Ryan starts working on support beams for some flats, his drill a loud whine behind me. Suddenly it goes silent, and I look over at him. Sawdust floats around his head like sandy fog. “You know, if you got Cory kicked out of school before Homecoming, the dance would be a lot more fun.”
My stomach rolls over. “You’ve been talking to Maddie, haven’t you.”
“She’s not wrong. I mean, if he really did what you said he did—”
“God, Ryan, I really don’t want to talk about it.”
He flinches. “Sorry, okay.”
“No, I mean . . .” Ugh. I’m making everything worse. I set down my hammer and wipe my hands on the back of my jeans. If I keep holding on to the big, heavy tool, I’m afraid I might start smashing things. “I don’t want to talk to authorities.”
I still haven’t even told my parents. They asked the next day, and I just explained that I’d been in a big fight with Maddie but it was better now.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Ryan says. He sets down his drill and steps over the boxes of supplies and paint to stand closer to me. After hesitating a moment, he puts his arms around me and we hug.
I sigh into his shoulder.
“It must have been scary,” he says softly.
I don’t say anything, but I think, It was.
“Whatever you decide to do, you know I’ll go along with it. Even if it costs me a whole crown.”
I laugh, dipping my face lower so my forehead is pressing into his collar. “Ryan,” I say, my voice muffled.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
His arms stiffen around my back, but he doesn’t move. I don’t move, either.
“Maybe,” he finally says.
I smile. “Is he nice to you? All the time?”
“Yeah, I think so. Aren’t they supposed to be?”
Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I’m still smiling into the dark space between my hair and his chest. “That’s what I’ve heard.” I turn my head and rest my cheek against his shirt so I can hold him tighter, hug him closer. I haven’t held anyone like this in a long time, I realize. I haven’t wanted to touch anyone—not even Alex—for more than a few minutes. But I never want to let Ryan go.
I feel better.
No, you don’t. Everyone still knows you’re pathetic. And you can’t feel better yet, that’s not how it works if something really bad happens to you, you’re supposed to be—
But I do feel better. So shut up.
Ryan tightens his grip, too, and we practically squeeze each other breathless, until we’re laughing and falling apart again, shaking our heads at what idiots we both are.
I can still feel the voice lingering off to the side, like it’s waiting in the wings. But for now, I’ve silenced it. For now, even if I’m just pretending to not be pathetic, even if I’m feeling the wrong thing . . . I’m okay.
“I totally nominated you, you know.”
“I nominated you, too! But wait—what?” Steph laughs. “Me?”
“Don’t say it like that! Why not you?”
“Uh . . .” She looks down at her DQ polo, faded jeans, and beat-up running shoes.
“Stop. You would’ve been a much better queen than Olivia Thorpe.”
Steph goes back to spraying Windex on the front of the hard-serve case. “You don’t like Olivia? Why?”
“Seriously?”
She looks at me, confused. “Isn’t she, like, the nicest person at school, basically? Besides Maddie, I mean. Obviously.”
I laugh. “I said Olivia Thorpe, right?”
“Annabelle is really sweet, too,” Steph muses, ignoring me. “But in a much quieter way. Olivia’s the one who can get stuff done. Back in third grade she completely saved my life. This guy Chris kept calling me ‘Stuff,’ like as a fat joke, and Olivia poured her milk on him. It was amazing. And it was strawberry milk, which was even more amazing. We weren’t even that close—she’s just kind of badass. Zero tolerance, you know?”
I stare at her. She finishes cleaning the hard-serve case and moves over to the toppings side, unaware of how shocked I am.
“I guess I ended up on her zero-tolerance list, then,” I say lightly. “Because she’d definitely pour strawberry milk on me if she got the chance.”
“Really? Yikes.” Steph seems to be thinking—she does that opening and closing her mouth thing about ten times—and I smile, waiting to hear what it is. Finally she says, “What did you do?”
“There was this . . . I don’t know, like, thing with Finn Kramper last year. But Olivia kind of hated me before then.”
“She liked Finn?”
