“No, because I didn’t do that.”
“Hmm. Well, if you don’t remember, and you don’t believe me, just ask Mr. Stanley.”
The nerve of Jesse to literally tell me that I threw myself at Mr. Stanley sent me over the edge. I’d had enough.
“I thought you were a nice person, Jesse. But you’re just messing with me for some sick reason. I need to go now.”
Jesse said one more thing before I hung up. “Yeah, I’m sick. But I’m doing something about it, just like you should.”
The phone case fell off when the cell hit the wall. I thought we were having a fun talk, and it turned into embarrassment. I felt like Jesse was another person looking for a mind-fuck, a’la Hillman. He wanted to draw me in and unravel what little confidence I had.
I decided to switch art buddies the next day.
/////
Before I even sat down at my desk, I approached Mr. Stanley. I’d stewed about Jesse’s remarks all night and slept only a handful of hours.
“Rebecca. Are you doing okay?”
“I’m fine with almost everything.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I need to switch art buddies.” I rolled my eyes and gave him a good frown. Mr. Stanley looked past me toward my desk. Jesse was eating something other than jerky. It looked like a fruit roll.
“I thought you and Mr. Leary got along well.”
“He’s not as nice as you’d think.”
“Really?” I kept my arms crossed tight across my chest. What if I had sat in this man’s lap? A tense surge of adrenaline pulsed through my tight muscles as I exposed my conversation with Jesse.
“Yes. For example, he said that I was dancing around the classroom and then sat in your lap! Between you and me, I think he’s not all there.” But it was Mr. Stanley who looked that way. His eyes grew wide and stared right through me.
“Rebecca, let’s go outside to talk.”
We went out by the slimy wall. “What’s going on? Can I switch?”
“Rebecca, please listen to me and don’t take this wrong. Mr. Leary — er, Jesse — wasn’t telling a story about your dancing in class. Or the other thing,” he said, his cheeks turning red.
I stepped back and brought my hand to my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca. I didn’t say anything because I thought you knew.”
I shook my head and leaned into the retaining wall. The sun was scorching my dark hair, but it was nowhere near as hot as the inside of my mind as it failed to recall the facts.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t speak, and my hand was still over my mouth.
“I’m going to send you home.”
“No,” I finally said. “I can stay. I just can’t believe. I forgot something like that. Or that I did that at all.”
“If you need help, Rebecca, please let me know. The school has some good resources for counseling.”
He thought I was nuts! I already had David, and that wasn’t doing a hell of a lot for me. A school counselor would be just as ineffective, as if I had a problem to begin with.
“Thanks.” I left it at that and walked like a zombie back into the room. Everyone looked at me, and I felt they could see all the flaws and telltale signs I didn’t see in myself.
Jesse looked up at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Scared.”
“At least you’re admitting it.”
Mr. Stanley wrote NEW PROJECT on the whiteboard, and turned to face the class.
“We’re going to pair art buddies with this next project. The goal is to create two separate pieces that integrate with each other. Now, I want this to be seamless, and because it will take a few weeks, buddies should schedule time away from this class to make it happen.”
I looked at Jesse. He smiled back at me like he always did, and reached out to pat my hand. “This is going to be fun, Rebecca!”
/////
I couldn’t shake the thought about forgetting an hour of my life, and wondered if there had been more moments like that. Given all the crap that had gone on, it was easy to understand how I’d forget one thing or another, but an hour was substantial. I brought it up to David.
“It sounds like you blacked out.”
“Blacked out?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. If you’re a heavy user of alcohol, it can happen.”
I’d never considered that I was to the point of blacking out. How would I have known if Jesse hadn’t told me? I wondered if I was on my way to waking up in the bushes or someone else’s bed and not knowing how I got there.
“I want to talk about something else now,” I demanded, wishing that I could black-out the painful parts of my life and remember only the good stuff.
“We can talk about whatever you feel like, Rebecca.” David calmly lit the giant candle and opened a new bottle of water.
“It’s almost court time.”
“Yes, you mentioned that last week. When?”
“In two weeks. I won’t be visiting you that day. You probably understand.” David shook his head. He knew I would be giving the official testimony of what had happened to me that night. I was nervous and afraid, even though the lawyer said it would only be held in front of a judge. But the possibility that Hillman would be present, and that I could mess-up and say something wrong freaked me out.
“It’s a big thing you’re doing. That’s why I want you to meet with me afterward.” He twirled his pen.
“I’m not sure if I’ll be feeling like it, David.”
“It’s very important that we discuss how it went and what you’re feeling.”
“And if I don’t stop by?”
He put his pen down and folded his hands in his lap. “If you don’t, you could find yourself in bad shape. Don’t do it to yourself, Rebecca.” I could think of a few things to do instead.
To get through until the court date, I pimped, drank, got drunk, and tried to forget the anticipatory feeling that rode my back like a wild banshee. At night, after I soaked my soul in sauvignon blanc, I’d have crazy dreams about lawn mower cars chasing me down the street. Or I’d wake with a rapid heartbeat because I swore I heard jeans unzipping. Maybe it was the booze forcing my brain to recall the awful things I’d experienced. If it kept up, I’d need to find a way to score Xanax.
