Empty

by K. M. Walton

  That would help me through this day.

  I break into a light sweat as I cross the back field. Cara’s up ahead, sitting on the wall. She’s alone. Thank God.

  “Hey,” I say to Cara. She’s zoned out with her headphones in, so I wave my hand in front of her face to get her attention. She jumps.

  She pulls out her earbuds. “Hey.”

  I scrunch my nose. “I got your texts and your voice mail.”

  “I tried to get Taryn to delete those comments, but . . . ” Her voice trails off.

  I know Cara can’t control other people and what they put on the Internet. There are probably even more comments now. “Thanks.” I can’t tell if she believes me or Taryn, and I’m afraid to ask. I’m worried she’ll think Brandon’s side of the story is true. I can’t be friends with Cara if she thinks I raped him, and she’s all I’ve got. I have to tell her the truth.

  “Cara, I should’ve—”

  Cara’s face tightens, and I stop. Taryn’s laugh comes from behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. I wish I could run home and lock myself in my bedroom with a trunk of food and water and never come out.

  I turn, half expecting Taryn to be right behind me with a samurai sword or some other glamorous weapon, poised to dismember me right there on the sidewalk. She’s with that gaggle of freshman cheerleaders I saw at the movies. Taryn’s face lights up as they all flit around her like bugs to the zapper. It’s clear she loves the attention.

  Popularity is a strange thing. I mean, Taryn wouldn’t acknowledge the existence of those girls, let alone speak to them, if they were ugly or overweight. But since they’re “popular” and all have matching ponytails and cute little bodies, she’s over there holding court. I watch as she fixes one girl’s ribbon and puts lip gloss on Brandon’s sister. Such sweet gestures.

  Taryn says something, and the whole group whips around to stare at me. They detonate into fits of laughter. Kim’s not laughing, though; she’s shaking her head back and forth, over and over again.

  My ears fill with static, like someone shoved live wires in there. I turn my back on them. The white noise gets louder and louder. I swear my head might begin to spark and smoke. I need to sit down. I reach for the wall and somehow get all of me on it. I lean forward on my thighs and concentrate on not fainting. Where did Cara go?

  Taryn’s voice is very close now. “Brandon’s sister, Kim, said he should press charges against you, Dell.”

  I open my eyes and lift my head to face Taryn. Her crew is set up behind her like bowling pins, with her as lead pin. If only I could roll a boulder into them, scattering their bodies all over the sidewalk. I stick to my plan and ignore Taryn’s remark.

  “Brandon told me he feels sorry for you, but I don’t. Girls like you are dangerous when they’re hungry.”

  Emma and Melissa snicker. Sydney plays with a loose strap on her backpack.

  A burning sensation starts in my stomach. I see Cara now, but she’s standing with her head down, and I swear it looks like she’s one of the bowling pins. I look down at the sidewalk so I can think.

  “Stop, Taryn.”

  They all turn to stare at Cara. “Just leave her alone,” she whispers.

  I want to scoop her into a bear hug.

  “She was drunk.” Cara crosses her arms. “She didn’t know what she was doing.”

  I want to punch her in the face.

  Taryn takes a step closer to Cara and leans in. “Whose side are you on, Cara? She raped my boyfriend!”

  Why can’t I tell them that Brandon forced himself on me? Took advantage of my drunkness, told me to stay still, and put himself inside me. I told him to stop. I didn’t want to do it. Or did I? Oh my God, maybe I did. I’m, like, double his weight. I could’ve pushed him off me. Could I have? Maybe this is all my fault.

  Taryn says, “I guess I don’t have to worry about you coming after him again, bitch.” Her voice lifts and fades. “Because I swear to God you look like you’re about to explode. With. Just. One. More. Bite. Of. Food.”

  She pauses in between each word to emphasize her point. To be sure they cut me to the bone. My eyes decide to blink uncontrollably.

  “Even if you lost weight you’d still look like an ugly man.” Taryn turns on her heels, and all of her girls follow her—all but one. Cara.

  “I told you she’d attack.” Cara gathers her backpack. “You should’ve told me; that way I could’ve done damage control. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I can’t speak.

