He hates me. I knew it. I sit up too fast and everything starts spinning. Zach puts his hand on my shoulder and my heart leaps, like if he can still bear to touch me he might forgive me. His familiar scent, that touch I’d know anywhere. The boy who just wanted to be my boyfriend. Maybe I should have just let him, and none of this would have happened.
“Where should I start?” I whisper.
“At the beginning,” Zach says. “Wherever that is.”
I grab his hand, the one that’s resting on my shoulder. I wait for his fingers to clutch mine in response, but they don’t.
I take a deep breath and recall one piece of advice from Kim. The only piece that ever held weight with me. Always lift your chin up high when you did something wrong. Because you might know you did something wrong, but nobody else has to.
With my chin up, I tell them everything.
32
I tell them about the virgins, and I don’t mince details. I tell them numbers. I tell them about my white notebook. I tell them what has been really going on in my bedroom all this time. And finally, I tell them about Charlie. I can’t get through that part with my chin up. When I get to Charlie, I start to cry, which is ridiculous. Nothing happened. I know nothing happened, but that doesn’t change what could have happened.
Zach’s hands ball into fists, and he sets his lips in a thin line, which makes them appear almost colorless. “I knew it,” he says. “I knew there was something about the way he looked at you.”
Faye, who is sitting cross-legged beside me, covers her face with her hands. “He thinks he can get away with it, with ruining all those people’s relationships. They need to know the truth.”
“What truth?” I say. “I’m the one who ruined those relationships. He’s just the messenger. He told me he would ruin me if I told, and now he has. Angela won’t talk to me again.”
“Somebody has to put him in his place,” Zach says, gritting his teeth. For a second I think he’s going to punch the wall, but he stops just short of it. “I can’t believe this.”
“Please promise me you won’t do anything,” I say, standing up and grabbing Zach’s hands. “I’m going to handle this. I’ll figure it out.”
Zach pulls his hands away and stares at his knuckles.
“We could tell the truth,” Faye says. “That he tried to seduce you. People will have to believe it.” She looks from me to Zach, who doesn’t meet her eyes.
My heart sinks. An awkward silence ensues. “Do you even believe me?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, and I think I’ll die if he doesn’t believe me. I’ll disappear, cease to exist. But I know what I am. I’m a bad friend, a slut, a liar. I lied about tutoring. I lied about being sick. Zach has no reason to believe me now.
“I should have punched him in the face when I saw him leaving your house,” Zach says. “The guy looked so fucking happy. But you know what I felt when I saw him?”
I shake my head.
“Envy. I felt sick with it. You know what he did when he saw me standing there like a moron in your driveway? He winked at me. I wanted to pound him. But I didn’t, because I remembered what you said before. That I was jealous of him. And I was.”
Faye stands up quickly and makes up some excuse about making us some lunch. She slips out of the room before I can even grab onto her, cleave to her like an anchor in this mess.
Now it’s just me and Zach. I want him to touch me. I want him to hug me, because I know I would feel safe in his arms. But this isn’t just about me. This is about him, about the only guy who liked me for me. The one who ended up getting hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but it sounds hollow, and I know it doesn’t mean anything.
“All this time, I knew you were holding something back from me. You always kept me at a distance. It all makes sense now, but I wish it didn’t. I thought there was a chance for you and me. That if I didn’t leave you alone you eventually wouldn’t want me to.” Zach stares at the wall, the carpet, my bed. Everywhere but at me.
I can tell he’s trying not to cry, and that makes me want to cry.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I mumble, and it sounds ridiculous out loud, like the dumbest thing I could say.
“It would have hurt a lot less if you would have just told me you were hooking up with other guys,” he says, raking his hands through his hair like he wants to pull it out. “It would have made more sense. Of course I had to be on Wednesdays, because all the other days were taken.”
I deserved that. I deserved that, but it still feels like a slap in the face. My cheeks burn and my eyes sting and my teeth start to chatter.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his fingers against his forehead. “I didn’t mean it like that. I believe you about Charlie, and if I could break his nose right now I would. But I’m not sure if I can be around you.”
My breath catches in my throat. The air is stuck in my lungs. I’m about to lose Zach. He’s slipping away.
I already lost him.
“I have to go,” he says, and when he takes his hand away from his face, his eyes are red. “I need some space to think.”
He walks toward the door.
“Wait,” I choke out. “Zach, wait.”
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I need to know you’re still my friend. We’re friends, right?”
He turns his head ever so slightly. Come back, I will him. Come back, and I won’t hurt you again.
“I thought you didn’t want to be friends,” he says, and just like that he’s gone.
I collapse on the carpet. Zach has been all over this room. He has been in here more than anybody else besides me. I had so many chances to make him feel like I wanted him here. So many times I could have reached over and put my arm around him, or let him put his arms around me like I knew he wanted to. But I was in control. I called the shots. I told him when to arrive, when to leave. I set the boundaries. Don’t kiss me like that. It’s too intimate. Don’t try to hold my hand. I don’t need a back massage; let’s just get down to business.
