In Too Deep

by Amanda Grace

  But when he turns toward the row of classroom doors, he takes my hand in his, and his fingers interlace with mine. Holding hands with my best friend is not normal. It’s … new. I feel the heat of him next to me, want to lean into him.

  When he squeezes my hand, he smiles tentatively at me, a smile that lingers so long it’s like I’m basking in it, soaking it in and letting it erase the world around me, until it’s just me and him.

  “Nice to see your dad didn’t lock you up for all eternity,” he says.

  “He’d love to. If he thought for a second he could do it and get away with it, he probably would.”

  We make it to the door of our English class, and just as we’re about to go in, he stops me. “You sure you can handle this today? I can—”

  I put a finger up to his lips to silence him. I would have done it without a second thought a few days ago, but now all I can feel is his lips, warm and soft against my finger. I want him to kiss me again, like he did in the dog-wash room, like in his car. I blink and try to remember what I’d planned to say. “It’s okay. I’m not going to fall into a million pieces.”

  I seem to hate myself more with each thing I say

  to him. Each thing that seems to imply I really am grappling with the repercussions of rape. Each thing I say that tells him I’m plagued by something darker than I can even comprehend.

  I can tell myself I didn’t lie a hundred times, but I know what I’m doing now. I know what they all think.

  He leans forward, brushing his lips against mine, just for a millisecond. I can feel my blood in my veins, thicker than molasses; it’s as if I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my chest, slower with each beat.

  Nick smiles, leads me into the classroom, and we plunk into our seats beside one another just as a shrill bell rings out.

  I hope I don’t lose him when he finds out the truth.

  Ten

  I have a smashed bag of chips buried in the bottom of my backpack, so I swing by the cafeteria just long enough to grab a soda before scurrying off to the library. Nick’s going to look for me at lunch, I know he will, and that’s why I keep my eyes down, not daring to look at anyone, my hood pulled up around my hair.

  I’m not ready to tell him yet, and I don’t want to tell him at school, so I just need some time alone.

  I’m crossing the courtyard, nearly to the library, when a hand reaches out and I whirl around, slamming straight into the hard chest of a guy at least a foot taller than me. The air is knocked from my lungs but the guy hardly flinches at the way I careened right into him. When I meet his gaze, my insides seem to shrink away.

  Brent. He moved to Mossyrock in sixth grade. He lives a block from Carter’s house and he’s on the football team. I step away, but I just knock into someone else. I whirl around but only manage to turn halfway, since Brent hasn’t released my arm. And then suddenly he does, but just so he can push me into the other guy, Anton, who promptly pushes right back. Just like that, I’m a pinball.

  “We want to know when we get our turn,” Anton says, his voice a calm, seductive drawl. My skin crawls. “Word has it you give it up willingly.”

  I blink furiously, trying to rip my arm from his grasp. What is he saying? Are there other rumors?

  No, they’re on Carter’s side. They don’t believe the rumors, that’s what they mean. They’re telling me it didn’t happen.

  The false seduction drops and he glares at me, hard. “This is your warning. Undo it now.”

  And all at once, they’re both gone and I’m left standing there, shivering in the seventy-degree sunshine. I whirl around and all but run to the library, my hood falling off of my head and my hair streaming behind me.

  When I finally make it inside, I nearly slam the door shut. The utter silence of the library greets me, at odds with the loud thunk of the door against the jamb. A set of narrowed eyes stare at me from the librarian’s desk. She raises a finger to her lips and keeps glaring. I cringe and shrink away, weaving between the tall shelves of the reference

  section. I find a quiet couch in the back and sink down, dropping my backpack and willing my heart to slow.

  I kick my ballet flats off and curl my legs up underneath me, reaching down to unzip my backpack and pull out my binder. Maybe if I pretend to be busy, no one will bother me.

  My theory lasts for a mere minute and a half, because before I know what’s happening, Michelle Pattison is sitting down at the other end of the couch, all awkward smiles and sheepish looks.

