Girls Like Me

by Kristin Butcher

  Copyright © 2019 Kristin Butcher

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Girls like me / Kristin Butcher.

  Names: Butcher, Kristin, 1951– author.

  Series: Orca soundings.

  Description: Series statement: Orca soundings

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190069740 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190069767 | ISBN 9781459820555 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459820562 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459820579 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8553.U6972 G55 2019 | DDC jC813/.54—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934033

  Simultaneously published in Canada and the United States in 2019

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teens, sixteen-year-old Emma is raped by a popular boy from school.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the making of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover images by Stocksy.com/Sidney Morgan (front) and Shutterstock.com/Krasovski Dmitri (back)

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  22 21 20 19 • 4 3 2 1

  For girls and women everywhere—you are stronger than you know.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  The pain comes in waves. So does the blood—so much blood. My once-sky-blue sheets are now ax-murderer red.

  There is a knock on my bedroom door. Before I can make myself answer, my mother is beside my bed. “Ed!” she screams. “Call an ambulance!”

  I can’t wait for it. I pass out, and the first responders arrive without my noticing. I miss the ride to the hospital too—the reckless weaving through the streets, the sirens wailing and lights flashing, the other vehicles diving for the curb to get out of the way. Inside the ambulance, the paramedics do whatever it is paramedics do, and though I am the one they are doing it to, I am unaware.

  I don’t remember arriving at the hospital either—only the vague blip of lights whizzing past overhead and voices talking around me. I wonder if I’m dying, and then I lose consciousness again.

  When I truly wake up, I have to blink the world into focus. I am lying in a hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling. I turn my head and see that my arm is attached to some kind of machine. On my other side, a pouch of clear liquid hangs from a pole. A long, skinny tube snakes its way from it to my wrist. I’m groggy, and my stomach hurts. I feel like a wrung-out dishrag.

  My mother is there. She jumps up from a chair and presses her worried face against mine.

  “Oh, Emma. Emma,” she says, clutching my hand. Finally she pulls away and looks at me hard. I can tell she is trying to understand.

  Then I see my father standing at the end of the bed. He’s holding two cardboard cups of coffee. He sets them down on the tray table stretching across my legs and hurries to the other side of the bed. Ignoring the monitor on my finger, he takes my hand in both of his.

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “Thank god you’re all right. Your mother and I have been worried sick.”

  I smile. At least, I try to. But the muscles in my face have seized up, and nothing much happens. “Sorry,” I say. The word comes out as a croak, so I try again. The second effort is no better than the first.

  My father pats my hand, as if to say he understands, but I know he doesn’t.

  “You women and your female troubles,” he says awkwardly.

  He has no clue.

  But my mother does. Though she smiles at my dad’s lame joke, her grip on my hand tightens. Oh yeah. She knows.

  The doctor keeps me in the hospital overnight, but I am released the next morning. My parents take me home.

  I enter my bedroom cautiously, half expecting to see the previous day’s horror. But there’s not a trace. My mother has taken care of it, and the room is as pristine as it has been my whole life. It looks exactly the same—right down to the blue sheets on the bed. New ones. The old ones will be in the trash. Not even my mother could clean away that much blood. And she would want all evidence of what happened gone.

  It is a quiet day. My parents and I retreat to our corners, avoiding awkward conversation. My mother stays in the kitchen with her pots and pans, ignoring the fact that she’s making enough food to feed the neighborhood. My father holes up in his man cave, watching football with the sound turned way down. I hide in my bedroom, pretending to read.

  I’ve just lived through a six-week nightmare, capped off with twenty-four hours of pure hell. Even so, I am still having trouble getting my head around everything. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to girls like me.

  Except that it did.

  I’m barely three months into eleventh grade, and the year is already unforgettable—for all the wrong reasons.

  It started when Jen and I both made the senior girls’ volleyball team. The two of us have been joined at the hip since kindergarten—Brownies, gymnastics, tennis lessons, summers at the lake, lemonade stands—we’ve done all of it together. We even kid around that one day we’ll marry twins and have a double wedding. So we kind of expected that if one of us made the team, the other would too.

  For a while it was great. The schedule for the senior girls was the same as for the senior boys, so game days were like a big party. After the matches everyone would meet up at a fast-food place for a few laughs before heading home.

  Then something happened. Jen and I both fell for Ross Schroeder. He’s the power hitter on the boys’ volleyball team. And he’s in twelfth grade. He has it all—a jock with good looks, smarts and personality. Every girl in school thinks he’s hot, so why not Jen and me?

  At first we laughed about it. I mean, it figures we would fall for the same guy, right? However, it soon became clear that neither one of us was going to back off. That’s when things got a little tense, especially when Ross was around. But the day he picked up the tab for my food at the restaurant, our friendship was over.

