Choice

by Kennedy, Allison J.

  I didn’t cry. I didn’t think. I just was. It was as if my brain were detached from my body until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. As the days passed, I only grew worse. My stomach was sinking in on itself and in the times I couldn’t avoid going to the bathroom anymore, I could see the sleep deprivation on my face.

  And I could finally see the bruises: deep, blotchy, black and blue.

  Having a doctor for a father was both a blessing and a curse. In this situation, it was a blessing. Most parents would have rushed me to the ER by now. My dad wasn’t so quick to panic. “If she stops eating or if she’s still throwing up tomorrow, I’ll take her in,” he had told my mom, who had only checked on me once. She was out of town again so the five minutes she spent at my bedside were brief and I barely remembered them. But the less supervision I had, the less questions would be asked. Mom always knew when I was lying anyway.

  I never checked my phone. Nobody came to visit. Nobody would have other than Danika and Addison anyway, and Addison was still out of the country. My teachers informed my dad that my homework was piling up, and he continued to tell them that I was still too ill to return. But I could tell he was beginning to question whether or not my absence from school was still warranted because I had been able to keep food down for twenty-four hours.

  On day four, I knew I had to get out of bed. I spent an hour under water that was hot enough to make my skin raw. I washed away the grime and sweat that had accumulated on my body, but it did nothing to thaw out my mind. I still felt numb; detached. And I knew I didn’t have any more lies left in me. If I allowed myself to actually talk to my dad, a plea would tumble forth that I wouldn’t be able to contain. I wanted to be taken out of my school and placed into the public school system. I didn’t want to have to face Tyler.

  But Dad would ask why, and I knew I didn’t have it in me to give him something convincing. So I said nothing at all.

  Six

  I STOOD BY MY CAR, looking across the parking lot at the entrance to my school. The doors seemed like a death trap as students made their way inside. I had covered my bruises with my student-assigned uniform jacket and a pair of black leggings, and reasoned with myself in the mirror before I left my house, but I still felt ill-prepared. I wasn’t ready to see him. “Keep your head up, May,” I told myself, taking the first step across the asphalt.

  Maybe if he didn’t see that I was wounded inside and out, he wouldn’t approach me. Maybe he would forget about it if he hadn’t already. Maybe he had been too high to remember anyway.

  My eyes darted in every direction when I stepped inside the entrance. I wanted to avoid eye contact with anyone, but I couldn’t seem to control where I looked. It was a sea of uniformly dressed teenagers who all looked the same in my mind’s eye. Male and female. That was all they were, because their faces didn’t matter.

  And then I saw him. He stood at his locker, retrieving what he would need for class. I stopped walking. He looked my way.

  For a moment I thought he was going to say something, but instead his jaw clamped shut and he slammed his locker so hard it made me jump. He turned away without another look and went into the very classroom that I would be forced to join in a matter of moments.

  He was angry, and I could feel that anger reaching into every cell of my body as though it were directed at me; as though he believed that I caused him to do the unthinkable. Or perhaps he was only angry at himself, and seeing me was a reminder of that. Either way, when Tyler Jenkins left me standing there, one thought resounded that made me angry at myself: I wanted answers.

  I hardly realized I was looking at Danika until her head tilted and she released a sigh. I shook my head to escape my trance. “Hey,” I managed.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “All better.” I hoped she bought it.

  She closed her eyes as though she was trying to arrange what she was about to say. When she opened them again, they were full of tears. “I’m sorry, May. You were right. I was being selfish.” She watched me for a moment but I could feel my expression staying the same, contorted by what I had witnessed before at Tyler’s locker. “I just can’t stand what’s going on between us. I feel like you hate me. I mean, yeah . . . I made you miserable the other night. And I was rude. But that kind of thing wouldn’t have made you react like this before, so I know there’s more to it. There’s more to it, right?”

  I felt my face adopt a new look, but I couldn’t tell what it was. “I just need a break, Danika. I know you want an explanation but . . . I just have a lot going on. I need to think about my own life.” It was more than I had said in days, and it felt strange; as if the words didn’t belong in my mouth.

  Was it even true? Did I want to think about myself?

  I had gone to that party for her. I had stayed for her. My virginity had been stolen in the most unthinkable way possible, all for her. How could I tell her that even being near her was like sandpaper on my wounds? It didn’t matter though, because she hugged her books tighter to her body and lifted her chin stiffly, not even dignifying me with an answer before turning on her heel and entering the classroom.

  That was my answer. And I was relieved because I could hardly stand the sight of her.

  * * *

  I SANK INTO MY SEAT as inconspicuously as possible while the other students in English class prepared for our first lesson of the day. I kept my eyes on my book as I counted down the seconds until it would begin. A few papers were set before me and I slowly lifted my eyes to the giver of them.

  “Good morning, class,” Mr. Cannon said, stroking his long, gray beard as he looked up from my desk. He cleared his throat loudly. “By Friday, I want each of you to write a poem in the style of either a stanza or a sonnet. I want that poem to be full of imagery. And on that note, the first person to accurately quote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou this morning will get an automatic A on that assignment. Though, to be perfectly honest, I don’t expect any of you to know it by heart. Who wants to give it a go?” he asked, sitting down in his chair.

