Choice

by Kennedy, Allison J.

  What was she asking? Was she suggesting that Tyler was the one I lost my virginity to, or the one who raped me? Was she asking both? It didn’t matter though. A simple nod was all I could offer, yet it was enough for her to sink into her chair as if she were beneath a heavy burden.

  “Hey.”

  I lifted my head and noticed Danika standing in front of my desk. Her appearance almost stunned me. There wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face—something I couldn’t remember seeing since before we started the 8th grade. Her hair was pulled back in a simple French braid—a far cry from the billowing curls she usually wore. She clung to her books as though they were sacred to her.

  “Hey, Dani. You look nice.”

  She bit her lip. “Can we talk after school? I really miss you.”

  Had I missed her too? The only person I had really wanted to see was Addison. But seeing Danika now made me miss her in a way I hadn’t expected. I missed the way she used to be. I missed being kids, and the way we used to look at life through rose-colored lenses: back when Danika wanted to be pretty and smart; back when I thought the best of everyone. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. When it came down to it, I didn’t even trust Addison enough to tell her the truth: not because I feared her reaction, but because I knew I would have to be open and vulnerable, and even with her, that seemed impossible.

  The point was that I missed Danika too. Maybe talking to her would help me grasp at the straws of my old self. “Yeah. Do you want to go somewhere?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Maybe the beach? It’s supposed to be nice today.”

  I nodded. “Beach sounds good.”

  “Seats please,” Mr. Cannon commanded of the two remaining students who hadn’t settled in for class. Danika grinned and hurried by me.

  “Miss O’Hara, last Friday the class took turns sharing the poems I assigned. You’re the only one who hasn’t shared.”

  My fingers clenched around my pencil tightly enough to make the wood crunch, but it didn’t snap. I felt every eye on me. Mr. Cannon stared at me, one of his bushy eyebrows lifting into an expectant arch. “You did write your poem, didn’t you?”

  Had I known that our poetry would be flaunted for all within listening range, I would have written something more colorless; more deceptive to how I really felt. I debated lying to him, but I needed the grade. “Mr. Cannon, I didn’t realize I would have to read it out loud.”

  “Precisely.” He shrugged his flannel covered shoulders as though I was missing the point. “Had you known, and had the rest of the class known, nobody would have written the truth. So please, do share.”

  This felt like a cruel trick. I could feel my stomach twisting into knots as I opened my textbook to retrieve the paper I had safely hidden inside. I stood to my feet, clearing my throat as the paper quivered in my hands.

  “Through the gauzy glen,

  three beats of steel

  pummeled the earth

  like the cadence of a wounded heart;

  like the crack in her fractured worth.

  Upward and onward she rode,

  spurring the heaving cage

  of lungs not meant for this;

  of a life bent on rage.

  And bones cracked like thunder

  when her companion fell,

  and nothing could quench,

  no, nothing could quell

  the longing for the glen…

  the place where she could mend.”

  “Well, that was depressing,” someone muttered from the back of the room.

  I lifted my eyes to Mr. Cannon and found him watching me intently, his eyes narrowed in thought. Murmurings continued around me but I was trapped under the microscope, wanting to escape whatever it was he was concluding about me. I could almost hear his thoughts churning together like the spokes of a wheel; his ice-blue eyes were dark and focused. What was he thinking about? I slipped into my chair and looked down at the paper in my hands, seeing that I had crumpled the edges in my grasp. When I looked at him again, his shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “After class, Miss O’Hara. Five minutes of your time.”

  A couple students snickered. “Enough,” Mr. Cannon barked. He began scribbling on the whiteboard with a bright red marker, finishing the title for our next assignment.

  I heard none of it until class was over. And when it was, I waited in my seat while everyone else went on their way. Addison whispered that she would meet me by my locker as she passed by me. Mr. Cannon lifted the door jamb with the toe of his loafer and let it swing shut before coming to the front of his desk to lean against it. “I’ll be honest with you. Your poem concerns me.”

  I folded my icy fingers in my lap and looked out the window at a seagull fighting the wind in the distance. “It shouldn’t, really,” I assured him, doing my best to keep my voice from betraying me. I turned my attention back to him. “It’s all metaphorical.”

  “Well, yes. Of course it is. Most poetry is metaphorical in nature. It was the image it conveyed that concerns me.”

  I forced a laugh. “I must have gone overboard. I can be a bit dramatic at times.”

  Not true. But my substitute teacher was temporary, after all. He didn’t know me.

  “I might have believed you before, but I am under the impression that you are struggling with your health. I don’t know your situation, Miss O’Hara, but I feel compelled to encourage you to talk to someone if your circumstance is too much to bear.”

  I squinted at him. “I’m not going to kill myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  That same speculative look returned. “We are never immune to pain; try as we might to stifle it. Your poem was brilliant but it was too raw to be dishonest. Please consider talking to one of the school counselors, or someone who might be able to—”

  “To what? Help me?” I grabbed my book and shoved out of my seat, passing by him on my way to the door. “I guess this means I failed?”

  “You passed,” he uttered quietly. “You have the makings of a great writer.”