/////
“Jesse seems like a nice guy, even though he’s kind of a closet case.” Jenna was once again sitting on my bed, surrounded by clean laundry, talking it up and clipping her toenails.
I felt bad that we’d fallen away from each other, and invited her over for a last-minute home pedicure. I was pretty good at painting little pictures of doggies, flowers and hearts on fingers and toes, and thought it would be a good way to mend things.
“Yeah, he’s pretty funny. He eats too much beef jerky, though.” I gathered my paintbrushes and spread a towel on the floor under her feet.
“Where’s that fungus polish? I want green hearts and stars,” she said, looking at my crowded dresser for any sign of the ghoulish nail color.
“The bottle broke. How about orange?” I dangled a bottle of Halloween polish in front of her, and after a little wince she nodded.
Before I removed her old polish, Jenna showed me the hideous patterns splattered on her toenails. “I swear that the lady at Ming’s doesn’t know art from blotches, so make sure your art looks delicate.”
“No problem-o.” I dipped a tiny sable brush into the orange lacquer and went to work. Jenna leaned back on her arms and looked down at me.
“Just a couple more days until trial.”
“I’m shitting bricks.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. Well, you did get drunk, but you didn’t ask for what happened afterward.”
“Thanks for your accurate observation,” I said, fighting the sudden urge to blotch-up her toenails. She was rubbing salt into my gaping wounds, as if that would make me repent.
“Anyway, it’ll be over soon and you can get
back to normal.” Jenna’s definition of normal went back past the toga dance and into my childhood, when ice cream was what I coveted most and the only boy I loved lived in a poster on my bedroom wall. She expected me to take everything else and lock it into a drawer.
“I don’t think normal is the right word, really. I like to think of it more as moving on.”
“Moving on from Christian?” She leaned over to scrutinize my hearts and stars.
“I could never do that.”
“You still love him,” she said, slathering feigned objectivity over her syllables.
“Oh, I do. I really do.” Christian was my everything, especially now that he didn’t have to hold back because of Hillman. His confession about Olivia had smoothed over any doubts that I’d had. He was my rescuer and hero, and a shining example on behalf of Dr. and Mrs. Rusch’s parenting skills. Thankfully they didn’t know about the jugs of wine Christian and I went through during the course of our relationship.
Although his parents didn’t know about Christian’s drinking habits, they were supporting him in spite of his beating the hell out of Hillman. They seemed to be the type who reacted to whatever their child went through, instead of heading-off trouble before it happened. Certainly, if they knew their son was a lush, they’d have him in Betty Ford without skipping a beat.
“I don’t like how you’ve changed.” She wiggled the toes on her left foot, while I started on the right.
“I’ve grown up a lot. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She pulled her foot back for a closer look and changed the subject.
“I bet Jesse likes you.” She smirked. I stopped painting and looked up at her.
“I’m with Christian.”
“So, you think Jesse cares about that?”
“Jesse does not like me… and I don’t like him. In fact, I’ve asked for a different art buddy.”
“What’d he do?”
“He accused me of something I don’t think I did, and won’t apologize. He always makes these sick jokes and stares at me. I don’t trust him.” I embellished and forced myself to believe the lie I told myself — that I hadn’t blacked-out or sat in my teacher’s lap. There was no way I wanted to be seen as out-of-control.
Jenna’s jaw collapsed into her chest, her eyes bulging with disbelief. “And you trust a guy who gets you drunk every day?”
I seethed as I finished her damn toenails. I didn’t like people who threw curveballs, and vowed not to invite Jenna over again.
Chapter 20
Whenever I invited new people over, I went into panic mode. Laundry and bottles of polish and lotion were swept into bags and thrown in the closet. A quick vacuuming of the floor brought up bits of paper and toenails cut from long ago. My easel became the centerpiece where I tossed one of my paintings on display. And with the closet door shut, the dresser polished to look like glass wood, and my body covered in a decent-looking outfit, I was ready for Jesse to come over.
As Mr. Stanley suggested, we were going to work on our buddy project. I kept thinking I should stay mad at Jesse, but a little spark in my heart propelled me with desire to show him my real life. After all, I didn’t want him to think that everything in my world revolved around drinking.
At 16, Jesse had his own car and could drive himself, so when he was late I held him fully accountable.
“So sorry I’m late. My mom wanted me to get her a 12-pack of Heineken, and if I didn’t do it I’d get a whipping.” He pouted and I saw through the fakery.
“Nice one,” I said, stepping back to allow him into the house. He was carrying a dark green bag and a tackle box.
“I’m all about nice tries, you know.” He grinned and winked.
“Let me show you around first and then we can set-up.” I took him into the kitchen, where my mom had her head tucked into the spice cabinet. She was probably checking on her extracts.
“Mom, this is Jesse, my art buddy.” He went right up to my mom and hugged her! Her eyes bugged. No friend of mine had ever done such a thing.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ionesco. Your daughter is the greatest artist in our school. I’m so privileged to work with her.”