  I knew this poem by heart. I had first heard it as a little girl, when my aunt Elizabeth read it from her poetry book while we sat together on her front porch one summer. I found it so beautiful that I memorized it, and I’d never forgotten it. The bird in the poem was caged, locked away only to watch another bird fly free and without a care in the distance. So the caged bird could only sing, wishing for that freedom too. I waited for someone to volunteer, because I could feel my heart thrashing at the prospect of standing up with Tyler’s eyes on my back.

  “I’ll do it,” Tyler said behind me.

  I heard him stand up and then he began. His voice was confident but heavy, as if he were pondering each word while he said it. My palms grew clammy, leaving handprints on my desk. I wiped them on my skirt and forced myself to breathe. But I could feel him. I could feel him watching me.

  I knew how that bird felt. I knew exactly.

  “Are you a bird or a fish?” Tyler’s question from the other day came to mind.

  What a cruel question to ask someone before trying to break their wings.

  * * *

  I WASN’T SURE how I made it through the school day alive. I only had two classes that Tyler didn’t share, and those were the only two I had been able to remotely concentrate in. My grades were bound to suffer, so I knew I had to find a way to focus the rest of the week.

  After making Grace dinner, I sat at the kitchen island to recover. My eyes felt as if they were coated with sand. My muscles and bones ached like I had the flu. I just wanted to sleep, but I had homework. Lots and lots of homework.

  I was just opening my poetry book when my phone dinged with a text from Danika. I opened it, feeling the wind getting knocked out of me.

  Danika: Day. Made. I had sex with Tyler after school! I made the walk of shame out of his house. Lol.

  I laid the phone down and rested my forehead on my palm, focusing on my breathing. Another text.

 
Danika: That was for Addison. Sorry . . .

  The front door opened and closed, and I quickly recomposed myself, pretending to be reading from my book. But my chest was quaking with each heartbeat. My vision grew fuzzy and my hearing felt skewed.

  “How was school? And your weekend?” Mom asked, entering the kitchen to set her purse and briefcase down on the counter. She opened the fridge, tapping her leather pump-clad foot.

  I didn’t even realize how much I was dreading facing her again until that moment. Dad was clueless except for when he was working on somebody’s brain. Aside from spelling it out for him, he hardly noticed anything was amiss. Mom, on the other hand? She was paid to analyze people and to pick up on all their dirty secrets. She always knew when I was lying. Always.

  I lifted my head to look at her. “Fine,” I lied as smoothly as I could.

  “Good,” she nodded, leaning against the counter with a bottle of water in hand. Her dress suit accentuated her hourglass body. She regarded me with scrutinizing green eyes. “What did you learn?”

  I recognized this trick. She knew how to tell when I was lying, and I knew how to tell when she was prodding me with pseudo kindness to get me to reveal that I was lying. I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I had trouble concentrating. I was sick this weekend, and I’m still feeling under the weather.”

  She frowned. “Did your dad examine you?”

  “No,” I answered, closing my book. “I’m okay. Just worn out.”

  “Alright,” she said, pursing her lips. “Well, finish your homework and go to bed. I’ll help Grace with her schoolwork tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. Mom rarely let me off the hook this easily.

  “I’m sure. You look pale. I’ll be in my office. When you’re feeling better, I want you to start working on your college applications.”

  College: the word my world had revolved around for months and months, yet the same word I hadn’t even thought about since Friday. “I will,” I promised, hoping it would be a suitable distraction. I needed to start focusing on my future rather than the past.

  Mom left the kitchen and I felt my labored breathing return. I propped up my forehead in my sweaty palm and tried to get myself under control. Another text, but this one was from Addison.

  Addison: I’m hoooome!

  I nearly crumbled in relief.

  Me: Welcome back. Tired?

  Addison: Very. But you should come over.

  I didn’t have to think twice. I grabbed my book bag and poked my head into Mom’s office. “I’m going to Addison’s to finish my homework. She just made it back.”

  “Aren’t you ill?” she frowned, eyeing me.

  “Just tired,” I reiterated. “But not too tired to hear about her trip.”

  “Alright. Just an hour or two. You need to be rested. It’s only Tuesday.”

  “Promise. Thanks, Mom.”

  And I felt a genuine sense that I would be okay if I could just step through Addison’s door and see her smiling face.

  * * *

  “FINALLY!” MY FRIEND EXCLAIMED, opening the door before my knock. She practically leapt into my arms. She smelled like airplane, clad in yoga pants and a hoodie, with her brunette hair in the messiest bun I had ever seen, but she was still beautiful. I squeezed her with all I had and when I let her go, she dragged me into her house by my hand.

  “Hello, May!” her mother grinned. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Flood. Thank you for letting me come over.”

  She stirred a steaming pot with a wooden spoon and winked my way. “You know you’re always welcome here, darlin’.”

  I had always felt more welcome at the Floods’ than in my own home. I smiled at her and followed Addison to her bedroom, and she closed the door. We both made a beeline for her enormous beanbag chair. We plopped onto it, stretching out our limbs. Addison was laughing; I was trying to.

