“So are you going to talk to the guy?” I ask her.
“Well, right now I’m talking to him because I don’t want to be responsible for him committing suicide, but Monday at school my mom and I are going to talk to the principal,” she finally talks.
“Why would you talk to the principal?” Is she fucking crazy?
“Because what he is doing to me is so manipulative. It’s basically blackmail,” she says as her eyes fill up with tears.
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“School,” is all she says. I can tell asking anything about her relation to this guy or about the identity of this guy is too much for her right now, so I don’t overstep my bounds.
“Is that the same guy that you were screaming about that morning and your mom was looking at your phone?”
“Yes,” she says. I just nod at her, glad to finally be having a conversation with her where neither of us run out of the room and away from each other. Yet, at least. She looks up into my eyes and for the first time in the month I have been living with this mysterious girl, I think I have finally gotten a piece of the Becca puzzle. I am one step closer to figuring this girl out. I’m getting pretty damn good at this.
**
That night, I’m asleep in my comfy bed, in my room, which is across from Becca’s, which is still hard to wrap my head around. I’m reading a motorcycle magazine. I want a motorcycle really bad but Lindsey and David won’t let me get one – ever. I like this red one with black handle bars. My friend has this black and white one, and it’s ugly as hell. Of course, I don’t tell him that. It basically looks like an episode of I Love Lucy on a two by two inch screen. Just shitty.
Anyways, so I’m looking at motorcycles when I hear Becca scream from her room. I jump out of bed and run across the hall. By the time I process what’s going on, Becca’s parents are in her room too. Becca is hyperventilating and sweating and sobbing, all at the same time. Lindsey rushes to her side and starts rubbing her back.
“What happened, baby?” She asks, rubbing circles on her back. I sit at the edge of Becca’s bed, next to David. None of us even bothered turning on the light to her room.
“I had a nightmare,” she says, her voice shaking.
“About what?” Her daddy asks her.
“He took me out of my bed; he kidnapped me. He was cradling me out of my room.” she responds, barely breathing. Tears are streaming down her face and she has her hand on her heart. She’s pale as hell.
“Who?” Her dad asks once again. Yeah, who?
Lindsey answers for Becca. “Henry. This is the second time she’s had this dream. Henry comes into her room, tapes her mouth shut, and kidnaps her.”
“Where does he take you, baby?” David asks. He takes her shaking hand in his and squeezes it.
“It never gets that far. I wake up right after he takes me out of my bedroom door,” she says. Okay, who the fuck is Henry? David then looks at me. “Let’s get some rest, Kade. Let the girls talk,” he says as I stand up. Even though I don’t want to leave Becca, I obey David and follow him out of the bedroom, closing Becca’s door behind me. Leaving her right now seems like the hardest thing I have ever had to possibly do. The scary thing is, I have separation anxiety after I close the door. I would do anything to be in that room with her, helping her through whatever the hell is going on.
Henry. Henry who? What’s his last name?
Henry. She knows him from school. He’s the worst thing that has ever happened to her. He reminds her of pancakes, and they used to be best friends. She sobbed while her mom looked at something on her phone related to this guy. Yeah, I have more puzzle pieces to put together, that’s for sure.
**
Then at three-forty five, I hear the TV click on. Am I going to get any sleep tonight? I sigh, rolling my eyes. I step out of bed and slowly walk down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. Lindsey and David’s room is quiet and the door is closed, but Becca’s is open, and she’s not in her bed. I didn’t have to check her bedroom to know who’s downstairs, though.
I find Becca sitting on the couch eating more ice cream. Where does all the fat go? It definitely doesn’t go anywhere on her body. Maybe her boobs, actually. Okay ew, Kade, stop talking. Becca looks up at me when she hears my feet slowly shuffling across the hall, toward the living room. She just looks back at the TV. This time, she’s watching Full House.