“No, Annabelle did. I don’t know why—the guy is gross.”
Steph nods. She finishes the toppings case and ducks under the counter and into the back room. I hear her putting the Windex and rag away. I spin a little, back and forth, on the one stool behind the cash register while she washes her hands and dries them with a paper towel. I can’t believe how lucky I am that I always get scheduled with her. I guess it’s even luckier that Joel is clearly too nervous to work with me lately—I haven’t seen him since last weekend, thank God.
“I voted for Maddie, anyway,” Steph says in a low voice. Like we might be overheard by the sum total of no people buying ice cream this afternoon.
“Yeah, of course. She’s obviously the best choice.”
“I noticed you guys aren’t fighting anymore.”
I nod, twisting the rubber band on my wrist so it lies flat.
“But you don’t seem that psyched about it,” Steph says carefully.
“Hey, what’s going on with your internship?” I ask brightly. “Are you leaving me all alone here or what?”
She narrows her eyes, obviously aware of how blatantly I’m changing the subject, but smiles, too. “Yeah, sorry. I’m out of here in two weeks!”
“That’s awesome.” I hold up my hand and she high-fives it awkwardly, making us both giggle. “I’ll still see you for theater stuff, though, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. And I’ll be backstage as much as possible. I’m doing some crew stuff this year, but that new lighting and sound guy is a dick.”
I laugh. “That’s exactly what Ryan said!”
“Seriously, though, if you want to talk about Maddie . . .” Steph turns away, obviously wishing she had something else to clean, and shrugs.
“No, we’re good. It’s just that thing, you know, where people change over the summer and it’s weird, and . . .”
I stop, realizing I’m about to apologize for Maddie getting so mad at me for what happened with Cory. But it suddenly occurs to me that she forgave me really fast, as soon as she thought it was assault or whatever.
What if I really had just made a mistake, though? Would she still not be speaking to me? Would she still be dating Cory, who, come on, was at least half to blame in any scenario?
“. . . and just talking about horses all the time, totally not caring that I can’t ride them because of my allergies, you know?” Steph is saying.
I make a face and say, “Sorry, I missed the first part?”
“Annabelle. When she got back from horse camp in sixth grade.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, she was always wearing those boots.”
“Everywhere! It was ridiculous!”
I smile and decide not to tell Steph the truth—that I loved Annabelle’s riding boots and was insanely jealous of them pretty much throughout junior high. I made my mom buy me the closest version we could find at Target, but they weren’t real leather, and it didn’t really make my jealousy go away.
Half an hour later, my shift ends, early enough that I’ll get out before the Friday-night traffic, if there is any. The Lions have a week off before Homecoming next weekend, and Hadley’s going to close up after Steph goes home in an hour.
It’s dark by the time I leave at six, but it’s still warm outside and not that bad to walk. I’m kind of getting used to cutting thro
ugh the neighborhoods like this, like I’m a little kid again. Except now I have to be careful to avoid the streets that still have trees down on the sidewalks.
My mind drifts back to Olivia and Annabelle as I walk. It’s always been obvious that Olivia’s the stronger one, so I guess I can see what Steph was saying about her sticking up for people. That’s definitely what she did when I accidentally made out with Finn—or at least, what she thought she was doing. I wonder if her problem with me being friends with Maddie was like that, like she didn’t think I was good enough for her.
You’re not, says the voice, but it’s pointless, because I already know that.
And yet. Maddie’s been so nice to me since Monday, so attentive. Almost like she’s excited to work on my problem. My near-rape, or whatever she thinks it was. Maybe that is what it was, but what am I supposed to do about it now? No matter what she says, I cannot imagine anyone at Midcity sitting down and being like, Oh, so you were drinking and you had a confusing tongue-in-mouth scenario with a boy whose tongue you’d had in your mouth a million times before? And that boy happens to be our star quarterback? Why, yes, obviously we’ll believe you, the girl who has to be forced to do any kind of school activity and has also hooked up with half the school. Right this way to the near-rape survivors’ lounge!