  “Hello? Are you listening?”

  Instead of answering her, I walk away.

  Cara falls in stride with me. “It’s just so unlike you to be aggressive with a guy. How many beers did you have?”

  Her question shreds me to the core. I block Cara out. She hasn’t once asked for my side of the story or even questioned the validity of Brandon’s accusation. It sickens me to think that everyone just believes Brandon because he’s popular and handsome. There is no justice for fat girls.

  How am I going to make it through the entire school day? Facing class after class of people who, no doubt, will have heard Taryn’s lies? And believed them?

  “You know what, Dell?” Cara shouts, startling me. “I’m done with you ignoring me.” I glare at her. She shakes her head. “And you can find your own way to the talent show tonight!” She stomps off, and I stand like a block of melting ice. The hallway is full of students scurrying around me.

  The talent show—I’m not doing it.

  Chase and Jacob and a bunch of other baseball guys come barreling down the hall, mooing and laughing and pointing at me. The warning bell rings, and they disperse before they reach me. I unfreeze and stagger a bit as I head toward my locker. I can’t do this. I can’t. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Maybe I have a fever. I’ll tell the nurse I threw up at home and puked in the bathroom here—which is something I think may actually happen.

  • • •

  I guess being called an ugly man by Taryn Anderson and the threat of being formally charged as a rapist can cause one’s body temperature to rise, because I have a fever of 99.1. It’s enough to get me a private cot in the nurse’s office.

  I’m curled up in the fetal position underneath a scratchy wool blanket, worrying if Brandon will press charges against me. It would be my word against his. How could I prove that I was the victim? I never reported it. Hell, I haven’t told a single soul. Would the police believe me? If they’re anything like the shits at my high school, I would be in serious trouble. I rock my body back and forth at the thought of having to go to jail.

  There’s a knock at the door, and the nurse peeks her head in. “You’re awake. Good. Let me feel your head.” She rests her open palm on my forehead, and it’s freezing. I startle. “Sorry, sorry. My hands are always cold. Well, you still feel warm to me. It’s fourth period now. If you want to go home, I’ll have to call a parent.”

  I tell the nurse not to bother calling my mother, because she can’t leave work, and ask her if I could just stay here.

  “Let’s give it another period and see how you feel. I’ll be back with something to help settle your stomach.”

  The nurse cracks open my door, holding a package of crackers and a can of ginger ale. I am free to rest in here until I feel up to heading back to class.

  I gag for effect as I reach for the food. She says, “I’ll lay them over here for later.” If she only knew how stressed out I am right now, and how I eat when anxious. She’d be relieved I didn’t filet her and eat her.

  Magic Isn’t Real

  A KNOCK WAKES ME UP. I STRETCH AND LOOK around. Oh yeah, I’m in the nurse’s office. The details tumble from my head: the Facebook shit, Taryn’s attack, Cara’s abandoning me. Good times.

  The nurse peeks her head in. “Hon, the last bell rang ten minutes ago. I let you sleep.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I sit up and run my fingers through my matted hair. She walks over and feels my forehead again.

  “How do
you feel?”

  Like a humiliated piece of shit. “Okay.”

  “Someone’s here to see you.”

  My stomach tightens.

  The nurse opens the door all the way, and I see that “someone” is the guidance counselor, Mr. Drueller. If Mr. Drueller’s here, that means someone told him what’s going on. That means he knows about the rape lie. The thought of discussing, addressing, mentioning, or referencing what Brandon did to me with Mr. Drueller—who is, like, ninety years old—makes me nauseous. I seriously might throw up. I’m dying inside.

  “Adele, is there anything you’d like to talk about?” He takes one step into the small room.

  Fuck no is what I’d like to respond. My mouth goes completely dry. I shake my head.

  His forehead pinches. “Are you sure?”

  Hell yeah, I’m sure.

  We do that uncomfortable dance as we look at each other while trying to avoid eye contact.