  Michelle Pattison is the bane of my existence. What does she think she’s doing, sitting down like that? That she’s allowed to spread the most grossly negligent rumor in the history of the universe and it’s all going to be okay? That I’d be willing to give her the time of day after what she started?

  If she hadn’t seen me walk out of Carter’s room, if she hadn’t asked those stupid questions I’m not entirely sure I answered, this wouldn’t have happened.

  “Hey,” she says, sinking deeper into the couch. This couch needs to be replaced. It’s like it’s trying to eat students alive, pull them right in so they can’t get out.

  “Hi.” I barely glance upward. I dig a pencil out and start filling in random notes on an old page of English homework.

  I hope she’ll get the point, but she doesn’t seem to. I’m so screwed.

  “Are you doing okay? I mean, you looked so shook up at Carter’s,” she says, leaning in. I want to believe she’s being genuine and helpful or something, but I know the truth. She wants more gossip.

  “Yep. Life is glorious,” I say, hoping she catches

  my sarcasm.

  “I feel so bad about what happened to you, you know? You must be going through total hell right now,” she says.

  Yeah. Something like that. I clear my throat, try not to meet her eyes. “Well, you know. Uh, I’m … handling it.”

  I lean in closer to my homework, narrowing my eyes like I’m trying really, really hard to concentrate.

  “Look, this is a little awkward, but I got you something.”

  And then she shoves something in front of me, on top of the homework I’ve been so intently staring at.

  “I went to the counselor and got some information for you. I thought maybe … ” Her voice trails off as she waves the pamphlet under my nose.

  My face burns as red-hot shame courses through me. I snatch the pamphlet and shove it into my binder as the words Assistance for Victims of Sexual Assault register.

  This cannot be happening. I cannot be discussing this with her. My head suddenly feels heavy, my throat thick. They really believe it. They really think Carter went too far in his bedroom last Friday. They really think I’m a victim, broken by Carter.

  They really think he’s capable of that.

  “Thanks, Michelle. That was, uh, nice of you.”

  “Do you want to go with me to the counselor?” Michelle asks, her voice soft. “She’s super sweet, and I promise she’ll listen to you without judging. Sometimes I go just to talk about my mom and dad splitting up.

  Oh God, not that that’s, like, the same thing as rape or anything.”

  I swallow. “Uh, I just really need to work on my English homework, you know?”

  She wrinkles her nose, stares right at me, and in that moment I have this dreadful feeling that she knows and is about to call me on it. “I thought those term papers were the last homework. I’m not missing something, am I?

  It would be just like Mr. Grant to assign something at the last minute when half the students are already outside

  the door.”

  “Uh, no, I mean, it’s … extra credit.”

  “Oh.” This answer seems to only sort of pacify her and she looks as if she’s about to question it, but then she snaps her mouth shut.

  “I hope you know, if you ever need me, for anything, I am so there for you. I mean, to think I was the first person there … I wish I had known what was happening and done something for you, you know? I’m just …
really sorry. I can’t stop thinking about it and feeling guilty.”

  If she doesn’t leave in, like, the next five seconds, I think I might totally scream at her. I want to blame her for all this, want to unleash the wave of guilt building inside me, direct it all at her. I want her to rewind it all, unsay the things she said, undo the things I’ve done.

  It’s not her fault, but I want it to be.

  “Anyway, I have to get to lunch before Katie misses me, but seriously, let me know if you need me, okay?”

  Yes, I got that. If not the first and second time, the third. “Sure. I just want to be left alone now, okay?”

  “Alright, well, have a good day, okay? Or I mean, as good as it could be, considering.”

  “Bye, Michelle.”

  She finally gets the hint. I watch her walk away, feeling my opportunity slip through my grasp as the door closes. Her words started this, and maybe they could have ended it. But I couldn’t seem to say it.

