My Monster

by Einat Segal

  "You're still keeping secrets from me? I got to say, I’m disappointed in you. Is it too much to ask that after what happened—”

  "I broke up with Landon,” I say. I don't want Esmeralda to lecture me about my lack of truthfulness, so I give her the part of the truth that actually matters—the result. Honesty is overrated. Things were going well with Landon before he decided to be honest with me.

  There's a part of me that wants to tell her what happened, to tell Shawn, hell, even to tell my parents. But that part is curled up into a ball and weeping bitterly in the corner.

  There's a much more rational part that has taken the reins, and it says, "What happened on the hill, stays on the hill."

  I have to find a way to live with myself and not go insane. If I start speaking to people about gryphons and dragons, they’ll think I’m insane—and who's to say I’m not? It all felt so real, but maybe it's something my sick mind conjured up?

  I don’t want to be asking myself these questions, so avoidance is my strategy and also my tactic.

  Esmeralda frowns. "Did you break up with him in a bad way?"

  "There was an argument," I confirm. "It got ugly."

  "How ugly?"

  "I cried."

  Esmeralda's mouth forms a perfect O.

  I shrug my shoulders. "It's my thing, you know? I get into arguments, and then I cry about them. I cried after we argued at the Halloween party."

  That's bending the truth a little bit, but Esmeralda looks touched. “You did?”

  “I was sad.”

  “Soph, you crazy bitch. I don’t even know why I love you,” she says, throwing her arms around me. I hug her back.

  Mrs. Tanner calls us from the yard. I lift the small yet surprisingly heavy box, and we walk outside.

  I'm thankful toward Esmeralda and her urge to “do good” combined with her ability to convince me to do things I would never do. Landon wasn't in school this week—no surprise there—and if it hadn't been for this ridiculous yard sale, I would have spent the weekend thinking.

  Over and over and over again.

  That I miss him.

  * * *

  Next Monday, Landon appears in class, and to all onlookers, it becomes obvious that we're no longer an item.

  Seeing him makes my heart sting. I keep my distance from him, and he, in turn, doesn't push himself on me. We don't greet each other; we don't interact at all.

  Only during classes, I can feel him looking at me, his eyes searching for mine across the classroom.

  One time. I meet his gaze only one time, and it's enough to make me lose my appetite for lunch. Why does he have to give me that pleading look? I know he came to school only to try to change my mind.

  I try to be angry. I try to hate him. I never had to try to hate things. It pretty much always comes naturally to me.

  I don't like this, but I don't like the alternative even more. I can't accept him, so this is final.

  My stupid, weak heart will just have to learn to deal with it.

  Shawn bumps into me in the corridor between sixth and seventh period. He’s no longer trying to make it seem like we’re together, so we don’t talk in classes. I don’t know who he’s currently sleeping with, but it has to be someone. He can’t be Shawn without some girl doting over him.

  “Just say the word and I’ll kill him,” he whispers into my ear.

  He pats my arm, fixing me with a smirk, and continues on his way to class.

  * * *

  By Wednesday, sex withdrawal starts. Or maybe it’s just the need for physical contact that translates into my sex drive. I take this as a sign that I’m healing. They say young people heal fast. And what happened, really? A relationship I had turned out to be riddled with lies? That happens every day all over the world. Big deal!

  Big deal . . .

  Prior to Landon, I didn’t know what I was missing when it came to sex. Now I’m able to face that what I miss about him is the physical part.

  Maybe the laughing too.

  And the sound of his voice.

  And the hugging.

  And the sleeping in the same bed.

  Stop. I’m growing sick of myself. This is just whatever. I don’t miss him. I’m just following some human pattern that says you have to miss someone who you became used to seeing.

  I don’t need him. I have both my hands.

  Even though my hands are far less attractive.

  The rest of the week passes this way. My internal monologues grow redundant until I’m almost disgusted with myself. The third Friday of December pops up. That’s right; it’s that time of the month again—the Henderson dinner.

