? I lean my forehead against the stall. I can feel blood draining to my feet, see tiny white stars twinkling in my line of vision.
Don’t faint, Adele. You’ll get stuck in some effed-up angle and they’ll have to use the Jaws of Life to get you out of the stall.
Somebody is trying to make me squirm. But I didn’t rape him. What the hell does this stupid drawing even mean?
I crush the paper into a ball again. I have to get to homeroom or I’ll get a detention. A detention means I can’t pick up Meggie. And that means a pissed-off mother.
I manage to slip into the classroom and take my seat just as the bell rings. The principal comes over the loudspeaker with the announcements. No one ever listens to her, so I don’t even know why the woman bothers. Everyone just gossips and rushes to finish homework. One word slices through the morning chatter that makes me listen: talent. I stare at the speaker above the whiteboard. The talent show list has been posted on the auditorium doors, and whoever tried out is allowed out of homeroom to check. My body relaxes, and I slump back down. I don’t care anymore. That cow drawing officially pulled a black cloud over me.
Someone knocks at the door. Cara waves at me through the glass. I shake my head. She jumps up and down a few times and beckons me again. Now everyone is looking at me. My teacher nods as I grab my backpack and silently walk out.
Cara squeals, “Oh my God, Dell, hurry up! Let’s go!”
I close the door behind me. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Well, you sort of already tried out. So let’s go.” Cara drags me down the hallway. I’m numb.
There’s a crowd surrounding the list, so we can’t get close enough to read it. Cara squeezes my arm. She pushes her way to the front. After a few seconds, her arms shoot up victoriously. Well, one of us made it.
She maneuvers her way back through the crowd. When she reaches me, she erupts into full-on squeal-and-jump mode. I swear her head might dislocate from her neck. Cara holds out her arms for a hug. I stare at them.
“Come on, you can’t leave me hanging,” she whines.
I give her the lamest hug in the history of hugs.
“We both made it!” she shouts. I wish I could feel excited. Performing in the talent show just doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t silence the screaming demon inside of me: Adele let herself get raped! She is a fat pig who eats her weight in junk food! Her best friend is drifting away from her! She’ll be completely alone soon!
The demon is winning.
Cara bounces and then twirls around. “This is awesome! And Melissa is the MC. She’ll look so pretty introducing everyone.”
I shove my hands deep into my front pockets. Is this why Cara is excited? Because Melissa is involved in the show? From her far-off gaze, I’m leaning toward yes. Cara says dreamily, “I wonder what Melissa will wear.” She snaps out of her trance. “This will be good for our image, Dell. You will out-sing everyone, and I will be so proud of you. You know that I am the best friend you’ll ever have, right?” Cara rests her head on my shoulder.
She is the only friend I’ll ever have. Maybe it’s the warm pressure of her head against me or the fact that she’s acting li
ke my best friend again, but I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to tell her everything: what happened with Brandon, that I know she spent Sunday with those girls, that my father is getting remarried and never coming home, that my heart is having the hardest damn time beating inside my chest because I’m close to fading into the darkness. “I have to tell you—” I abruptly stop.
Cara pulls away and looks at me, waiting for me to continue.
I can’t tell her any of that shit. What is the matter with me?
She links her arm into mine. “Tell me what?”
My chest puffs up, and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t want to do this, Cara.”
“Do what? Shop? Because guess what, you have no choice, my friend. You are not, repeat not, wearing a T-shirt and jeans onstage.”
I don’t have the heart to clarify that I’m talking about the show. The tingling happiness I’d felt after tryouts is dead. The demon ate it. Or maybe it was the cow. And the thought of shopping for an outfit to wear while an auditorium full of people stare at me makes me want to lock myself in a closet.
Cara plows onward, babbling about our practice schedule, blissfully unaware of how close I came to spilling my guts. Our friendship would end if I was honest about the rape. She couldn’t handle what happened—or knowing who raped me. And who his girlfriend is.