It’s not funny, but the thought makes me snort, right there on the corner of Lincoln Avenue. I kick the dried leaves at my feet and wait for a car to pass, wondering if I look crazy, laughing to myself under a streetlamp. Probably—if anyone’s looking at me at all.
Maybe you can’t get near-raped if you’re already kind of a skank.
The voice stops me cold with that one. I know that’s what people will think if I try to tell them what happened.
I think it might even be what I think.
I cross the street, slowly, and wonder what someone like Olivia would say. If she liked me, I mean. If I was one of the people she defended. But I already have a friend like that—I have Maddie. Don’t I?
Maddie’s trying to defend me, and I won’t let her. And not just because I’m scared to tell the entire universe my most embarrassing story. It’s also because I hate this feeling, that she wants me to be a victim. That by being a victim, I deserve her forgiveness.
I’ve finally reached my house, and I can see the lights on inside, hear the sounds of some acoustic-guitar-heavy band playing through Dave’s iPod speakers. I stare up at the glowing windows for a minute and then sit down in the grass, under the big poplar tree out front. The one that lost the most branches, but still looks pretty good. I’m so glad it survived; its roots are huge and form all these little circles that make perfect seats. I find my favorite one, on the left side, and sit.
I know I need to do something. Be my own defender. But it was so hard, pushing Cory away that night. So hard to get home the next morning, go through the days of Maddie hating me. To finally get her to understand.
I feel like this tree—basically intact. Lucky that nothing really bad happened to me.
But I know that’s not good enough.
24
“I’M ONLY LETTING you do this because of Maddie and Ryan. But you are still absolutely grounded, make no mistake.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Don’t get all pissy with me, either.”
I glance over, watching as she deftly twists the steering wheel and drives us into the mall parking lot. The good mall, even. Where she’s letting me buy a Homecoming dress—with my own money, of course, and with her along for the ride. But still. For a minute next Saturday night, I will be ungrounded. I still technically don’t have a date, but I’ll be out of the house somewhere besides stupid Dairy Queen or school.
“I wasn’t being pissy,” I say as mildly as I can manage. “I was just saying okay.”
We get out of the car and hurry inside, since it’s finally cold enough to need a jacket, but not so cold that either of us brought one. The warm, cologne-scented air of the Von Maur men’s department greets us, instantly soothing my frayed nerves. God, I love the smell of new clothes.
Neither of us talks as we ride the escalators up two flights. Mom keeps checking her phone, but I do my best to leave mine in my bag. I just don’t feel like arguing with her today, and nothing annoys her more than when I’m constantly texting. Or texting even a little bit.
At the formal dresses a saleswoman beams at us and for a second, it feels like old times. When I was really little, going out with my mom always felt like an event. People would stop us at the mall, at restaurants, on the street, just to tell us how beautiful we were. Men were especially infatuated with Mom, but women loved me best, always complimenting my hair, my eyes, whichever crazy princess dress I’d insisted on wearing that day. And I could always tell that it made Mom proud.
As I got older, though, she didn’t like the looks that guys started giving me. She wanted me to be careful. She wanted me to be worried and definitely not flattered.
But that was so confusing, because wasn’t it flattering? And it’s not like I was trying to get them to look. I was just being. In the world. Usually she seemed angrier at the guys than at me, but it was still really frustrating.
Now she heads in one direction and I go the other way, running my fingers along the rows of hangers. I hesitate at a black bandage dress with a sweetheart neckline. I love it, but Mom won’t, I’m sure. It’s black, for one—she likes color and thinks I should, too. It’s definitely formfitting and short, and I can’t tell for sure without trying it on, but it’s probably pretty low-cut. It’s obviously not a turtleneck, anyway. After a moment, I grab the dark blue one next to it. Compromise.
By the time we circle back around to each other, we both have an armful of dresses. Mom gives me a small smile and leads the way to the changing rooms, but instead of waiting in the hall she comes in and sits on the chair in the corner, across from the mirror. I want to snap at her that I know I’m still grounded—but then again. Maybe this sort of feels like old times to her, too. So I just wiggle out of my jeans and grab the first dress.