“I forgot how much I love this show,” she says quietly. I can barely hear the TV, but if I concentrate really hard, I can hear what each character is saying. I just keep silent, letting her talk whenever she wants. She’s had a hard twenty-four hours. I wouldn’t be able to sleep, either, if I was her, so I understand somewhat. “God, he’s taken so much away from me. He’s so abusive. So much of my happiness is absolutely gone,” she says. Again, I don’t say a word. Hell, I barely breathe. “My love for going to school, living life, it’s gone. He stole it. He’s a criminal. My ability to trust people isn’t even able to be seen in the dust. I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate him,” she tells me. Shit, who is this guy? What did he do that was so horrible? Why does he make her so unhappy? How is he abusive?
“What’s his name?” Maybe she will tell me his last name.
“Henry Joseph,” she says. Yes, a last name! Wait, I know this douche.
“Wait. The ginger one?” I ask, simply. Saying this gets a little smile to come across her face, like it’s some inside joke between her and herself. Slowly, her smile gets bigger and bigger, which causes me to smile.
“Yeah,” she giggles. I nod my head, glad I could get her to giggle at least a tiny bit. When we were younger, I could always get Becca to have huge laugh attacks. Then when she got older and I got poorer, I began to think she was a spoiled rich kid. Now I see that really isn’t the story, and I feel bad for assuming that it was. Her parents always make her work for things, and she gets straight A’s all the time. This girl is no spoiled brat.
“He just proves that gingers have no soul,” I tell her. Her eyes widen and she laughs even more. She walks over to where I am sitting and slaps me in the shoulder.
“You are awful! It just happens that he has no soul; some gingers are actually pretty nice,” she says to me. Her smile is practically touching her eyes and I wish I could just glue it there.
After I got her to laugh, we talked for about five more hours, until around nine o’clock in the morning. That’s when she fell asleep on the couch, finally. Lindsey and David are still asleep, so I take Becca up to her room, cradling her like a baby, and continue to let her sleep. I put her down in her bed and cover her up with sheets and blankets. She is still sound asleep, and didn’t wake up when I carried her up the stairs. I watch her for about five minutes, breathing peacefully in and out, then my eyes start to feel heavy. I have to fight with everything I have to not crawl into bed with her and just lay there with my arms wrapped around her waist. No sex or anything, just sitting there holding her sounds amazing right now. Instead, I close Becca’s door behind me, and crawl back into my own bed, and fall asleep.
Chapter 32: Healing -->
So I know I fell asleep in Kade’s arms yesterday and I know he took me to bed, and let me sleep all day yesterday. So now it’s Monday and Kade, mom, and I are driving to school. Mom is in the front seat driving, Kade is in the passenger seat, I am in the back seat, behind my mom. I look at Kade and he looks back at me. I think Lindsey reminded him that today I am going to tell the office about Henry and how he is suicidal. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it, knowing it’s the one thing that has always comforted me.
We pull into the school parking lot and my breathing picks up more and more the closer my mom and I get to the guidance counselor's room. Kade went his separate way once we all got to the entrance to the school. He went to his first period, as mom and I walked toward the back of the school.
We get to the guidance counselor’s office, and I stop in front of the door, scared to go in. “You can do it, bab
y,” my mom says. “Just be honest,” she continues. I reach for the handle to open the door. When mom starts to follow me in, I tell her I want to talk to the guidance counselor alone and handle this horrible situation like a big girl. She rubs my back and tells me she will be right outside waiting as I walk in. You can do this. It feels good to hear myself supporting my heart and body. Even though no one else is here to support me in the scary room, I am here for myself, and it’s the best feeling in the world. I don’t remember the last time I was actually on my own side.
The guidance counselor looks up from her computer screen and I stop breathing. Breathe, Becca. In and out. She gives me a soft smile. I give her a nervous one.
“Hey, sweetie, what’s up?” She motions for me to sit down probably thinking I just want to talk about my problems and not somebody else’s. She probably thinks I need help with like my parents or something. Sometimes I wish I had problems with my parents instead of emotional abuse, but then I look at the people with parents that are divorced and cry even just thinking about my parents being apart.
“Um, I’m Becca,” I say. I sit in the chair, thank goodness. The chair is blue with brown wood supporting the blue cloth. I’m glad I can get my body to sit in the chair because I don’t think my legs would have lasted any longer.