Or the unthinkable could happen: She wouldn’t believe me.
Either way I know Cara would abandon me. Popularity is finally in her grasp. Remain friends with the enormous, ugly, fat girl who was raped by the hottest guy in school or become friends with four of the prettiest, skinniest, most fashionable, and popular girls in school?
Truthfully, the choice is obvious. It’s sort of like being offered a bowl of shit or a bowl of ice cream.
I know that I have to keep my mouth shut. About everything.
I need space. The crowd thins out, and I seize my opportunity to walk away. I head over to the list so I can see it with my own eyes.
Dell Turner: “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan
I did make it. Cara hugs random people, her face animated with pure exhilaration. My stomach tightens.
My voice sounded great. I liked the cheering. I wanted this.
Me, a rapist cow? The victim? The one who was held down and disgraced?
I can’t celebrate. Or smile.
Filled with Dejection
HALFWAY HOME, CARA DROPS HER LET’S-GO- shopping mission and goes back to discussing how “out-of-control awesome” it was that we got invited to Melissa’s party the other night. I shut out her voice and contemplate my current situation. Whoever taped that picture to my locker knows I had sex with Brandon. Boys don’t usually write in bubble letters. But who did it?
If it was Sydney, I could try and convince her not to tell anyone else. Even though she’s not the most trustworthy person, she doesn’t have the same venom coursing through her veins as Taryn, and I think I could successfully appeal to her. If it was Taryn, well, then I’m screwed—she will attack and gouge and rip.
Anger unexpectedly pumps through my veins. That means someone is accusing me of raping Brandon—
Cara squeezes my arm, stopping my deluge of thoughts. “That was like walking home with a piece of wood.”
“I know. Sorry. I guess I’m tired.”
“I can’t believe you’re not happy about the talent show, Dell.”
“I’m fine.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t ‘happy,’ last time I checked.” There’s a touch of annoyance in her voice.
“Fine, I’m happy.” The side of my mouth lifts into a half grin. I’m trying to show her that I’m good. I’m doing everything in my power to keep my shit together.
Cara mouths a dramatic “Whatever” and continues on her way.
Somewhere along the next three blocks my thoughts jump from anger straight to terror: Taryn Anderson. If Taryn knows about the sex, my miserable life will plunge into the fiery depths of hell. She will verbally tear me to shreds, publicly humiliate me, and do everything in her power to ruin my life. I’ve seen her do it to other girls—girls who didn’t even have sex with her boyfriend.
My hands shake as I unlock my apartment door. I hear a loud bang from inside, and I freeze. I’m always the first one home. I have a routine. I used to have practice, come home, shower, eat something, then pick up Meggie at Mrs. McNash’s house. Now I just come home from school, eat in front of the TV, and get my sister. My mother is always at work.
Pushing the door open, I stand on the landing like a statue and only let my eyes enter. I’m not stepping a toe in there. There are no masked gunmen in my line of vision, so I listen. Another sound comes from the back of the apartment. I lean my head over the threshold and strain to hear what it is.
Crying.
It is my mother. I am at her bedroom door in seconds. “Mom, hey, are you okay?” I say through the closed door.
She yelps. “Damnit, Adele!”
I guess I should’ve knocked first or something, but that probably would’ve scared her too. This isn’t my specialty. “Sorry.”
My mother sniffles loudly. “Why aren’t you at softball? Did you get Megs?” she shouts through the closed door.
I suspect now is not the best time to tell her that I got cut because I’m too fat. I answer her second question instead. “No, not yet.”
“Don’t,” she says.
I squeeze my eyebrows together. Why is my mother telling me not to get her? Picking up Meggie from day care is my favorite part of my day.
“Did you hear me?” she asks, obviously annoyed.
“May I come in?” I ask. I’m tired of talking to a freaking door.
“Hold on.” Then I hear all sorts of rustling and nose blowing. “Come in.”
