Put Me Back Together

by Lola Rooney

  “He’s an asshole,” I responded, pulling the cords on my hood so my face was nearly obscured.

  “I’m aware of that,” Lucas said, “but what were you doing in that room in the first place? I turned around and you were gone. Jen said you went to the bathroom, and the next thing I knew Tim was dragging me over, telling me my girl was about to beat up four guys at once.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Lucas kept going a few steps, putting some space between us. “I’m not your girl,” I said angrily.

  “What?” Lucas said, shaking his head in confusion. “I was just repeating—”

  I found myself panting hard, though I didn’t know why. We weren’t running anymore. “I don’t need you to rescue me, Lucas,” I said. “I can fight my own battles.”

  “Clearly,” he said.

  “I’m not some damsel in distress who needs your help. I’m not some stupid—”

  “I know you’re not,” he said in a low voice.

  But that wasn’t helping. All of his compassion, his caring, his kind eyes, and his concerned looks were making me crazy. I didn’t want his worry. I didn’t want his pity. Not now, not ever.

  Balling my hands into fists—even the wounded one—I faced him like a prizefighter. “Stop it,” I said. “I don’t need this. I don’t need you. I just want to be left alone. I can take care of myself.” Ignoring his bewildered expression, I turned on my heel and kept walking.

  I’d gone about ten steps when he called after me. “You’re still going the wrong way,” he said.

  He was right. I’d missed the turn that would take me south toward my building. Grudgingly, I turned back. And as I passed him the stupid boy started talking. Again.

  “I’m not trying to baby you,” he said. “I’m not here because I think you need me. That’s not why I went into that room. That’s not why I threw Buck Mullard on the floor.”

  I looked him right in the face for the first time since we’d left the party, and I made myself hold his gaze, just for a moment, just to be sure. Then I felt my lips begin to tremble, because it was just as I’d feared. When I looked at him I didn’t see Lucas. I saw eyes of stone, that expression of revulsion on his face, that desire to tear someone apart. I saw the animal. I saw the rage. And nothing else.

  “Why, then, Lucas?” I said. “Tell me why you did it.”

  He threw his arms up, and for a second I thought he might lunge forward and strangle me.

  “Jesus Christ, Katie, why do you think?” he said, giving me an exasperated look.

  My body shook at the sound of his raised voice, and I felt tears in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall.

  Not now. I couldn’t cry now. Not in front of him.

  Then he stepped toward me and I braced myself for whatever was coming.

  “All right, if you don’t know why, then I’ll just have to show you,” he said, and then his lips met mine.

  At first I didn’t understand what was happening. I felt his lips, soft against my own, and the delicate pressure of his hands against my cheeks. For a second there was no movement, it was as though we’d become a statue sculpted of ice, our faces frozen together. But then his mouth opened, just a little, and I felt him suck at my bottom lip, and suddenly I found myself melting. His lips moved against mine, hot like embers, warming me to the core as he pushed his fingers into my hair. He explored my mouth with the accomplished movements of a seasoned lover while my face followed his clumsily, my lips betraying my inexperience. It occurred to me that only a moment ago I had been about to cry, but I pushed this thought away as an ache began to build in me, beginning just below my bellybutton and spreading through my stomach.

  My hood fell off my head and I felt Lucas’s hands leave my face, his arms encircling my body as the snow kissed our cheeks and melted instantly.

  Is this what I want? I asked myself, though my body seemed to have no reservations, my mouth opening to his and letting his tongue slide against my own. I heard myself moan, which only seemed to embolden him, his lips becoming more insistent, his kisses delving deeper. My knees went weak and I nearly sagged against him.

  Are you what I want? I asked myself, and though I was still kissing Lucas, suddenly I was imagining a different place and a different boy who I’d wanted to kiss just like this and who had made me melt just like this, whose words had been sweet and looks tender right up until his eyes turned black and the heart that had beat only for me turned hard, and the boy who had made me feel so whole turned into a monster.