“Alrightie, Becca, what’s up?” She asks once again as she crosses her fingers and twiddles her thumbs, something that reminds me of my insane cat-lady sixth grade English teacher. She would tell us to twiddle our thumbs when we got bored. Fucking weirdo. I take out my phone, not caring about the school rules since no one follows that shit anyways. I scroll to Henry’s name in my messages and bring up our conversation. My heart is pounding so fast that I swear you can see it. I just bring up the message that says:
Becca please, if you don’t talk to me I might commit suicide. I am so lonely and depressed, and you are my world. So without you, I have nothing else to live for.
I shove my phone toward her, not being able to stare at the text any longer, and she takes it in her hands. I study the lady while she reads the text message conversation. I try my best not to break down right there in a full on meltdown when I see her eyes go wide. So I concentrate on her looks. She has short brown hair, is really tall, and has the cutest outfit ever. A long brown skirt and pink shirt with a brown, pink, and blue scarf. I love scarfs. She has an engagement ring on and her makeup is fresh, like she just put it on, and it’s a small and natural amount.
“So who is this Henry boy?” She asks.
I take a breath. “His name is Henry Joseph, he is also a senior,” I tell her calmly. She takes out a green sticky note and begins jotting down notes. Oh, God.
“How do you know him?” She looks up from the phone at me, and my breath hitches.
“He was my best friend,” I tell her.
“Deep breaths, honey. And was?” She tests. I really fucking hate when people tell me to breathe. I will breathe on my own time, thank you very much. And I really fucking hate telling counselors about my problems. Like what the hell can they do? I don’t even know why I’m here anymore. All it does is bring all the negativity back. I feel trapped in the room. The walls are slowly coming closer toward me. I feel like a dumbass when I cross my fingers and twiddle my thumbs. Dear, God, help me. I’m drowning under negative thoughts. I’m not doing the right thing. I’m overreacting. All this pain happens to everyone else, right? I’m such a pansy. I’m just doing this for attention. God, I hate myself.
“Yes, he was emotionally abusive so I ended our friendship,” I say.
“How so?” She asks. Oh just shut the fuck up you bitch. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me, or do you just suck ass at your job? That’s when I start crying. She hands me a tissue. It’s scented, so I don’t use it to blow my nose, just dab my makeup away from my eyelids. I hate scented tissues.
“He would call me names, cyberbully me, talk behind my back, but never say anything to me in person,” I say. “He was so nice in person, but immediately between other friends and social media, he would turn into a bully,” I continue. In unprofessional words, the kind I like to use, he’s the biggest fuckin’ pussy the world has seen.
“I see. And when did you stop being his friend?” She looks at me, writing everything I say down on that stupid ass sticky note.
“About three months ago,” I say. “July, to be specific,” I add on, hating myself for knowing the exact date. July 7th, 2012 at four o’clock. I remember because I was rehearsing for my solo for our concert on November 9th. It was a Wednesday.
“What kind of things did he say to you? What did he do to you, abusive wise?” I hate you I hate you I hate you, so fucking much, mother fucker. She picks up the phone and puts it up to her ear. Does this mean I don’t have to answer her stupid fucking question? Nope. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows, wanting me to go on.
“I don’t like to talk about it. The point is, he’s obsessive and now saying he is going to commit suicide if I don’t talk to him. So I would like it out of my hands and into the authority’s hands,” I say as she dials a couple numbers into the phone’s keypad. I just want to fucking have the problem out of my hands to cover my ass. If Henry commits suicide, I don’t want to think for the rest of my life that it was my fault. That’s all I would be able to think about. She mutters Henry’s full name into the phone and then asks the person on the other end of the line to see if he is in school today. She nods to whatever the person on the other end is saying and then says “okay, see you soon.” And that is it. She puts the phone back in its charger and smiles at me once again. I take my phone and text my mom telling her I have everything under control and for her to go home. She texts back saying okay and good luck. I text her back a kissy face. She says Kade is waiting for me outside when I’m done. Somehow, that is the most comforting thing I have been able to hear all day, aside from him giving me that hand squeeze today in the car. The next minute, the on-campus sheriff is coming in the room.