  “Okay, well, one of your peers is concerned about you and came to me. I am not at liberty to share who, but they said you may need to talk to an adult. That’s all of the information that I could get out of the person. You know where my office is if you change your mind. It’s my job to listen. I’m a pretty decent listener, and . . . ” His voice trails off and he shoves his hands into his dress pants. He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel. I stare at the floor. “Okay, well, feel better,” he says. The door clicks closed behind him, and I resume breathing.

  Cara must have gone to see Mr. Drueller. Deep down this makes me want to forgive her. Again.

  The nurse sets me free. As I walk, I clasp my hands together until my knuckles turn white. There are sure to be students in the building, and I don’t want to see any of them. Not even for a split second.

  I’m doing everything in my power to slink to my locker. A 286-pound girl is about as stealth as a rhino falling down the stairs. As I turn the corner there’s a commotion up ahead. I come to a halt. What’s going on at the end of the hallway could easily be classified as my worst nightmare.

  Brandon and the baseball team are suited up and getting a pep talk from Coach Lein. I’m going to have to walk by them to get to my locker. Maybe if I stop and wait, they’ll head out to the field, and I can escape unscathed. I get a very long drink from the water fountain. They shout their “Go Chargers” chant, and I watch them all start grabbing their stuff. Coach Lein heads out the door.

  Chase sees me and shouts, “Moooo!” His tone is different this time, stripped of his usual lightheartedness. This moo sounds evil.

  Brandon stands silently, glaring at me.

  I want to grow wings and take flight. I want disappearing dust sprinkled on me. I want a wand waved, a lamp rubbed, heels clicked—anything to make me invisible right now. But I’m just your garden-variety fat girl, standing in her high school hallway. Magic isn’t real.

  Pain is real.

  It’s weird, this everyone-is-staring-at-everyone moment. My eyes dart from Brandon to Chase, back to Brandon. No one says a word. Then the spell breaks and everyone but Brandon turns their back on me and walks through the doors.

  I’m alone in the hallway with Brandon. “Stay away from me, Dell!” He heads out into the sunshine.

  My backpack feels weighted with bricks. I let it slide to the ground. I want to kick it. I want it to rocket through the doors and hit Brandon in the back, knocking the wind out of him. I want him to feel like I feel. Desperate for air.

  My leg winds up and I unleash on my backpack. Upon impact, two things are immediately evident:

  1. I have a wicked kick, because my backpack—filled with two textbooks, two notebooks, and a binder—has taken quite a ride down the waxed school floor.

  2. I have broken my big toe.

  I heard it crack. Like a stick snapping in half.

  Halfway home I decide to pick up Meggie early. I am in excruciating pain, and the thought of having to navigate the stairs to my apartment twice is horrendous.

  The rest of my walk to Mrs. McNash’s is such a struggle. I try walking on my heel and hobbling on the outside of my foot to lessen the pain—nothing works. I know I can’t tell my mother what I’ve done. She’ll think it’s ridiculous and blame my clumsiness on my weight, and then we’ll wind up getting angry at each other. Each step, regardless of where my foot makes impact with the ground, hurts like hell.

  Mrs. McNash is pretty perceptive, because she notices something’s wrong the second she opens the door. “Adele, what’s the matter, honey? Why are you making that face?”

  I swallow. Maybe I should tell her what happened. Unload every heavy detail onto her warm, kind shoulders. Maybe she’d listen to me. . . . Maybe she’d believe me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I tripped on the sidewalk. Stubbed my toe. I’m good.”

  Confusion registers on her face. “I don’t know about that. Want me to take a look? It might be broken.”

  “Nah, really, I’m all right. It feels better already. I’ll ice it when I get home.”

  Total lie.

  I’m doing everything in my power not to cry in front of the woman. I blink a bunch of times and bite the inside of my lip.

  “Oh, honey, you’re as white as a ghost. Come here.” She wraps me in a hug. I am hushed by the perfection of the embrace. The way her arms put just the right amount of pressure on my body makes me know that I exist. She smells like dryer sheets. She draws back but holds on to my shoulders. “Let me have one of my girls drive you and Meggie home.”

  I nod. I don’t want her to let me go. Her touch is gentle and kind, and I haven’t been touched like that in a long time. She probably thinks I’m a clingy weirdo, so I let my eyes wander past Mrs. McNash, into her living room. I spot Meggie. She’s sleeping on her mat, butt up. Her blanket is tucked underneath her cheek. She’s an angel.