I thought it was easier that way. But it doesn’t feel easy now.
When Faye comes back upstairs, she’s holding two mugs of what smells like Kim’s detox tea.
“You realize there’s no food in your house, right?” she says, sitting on the carpet beside me and handing me one of the mugs. The smell makes me gag, and I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don’t throw up all over Faye.
“Zach hates me,” I say.
Faye wraps her arm around me, and I breathe in her scent. She cradles my head like I’m a little kid, and I let her. I know I look pathetic, but I don’t care.
“He doesn’t hate you,” she says. “He’s just upset. He needs some time to deal with it.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He didn’t have to,” Faye says, running my hair between her fingers. “His world just got shook up a bit—that’s all. Give him space. He’ll come back.”
I want to believe her, but I don’t.
For some reason that old adage flashes into my head. You made your bed, now you have to lie in it. I start to laugh, softly, until tears start leaking out of my eyes. Faye brushes her thumb across each of my cheeks.
“You must have been so scared,” she murmurs. “Being alone with Charlie. I can’t even imagine.”
I fight the overwhelming urge to tell her everything. Why I’m such a basket case, even though nothing happened. Even though he didn’t get what he wanted. I want to cry into her shoulder and tell her every single thing about me. She might understand. She might get it.
But she might not, and I can’t take that chance.
“You should go back,” I say, sitting up quickly. “I should probably be alone. Don’t skip math. You know you have that test.” This much is true. Faye was stressed out about her algebra test last week and told anyone who would listen that she would “never use that crap in real life.”
“I don’t
care,” she says, raising her chin defiantly. “You’re more important.”
I shake my head. “No, I should be by myself. I have some things to work out.”
She nods and unwraps her arm from around my body. “Whatever you need,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I’ll call you after school. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll drop it all in a heartbeat.”
When she’s gone, I think about her words. I roll them over and over again in my head and feel nothing. I’ll drop it all in a heartbeat. I thought hearing those words from Faye would mean more. I thought retreating into her, having her arms around me would mean more. But it’s not enough. Not enough to make me feel safe and not enough to make me feel like myself.
There’s only one person who could make me feel that way, and he’s not speaking to me.
I sit down at my desk and open my chemistry notebook. I’ll lose myself in logic, just like I always do. Formulas and numbers and equations that have to balance.
But it doesn’t work this time. Every number makes me think of another way I screwed up, another person I screwed over. The virgins were all numbers to me. Number one. Number five. Number ten. The ratings I assigned all meant something, too. Seven point five. Eight. Six. It was my system. And now I’m alone in it, the one cog left in the machinery.
I’m startled by the sound of a key turning in the front door. My blood turns to ice in my veins and I grip the pen in my hand tightly. It’s Charlie. It must be Charlie. I leap up and lock my bedroom door and slide down the wall.
“Honey, what are you doing home?” Kim’s voice drifts up the stairs. For a second I consider playing dumb, but she has already seen the Jeep in the driveway. She knows I’m home.
“I’m doing an independent study project,” I call back, thinking that should be enough to get rid of her.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” she says, knocking on my door. “Come on—let me in. I have something for you.”
I open the door slowly. “Fine,” I say.
She surveys my face. I can tell from the way her eyebrows lift slightly that she’s surprised. I know what she probably thinks, that I’m hungover and trying to get out of classes. I must look the part. I know my face is puffy and my eyes are red rimmed and my hair is a greasy mess.
“This came for you,” she says, handing me a manila envelope. My stomach drops and I cover my mouth because I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.
Kim mistakes the gesture for surprise. “It’s from MIT,” she says. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
It’s a big envelope, a big envelope with some weight to it. I don’t even need to open it to know it’s an acceptance letter, the one I have been waiting so long for, the letter accompanied by course catalogues and information on residence and brochures starring smiling students. One day ago I would have been filled with excitement to open this. One day ago I would have been filled with pride. I would have called Angela and she would have jumped up and down on the other side of the phone. But Charlie took that away from me, too. I know my eyes are getting wet and glassy, and I wish Kim would leave, but she’s just standing there, waiting for me. I take the envelope and walk over to my bed.
“Oh, sweetie,” she says. “I should have the camera. This is a big moment.”
My fingers feel numb as I open the envelope. My breath hitches in my throat when I read the first sentence, even though I knew what it would say. It’s more real, seeing it in print.
Dear Mercedes,
On behalf of the Admissions Committee, it is my pleasure to offer you admission to the MIT Class of 2016.
“You got in,” Kim says, sitting down beside me and squeezing my hand. “You got in. You got everything you wanted.”
She means it in a nice way. She’s proud of me. I can tell by the way her hand is trembling slightly and the flush in her cheeks. But she’s so wrong. I didn’t get anything I wanted. Maybe what I deserve and what I want are two very different things.