“Rebecca?” He asks as he enters the room with Kade following behind him. “This young man says you wanted him in here for moral support, is that true?” I didn’t exactly ask him to be here, but Kade is good at keeping me calm. I stand up and shake the sheriff’s hand all formal and all, and Kade rests his hand on my lower back.
“Yeah, he’s fine,” I tell the sheriff. I relax a little when Kade sits in my chair’s twin next to me.
“Okay then. Now, Rebecca, I was in the office when Miss Guidance Counselor over here-excuse me I don’t know your name, I am new – and Henry’s mom just dropped him off, so we know he didn’t commit suicide,” the sheriff says. Most schools only have security guards, but we have such a big drug problem here the school decided to just have a 24/7 sheriff on campus. It’s quite annoying and pretty pathetic.
“That’s good,” I tell him. The sheriff keeps calling me Rebecca, which isn’t exactly annoying, just weird, but I’m too busy with other things, obviously, so I don’t correct him.
“So, I will contact his mom and Miss Guidance Counselor will talk to Henry himself, and it will be out of your hands,” that’s all he says and it feels good to finally have someone not question the situation further. He stands up, shakes my hand and walks out of the room. I just started breathing again, I think.
“Now you have nothing to worry about, Becca. We will take care of it,” Miss Guidance Counselor says as she gives me a warm smile. I don’t exactly believe these words, but I don’t believe anything anyone says these days. She’s a nice lady, but she doesn’t have to fucking smile at me. We both know the last thing I want is to be smiled at. What a kiss ass. I don’t have the energy to even form one of my fake smiles.
“Thanks,” I say. I get up and look at Kade, signaling him to follow me as a tear slips down my cheek. This is all too much for me. I’m not supposed to know what this feels like. I’m only seventeen. I’m supposed to be dealing with how my boyfriend broke up with me and how my best friend is being a bitch. I don’t want to
be responsible if Henry does commit suicide. Knowing me, the good person that I am, I would say “Oh shit, he committed suicide because I wouldn’t talk to him. I am so selfish.” I would feel like it is my fault. Wait, why am I thinking about this? This hasn’t even happened yet. I focus on not tripping over my feet as I walk out of the classroom with Kade behind me. Once we get out of the office, I sit at the end of the ramp and begin to sob. Kade just sits next to me, wraps his arm around me, and lets me sob, once again, in his arms.
Chapter 33: Healing -->
That night, of course, I can’t sleep. There’s no such thing as a sleeping pattern in my fucking life. But when I get up out of bed and walk down the stairs, Kade already has the ice cream out. He’s sitting on the couch watching Full House re-runs, since once again it is one in the morning. I sit next to him on the couch and he hands me the extra spoon. We sit there quietly for about an hour, watching Full House and sharing the tub of ice cream.
“My mom says she is going to come visit in about two weeks, when it gets closer to Halloween. She wants to be here for your favorite Holiday,” he tells me.
“You talked to her?”
“Yeah,” he says. I can feel my face fall with my emotion. I’m glad Kade got to talk to his mom, but I wish Cynthia would call me too. I need her. I know she knows that, but it would be nice if she took the time to talk to me too. “She misses both of us, she says.” I wouldn’t know myself. Stop being a selfish bitch, Becca.
“Is Rey coming too?”
“No, he’s going to stay behind and look after the house,” Kade replies. In Mexico, Cynthia and Rey own a huge house and farm. So it’s not like they are suffering in Mexico, which comforts me, but I would do anything to have them be here in the US. It’s hard to wake up to Kade’s face. He reminds me so much of Cynthia and Rey. His face resembles them both equally, and the scruff on his chin reminds me of Rey when he doesn’t shave. Cynthia always tells the boys in her family to shave and she always tells me to fix my hair. Cynthia is big on her kid’s presentation, though she doesn’t really care what she wears or what her hair looks like. She says she has no time to pick out the perfect outfit for work like I do for school. She also says I don’t have my future yet, so I might as well dress for success. She already is an adult with a job, so she doesn’t really need to dress for the success that she already has.
When I Forget You Page 11