by Lindsey Iler
I jump to my feet and extend my hands to Mark. When he stands, he drops a soft kiss on my cheek and slaps my butt.
“Let’s go eat.” He hoots as he races out of the room.
Mark enjoys food just as much as he enjoys me. I giggle at his enthusiasm and follow him to the dining room. Even with all the questions in my head, Mark is always good for comic relief.
“I thought you said you were making dinner?” I question, flipping open a box to find extra cheese pizza with ham and pineapple. Just the way I like it.
“I said I would call you when dinner is ready.” Her hands gesture to the pizza. “Dinner is ready. I just wasn’t the one who made it.”
Mark and I chuckle as we sit at the table.
My dad walks through the front door and takes a loud sniff. “Mmm... pizza... from Albert’s,” he states, proud of his skills. Dad sets his briefcase on the couch and throws his jacket over the top of it. He’s been back to work full-time, thankfully, for the past six months.
I stand and lean over to grab Mark’s attention. “What do you want to drink?”
“Babe, I can get it. Sit down. You don’t need to wait on me,” Mark insists. He heads into the kitchen. When I glance up, my parents are staring at me.
“What?” I question, straightening my back.
I plop into the seat next to his empty one, and put the largest slice of pizza on his plate.
Their eyes flick behind me as Mark walks into the room. My mom’s smile continues to grow as she watches him pour a can of Coke into my glass. Moments like these are when I question my thoughts. I’m crazy to doubt my relationship with Mark. Who turns her back on someone like him? I secretively shake my head to rid the thoughts.
“Did you tell them yet?” Mark looks to me in encouragement. “Kennedy’s going to dance in the talent show again this year,” he announces.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” Dad asks. “I know you’ve been sneaking into the studio late at night. Which, by the way, leave a note next time so we don’t panic when you’re missing from your bed. You scared your mother half to death the other night.”
My mom scoffs. “Excuse me. If I remember correctly, you were the one demanding I call the police and report her missing. If I hadn’t noticed her dance bag was gone, you would’ve sent a search party out to look for her.” She reaches across the table for another piece of pizza.
“You’ve been sneaking out at night to dance?” Mark questions. “Why haven’t you told me?” He drops his slice onto the plate.
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. The teachers gave me a key to use whenever I feel up to practicing, since I’m not comfortable dancing in front of other people.”
“It is a big deal if you go late at night, by yourself, Kennedy. What if something were to happen?” Mark’s eyes narrow in on me.
“That’s what the mace is for,” I answer through a clenched jaw, irritated at his aversion of me taking two steps into a building on my own. “I get what you’re saying, but I can’t live my life in fear. I’ll be on a strange campus next year, by myself, with no one I know. I have to learn to adjust and cope with scary situations on my own. Ask Jackie. She’ll explain my process to you.”
I look to my parents for encouragement, and they both nod, as if they understand what I mean, but my answer doesn’t thrill Mark.
Through a cough, Mark mutters, “Maybe not by yourself.”
My eyes take inventory of him as he bites his pizza and then looks to me. With eyes narrowed, I tilt my head in question, but he acts like he didn’t just say what he did.
My parents stand from the table, leaving an awkward silence around the two of us. Once we are finished eating, we wash the few dishes in the sink like we always do. Where the kitchen used to be full of laughter and towel whips, it’s now barren of any conversation.
“I wish you would’ve told me you were going in the middle of the night,” Mark argues again. His hand brushes over the last plate to make sure it’s dry, and I take it from him to set it in the cupboard.
I walk backwards down the hallway, Mark hot on my tail, to ensure he sees how serious I am about the situation. “It’s not every night. I only go when the mood strikes, Mark, and I’m perfectly safe. I stay in well-lit areas and I always have my mace at the ready. At the first sign of danger, I promise I will run in the opposite direction.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Mark’s voice is soft as he speaks.
