by Amanda Grace
If they think he raped me, why would they write that? Who would write that?
I keep my head down, hoping no one stops me along the way. I make it out to the parking lot. Thirty feet to freedom. Thirty feet to the sanctuary of my seven-year-old, lemon-yellow Ford Focus.
And then a girl’s face looms into my vision and I stumble back. Wavy red hair. Bright green eyes framed by eggshell glasses. Freckled skin.
Gina Berkeley, a girl in my Spanish and math classes. I jerk away.
Her eyes widen but neither of us speak. At least, not for a long, stifling moment. And then she says, “I’m not surprised.”
Her voice is flat, unemotional. It doesn’t fit the girl who was always so bubbly as she conjugated verbs.
“By?”
“Carter.”
A lump grows in my throat. I don’t want to talk about this, I just want out.
“He’s a horrible human being. Did you know I asked him out once?” Those beautiful green eyes start to glitter. “He just seemed … down to earth, you know? Such a gorgeous, perfect exterior, and yet he somehow seemed approachable. Like I wasn’t completely mental to think I had a chance.”
I nod. Because there’s nothing else to do.
“He was with two friends when I walked up to him. It wasn’t like I threw myself at his feet or something. I just asked if he wanted to get together to study for the big trig final. I mean God, I had three years of math with him. All the way back to junior high. We weren’t strangers.” She tightens her lips and looks up at the clouds for a moment before looking back at me. “And you want to know what he said?”
No. No, I don’t want to know what he said. Because I know what he said. I can see where she’s coming from a mile away. And it’s not some kind of easy landing. It’s a complete crash and burn. An explosion of flames so consuming it’s still burning her, a year later.
“He got really serious. Leaned in and motioned me closer. And then told me he had a vision problem.”
I furrow my brow, confused, as she gets a faraway look in her eyes. Carter doesn’t wear glasses.
“Because he couldn’t see spending more than four seconds in my presence, because I was about as pleasant to look at as a donkey’s ass.”
I choke, then. The lump in my throat thickens into a boulder. Her eyes get a glimmery, jewel-like look to them as she blinks rapidly. “His friends laughed so hard they could barely breathe. One of them bent over and started slapping the wall, and they just kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. I was so mortified I couldn’t seem to move. I just stood there while they laughed at me.”
Her lips tremble, and she swallows. But like me, it’s not enough to clear the pain away. “When I heard what he did to you … ”
I part my lips but can’t speak. Because he didn’t do what she thinks he did. What everyone thinks he did. The giant boulder—no, mountain—in my throat seems to block all ability to speak.
“I wasn’t surprised. He’s the most self-centered, ego-driven, jerk of a guy I’ve ever met. I’m just sorry you had to go through—”
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say. “I’m sorry for … for what he did to you.”
I don’t give her a chance to respond, I just flee.
Seven
I make it home before one fifteen, and then I land somewhere underneath the heavy comforter in my bedroom, and all I can seem to do is burrow in. Deeper and deeper I go, but it’s not enough to escape reality. I want a hole to open up and yank me in. A caved-in mining shaft, where no one will ever try to rescue me.
I close my eyes and try to go back to Friday night. It’s all fuzzy, like I’m viewing it through a pair of out-of-focus binoculars. I remember sitting there in those pinching high heels, sipping nonstop on the beer just to give myself something to do. I kept glancing around, wondering if my plan could really work. Wondering where Nick went off to. Wondering why I always had to be the outsider while everyone surrounding me was having such a great time.
How am I going to walk into school tomorrow morning and tell everyone he didn’t do it? I have to. I know that. Carter might not be the perfect guy I thought he was—in fact, turns out he might just be the biggest asshole I’ve ever met—but I can’t wreck his life with one obliterating lie.
It’s not like I lied. Not exactly. Michelle, at the party, obviously jumped to her own conclusions. I nodded, I remember that, when she was talking. I didn’t know what she said, but I nodded.