  “You’re going like that?” my mom asks as I come downstairs.

  “What?” I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing bottle-green skinny jeans that were a mistake I made while shopping, and an old lime-green sweater that belonged to my mom when she was my age and which I wear only at home.

  “No. Uh, hold on, I’ll go change,” I say, running up the stairs before anyone can ask me more questions.

  I’m losing myself. I’m changing for the worst. This isn’t me. This won’t do.

  On the way to the Hendersons’ place, I evade my parents’ concerned questions in a noncommittal fashion. They leave me alone eventually, and I can practically hear how my current behavior fits neatly into the “teenager” box in their heads.

  Good.

  I think that covers all the people who matter in my life. I think that wading through their concern without revealing anything is an achievement. In a way, this means I’ve managed to get past him.

  There won’t be any turning back.

  * * *

  It’s a relief to be inside the Hendersons’ home. I want to be here. What does it say about me that right now, I’m more comfortable faking smiles than being myself? I’m Sophie Green, and I’ve come a long way in this world.

  Damn it all.

  There’s the usual loud greetings and Cintia’s loud clothes. “Sophie dear, I have to say, you look so grown up in that dress.”

  “It’s just something I threw on,” I say truthfully. It’s my emergency dress when I can’t find anything to wear. Plain black, yet somehow also very flattering.

  “You should wear pencil skirts more often,” Cintia says. Look at what's happening! I’m now getting fashion advice from the most cluelessly unfashionable person I know. “Shawn!” she shouts up the stairwell. “The Greens are here!”

  There’s no reply.

  “Shawn?” Cintia tries again.

  And nothing.

  She opens her mouth to call him a third time—

  “I’ll just go get him,” I say, causing both my parents and Cintia to give me a quizzical look. I think everyone has figured out by now that Shawn and I weren’t a serious couple. I start mounting the stairs.

  “Are you sure, dear?” Cintia asks after me. “Do you know where his room is?”

  “It’s not a problem, Mrs. Henderson,” I say.

  Shawn doesn’t have just a room; he has a whole floor to himself. I turn left on the second landing and pad over the carpeted floor. His door is ajar, and I push it open and walk in without knocking.

  Shawn’s on his bed, sprawled on top of the covers with a book over his face. He doesn’t stir when I step up to the foot of the bed. There’s a jittery beating in my chest, like someone on a diet seeing a delicious dessert. I don’t know why seeing him sleeping makes me feel this good. I slip my shoes off my feet and edge onto the bed.

  I fit myself slowly, slowly against him. The warmth that engulfs me is like entering a hot bath after a cold day. The fact that this is a stolen moment, though, somehow makes it all the better. I release a deep sigh, snuggling closer against him.

  And close my eyes.

  I hear him exhale. The sound’s like the wind in the trees of the woods by my house. His fingers create little trails in my hair. I open my eyes. The book’s gone and he’s risen up on his elbow, looking straight into my face
.

  I’m busted. There’s no easy way to explain this situation. This is just asking for it.

  He presses his palm to the side of my face. Any second now, he’s going to tease me, going to ask if this means what he thinks it means.

  Any second now . . .

  He continues to mess up my hair. Digging his palms into the mattress below my head, massaging the back of my neck. He doesn’t ask why I’m there. He doesn’t ask. And then he continues not to ask.

  His palms are still buried between the mattress and my body. They travel down, pressing into my muscles. I arc against him.

  He doesn’t ask, but he does smile. He leans closer.

  And kisses my forehead.

  And my left eyebrow.

  And the bridge of my nose.

  And the corner of my mouth.

  And my lips.

  His tongue darts into my mouth. There’s a touch of stubble and a graze of his teeth. There’s the weight of his body over mine, pinning me in place, and the surge of craving that makes me dig my fingers into his back. I can’t stop this. I’m drunk on how warm he is and the smell of his skin. I can’t help wanting more.