“I’m not trying to. I just need this, if that makes any sense. I have to get used to always looking over my shoulder now that I know what’s lurking in the shadows,” I argue my point, taking a seat on the edge of my bed.
My head falls into my hands, and I tug at the roots of my hair. As I look up at him, I motion for him to come over to me. When he stands in front of me, I can see how serious this subject is.
“Mark,” I whisper. My legs part and I pull him closer. His fingers run through my hair as he leans down to place his lips against mine.
“I just worry.”
“I know you do and I appreciate it, but I think we have more pressing matters to discuss.” My eyebrow raises. “Like what you said at the dinner table about me maybe not being alone.”
Mark’s eyes widen and he steps back to check his phone. “Look at the time. I have to go. Promised my mom I’d help the boys with homework.” Mark leans over to kiss my forehead.
“This is not over, Marcus Bartholomew Whitmore,” I yell as he slides through the small opening of my bedroom door.
He peeks back in and our eyes meet. “I love it when you talk dirty to me, babe, but the full name makes me think of my mother.” He chuckles at how mad I am. “By the way, you’re adorable when you’re angry at me.”
“Don’t talk to me until you’re ready to explain yourself,” I threaten.
Mark throws the door open to its full potential. He strides over to where I sit. The smirk on his lips makes me want to slap him. “I can handle that.” He runs out of my room, leaving me with an important question on my mind.
I check the time on my bedside clock. Seven forty-seven. I can still make it to the dance studio to practice and be home at a decent hour. I jump from the bed, and when I pull open my dresser drawer, I see the large, white envelope again. Its presence yells at me to pick it up and open it. Instead, I toss it into my bag. I undress and slide on a pair of black leggings and a tank top. I reach for a thin, long sleeve and pull the fabric over my head.
Tucking my hair in a high, messy bun, I walk past the kitchen. The house phone rings at the same time my cellphone vibrates in my back pocket. I hear my mom say hello as I push accept on Violet’s call.
“No, she’s right here in front of me,” she says into the receiver. “Sweetheart, I’m positive. I’m looking right at her.” I wrinkle my nose at the odd conversation my mom seems to be having. She turns her back, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“What’s up, Vi?” I say in the phone, gliding my finger over the bowl on the console table in the living room.
“Where are you?” Violet barks in a panic. “Kennedy, where are you?” she demands again without giving me a chance to answer the first time.
“I’m at home. What’s going on?” I turn back to see my mom’s wide eyes.
“Oh my god, turn on the news, Kennedy.” The fear in my best friends voice carries me into the living room. I snatch the remote off the couch and flip through the channels.
“I’m watching that,” Dad protests, but I brush him off.
“She’s safe. She’s okay.” I hear my mom snap from behind me.
“I have to go.” I drop my phone to the floor as I listen to the report.
“Craig Daniel, a local star athlete, who had been accused of sexual assault last year, has been arrested tonight on a familiar charge,” the reporter says into the camera. “We will report more detail when they become available to us.”
My knees buckle at the pretty, blonde reporter’s words. I break my fall on the arm
chair and slide in the seat. My body slumps over. Through my numbness, I feel my mom’s hand on my shoulder in support as the three of us sit in silence.
“He did it, again,” I whisper, itching my forehead. My vision blurs through the tears. “He did it, again,” I repeat as I wipe away the evidence of my pain. With all the air trapped in my lungs, I lurch forward to try to force a breath out. My vision blackens as a series of pictures plays in my mind of the night Craig raped me. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.
“Sweetie, take a deep breath.” My dad’s voice breaks through to me. With his hands resting on my knees, he coerces me into taking air into my lungs. “Good, sweetie, now look at me. Don’t worry about what’s on the news, don’t look at the TV, but look in my eyes.” My stare shifts up to him and I can see his own fear welling beneath his eyelids. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
With my hands covering my face, I frantically shake my head. “He did it, again,” I scream out, then take a strong breath in and release it. Before I know why, I start to laugh through the tears.
“I’m confused.” My dad looks between my mom and me.