“I like that color on you,” Mom says. It’s a pink number, big skirt, sort of ballerina-ish. One that she picked out, of course.
“It feels a little . . . ,” I start to say, wondering if I’m going to offend her. “Just maybe a little young?”
I hold my breath, but she doesn’t freak out. She looks at me in the mirror and nods. “Yeah, it’s kind of ballet recital,” she agrees.
The next dress has a big floral print, which feels wrong for Homecoming, but I thought it was pretty. I turn to see the back and Mom watches thoughtfully.
“Probably wrong for the occasion,” I say, and she nods again.
“Nice, though. Maybe I could get you that one for something else.”
“Really?” I say.
She meets my eyes in the mirror, confused. “Yeah, why not?”
“Money. And grounded. And . . . I don’t know.” I smooth my hands over the soft fabric.
“It looks lovely on you,” she says. “And, yeah, everything looks great on you, but I think we can afford one extra dress. Maybe Ayla will like it in a few years.”
I’d be shocked if that were true, but I’m too excited now to argue. I take off the dress and hang it carefully on the definitely buying hook.
I’m not really paying attention to what I grab next, so I have the dark blue bandage one halfway on before I remember to worry about Mom’s reaction. But again, she just watches me mildly, maybe pinching her lips the tiniest bit when I zip up the back and adjust my boobs under the—yep—low neckline.
“Probably not this one,” I say experimentally. I love it; I feel sophisticated and sexy, and even though I would’ve picked black if I thought I could get away with it, I think the blue might look even better with my dark hair and pale skin.
“Why not?” Mom asks, looking confused again.
“Um, seriously?” I turn to face her. “Because it actually makes me look, you know, like I’m not a litt
le kid anymore?”
“Jesus, Rosie, I know you’re growing up. Is that what you think? That I want you to be little forever?”
I lift a hand like Well, duh, yes. The last time we went shopping together was freshman year, when a senior named Ben had invited me to the junior-senior Snowflake Formal. Every single thing I tried on was “inappropriate,” according to Mom. But before I can remind her of all that, she uncrosses and crosses her legs again with a big sigh and keeps talking.
“You’re getting older. That’s fine. I haven’t always been crazy about how fast you seem to want to grow up. I’m sorry, but when you look like you do, growing up fast isn’t something you have to try at.” She sighs. “It’s just—I mean, bad things happen to everyone, but trust me, pretty girls don’t get any sympathy in this world—and some of them get a lot more than their share of trouble.”
I stare at her for a few seconds, then sit heavily on the tiny bench across from her chair. I don’t know if it’s the tight dress or what, but I can’t seem to take a deep breath.
“You probably already know what I’m talking about,” Mom says, her voice much softer and quieter than before.
“I—Maybe,” I admit. “I don’t think I get into trouble because I’m pretty.” I picture that night in the car, driving to Iowa. And then I think about Cory.
He pushed me because he thought I could be pushed. It wasn’t about how I looked.
At the same time, I bet it wasn’t about me at all. Except that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong amount of alcohol in my veins or . . . whatever.
Guilt slices through me, again, for being so stupid. For being so lucky that nothing worse happened. For sitting there in the path of whatever tornado wants to pass by and just blind lucky to come out unscratched.
“I was really proud of my looks when I was your age,” Mom says. She stares down at her hands, at the perfect manicure she paints herself every week without fail. “And when you were little—I mean, when I was pregnant with you, I thought my life was over. But then I never really gained any weight, not the way you see some women do, and after you were born I was thinner than ever. My boobs were bigger . . .” She looks up at me and laughs self-consciously. “It was stupid, but I felt pretty again. And you were just gorgeous. Everyone would ask if we did mother-daughter modeling, and I don’t even know if that’s a real thing, but it made me feel . . . good. Your father was nowhere and my parents hated me for screwing up college, and I figured, what the hell. Feel good when you can, right?”
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