  I wriggle under him, just to tease him, just to make this more real. Not two minutes pass, and I think I can feel something bulging in his pants.

  My fingers almost reach for it. Almost.

  What. The fuck. Am I doing?

  I push him off with all my strength. Immediately a stark, biting cold replaces the tantalizing warmth. He’s so surprised by my sudden movement that he slides over the opposite side of the bed. I sit up, straightening my hair and my dress as best I can. “We’re not doing this,” I say in my most acidic voice. “We are not doing this.” My heart is racing a million miles per hour.

  Shawn’s back on his feet. “Fee, I’m sor—”

  I don’t let him talk. I get my feet into my shoes. “This is never happening.” My voice is a little loud. “Do you get it? Never.”

  “You know what, Fee?” Shawn’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s short of breath, his tone matching mine. “I don’t get it! Every time you start acting like you’re doing what you want, you stop yourself by letting your ego get in the way.”

  “My ego? Shawn, how about reality? We”—I gesture between us—“are horrible together.”

  “We’re perfect together.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing here, and I know you too well to find you even remotely attractive.”

  He gives me his holier-than-thou look, like he’s now in the presence of a child who’s throwing a tantrum. “Your panties beg to differ,” he says simply.

  “What? Ew. Ugh. Yuck.” I give him my most disgusted look. I know it’s convincing, because I see doubt creep into his expression. I take a few steps back. “You’re just . . . you repulse me.”

  “Repulse you? Really, Fee? Really?”

  He stares at me with big blue eyes, and I’m once again struck by the fact that I’m seeing a side of Shawn that no one else can. A part of him that’s plagued by insecurity and is unspeakably vulnerable.

  And I’m breaking him.

  After a moment’s silence, I leave him standing there in his room, and for the whole duration of dinner, he doesn’t even look at me.

  * * *

  I try not to give too much thought to what happened with Shawn. I'm supposed to go out on Saturday with Esmeralda on our usual “Christmas date,” but then it starts snowing heavily, so our plans are dashed. Instead, I go into the basement and play my oboe.

  For some odd reason, that's all I do that day. Our basement is relatively soundproof, so my parents don't get a headache from all my squeaking. I kill one of my two reeds, playing until my lips blister. When I finally can't play anymore, I spend two whole hours trying to carve a reed and end up with nothing I can actually use.

  At dinnertime, my dad calls me from the kitchen to light Hanukkah candles. Neither Mom nor I are very observant of our Jewish traditions, but Dad loves all of it. He always wants us to sing the songs together and gets all hyper over the menorah when the candles are lit. While both Mom and I have good singing voices, we end up awkwardly humming the songs. We never remember the words and just make up gibberish.

  I'm happy we don't celebrate Christmas. I can just enjoy the time off school without the added holiday stress. We have enough holidays as it is. I don't need more, and I have a perfect excuse not to get people presents.

  Feeling festive, I allow my dad to eat two small latkes that my mom makes. He devours them like a golden retriever before turning to eat his steamed chicken breast and peas with pure agony written all over his face. Well, Dad, this is what you get for enjoying life too much when you were younger.

  After dinner, my mom goes up to bed to curl up with a book, and I sit next to my dad as he watches TV. I’m so proud of myself. It's been a whole day, and I thought about Landon only every hour.

  I twiddle with my stupid phone. Why do I even have it in my hand? I'm at home, Esmeralda's busy with her granny, Shawn and I aren't on speaking terms anymore, and it's not like I randomly call him anyway. There's no one else in the world I could be communicating with.

  I want to call him, dammit.

  I find Landon's name on my contacts list. My thumb hovers over the buttons. I make to throw my phone aside.

  But suddenly, I press the green button.

  "Sophie?" he answers breathlessly after one ring.

  I hang up.

  Bad Sophie. Bad.