  “So,” she began, rolling onto her side to face me. Her brown eyes were tired but they were still bright. “How are you?”

  “I should be asking you that. I want to hear all about your trip.”

  “Well,” she smiled dreamily, propping her head up on her bent arm. “It was magical. Everything about it was like a dream. The scenery, the history . . . the people and food,” she grinned and then laughed. “Especially the food.”

  “Mmm. Genuine Italian food,” I said, forcing a small smile. “What else?”

  “Well, the boys weren’t bad to look at either,” she smirked. “But I was more focused on the culture. Learned a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, the way people interact is so different. How you dress and present yourself is vital. I never thought of that! When I first got there, I felt like I was being sized up. And people are late to everything,” she laughed. “But it’s not a big deal to them. Lots of enthusiasm all around.”

  She looked at the ceiling and sighed longingly. “I could live there. I really could. When I first went to the Pantheon, I was instantly overwhelmed with tears. Same with the Colosseum, but for different reasons.” She looked at me again. “You have to go with me next time, May. It was absolutely life changing.”

  I knew people went to Italy all the time, but for Addison, it wasn’t just something to mark off her bucket list. It was her history. And though it wasn’t mine, I someday wanted to share it with her. “I promise I’ll go next time, come hell or high water.”

  “Good,” she smiled. “There’s so much more, but I’ll tell you later.” Her smile faded and her eyes grew serious. “Talk to me about you. How are you after Friday?”

  I had thought seeing Addison would be enough for me to finally admit to somebody what had actually happened. But the longer I looked at her, the more I realized I wasn’t ready. “It’s still hard,” was all I could say.

  She was quiet for a moment, thinking. Addison never spoke before she thought, and I appreciated it because I knew that whatever she said was exactly how she intended it. Sometimes the truth she spoke was tough to hear; other times it spoke right to my soul. “He wasn’t the one,” she said.

  My eyes watered. Of course he wasn’t “the one,” but that wasn’t what she meant. She meant it so much deeper than that. It wasn’t as though she was stating a fact I didn’t already know, but instead reflecting a thought I didn’t even know I had been harboring. Cruelty aside, pain and confusion aside, I had been robbed of something I could never get back: my innocence. I had never even kissed a boy before. I had never seen a man naked. My view of sex would forever be skewed, and that was what I was robbed of. It wasn’t even about losing my virginity. It was about losing the part of me that would ever be able to imagine sex as beautiful.

  “He wasn’t the one,” I repeated.

  “Do you blame yourself?”

  I could almost hear my own heartbeat. I didn’t want to talk about this. I had been counting on Addison’s return so she could help me make sense of it, but now that she was here, I was frozen. How was it that I couldn’t even admit the truth to my kindred spirit? I felt a rope around my neck, choking the words out of me. I felt them seizing on the tip of my tongue. I was raped. I need to tell you that I was raped. “How can I not?” I offered instead. “I could have prevented it somehow.”

  She frowned, perplexed by my words. And I instantly began to backtrack because I could see she was beginning to recognize there was more to this than I was letting on. “I mean, I could have said no, you know? Or left the room so we weren’t alone.”

  “This was at the party you and Danika went to?”

  I rubbed my lips together. How did she know about that? “Yes. Danika went off on her own and I was alone with a guy. Stupid,” I sighed heavily, frustrated.

  She nodded. “She texted me that night and said you guys were fighting after the party. She sounded pretty upset, but she didn’t explain.”

  “Please don’t tell her about this.” I could hear a quiv
er in my voice and I desperately tried to steady it. “I don’t want her to know about it.”

  “I won’t. Promise.”

  I knew she wasn’t saying something. I knew by the way her coffee-colored eyes glassed over that she knew there was more to the story—more than I was willing to admit. She didn’t pry. Instead she scooted forward on the beanbag chair and hugged me tightly. My head came to rest under her chin and I could feel the rapid pulse of her heart thumping against my ear. It was proof she was containing something painful; something that filled her with dread. It was the way a heart beats inside a person when they have something to ask, but they’re afraid of the answer. So I changed the subject because deep down, I knew what that question would be.

  “We have a substitute English teacher for a couple months. I heard Mr. Pierce had heart surgery and there were some complications.”

  “That’s awful.” I felt her shake her head. “I hope he’s going to be okay. What is the new teacher like?”

  “Strict and cocky,” I sighed. “He looks like Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings. He’s having us write poems this week. Any style we want.”

  “I love sonnets. I think that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Awesome.”

  I closed my eyes. Addison’s heart still jogged at the same pace. Something in me wanted to flee before the dam broke and she asked me the question I knew was churning within her. “I’m going to go so you can get some sleep. You must be exhausted.” I sat up and made my way to my feet. When I looked down at her, I saw her watching me; examining me; peeling away my layers to see the truth. And everything inside of me wanted to escape. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Addi. I’m glad you’re back.”

  Her eyes softened fractionally. “Night, May. See you tomorrow.”

  I barely made it to my car before crumbling against my steering wheel, my breath stolen by painful sobs.