“He can’t claim I’m lying anymore. He can’t say it was consensual. There has to be enough evidence now. I’m going to be free, Daddy.” A somber feeling embraces me as I stand. “He can’t take anything else away from me.”
My knees quake as he holds me up and reality sinks in.
A certain kind of guilt takes over as my dad embraces me. “Something horrific had to happen to someone else for me to have some freedom. None of this is fair. Why did this happen to me?”
“Honey, you can’t look at it that way,” my mom offers, coming up behind me. She rubs my back with a relaxing circle motion.
I step away, pushing them both off me. Circling the couch, I pick up my dance bag and stalk to the front door with determination.
“Sweetie,” dad calls. I frantically wipe the remaining tears from my eyes and twist back to him with a dry face. “Where are you headed?”
“I don’t need to check over my shoulder anymore out of fear he’ll still be there in the shadows. I want to see what it feels like to step outside and not always feel trapped,” I answer. Turning to where my mom stands, I ask, “Who was just on the phone?” I point to the kitchen where she tries to stay hidden.
“Honey...” She clasps her hands together in front of her chest. Her own tears threaten to fall down her cheeks.
“You don’t need to say it. I already know.” I nod with a slow, rhythmic acceptance. “Even when he’s not, he’s here with me,” I whisper to myself as I slip out the front door, into the darkness with no fear in my veins.
*****
I’ve been going to the same studio since freshman year when we moved to Tennessee. The instructors have become my second family. Ms. Sherry is always there to motivate me when I need encouragement the most. Stacey, her assistant, is like everyone’s big sister. She’s there for a good laugh and to push me to do things I never think my body is capable of. When everything happened last year and I lost the ability to dance, they stood by my side, convincing me my world would not end if I couldn’t dance for a short amount of time.
On the day I was supposed to return to classes, I stood in the parents’ room with the double-sided mirrors. My feet were frozen to the tiled floor. After my class was finished, Ms. Sherry walked into the room, as if she knew where I would hide. I cried as she held me.
If you ask anyone who dances, there’s a passion behind every movement, and to have it stripped, whether physically or mentally, you find yourself lost, stuck in a limbo. As she walked me out to my car and instructed that I drive safely, she tossed a silver key on my lap.
“It’s for whenever you feel the need to dance. No time restraint, no onlookers, just you and the studio. When you’re ready to dance in front of others, then come back to class. We’ll all be waiting,” I remember her saying.
The studio is my hiding place, a haven to go when things get to be too much. Attending extra therapy sessions and letting go of the things I can’t change have helped me hold my shit together lately, but seeing that envelope and hearing the news about Craig has set me back in a way I’ve never anticipated. I’ve become a professional at dodging things that make me uncomfortable, suppressing them until they scream to rip out of me.
I pull into the parking lot and throw my bag over my shoulder. With the key in my hand, I walk straight to the front door without glancing around the dark, empty parking lot. This is my safe place. Knowing Craig will be going away for a very long time, I feel a small hint of security being out on my own at night.
Once inside, I flip the light switches to bring the studio to life, plug the auxiliary cord into my phone, and push shuffle.
The white envelope screams at me. It’s just another reminder. My eyes stay trained on the mirror as my neck stretches from side to side. I reach behind me until my fingertips graze my shoulder blades with my elbow praying to the ceiling. I repeat the motion with the other arm. My back bends until I touch my toes.
When I feel most of the tension leave my body, I watch myself in the mirror as the music takes over my body.
As the tempo changes, so does my movements. Nothing is choreographed. It’s simple and therapeutic, exactly what I need, a slowdown when everything else around me seems to want to speed up.
“Little Red Wagon” spills from the speakers first. A smile pulls on my lips as I relax into the music. I do moves I wouldn’t dare let anyone see me do in person. That’s what’s freeing about this place. The way the floors smell of wood polish, and the relaxing light pink walls dance around the mirrors. Everything feels like home to me. It allows me to let my worries bleed into the floor, only to forget them for a little while.