  Memories of insanity, towering nightmares on the hilltop, a dead body being devoured, fire consuming the flowers, smoke billowing into the sky—they all flood my mind, along with a hollow feeling of painful longing. His arms holding me, the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips, the glow of his smile—

  I get up.

  "Turning in early?" Dad asks.

  "Yeah."

  * * *

  On Sunday, I wake up at noon. I had trouble falling asleep the night before. I only managed to drift off after a very vigorous session of self-pleasure. And the weird thing was, that what I thought about in those moments wasn't Landon. I went back in my mind to my kiss with Shawn.

  If only I just surrendered to my urges and let it happen.

  But these things have consequences. I'm not tangling myself in any more strings. Shawn is too transparent about having feelings for me. From now on, I'm never going to have actual relationships with boys. It's going to be all about the sex. I'll never have to open my heart, only to meet monsters.

  That sounds so lame, I know. Just because I got hurt once, I shouldn't be unwilling to get hurt again. But this isn't about that. It's about practicality; it's about what I truly want out of my life and my future.

  Most people live with the notion that they want to experience love. But I don't.

  I don't want that, ever. I have no use for it. I want to be alone.

  The snow piles high outside. I call up Esmeralda and get my snow clothes. We spend the rest of the afternoon having snow fights, building snowmen, and goofing around. My favorite thing about snow is stepping on it when it's all smooth and fresh.

  At some point, Esmeralda pulls out a flask of whiskey she snuck from her mom's stash. I get drunk enough to run around like an excited puppy in Esmeralda's backyard, only satisfied when I ruin every expanse of snow. Then we go to the woods behind my house and pretend we're in Narnia—like we used to when we were kids. The alcohol makes this seem like a good plan.

  We giggle for hours like nothing matters.

  It starts getting dark, and we begin losing our buzz. Neither of us wants to drink more than we can handle, so we call it a day and head home.

  There are Hanukkah candles again with my parents—it's a pretty repetitive holiday—and we all have dinner together. This time, I do manage to turn in early. Something about the diminishing alcohol makes me crave sex even more desperately than usual, but after a very hot shower, I fall asleep.

  * * *

  The robotic sounds of my phone wa
ke me up from a deep sleep. My eyes can't focus on the screen.

  I put the phone to my ear and begin falling asleep again.

  "It's me," says his voice. He says it softly in a way I've never heard him speak.

  But I'm half in a dream, and I'm not sure this conversation is actually happening. So it's fine. I go with it. "Mmm?"

  "Did I wake you?"

  "Na . . ."

  "I'm sorry that I woke you."

  "S'ok . . ."

  "Listen, I messed up. I . . ." A dog barks into the night. I hear it from down the street.

  And also over the line.

  I come more awake. "Where are you now?" I ask.

  "I'm outside your house."

  I sit up. "Not this again."

  "It's still Christmas," he says, "and . . . I get it, okay? I read you wrong. I shouldn't have done that. But can we just talk face to face? Let's . . . let's just have an honest conversation, just this once."

  "Shawn—"

  "All I'm asking is for you to give me a chance to apologize."

  "Can you—" I try.

  "I promise not to touch you or do anything—"

  "Ugh, let me talk. Come to the back door," I finally manage to say.

  "O . . . kay?" I hear the confusion. What, Shawnie, was that not the reaction you were expecting?

  "I'll meet you downstairs, but keep quiet. My parents might still be awake, and I don't want them knowing you're here."

  * * *

  My dad is snoring in front of the TV. On my way to the kitchen, I open the door to the basement so that we'll be able to pass quickly. Then I stand for what feels like an eternity as I carefully unlock the back door and let Shawn in.

  It started snowing again, and he's dripping all over the kitchen as he takes off his boots. I grab the sleeve of his jacket and lead him toward the basement door. Just when we pass by my sleeping dad, he gives out a loud snore.

  "The case's under review . . ." he mumbles.

  Shawn and I freeze like in a game of Red Light, Green Light.