  I pulled out of Lucas’s arms, breaking the kiss, my heart pounding for a new reason now. We stood facing each other, breathless, and I could feel him trying to lean toward me, to press his forehead against mine, to block out the world, but there was no blocking this out. This was inside of me.

  “So, Hero, now do you understand why…” Lucas began, but right away his words began to falter as though he knew what I was going to say before I even said it. As though he could see the fear in my eyes.

  “Stay away from me, Lucas,” I said, backing away. “I’m no good for you.”

  “No good for me?” he said, uncomprehending, reaching for me, but this time I didn’t fall into his arms. This time I leaped away from his touch and he stared at me in disbelief.

  Good, I thought to myself as I turned and walked carefully away through the snow.

  I was glad he couldn’t believe this was happening. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Lucas Matthews wanted me and I was walking away from him. It was probably the first time in history that such a thing had ever happened.

  My cell phone buzzed before I reached the corner and I hesitated before taking it out. If it was a text from Lucas, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough not to turn around and run back to him. When I glanced down at the screen, I was almost relieved.

  Brandon had found my new number.

  Unknown: Get ready, you little bitch. It won’t be long now.

  It was the message I needed to hear, a reminder not to make the same mistake again.

  That was when I knew I’d done the right thing.

  12

  “What did he do?” Em asked for the tenth time, giving me her most intense you-will-spill-all-your-secrets stare.

  I gripped the straps of my backpack as a crowd of students passed us in the hall, my eyes frantically darting from one face to the next to see if Lucas was among them. A sigh of relief escaped my lips when I saw that he wasn’t.

  Turning back to my sister, I saw that she was still staring me down, her eyes open so wide I could see the white all around her irises.

  “I hate it when you do that,” I said. “It makes you look creepy.”

  “Whatever! It always works on Sally,” she said. “I’m the only one she told that she actually did make out with Alex’s brother while they were still together, and that she thinks he’s the love of her life.”

  “Who’s the love of her life, Alex?” I said as we reached the door to the studio. “I thought Sally didn’t believe in soul mates and lifelong love. I thought she was after the sugar daddies of the world.”

  “She’s had a change of heart. Love has changed her,” Em said. “And it’s not Alex that made her change her ways. It’s his brother.”

  “Brother doesn’t have a name?” I said, discreetly glancing down the hallway. No Lucas in sight.

  “Oh, I’m sure he does,” Em said flippantly. “I just can’t be bothered to keep track of Sally’s guys. Hell, I can hardly keep track of my own.”

  Sadly, this wasn’t true about my love life, on which she was keeping vigilant tabs at the moment.

  “So just tell me what Lucas did to make you hate him,” she said, circling back, as I knew she would. She’d been on this track for a few days now. I was getting to know all the stops. “Seriously, I need to know if I have to cut off his balls or just maim him. Poking out one of his eyes is also a possibility.”

  “Don’t poke out Lucas’s eyes,” I said, mildly alarmed. My sister had once shaved
a guy’s head in his sleep. I knew what she was capable of when enraged. And it wasn’t pretty.

  “Not both eyes, just one. He’ll still have the other one. He can wear a patch.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I replied.

  I watched as the last of the students from the previous class trickled out of the studio, more evidence that I was ridiculously early. Today was critique day, the day we had to display the painting we’d been working on for the last few weeks and have it assessed by the other students and the professor—otherwise known as Katie’s monthly breakdown day—although this month had been so fraught with breakdowns I was thinking I’d have to change the name to something else.

  I hated letting anyone see my work, let alone give me their opinion on it. Letting the professor see it was bad enough. I’d already been through a few critiques during the sculpture module earlier in the semester and knew that most of the students were nice enough—nobody wanted to be too harsh, knowing their head would soon be on the chopping block—but that was sculpture. I knew from catching glimpses in the studio that almost all the students in the class had gone for photorealism for their paintings. Our assignment didn’t require any particular style of painting; the idea was to learn how to paint distance and incorporate two figures from one photo into the landscape of another, keeping the light source and palate of hues consistent. I’d done that; I knew I had. I’d just taken a more impressionistic approach, which would make my painting stand out from the others.