“We should celebrate,” she says. “A fancy dinner, some drinks. Something special. We won’t get to do that kind of thing once you’re in that other city.”
“Massachusetts,” I snap, surprised at the venom in my voice. “It’s called Massachusetts, and it’s a state, Kim. And I don’t want to celebrate. I have work to do.”
Her hand goes limp on mine. I hurt her. But really, what did she expect? Kim’s priorities have long been established, and I’m at the bottom of the totem pole. Now she can know what that feels like.
“I get it,” Kim says. “You have work to do. Schoolwork should come first.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Kim’s choosing now, of all times, to get preachy about schoolwork?
“You should make sure you’re at school tomorrow,” she says, standing up and taking a step toward the door.
“I’ll be there,” I say, pasting on what I hope is a convincing smile before noticing the familiar black leather bag around her shoulder. “What are you doing with my purse, Kim?”
“I found it downstairs, thrown beside the door,” she says, dangling it in front of me. “This is a Prada bag. Take better care of it.”
I snatch the bag from her grip and shut the door in her face. I can tell she’s lingering outside, debating whether or not to force some stupid plans on me. But there’s no way I’m caving in. Whatever is left of the little girl inside me, the one who used to cry herself to sleep when she heard her parents fight, is pulling at my shirttail, telling me to open the door and collapse in Kim’s arms and spill everything. But that little girl has been gone a long time, and I’m not listening to her now, not when I need logic on my side more than ever.
I’m very aware that my purse is vibrating, so I locate my phone inside it. I’m stupid enough to expect a text from Faye, checking up on me. Instead, there are twenty-seven new messages, all from unknown numbers, all a variation of the same theme.
I HATE YOU
I hope you get herpes
You’re going to pay for this
Don’t show ur face in school skanky bitch
You can run but you can’t hide. Videos are forever
I HOPE YOU DIE
We are going to make your life such hell
I slump down on my bed and drop my phone on my nightstand, where it lands with a clatter and continues vibrating periodically. I want to turn it off, but I can’t bring myself to. The truth is, I deserve all of those words. I plan to have a good cry and fall asleep on a pillow wet with my own tears, but sleep doesn’t come to me. Something else comes to me instead. Something I remembered Angela saying, back when we first met and she didn’t have a cell phone. I had helped her pick one out. She ended up getting one identical to mine, probably because I knew how to use it and could show her.
“I’m so bad with technology,” she had said. “I miss when people wrote letters. I feel like the world just moves too fast for me to keep up.”
It’s a long shot, but any shot is one worth taking right now. So I write Angela a letter, by hand, telling her everything. I tell her things I have never told anybody, things from before we met, things I haven’t fully admitted to myself. I tell her the whole story about what happened with Luke, even though I don’t understand it any better myself when it’s down on paper. I don’t know how to end it. Your friend, Mercy seems presumptuous, since I don’t think we’re friends at all anymore. Sincerely is much too formal. Love is much too gushy.
So I end it with honesty. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand someday.”
33
Faye calls me when I’m huddled in a heap on the floor, trying to sleep. I tried sleeping in my bed but just kept imagining different guys beside me, blocking me off from any source of oxygen.
“I have to tell you something,” Faye says. “I went to the website.”
I suck in a breath, feeling like I might choke on the air. I squirm and clutch the edges of the duvet. Faye has seen everything. How can she be on my side after that?
“
He posted your journal entries. All of them. I just thought you should know that.”
All of them. All of those words. I imagine them lined up like ammunition, ready to take shots at the names within those pages. The nicknames, the ratings. All of the worst things I thought about myself. I can’t go to school on Monday. I can’t go ever again. I can’t face those people. The knowledge that my journal is out there is the worst kind of naked. They haven’t just seen my outsides, but my insides, too.
Faye is silent on the other end. She’s pissed off, having second thoughts about me. Maybe she never even had first thoughts. Then I remember what I wrote about Faye, the entry I scribbled when I came home from her house, the words I used to preserve whatever I felt about her.
There’s just something about her.
“Do you hate me?” I ask. My voice sounds clotted and mangled, and I realize I’m crying.
“God, Mercy. Of course not. I could never hate you.”
“You must think I’m a monster,” I say, pressing my face into the carpet, letting my tears leak out the side of my eyes.
“You’re not a monster,” she says. “You thought you were helping those guys. I get it.”
“I can’t go back to school,” I say. “I just can’t face them.”
“You can, and you will,” she says. “I’ll be there. So will Zach.”
For a long while nobody says anything. I can hear her breathing on the other end, and that’s enough for me, to just know she is there.
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot on Monday,” Faye says. “You won’t have to face anybody alone.”
“You’re too good to me,” I say. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Well,” she says softly, “there’s something about you, too.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. It gets me through the night, through the panicky nightmares that force me to wake up in a film of sweat.
Faye is there Monday morning, just like she said, before I even get out of my car. She insists on walking into school with me, like she can protect me. But she can’t protect me from the message scrawled in permanent marker on my locker, waiting for me.
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