I hesitate, because honestly, I’m not sure what I’m going to find on the other side. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed with her head down, hands on her knees. Her nightstand is littered with prescription bottles and half-empty glasses of water.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
Without raising her head, she says, “The drugstore let me go. I got fired, that’s what’s the matter.”
I want to say more, but the only word that leaves my mouth is “Oh.”
Now she raises her head. “Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Oh?”
I backtrack. “I’m sorry?”
“Well I’m sorry too, Adele. Without that paycheck we’re screwed.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll get a job to help. We’ll make it work.” Where is this optimistic confidence coming from?
Mom comes at me, and I swear I think she’s going to hit me, so my hands fly up to cover my face. She grabs my forearms. My face contorts. She smacks me in the side of the head. “We’re gonna drown! Nothing’s gonna work. Your father owes me thirty-four thousand dollars!” she screams. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying, or whatever drug cocktail she’s probably swallowed.
I take a step back because I don’t want to be in range of a second hit. “Calm down.”
Again, I say the wrong thing, because her eyes bulge and she is on me, nose-to-nose. “Don’t tell me to calm down,” she growls. “You don’t know shit, Adele.”
I am mute.
I know everything there is to know about shit because I’m covered in it, a regular ol’ pig in the sty. I know shit.
Mom retreats to her bed. With trembling hands she rummages through her prescriptions, finds the one she was looking for, pops the cap, and swallows two.
“Maybe you’re taking too many pills,” I whisper. I ball my hands into fists, anticipating a second attack. But she stays put.
She glares at me, her eyes steely yet empty. “Maybe you should stop stuffing your face when I’m not looking.”
I wish I could punch something right now. I wish I could call my mother a bitch. I hate everything about everything.
It seems we are at an impasse—locked eyes and loaded words. Who will make the first move?
&nb
sp; Me.
“All that crap you take”—I point to her nightstand—“makes you mean.” My mother wasn’t like this until my father left. She used to cut the crusts off my PB&Js and sing me to sleep and bake cookies and help me with my homework and smile. It’s as if someone erased her and drew me a new mom who hides in her bedroom, gobbles pills, falls asleep at the dinner table, and cries a lot.
She just stares at me defiantly. Then she buries her face in her hands. Her body shakes as she gulps for air. It’s hard to watch, but I’m not coming to her rescue with hugs and words of reassurance. Not after what she just said to me.
To avoid looking at her, I glance around her bedroom. Why have I never noticed how depressing it is? Labeled boxes of our old life line two walls, stacked floor to ceiling. GOOD CHINA, FAMILY RM KNICKKNACKS, CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, SOFTBALL PICS & MOVIES. I feel a new whoosh of sadness. We have no use for the good china anymore; there’s no one to entertain. Holidays are depressing. We have no family room. And my softball career is over.
The room is gaunt like my mother. There’s a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and that’s it. No artwork. No photographs. No decorations. My mother’s bedroom is filled with misery.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I got fired?”
Even though I have a suspicion, I still bite. “Why did you get fired?”
“Because I screwed up. Happy?” She breaks eye contact. “I didn’t think they’d notice. I only took a couple. I . . . ” Her voice trails off.
I knew it. She stole pills. “Are they pressing charges?”
She shakes her head. “Not if I go to rehab.” She collapses again into sobs.
Rehab? How the hell is she going to go to rehab and still take care of us? I refuse to live with my father and his dumbass bride. I’d take Meggie and go live in a homeless shelter before I’d shack up with those two assholes.
She gets ahold of herself. “Meggie?”
I nod that I’ll go pick her up.
As I walk the two blocks to Mrs. McNash’s I replay the scene. My mother is a prescription-drug addict who stole pills from the pharmacy and got fired for it. That’s messed up. By the number of pill bottles on her nightstand, she’s taking more than I know about. I wonder what she’d do if I dumped her pill collection into the toilet and flushed it.