My mom’s hand went to her heart in a gasp. She took to flattery better than most.
“Why, thank you, Jesse.” He winked at her too, and looked at me with raised brows.
“Shall we do a little art?” he said. I laughed and noticed how lighthearted I felt. I was also aware that I hadn’t thought about drinking in the entire 10 minutes it took to invite Jesse in and introduce him to my mom.
Jesse set-up his tackle box full of pencils, erasers, and tape on my project table. Instead of sitting at the task chair I put out for him, he sat on the floor.
“I used to wonder why adults groan when they have to sit like this,” he said, bringing one leg over the other with a little grunt. “Now I know.”
“I always feel like it’s storytime when I sit like that.” I remained standing by the table as Jesse’s eyes surveyed my room. They landed on the easel.
“Wow, that rocks.” He stood up and moved closer to my painting. With a scrutinizing eye, Jesse looked at all four corners and the center of the piece, and then let out a long sigh.
“If only I had half the talent that you do.”
I smacked him in the arm and was surprised how solid it felt. There were probably a lot more secrets behind that khaki jacket waiting to be discovered.
“You’re pretty decent, too, Jesse. That’s a good thing, cause only the best work with me!”
When we settled in to work, we decided that a combination of mediums was the way to go. I would use pastels, and Jesse would utilize color pencils on linen paper.
“Sort of sweet and salty. A good mix.” Jesse crossed his arms and nodded his head in agreement with his comment. His eyes stayed on me, as if in a daze.
“You look good, Rebecca. Happy, actually.”
“How do I usually look?”
“Tired and grim.”
“Gee, thanks!” I grumbled.
“You should be happy more often, cause it looks good on you.”
He leaned forward to take off his jacket, revealing a plain black t-shirt. The sleeves were short enough to expose carved biceps that flexed nicely when he re-crossed his arms.
“Wow, he does wear clothes other than that jacket,” I quipped.
“What, don’t you like my jacket?”
I squirmed in my chair, afraid to admit that I detested every jerky-ridden thread of it. “Well, you always wear it.”
“It’s a jacket. Lots of people wear the same jacket every day. I want to hear the real reason you don’t like my jacket.” He leaned his head into his hand, just like the first day we met.
“Okay, here goes. It’s faded and old, and… and you’re always putting food in the pockets.”
His eyes grew wide, and he laughed so hard that he stood up and grabbed his crotch. “Where’s the bathroom? I have to pee, that’s so funny.”
And then I laughed, pointing him down the hall. I heard him in there, still chuckling.
Upon his return, Jesse picked up the jacket and came over to me.
“You need to try this on to understand why I wear it every day.” I looked up at the abominable coat and shuddered.
“Come on, don’t fear the jacket,” he sang.
I stood up and with tender care, Jesse drew the sleeves over my arms and settled the fabric above my shoulders. He guided me to the mirror. Seeing us both together, his hands on my shoulders and I wearing his jacket, softened my hatred of it. I smiled.
“See? It’s a magic jacket. It brings out the happy in you. That is precisely why I wear it. If I didn’t, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”
I wanted to ask him more about the jacket’s origins, and how a simple ensemble of cloth and zippers helped him become the happy-go-lucky person he was.
More than knowing about the jacket, I wanted to know about Jesse. His ability
to help me forget my problems was one reason why I found myself paying attention.
/////
Telling my story to a judge was not the way I wanted to spend my Thursday. It was just me, my parents, lawyers, and Hillman. Even though they sat there with lips sealed shut and concrete facial features, I could only imagine the lack of joy they felt in hearing about their daughter’s nightmare. My shame was on display for everyone.
Hillman especially enjoyed watching my ears burn. His flame-red hair was slicked back, and he wore a blue suit that made him look like a real pimp. His piercing eyes sizzled with zest as I peeled back the layers of my memory from the time I woke in the car until Christian arrived. I felt that he liked hearing about how he overpowered me.
My father kept his right hand in a fist the whole time.
When I finished, I had the insatiable urge to reach up and pull the rubber mask from over my head. If it had been that easy to get rid of my ill-fashioned persona I would have done so right there.
“Honey, we’re going to get something to eat.” My mom put her arm around my shoulders. I looked into her green eyes and saw that she felt sorry for me.
“I’m not hungry.” Seriously, I wanted nothing and had an appetite for the same thing. Even the thought of an ice cold beer couldn’t make my saliva flow.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.”
We went to one of the attorney hangouts near the courthouse. A place that smelled of syrup, coffee, and years of use. I had only a glass of water with a lemon wedge stuck on the side.
My dad was trying to make conversation. “You did good, Rebecca.”
“I… I’m sorry.” I wanted to stand up and run away. That would accomplish nothing, and cause my parents even more stress that I’d gone off the deep end.
My mom stroked my hair and drew me into her chest, like she used to when I was little. Her comforting hands brought heavy sobs from my chest. Others in the restaurant watched me, and I hoped they got a good look.
At home, I overheard my parents talking about what my lawyer had said. That Hillman and the boys who drugged me would probably get very little jail time and then probation. Essentially, they would be free while I would never be free of the experience they put me through.
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