  I wonder if she was being sincere this whole time, not just rooting for gossip. Maybe I have her all wrong. Maybe she was really wanting to help me. If I even needed that kind of help.

  She and her little friends probably sat around and discussed the idea of her going to the counselor, getting me a brochure. They probably all wondered how I’m dealing with being raped, thinking I need a support system. She’s probably scurrying off to the cafeteria right now to tell them how it all went.

  My cheeks burn again. They’re all picturing what happened, thinking of me in Carter’s room … him on top of me …

  I sigh and sink against the couch. It’s weird, how this is becoming one big train wreck and yet I just keep watching it, unable to find the guts to just blurt out the truth. Why do I keep doing this?

  I can’t let go of the control on this. I need to be able to decide how they all find out. I need everyone to know that I never said he did it.

  And somehow I have to do it without losing Nick.

  Eleven

  Apparently, it only takes a day to master staring straight ahead. I navigate the halls with blinders, pretending I don’t see the curious looks, the smirks, the pity.

  I hate the pity. They should hate me, not feel sorry for me.

  “Sam!” I hear my voice being called, and I glance back as I walk, trying to figure out where it came from. “Sam, stop!”

  I twist back around to see where I’m going, and then stumble to a stop.

  I’m standing face to face with Carter.

  We’re both so shocked we don’t move for a second, but then I take a large step back, away from him, as my heart takes flight in my chest and my hands tremble as they grasp my textbook.

  “You little—”

  “Sam!” Veronica is next to me now, grabbing my arm, pulling me away from Carter. He steps forward. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he asks, his voice rising. “You fucking—”

  “Carter!” someone barks, a deep, authoritative voice. “What do you think—”

  “She’s a fucking liar is what I think!” Carter yells, and I twist around to see Mr. Trenton, a science teacher I’ve had for three years straight. He’s looking over my head, glaring at Carter.

  “Mr. Wellesley!” he roars. “You’re headed straight to the principal’s—”

  “I’m going to the office? When she’s—”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Veronica whispers into my

  ear. “Now.”

  I can’t speak because I can barely breathe as the panic takes over everything and the flight instinct finally kicks in.

  Carter’s distracted by Mr. Trenton just long enough for me to round a corner and lose sight of him.

  “That was close,” Veronica says. “I can’t believe he’d go after you here. After what he did! Is he totally delusional?”

  I just nod. I think my knees are going to give out. Veronica steers me to a bench outside, next to a big

  rhododendron.

  “Okay, just sit down, take a couple of deep breaths. God, you are so ashen right now. Do you want to go to

  the nurse?”

  The nurse’s office is next door to the principal. “No, I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure? You’re shaking.”

  I look down at my hands, which are still trembling, still tightly gripping my books. “Just give me a minute,” I croak out.

  “Okay. God, that was intense. I tried to warn you but you were halfway down the hall. I can’t believe he’d do that. He cussed you out right in front of a teacher!”

  I take in the deepest breath I can manage and start to feel my heartbeat come back under control, feel the blood come back into my limbs.

  “Maybe you should report him,” she says. “You could probably get a restraining order—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” I say. “Please, let’s not talk about it.”

  My voice comes out harsher than I’d meant it to, and Veronica snaps her jaw shut.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m stressed out right now and I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Okay. Not a problem.”

  We sit outside until the bell rings and we’re officially late, and then I get up and follow her back through the doors, into the now-empty halls.

  When I get home that afternoon, my plate of dinner is already waiting for me in the microwave. Some kind of gross-looking lasagne, from a frozen box no doubt. But my dad will explode if I don’t eat it because he thinks I look too skinny as it is, so I nuke it for so long it’ll just burn off my taste buds and I won’t have to know what it tastes like. It’s all goopy and steaming when I pull it out. I cover it in salt and pepper and a little shredded cheese, hoping that will make it easier to get down.

  I wonder if I’ll learn how to cook, if I get to college. Or if it’ll be more frozen dinners.