  Jen and I were standing in line behind him.

  “Root beer, not cola—right?” he said to me.

  My stomach flipped. I was flattered that he’d noticed what drink I liked. I nodded.

  “Fries?”

  I smiled and nodded again, reaching into my pocket for money. He shook his head.

  “This one’s on me, Emma.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I waited for him to ask Jen what she wanted.

  When he didn’t, I could almost see the wall going up between us. She didn’t even sit with Ross and me, and as soon as she was done eating, she left.

  Despite having the coolest guy in school all to myself, I felt like a heavy rock had just dropped into my stomach.

  “There goes my ride,” I said, as I watched Jen’s car pull out of the parking lot. “I better call my dad.”

  “Don
’t worry about it,” Ross said. “I can give you a lift home.”

  A quiet tap on my bedroom door jerks me out of the memory. I look up from the page I’ve been staring at ever since I opened the book.

  My mother pokes her head into the room. “Supper’s on the table,” she says. “Lasagna—your favorite.” Then her head disappears. But in a second it’s back again. “Oh, and Emma, I think it would be best if you stayed home from school tomorrow. Give your body a bit more time to recover.” She shrugs. “You know.”

  I want life to be normal again, and that includes school. So I say, “Honestly, Mom, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. All I need is a good night’s sleep.”

  She shakes her head. “Missing one day is not going to affect your schoolwork. I think it’s best. You can use the time to book a follow-up appointment with the doctor.”

  I bite the inside of my lip. Visiting old Dr. Abernathy is the last thing I want to do. I saw how he looked at me in the hospital. The only reason he didn’t start preaching right then was because my parents were there. Behind the closed door of his office, I won’t be so lucky.

  “You need to talk to him,” my mother says.

  Why? I almost blurt. What’s there to talk about?

  I was pregnant, and now I’m not. I don’t even want to think about it, never mind talk about it. Nobody was supposed to find out. But now Dr. Abernathy knows, and so does my mother— even though she hasn’t come right out and said anything.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wish myself anywhere but where I am.

  When I open them again, I’m still sitting on my bed, and my mother is still watching me.

  “Supper’s getting cold,” she says and heads back to the kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  I wake up to the beep of my parents’ alarm clock, but I’m not ready to take on the world. It isn’t until I hear the garage door open and close that I peel back the covers and sit up. Even then, I listen hard for a couple of minutes to be sure I’m alone before shoving my feet into my slippers and heading for the bathroom.

  As I turn on the water, I study my face in the mirror. Despite all that’s happened, I look like I always look. Almost. All my parts are there, but it’s like they’ve been cut from a photograph and pasted on. It takes a while for me to realize why that is. And then it hits me. The dead feeling weighing me down on the inside has spread to my outside. I’m as flat as stale soda pop.

  I sigh. It’s a good thing I’m not going to school today. One look at me, and everyone would know something is wrong. I smile at my reflection, but it doesn’t smile back. So I chuck a towel at the mirror and make my way to the kitchen.

  There’s a note from my mother stuck to the fridge, reminding me to call Dr. Abernathy’s office. As if I’d forget.

  I pour a glass of orange juice and lean against the counter as I drink it. A package of frozen ground beef sits on a plate in the spotless, stainless-steel sink. With my fingernail, I scratch an unhappy face into the frost on top and wonder how my mother plans to transform it into supper. Not that it matters.

  Nothing matters.

  I shake my head in wonder. Two days ago everything mattered. I was one gigantic, jangled nerve, walking an emotional tightrope along the edge of the world. But no matter how carefully I stepped, I knew I was never going to make it to the other end. Then suddenly I wasn’t pregnant anymore, and my problems were gone.

  Sort of.

  Now all I feel is numb.

  I make some toast, take it into the family room and switch on the television. At this time of day, it’s soap-opera city, which means I can park my worries and lose myself in other people’s troubles for a few hours.

  It almost works too. No one is being raped, getting pregnant or having an abortion. There’s just the usual adultery, embezzlement, lies and deadly diseases that viewers seem to crave. It isn’t until the commercials come on that I’m slammed back into reality.

  It’s just a freaking ad for diapers, but suddenly I’m sobbing like crazy, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. I am shocked. I so didn’t see this coming. Probably because it’s the first time I’ve cried since Ross...I scowl and swipe at my tears. Even though it’s been almost two months, I still can’t look at that memory head on.

  Ross’s face pops into my head, and I shudder. I can’t believe how attracted I was to him when I got into his car that night, and how—just a half hour later—I completely hated him.