  Which was exactly what I didn’t need right now.

  “Look, can I be blunt?” Emily said then plowed on without waiting for my answer. “Did Lucas try something Saturday night? Is that what has you so freaked?

  “I’m freaked because it’s crit day,” I corrected her, gazing through the window next to us at the pouring rain. Em was going to get soaked when she crossed campus to get to her own class. “And what do you mean ‘tried something?’ Tried what?”

  He tried to kiss me, that’s all, was what I didn’t say. He tried to love me. He just didn’t realize I was unlovable.

  Not that a single kiss meant he loved me. I didn’t think that. Though it might have made me fall in love with him just a little. A lot of good that was going to do me.

  “What I mean is,” Em said carefully, putting on her thinking face, “did he try to…touch you?”

  Still gazing out the window, I thought about Lucas’s touch, his fingers gently caressing my cheeks, the feeling of his tongue slipping into my mouth, and I felt my entire body flush. I’d replayed those few short moments over in my head so many times in the past two days, and every time I had my body had reacted the exact same way: the ache pulsing to life again in my belly, my every nerve tingling. It was mortifying and thrilling at the same time, and it was happening to me right now.

  Luckily, I had only to think about how the moment had ended to make the fantasy come crashing to a stop.

  “Katie!” Em cried, shaking me by the shoulder.

  “Huh? What? Yes!” I said, focusing on my sister’s face as Lucas’s disappeared into the snow.

  “Yes?” she said, her voice rising. “You mean he did try to have sex with you?”

  Several students from my class turned our way as they filed through the door across from us. I saw Naomi trying not to laugh.

  “Shut up!” I said, smacking Em on the arm. “What the hell are you talking about? Lucas didn’t try to have sex with me! We barely even kissed.”

  “You kissed!” Em said, her face lighting up, then falling back into a frown. “Oh, wait, so it was a bad kiss? I don’t really see how that’s possible, since this is Lucas we’re talking about, but—”

  “It wasn’t bad,” I said, looking down at my shoes. “It was really nice.”

  Understatement of the year.

  “Then what the hell happened?” Em demanded, rounding on me and forcing me to look her in the face. “I’m your sister. You can tell me. I’m an amazing secret keeper. By the way, forget everything I just told you about Sally and Alex’s brother.”

  “I should really go in,” I said. “Class is about to start.”

  Em’s face fell and she pursed her lips. “Fine,” she said in that clipped tone she took when nothing was fine at all.

  I winced internally. There was no way I could tell her the truth, not about this, but that didn’t make lying to my sister any easier.

  “I can’t tell you what happened,” I said to the side of her face, because she was refusing to look at me, “but I can say that Lucas didn’t do anything wrong. So don’t be mean to him. It wasn’t his fault.”

  She frowned, letting her eyes creep back over to my face. “Whose fault was it?” she asked.

  I smiled weakly. “Nobody’s,” I said as I walked toward the door instead of saying what I really felt—that the fault was mine, as usual, as predicted. The fault was always mine.

  “Hey, sis,” Em called in a whisper as I reached the classroom door. “Your first kiss and it’s with Lucas—that’s still pretty exciting, isn’t it?”

  I nodded and tried to look thrilled for her sake, my sweet sister who thought I’d never looked at a boy before, who thought her twin was the last nineteen-year-old bastion of purity. My sister who’d kissed dozens of boys, each peck as simple and uncomplicated as the next. My sister who had no idea that though Lucas had been my first kiss, he hadn’t been the first boy I’d wanted to kiss.

  If only Lucas had been my first in every way, I thought to myself as I stepped into class. Then maybe I could have kept him.