  “Let me get Meggie for you.” Mrs. McNash skillfully steps over three kids, picks her up, and has Meggie in my arms without her making a peep.

  “Dehwy!” she whispers in her groggy little voice. I gently smother her neck with kisses so Mrs. McNash can’t see my tears. Her smell fills my nose, and I try to visualize Meggie’s smell surrounding my body like a fog of perfection and innocence. Wrapping me in love.

  I put Meggie down and change my mind about the ride. “I can walk, really. Thanks though.” I shift my weight and gasp. Not healed. I want the love to heal my broken bone. Still broken.

  Mrs. McNash insists, so we get a ride home from Miss Kelly, the skinny twentysomething with superwhite teeth and neon orange hair who got the part-time job instead of me. The drive home is less than five minutes, but Miss Kelly manages to tell me that she went to my high school, got accepted to West Chester University for early childhood ed, hated studying, flunked out, and got the job with Mrs. McNash because she agreed to take classes at the community college, which she’s not studying for either.

  Fascinating.

  I pant through my thank-you and hobble to the front landing with Meggie, her stroller, and my backpack in tow. Miss Kelly makes no move to help me. She’s too busy texting up a storm. She honks as she drives away. There is no way in hell I will make it up the stairs while carrying everything, so I leave Meggie’s folded stroller behind the main door.

  The walk up the stairs is torture. I have to peel my fingers from the banister when Meggie and I reach the top. My teeth are probably nubs from all of my clenching and gritting. The f-word slips out as I unlock our door.

  Meggie bounces into our apartment. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  I shout to her as I close the door behind me, “Megs, that’s not a nice word. You can’t say that word. Okay?”

  She scrunches her face into the cutest scowl. I get her set up with a snack and a video while I gobble ibuprofen. When I wrestle my foot out of my sneaker I almost puke. It’s black and blue and swollen to twice its normal size. After a quick Internet search I learn that I have to stabilize my mangled toe. We don’t have the right kind of tape, so I use regular, clear wrapp
ing-paper tape. After much panting and sweating, I have squished my broken big toe and the one next to it together into one painful mess.

  I lie down on the sofa and put a pillow underneath my foot to elevate it. Meggie is engrossed watching colorful little creatures dance and sing about friendship. I close my eyes, take deep breaths, and try not to pass out from the rolling waves of agony. The underlying hum of the traffic passing by calms me down.

  My cell beeps, startling me, and I listen to a rambling voice mail from Cara. “I hope you’re not going to weasel out of the talent show and stay home sulking, Dell. It was just sex—even if it was with the most popular girl’s boyfriend. It was just sex. Besides, you can’t hide out forever. Meet me at six, backstage by the lion head. Wear makeup, like, a lot. It’s called stage makeup, and you need to make it dark or it won’t show out in the audience.”

  I sit up because I can’t believe what I just heard. Just sex? She still believes Brandon’s story. I’m in the middle of texting Cara something along the lines of “Wow, you’re lucky you told the guidance counselor you were worried about me, because if you hadn’t, I’d be really mad at you right now” when my toe explodes with pain. I let out a long moan. I abandon the text and limp to the medicine cabinet to inspect prescription bottles. I know what I’m looking for. Vicodin. That oughta take the edge off. “Yessss,” I hiss. I pop two and head back to elevate my toe and finish my text.

  There is a lot of me to get situated, so it takes a while, and by the time I’m comfortable, I lose the desire to text Cara. She obviously doesn’t get it.

  After twenty minutes of robotically staring at the television, I feel the Vicodin kick in. When I blink, it’s like my inner windshield wipers are turned on slow, because my eyes take a while to open. My heartbeat isn’t racing anymore either. Everything has slowed down. But my toe still hurts like a mother.

  My cell buzzes with a new text from Cara. She demands I get over the whole Taryn incident by blowing everyone’s mind onstage tonight. She says it will show everyone that I’ve moved on. Then she reminds me about my makeup again.