And … now? Everyone thinks I said he did it. And somehow, maybe I did, when I agreed with Veronica, let her hug me. When I stood with Macy and Tracey and accepted their condolences.
All day long, I confirmed everything they said.
Everyone thinks he really did it. That he … socked me in the face? Ripped my clothes? Forced himself on me? Do they all really believe Carter is capable of that?
And that’s when I remember the egg yolk dripping down his car. Remember Michelle’s text on Saturday. They do believe it. The rumor had all weekend to rage unchecked. All weekend to make the rounds. How did Nick dodge it? Why did no one tell him. … or me?
I sink deeper into my soft feather pillow and let out a soul-ravaging sigh. I really screwed this up. The drapes in my room are pulled shut so tight all I can see are shadows on the popcorn ceiling. I close my eyes and pray for it all to disappear.
I don’t think I fall asleep. In fact, I’m certain I’ve spent no more than two minutes with my eyes shut when I’m jarred upright by the doorbell. I gulp hard, and then my hands yank back the blanket. Fully dressed. Of course I’m dressed, I never got undressed. I glance at the clock: 1:33 p.m.
The doorbell chimes, over and over and over again, obnoxious. I don’t want to get out of bed, but the chiming is incessant, nonstop.
I creep down the hall, the glossy hardwoods creaking under my feet. The chiming continues. Bing Bing Bing Bing.
What if it’s Carter? What is he’s out there fuming, wanting revenge? He must be furious right now. I creep up to the door, the cold of the hardwoods leaching into my socks. Then I lean in, slowly, to peek through the peephole.
Nick. Relief whooshes through me, but it doesn’t last more than a moment. He’s standing there, agitated, his arms crossing and uncrossing as he punches the doorbell. His Mustang is parked crookedly and carelessly at the curb.
I step back, not sure if I want to open the door. Figuratively and literally.
I need him. He’s the only person in the world I trust, and the only one who can make my head stop spinning. I need him to understand how I never meant for any of this to happen.
I need him to fix it.
I glance back through the peephole. He’s pacing now. Every time he passes the door, he reaches out, punches the doorbell, and then spins around, stalks in the opposite direction, and repeats the process. Stalk, bing, spin, stalk, bing, spin, stalk, bing …
He knows I’m here because my car is parked at the curb, in front of his, a light sheen of raindrops gracing the surface.
There’s no getting out of this. I take in a long, deep breath, and then swing the door open.
Nick bursts into the foyer and reels around on me. “I’ve tried to call you at least twenty times in the last half hour,” he says, his voice razor-thin. “Brian Merrimont asked me how you were doing at lunch, looking all concerned. I had no idea what he was talking about.” His words are coming out so fast it’s hard to discern what he’s saying. “And then he tells me what he heard on Saturday, after the party, about how you—” He chokes on his words and spins on me. “It’s not true. Tell me it’s not true.”
My lips part but I’m so shocked by his outburst—by calm, cool, diplomatic Nick—that I end up just staring at him.
“It has to be a lie. You would have said something to me over the weekend if he did that. Plus, I played pool with Carter until two in the morning and he was acting totally normal.” He’s … frantic. Crazed. “You’re my best friend. I would know if it were true, so it can’
t be.”
“What?”
Nick hasn’t stopped his pacing, even though he’s inside now. “How could he have done that to you? How could it have happened and you didn’t even tell me?”
He’s not even looking at me, just pacing, and I have the strangest feeling that I could retreat down the hall and he’d still keep talking, because it’s like he’s talking to himself.
But then he turns to me. “Why are you lying?” His voice goes an octave higher than I ever thought it could.
He’s totally melting down. Pain twists inside me, mingles with confusion. How can he do this? I need him to be the rock he always is. I need him to swoop in just like always and fix things. When my dad makes me cry, Nick’s the one who makes it disappear. When my car got a flat, Nick was the one to change it so I wouldn’t have to tell Dad his stupid flat-tire lesson didn’t sink in. When I nearly flunked math, Nick was the one who tutored me.