  I opened the door and looked at him one last time. “Then what’s the problem?”

  He said nothing, so I left.

  Thirteen

  I WENT STRAIGHT into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I then climbed onto the toilet and sat on the water tank with my feet propped up on the seat so nobody would see them if they came in. Covering my face with my hands, I inhaled a deep breath before the tears began to flow.

  What was happening to me? Why couldn’t I get over this? I was a statistic . . . just a statistic. This sort of thing happened all the time to women, young and old alike. So why did I feel like I was the only one who had ever been violated?

  “I hate him,” I whispered into my hands, rocking back and forth. I hated myself for whatever mistake I made that encouraged his violence. I wanted to tell someone, anyone, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because nobody would ever look at me the same way. I would forever be the girl who was foolish enough to get into this situation. I still didn’t think anyone would believe me anyway. Addison already suspected I was raped; I didn’t have to ask her to be sure. I was glad she was patient and hadn’t jumped on the question that most would ask out of sheer curiosity.

  But part of me wanted her to ask, like most people would. Part of me needed that open door to step through. Maybe, like with everything else, words weren’t needed between us. We always knew what the other was thinking. I knew deep down she was waiting because she knew I wasn’t ready.

  Would I ever be ready?

  The bathroom door creaked open. “May?” Addison softly called.

  I didn’t answer. The school bell rang, echoing off the walls around me.

  I heard her walk across the tile floor. “I know you’re in here,” she whispered, just before she bent down and peeked under my stall door. We met eyes and she stood back up. “I’m not going to ask you if you’re alright, because clearly you’re not. But I need to ask you a question.”

  I inhaled a steadying
breath. “Okay.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “No.”

  She leaned against the door, her toes facing toward me. “Did you tell anyone?”

  More tears fell as I whimpered a soft, “No.”

  “Can you come out so I can hug you?”

  I hiccupped with quiet sobs while I climbed off the toilet and opened the door. Addison’s face was drenched like mine. I crumbled into her arms and we wept together, and I felt as though a part of me, though still broken, was soothed.

  Now

  I STAND IN THE SHOWER, touching the places on my skin that were once sore from such brutal hands. Sometimes it feels as though the pain has never faded. It had taken a couple weeks, but eventually the bruises disappeared. Even after they faded, I still saw them when I looked in the mirror, and I still do, even to this day. They mock me, reminding me I will always remember what Tyler did. My mom always tells me that I still need time to heal. Elijah always kisses the places that hurt, even though I’ve never told him where they are.

  I step out of the shower and dry off before reaching for my phone. I asked Elijah to take Addison to the beach for a while so I could have a little time to myself. He understood. As I get ready to call him, I notice the voicemail from my friend, Addison. I’ve never listened to it. She left it after the last time we ever hung out. I can’t bring myself to know what she had to say after the fight that ended our friendship. Yet I also can’t bring myself to delete it.

  Then

  THE SUN WAS SETTING on the horizon when I parked my car on the rocky cliff of Agate Beach. Tourists were snapping photos and looking through the telescope at the orange rays and the shimmering water, but my eyes were searching for the person I was meeting. I could barely see her with my palm cupped over my eyes; she sat on a blanket down below, her blonde braid lying over her back. I locked my car and slipped my arms into the sleeves of a jacket as I made my way down the path.

  I took my shoes and socks off and walked across the sand. It had been a while since I felt it between my toes. Years, perhaps. The feeling was calming in a way. I still didn’t know how this conversation was going to go, and I was nervous.

  She didn’t see me coming. I sat down beside her and she looked at me in surprise, a smile gracing her lips. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, turning her face again to the sunset. The glow made her look angelic.

  “It is,” I agreed. I put my shoes aside on the corner of the blanket and crossed my legs under me, tucking my skirt between them so it wouldn’t blow up in the wind. Danika was quiet in a way I wasn’t used to. The tension drifting between us on ocean air was palpable.

  She finally looked at me and rubbed her lips together, as if she were trying to contain whatever was on her mind, but she knew she couldn’t. “I hate myself, May.” Her voice broke when she said my name. “Everything you said to me was true. I am selfish and I choose to be ignorant because it gets me attention. God, saying that out loud makes me feel pathetic.” She shook her head and sighed. “You are a real friend, and I’m not. But I want to be.”

  Her sincerity was real. But for some reason, I was angry. I ground my teeth together. “I get that, Danika.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “You’re mad. Why are you mad?”

  Because you know something is wrong with me, yet you still choose to talk about yourself, like always. That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I breathed out my anger in one long huff and chose to acknowledge the fact that she was trying to apologize to me. “I’m not mad. I’m just trying to make sense of everything.”

  She nodded and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve always been jealous of you.”

  I squinted in confusion. “Why?” Why would anyone be jealous of me?

  “Because you’ve always been so strong. You don’t conform to stereotypes to make people like you. You’re just you.”