I take a deep breath as the next song infiltrates. My body slows with the melody. Instead of turning it off, like I normally would, I let “Fix You” boom through the speakers. I stand, frozen, in the middle of the room, my eyes trained on the mirror. My eyelids fall slowly, remembering being in Graham’s car. When they open, the music throws me for a loop. My legs and arms move on their own accord. Sad movement flows from me. The tension and fear in every bend of my body reflect back to me in the mirror.
All this time, I’ve been lying to everyone, even to myself. Shaking the hurt from my heart, I twist my back from side to side. As the song ends, I dry the tears from my cheeks. My hands rest on my knees as I try to gain control of my breaths.
I Prevails’ version of “Blank Spaces” plays through the speakers, jolting me back to the task at hand. Forgetting. The loud thunder of the song echoes through the room and I push myself to keep going. My movements become harsher, angrier as the music builds. I thrash around in a blind rage, letting my body awaken my senses. I hear the strong, instruments as my body moves. I smell the distinct aroma of sweat, while my eyes gravitate to the white envelope in the corner. Biting down on my lip, I taste the coppery flavor of blood as I twist my body in the air.
My legs carry me over to my bag in a panic. I pull the envelope open and release the papers. They fall to the floor, cascading around the table. The words on the paper are blurry from where I stand, but I make out a few important ones.
Accepted. Congratulation. Your life will change here.
As if I’m floating above myself, I see my arms run the length of the desk. The small lamp, picture frames, and papers fall to the floor with a loud clatter. Destruction consumes me as my anger boils to unstoppable measure. Nothing has ever felt as euphoric. A sense of empowerment consumes me, but even in a blackout rage, I know it won’t last. I search for the same relief anywhere in this room. My eyes catch sight of the broom. With the wooden handle in hand, I whip around until it collides into the filing cabinet. A deep, long breath escapes my mouth. I swing, and the wood snaps against the mirror in front of me.
Glass shatters at my feet, bouncing off the wood floor in a perfect crescendo to the hurricane of my movement. My knees land in the sea o
f small shards, a good reminder I’m still alive. Even with my eyes open, all I see is black. My chest heaves, begging for relief, as the song ends and another begins. I lay flat on the cool floor, listening to song after song until the playlist starts over. My fears, my anger, my frustration lay around me in their physical forms; tears, glass, and an acceptance letter to nowhere.
Chapter Thirty
Graham
I drive Kacey home as soon as I get off the phone with Mrs. Conrad. Because I know what Kennedy’s going through, I don’t have it in me to continue our fun.
When I pull into my driveway around nine o’clock, Violet’s red mustang is the first thing I see. She races down the walkway, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and her shoulders tense. Something’s wrong.
I roll my window down and stick my head out. “Are you trying to get killed?” I shout.
“Wouldn’t be the first time you ran over someone.” She sneers the insult.
Low blow, Violet.
“It’s Kennedy, Graham.” She rounds the car, slides into the passenger seat, and stares straight ahead. “Drive,” she demands.
“You need to tell me where the hell I’m going, Vi. I’m not a mind reader,” I shout, my voice echoing in the small space.
My heart begins to race and my palms sweat on the steering wheel as I wait for an explanation, anything to know what’s going on.
“The dance studio. Now, drive.” Violet rubs her forehead with the pads of her fingertips.
My foot hits the gas as we pull into the street and head to the only dance studio in town.
“Are you going to explain what’s going on?” I glance at Violet, then back to the road to make sure we make it there in one piece. “Violet, you need to talk to me. Whatever has you silent is freaking me the fuck out.”
“Mark found Kennedy at the dance studio after he heard the news. He wasn’t sure if he should call her parents or what when he found her. He can’t get her to calm down, so he called me.”
Violet’s stare burns into me, so I twist in her direction. My eyebrows knit together when she looks at me with sympathetic eyes.