  And myself too. I hadn’t stopped him, and I may never be able to forgive myself for that. Not that I didn’t try. I did. I told him no. I pushed him away. I screamed. I hit him. But none of it did any good. We were parked where no one could hear me. And he had me cornered before I even realized what was happening. He was bigger and stronger, and he pinned me down as easily as if I were a rag doll. I have never felt so helpless in my life.

  If only I hadn’t accepted his offer to drive me home.

  How I wish I could turn back the clock. If I had called my dad, life would be like it was before—how it’s supposed to be. I would still be me. I wouldn’t have been forced to have sex. I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. I wouldn’t have…

  A ragged breath escapes me, and the tears start to gush again.

  I fly off the couch, swiping at my eyes with my sleeve. There’s no point having a pity party. It won’t make me feel less guilty or ashamed. Nothing can do that. Besides, it’s probably hormones making me emotional. Once my body gets back to normal, I’ll be fine.

  That thought reminds me that I need to make the appointment with Dr. Abernathy. I glance at the clock. It’s after ten. His office will be open now. I stomp to the kitchen and grab the phone off the counter. I’ll feel better once I’ve got this over with.

  I don’t. Though the receptionist is polite and businesslike, I can’t help thinking she’s judging me.

  “May I ask the reason for the appointment?” she says.

  I’m momentarily stunned. I hadn’t expected to have to explain.

  “It’s personal,” I tell her.

  “Are you wanting a physical exam?” she prods.

  “No,” I reply quickly. That’s the last thing I want. I try to come up with an explanation that will get her off my back. “I was in the hospital recently,” I say, “and Dr. Abernathy wants to follow up.”

  “I see,” she replies. “Right then. How does Thursday morning sound? Will ten thirty work for you?”

  “That’s fine,” I mumble, scribbling down the day and time. “Thanks.” I punch the Off button.

  I return the phone to its cradle and wait for it to ring—my mother checking to see if I’ve made the appointment. She will call. It’s just a matter of when. But I don’t want to talk to her, so I head to the shower.

  It’s an ugly day—overcast and blustery—but I feel trapped inside the house. I put on my coat and hat and head out. At the end of the driveway, I turn left and let the wind push me down the street.

  I have no idea where I’m going. I walk aimlessly, hoping to distract myself from my thoughts. But they walk right along with me.

  I know Dr. Abernathy is going to give me the third degree on Thursday. How much is a doctor allowed to poke into a patient’s personal life? I try to figure out what questions he’ll ask and how I’ll answer them.

  He already knows I didn’t go to an abortion clinic. I would have. In fact, I’d just about talked myself into it when—well, when Mother Nature took care of things for me.

  I guess I was lucky. If you call having a miscarriage lucky. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I didn’t want to be pregnant, but in a way I’m sad that I lost the baby. I know that doesn’t make sense, but nothing about my life makes sense anymore. I kick a pine cone across the sidewalk and pick up my pace.

  Will Doctor Abernathy ask about the father? Not that the word father even belongs in the same sentence with Ross Schroeder. I did consider telling him I was pregnant—for about a millionth of a second.

  The thing is, I considered having t
he baby. I figured I could quit school and get a job. But what kind of job? Waitress? Office receptionist? Certainly nothing that paid well enough to live on, let alone support a baby. I wouldn’t even be able to afford diapers. I pictured myself homeless. What kind of life was that?

  Giving up the baby wasn’t the answer either. I would wonder about it for the rest of my life.

  Over and over I considered the options, but nothing had seemed right. Keeping the baby or giving it up—either way I would have had to tell my parents. The mere thought made me want to throw up.

  No matter how much I thought about things, I couldn’t make a decision. All I was doing was running in circles. And time was ticking away.

  Then—just like that—the problem solved itself.

  And now it’s all over. So why can’t I stop thinking about it?

  A fat raindrop splats on the sidewalk, then another and another. I look up at the dark sky. In a matter of seconds, my face is soaked. Rain or tears—I can’t tell. I turn back into the wind and start for home.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning I spend ten minutes searching my closet for just the right outfit. Something invisible. Not invisible clothes. I mean clothes that will make me invisible. Until my life gets back on track, I need to fade into the background.

  I settle on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. That’s the uniform of at least half the kids at school. If anything can make me blend in, it’s that.

  I arrive at school just before the bell. Most everybody has already made their way to their first-period classes, and the halls aren’t completely empty but close to it. Invisibility plan still working.

  No one is near my locker, so I quickly dial my combo. I have just enough time to hang up my jacket, grab my books and get to math before the bell rings. My timing couldn’t have been better. I slide into my seat just as Mrs. Frome shuts the door. She takes attendance, the loudspeaker on the wall spouts the morning announcements, and class gets underway.

  Mrs. Frome introduces the lesson, gives us our assignment and then walks up and down the aisles to see how everyone is doing.