  I almost laughed. “Oh, Dani. You couldn’t be more wrong.” She looked at me, waiting for an explanation, so I continued: “There are a lot of things about me that are true: I want to be a doctor, and not because my father is one. I study hard and I like to think I’m pretty responsible, but I’m not as strong as you think. I’m not as put together as I make people believe. My parents, and my mom especially, believe I am their carbon copy, but not because I am. It’s because from the time I was little, I knew I had to measure up. So I do conform . . . just not in the same way as you.”

  She chewed on her lip in thought, and then nodded. “I see.”

  I looked at her intently. “The thing is, you don’t have to be dumb for people to be attracted to you. You’re enough. I’ve often felt that if I fall apart, I will lose the respect of my friends and family. But you’re already a mess,” I joked, nudging her with my shoulder. “So stop being one and be yourself.”

  She laughed. “I’ll try. I really will. And I really am sorry about the whole party thing. I was such a bitch.”

  “You were,” I agreed. “But let’s forget about that, alright? I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  She complied with reluctance and changed the subject. “Why haven’t you been at school? Have you been sick?”

  It wasn’t the subject change I had hoped for, but I went along with it. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “With what? Are you okay?”

  I turned my gaze to the ocean, choosing not to answer her first question. “Getting there. I just hope I can make up my schoolwork.”

  “Was it mono or something?”

  “Yep. Something like that. Don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”

  She exhaled and smiled. “Oh. Good. Well, I’m glad you’re starting to feel better.”

  Danika and I built a bridge that day, though it still needed work to become stable. I didn’t know if I could ever really trust her again. At least I knew that if anything good had come from all of this, it was that she was finally beginning to see her worth.

  Fourteen

  TIME SEEMED TO PARALYZE ME. When I wasn’t forcing myself to concentrate during class or spending time with my friends, I was a statue in my bedroom. I tried to fill every waking moment of my day with some sort of distraction, but it only worked for a while before I was frozen by the memories that were still there, waiting to remind me I wasn’t getting better. I was only fooling myself.

  I didn’t know why I couldn’t get past it. I was finally getting to the point, after two weeks of nightmares, to acknowledge that what had happened to me hadn’t been my fault. Addison had said it a few times: rape was never the woman’s fault. Bad things happen to good people. This revelation had helped in ways, because I was able to take most of the blame off of my shoulders. Sometimes I felt almost normal, but it was fleeting. One minute I was fine, and the next it was a struggle to even get out of bed.

  “I was raped.” I practiced saying those three words in front of the mirror, forcing myself to hear the words, hoping it would somehow help me move on. “I’m still alive. It doesn’t change anything. I refuse to let it change me.”

  But it had already. I’d lost weight and even my tightest jeans were loose on me. I hardly laughed, and even when I did, it was only half sincere. Every single night, I experienced it all over again in a dream, though I wasn’t quite asleep. But I was fine. I had to be. I couldn’t let Tyler own me.

  He hadn’t said another word since the day he “apologized” at school. I had no idea if he even looked at me in class because I refused to make eye contact with him. He had moved on to some ditzy sophomore, and she had clearly slept with him on her own accord. They frequently cruised up and down the halls, his arm possessively draped around her. As far as she knew, she had hit the jackpot.

  Danika was still heartbroken. Sometimes I wanted to shake her.

  I hadn’t been to the barn all week. I just didn’t feel like riding, but most of all, I didn’t want to run into Alex. His last impression of me would likely stick forever. He probably thought I was insane. In fact, he wo
uld probably have been right.

  The smell of my mom’s wine made me feel sick, reminding me of the alcohol on Tyler’s breath. Sudden movements from anyone startled me. I cried over everything. Danika was beginning to treat me with kid gloves, as if I was an unpredictable child who needed coddling, yet she still didn’t want to be the one to do it. I had made up my assignments, but the stress of homework snapped me like a twig if one thing went wrong. Being stumped on a calculus question made me hyperventilate. The medication I was on seemed to do nothing, yet I wondered how crazy I would really be without it. I was spinning out of control, but I was normal on the outside. A little stressed and emotional perhaps, but normal. My parents hadn’t even questioned whether or not I needed further treatment, which was probably because I had successfully knocked out two of my college applications without any prompting from them.

  In truth, I just wanted to get out of Newport and far, far away from the memories.

  It was Friday before I knew it. Two weeks since the party, yet it felt like no time had passed at all. Just like every other day this week, I left school immediately after we were dismissed so I could go home and be by myself. As I pushed through the double doors to step outside, I heard a voice call my name. Looking up, I saw Alex climb the last step. I blinked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  He moved out of the way of the flow of students, then held up a folder. “Delivering some information to the school. Granddad used to offer student discounts and I wanted to do the same thing.”

  His eyes were always so kind. He wasn’t looking at me as if I were crazy at all, but I wondered if he thought it. I wondered why I cared what he thought. “That’s cool. So you decided to open?”

  “I think so.” He leaned against the rail and tucked the file under his arm. “Though, to be honest, I was hoping I would run into you again.”

  I wrapped my fingers around the strap of my book bag and held it closer to my shoulder. I looked at his tattered hoodie and his jeans. His Converse shoes. Anywhere but his face. “Why?”