  I walked into the studio and added my painting to the others at the front, feeling the hairs rise on the back of my neck as I stood there with my back turned. And it wasn’t because of my painting. Sure enough, as I made my way to my stool I saw more than a few eyes following me. A girl who always spoke really slowly when she asked questions in class whispered to the skinny guy who sat next to her. He nodded as I walked by. My right hook to Buck’s nose and my dramatic exit from the party certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed. I’d had the same experience walking into my art history class yesterday. I’d become a person that got noticed, the exact thing I’d been trying to avoid all along, and this time I couldn’t blame it on any boy. This time it was all me—hitting this guy and kissing that one and destroying everything around me.

  I had nobody to blame but myself.

  A feeling of incredible defeat fell over me as Professor Wilkins entered the room and we began the critique. Though we were all meant to participate, I didn’t say a word, shrinking into myself instead like Alice after taking a sip from the “Drink Me” bottle, wanting desperately to become so small that I could be lost among the folds of my clothes. I had spent years feeling this way, living this way, years wasted wanting to be nothing, wanting not to exist at all. And here I was thinking I’d been making such strides, that I’d been changing my fate, changing my life, that I was getting better at living. It turned out I was exactly where I’d started: scared and alone and lying about everything and hating myself for it. I really hadn’t changed a bit.

  The other students’ paintings paraded before my eyes, but I barely saw them. Later, I could only recall one out of the bunch, the work of a girl named Paula who always wore her curly hair in two braids. The painting featured two children at the beach, one a little black boy with a coy expression on his face, and the other a little white girl in a blue bathing suit and pigtails. The little boy’s face took up a third of the canvas, almost as though he’d run up and presented himself to be painted up close, while the little girl was farther away and had turned her back. The class agreed that it was somewhat over-painted and there wasn’t enough flow, but I found it enchanting, as I often did pictures of childhood. It was the one part of my life I could look back on without having to worry about feeling ashamed. Before I turned thirteen I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  When my turn came around I nearly got up and fled the room. I only stayed in my seat because I knew a scene like that would
just make them whisper about me more. I’d never felt less inclined to be evaluated as I reluctantly raised my head and prepared to face the onslaught.

  “Who would like to begin?” Professor Wilkins said. She raised her eyebrows, her gaze flitting over my face. She was greeted by an avalanche of silence. Normally there were a few students who spoke first, eager to get in their comments before somebody else had the same idea and they had to come up with something new. Not for my painting, apparently. As the seconds passed, all I heard were crickets.

  I was really beginning to feel like I might drown in my own misery when a pompous guy I’d never liked spoke up.

  “It’s too dark,” he said. “The brightness of the sky distracts the eye and I can’t even make out the figures in front of the trees. I feel like it’s muddled.”

  Gee, thanks for breaking my heart, Pompous Guy.

  Unfortunately, he seemed to have triggered a reaction in the rest of the class.

  “I agree,” said a girl named Haylie. “Is that a woman in the bottom right corner? Or a man? It’s hard to tell.”

  “The brush strokes are distinct,” somebody threw in.

  “Yes, but what does that matter if you can barely see them?”

  “I think it just comes down to poor subject choice. A photograph with less disparity in colour and brightness would have made a much stronger painting. Of course, it would be easier to judge if we actually had the photograph to compare it to.”

  I wasn’t about to mention that I hadn’t painted from a photograph.

  Professor Wilkins blinked silently for a few moments as the riot of flagellation came to an end. “Does anyone else have a comment to make about Katie’s painting?” she asked politely. Professor Wilkins was always so polite and proper, possibly the most well-groomed artist ever to exist in the world. She didn’t seem to know how to address the communal condemnation of my painting, except to send out the request one more time for the right answer. I wished she wouldn’t bother. I didn’t want some pity comment about the way I’d mixed my colours so well. I just wanted it to be over.