And maybe it is a lie, but I never lied. I chew on the inside of my cheek and try to keep from falling apart just like him. “I didn’t lie,” I say, with difficulty. I didn’t. I didn’t lie.
He throws up his hands. “I don’t think Carter would do that!”
And then I explode right back, my hands fisted up so that I won’t rip out my own hair. “Do you even know who Carter is?” If he did, he never would have let me walk into his house. He would have known what could happen and he would have protected me from the humiliation.
“I’ve had classes with him for twelve years, the same as you! Of course I know him!”
“Just because you sit next to him in Chemistry doesn’t mean you know him!” I scream, surprising even myself.
How did it come to this? Yesterday he kissed me, this morning we held hands, and now he’s screaming at me. I think I have whiplash.
“It can’t be true! It can’t be!”
I’m ashamed and angry and disappointed and embarrassed all at once. Nick knows it’s not true. Does he think I’m lying, that I went out and told people Carter did that? I want to burst into tears and scream out loud. Why can’t he just stop yelling? Why does he have to turn on me just like everyone else?
Why doesn’t anyone ever just be reliable and be there for me?
I don’t even notice the tears at first until they’re shimmering so hard I can’t see and suddenly it’s hard to breath and I barely make it to the carpeted stairs in time to collapse.
I just want one person. One person to be there
consistently.
This is the worst day of my life. Here he is, demanding I tell the truth, but he hasn’t asked me what the truth is. If he’d just asked me, I would have told him what happened. Would have begged him to understand how it all spiraled out of control before I even knew what was going on.
I pull my legs up underneath me and buckle over, curling into myself and crying so hard my shoulders wrack. Carter thinks I’m so ugly he’d need two bags … the guys on his team think I’m a slut … and the rest of the school thinks I’m a charity case. And if anyone hadn’t heard the rumor yet, the word whore emblazoned on my locker ensures they know about it now.
And now, after the first kiss to ever make me feel something, Nick is going to hate me.
My nose drips with snot as the tears turn my jeans wet. I’m shaking so hard it rattles my lungs.
And then there’s Nick, his arms wrapping around my shoulders. He pulls me into him, rubs his hand soothingly on the back of my neck, as if smoothing my long blond hair free of knots. The sobs don’t lessen at first, but soon I hear him whispering and have to force my cries to quiet so I can hear his words.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”
His hand rubs so softly up and down my back I can hardly feel it. “I know you’re right. I don’t really know him. I’ve heard things about him in the locker rooms, but I just didn’t want to think he’d go this far. Oh God, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. Are you okay?”
Somehow his arms around me are enough to bring the world back under control. Enough to make it possible to breathe again. I wipe my nose on my sleeve and pull away, just enough to get a little bit of air between us, and look up at him.
His blue eyes, always so lively, have turned more intense and serious than I’ve ever seen them. His finger reaches up, traces one of the tear tracks on my cheek before brushing it away.
And before I have the chance to hold my breath, he’s kissing the spot where the tear was. He turns toward my other cheek, pausing as his eyes linger on my bruise, and his shoulders go rigid. The touch of his lips, kissing my bruise, is so light it’s hard to believe I’m not imagining it.
“Nick—” I say, my voice choked.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine, his thumb stroking my cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
And then the sound of someone clearing their throat jars us apart and my heart slams into my chest.
Dad.
Eight
Nick and I jerk apart as my father’s glare turns icy, his hands twitching at his sides. For a second I think he’ll yank Nick to his feet, but instead his chest just heaves and he stays there.
“Living room. Now.”
I scramble to my feet and walk briskly to the living room, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs. I sniffle hard a few times, swiping at the tears that still threaten my eyes. I sit down in the corner of our wraparound couch and Nick plunks down next to me. A millisecond later he leaps back to his feet, scoots down a full cushion, and sits again.