  If. I just said if. Why am I thinking of it like that? It’s when I get to college.

  Isn’t it? I already sent in the paperwork. The deposits. I’m eighteen, so I didn’t need Dad’s permission.

  Legally, that is.

  I take it to the kitchen table because “we don’t eat in front of the television in this house,” unless you’re Dad, that is, and one of his precious games is on. Then he forgets to put a coaster under his root beer, and he dribbles hot wings sauce on his jersey, and I avoid the living room.

  I use the fork in my left hand and a pen in my right, and I open the same blank notebook to the first page, still pristine and unmarked, and stare at the place where I wrote Chapter One.

  I’m still sitting there an hour later, doodling absent-mindedly in the margins of an otherwise blank page, my empty plate beside me, when Dad walks in.

  Dang. I thought he was on swing shift or something. Most of the time, he’s gone twelve or fourteen hours a day, even though I know his shift doesn’t last that long.

  “Feet off the table,” he says, going to the fridge. I roll my eyes while his back is turned and put my feet down, resting my heels on the bar underneath my chair.

  “What time does the graduation ceremony start?”

  I keep drawing circles on the notepad, filling them in with dark blue. “It’s not until this weekend.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” he says.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Four, I think.”

  “You think or you know?”

  I clench my teeth. “The invite is on the fridge three inches from your face. Why don’t you just read it?”

  He whirls around. I can’t believe I just said that.

  “Don’t sass me,” he says.

  “Or what?” I lean back, feeling oddly defiant.

  He grips the handle to the fridge even harder. “Or I’ll choose your fall quarter classes for you.”

  I snort. He’s not choosing my classes. He’s not even choosing my college. He only thinks he is.

  “Something funny?”

  I cross my arms. “When are you going to give up control, Dad? When I’m thirty?”
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  “If you’re lucky,” he says, turning back to the fridge.

  I open my mouth. I want to tell him. I need to tell him. I think of the paperwork sitting upstairs. The classes I’ve already registered for, thank you very much. Part of me fantasizes about just … packing up and leaving nothing but a note. He can figure it out.

  But I don’t say anything. I just snap my jaw shut, push my chair back, and stomp off to my room, wondering if I’ll actually follow through with it.

  I glance across the yard at Nick’s window. I need him to get home, immediately. What is taking so long? I need to tell him what I wasn’t able to tell Michelle. What I haven’t been able to tell anyone.

  He left his drapes open, and I can see his computer desk and a big poster of Earth on the wall above his rumpled-up, unmade bed. That’s so like comfortable, casual Nick. He probably doesn’t even notice. He probably rolls out of bed, throws on some random clothes and a ball cap, and strolls to school to be admired.

  My dad would flip if I left my room a mess like that. I’d be grounded for a week. Sometimes I think my dad runs around just looking and hoping for reasons to ground me, to keep me penned up under this roof forever and ever. He wants me to be the princess in the tower, locked away for eternity, pining for a prince who will never arrive.

  Nick has no idea how many times I fantasized that his window was mine, that his parents were mine. Imagined myself walking into his house, plunking down at the counter, and telling his mom about my day. She’d smile and laugh and fix me a snack and make it all go away.

  He must have some idea, though. We hardly hang out at my house at all. I always find reasons for us to leave. If it weren’t for my dad, it would be kinda of silly, because our houses are exactly the same. The floor plans are simply reversed, so that their garage is on the right and ours is on the left. Our bedrooms are laid out like someone put a mirror between them, making a perfect reflection: a large closet along the same wall as the entry door, and two tall windows, one near each of our beds. And yet his room always feels like bliss, like a sanctuary, and mine feels more like a prison.

  My dad loves Nick’s parents, and he thinks we spend the whole time in the kitchen or the living room, under adult supervision. If he knew his parents weren’t the type to watch us like hawks, he probably wouldn’t let me visit Nick over there, either.