“Nothing happened,” I say, gripping a throw pillow in my clenched hands.
“Don’t lie to me, Samantha. I saw you two … ” He clears his throat. “You know the rules. You’re not allowed alone with boys. Nick is not to set foot in this house unless I’m here too.” My dad is always ten times more intimidating in uniform, and right now he’s pacing back and forth, his black laced-up boots thunking on the berber carpet. I’ve seen Nick eyeball the gun holstered on his hip at least three times.
“Dad. He’s my best friend. It’s not like that—”
“It sure as hell looked like it!”
“Sir—” Nick starts.
“And you!” he says, reeling on Nick. “What will your parents say when they hear of this?”
Nick stills. And then, in a low voice, says, “Not a whole lot. They trust me.”
I know what he’s implying, and I wait for my dad to pounce on him.
“I trust Sam!” he says, punctuating the air with his finger.
No, no he doesn’t. He never has, and he never will. But I guess that’s fair, because it’s not like I trust him, either.
I hate when he does this … gets this air of authority, the whole “as long as you’re under my roof” and “what I say goes” and “my way or the highway” all at once. It always manages to deflate me like I’m a balloon he’s stepped on.
It’s not like he hits me. Or cusses me out. If I tried to tell people what he’s like … they’d never understand. He’s just … an intimidator. I don’t know if it’s his military background or being a cop or if it’s just him.
“This isn’t Sam’s fault, sir. She was just upset—”
I shoot him a panicked look and he chokes on the rest of his sentence.
“Upset?” Dad asks, raising a brow. He gives Nick a long, lingering look. The sort he must use in interrogation. The sort that makes criminals confess. “What does she have to be upset about?
“She … ”
“A girl at school vandalized my locker,” I cut in.
Dad raises a brow. He wasn’t expecting this. I’ve caught the Intimidator off-guard. He stands there and looks like he’s chewing on something, but it’s not like there’s a toothpick sticking out his mouth so I have no idea what he’s really doing. Chewing on the inside of his cheek?
“Sir, I promise you, nothing … happened,” Nick cuts in. “She was just upset.”
“That doesn’t exp
lain the two of you on the steps.”
“I was giving her a hug.”
His eyes narrow. For the first time, hope blooms. It’s clear my dad didn’t see the kiss. The sort-of kiss. It was only on the cheek, after all. Maybe if Dad had taken more than two seconds to look at us before exploding, he would have had a better view.
He turns and crosses his arms and stares us both down, somehow at the same time even though we’re several feet apart. “You still broke the rules, Sam. I get your cell phone for a week.” He holds out his hand. I open my mouth to argue, then snap it shut at the harshness in his eyes. Instead I just dig the phone out of my pocket and place it in his palm. “And Nick does not set foot inside this house unless I’m home, you got that?” he finishes.
I want to argue—I want to ask him what I’m being punished for in the first place—but I know better. Instead, I nod obediently. “Not a problem.”
“And if I catch anything distasteful happening between the two of you, you’ll be forbidden to see him at all. Do you understand?”
I nod. If they still made those chastity belt things, I’m sure my dad would make me wear one now, and then he’d wear the key around his neck. Why does he always assume the worst about me?
For the millionth time in my life, I wonder what would be happening right now if Mom still lived here. If she cared about me. If she would have been excited for me that my best friend might have more than platonic feelings … and they were mutual. If we would have had one of those embarrassing birds-and-bees conversations. If I would have confided things in her I could never tell my dad.
Fierce longing blooms in my chest but I shut it down. I always shut it down. She doesn’t want me, so I shouldn’t want her.
“Walk your friend to the door, Sam. I’m sure you
have homework.”
I nod and leap to my feet, eager for this entire embarrassment to be over. I follow Nick to the door and then step outside, holding the door partially shut.