Are you still mad at me? I write.
She doodles a quick lightning bolt.
No, I guess not. It was a long time ago. She stops and draws a spiraling circle. I stand on the edge and wonder if I’m going to fall in. The party was a little wild, she continues. But it was dumb to call the cops. We could have just left. She slides the notebook over to me.
I draw a spiraling circle in the opposite direction to Rachel’s. I could leave it like this, stop in the middle of the highway. She’s talking to me again. All I have to do is keep the dirt hidden and walk arm in arm with her into the sunset. She reaches back to fix her hair scrunchie. “R.B. + A.E.” is written in red pen on the inside of her forearm. Breathe in, one-two-three. Breathe out, one-two-three. I force my hand to relax.
I didn’t call the cops to break up the party, I write. I called—I put the pencil down. I pick it up again—them because some guy raped me. Under the trees. I didn’t know what to do. She watches as I carve out the words. She leans closer to me. I write more. I was stupid and drunk and I didn’t know what was happening and then he hurt—I scribble that out—raped me. When the police came, everyone was screaming, and I was just too scared, so I cut through some back yards and walked home.
I push the notebook back to her. She stares at the words. She pulls her chair around to my side of the table.
Oh my God, I am so sorry, she writes. Why didn’t you tell me?
I couldn’t tell anybody.
Does your mom know?
I shake my head. Tears pop up from some hidden spring. Damn. I sniff and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
Did you get pregnant? Did he have a disease? Oh my God, Are you OK?????????
No. I don’t think so. Yes, I’m OK. Well, kinda.
Rachel writes in a heavy, fast hand. WHO DID IT???
I turn the page.
Andy Evans.
“Liar!” She stumbles out of her chair and grabs her books off the table. “I can’t believe you. You’re jealous. You’re a twisted little freak and you’re jealous that I’m popular and I’m going to the prom and so you lie to me like this. And you sent me that note, didn’t you? You are so sick.”
She spins to take on the librarian. “I’m going to the nurse,” she states. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
CHAT ROOM
I’m standing in the lobby, looking at the buses. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to stay here. I got my hopes up halfway through the conversation with Rachel—that was my mistake. It was like smelling the perfect Christmas feast and having the door slammed in your face, leaving you alone in the cold.
“Melinda.” I hear my name. Great. Now I’m hearing things. Maybe I should ask the guidance counselor for a therapist or a nosy shrink. I don’t say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I’m having trouble finding a middle ground.
Someone touches my arm gently. “Melinda?” It’s Ivy. “Can you take the late bus? I want to show you something.” We walk together. She leads me to the bathroom, the one where she washed my shirt, which, by the way, still has traces of her markers, even after the bleach. She points to the stall. “Take a look.”
GUYS TO STAY AWAY FROM
Andy Evans
He’s a creep.
He’s a bastard.
Stay away!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He should be locked up.
He thinks he’s all that.
Call the cops.
What’s the name of that drug they give perverts so they can’t get it up?
Diprosomething.
He should get it every morning in his orange juice. I went out with him to the movies—he tried to get his hands down my pants during the PREVIEWS!!
There’s more. Different pens, different handwriting, conversations between some writers, arrows to longer paragraphs. It’s better than taking out a billboard.
I feel like I can fly.
PRUNING
I wake the next morning, Saturday, to the sound of a chain saw, the noise biting right through my ears and splintering my plans of sleeping in. I peer out the window. The arborists, the tree guys Dad called to trim the oak’s dead branches, stand at the base of the tree, one guy revving up the chain saw like it’s a sports car, the other giving the tree the once-over. I go downstairs for breakfast.
Watching cartoons is out of the question. I make a cup of tea and join Dad and a group of neighborhood kids watching the show from the driveway. One arborist monkeys his way into the pale green canopy, then hauls up the chain saw (turned off) at the end of a thick rope. He sets to work pruning the deadwood like a sculptor. “Brrrrr-rrrrowww.” The chain saw gnaws through the oak, branches crashing to the ground.
The air swirls with sawdust. Sap oozes from the open sores on the trunk. He is killing the tree. He’ll only leave a stump. The tree is dying. There’s nothing to do or say. We watch in silence as the tree crashes piece by piece to the damp ground.
The chain-saw murderer swings down with a grin. He doesn’t even care. A little kid asks my father why that man is chopping down the tree.
Dad: “He’s not chopping it down. He’s saving it. Those branches were long dead from disease. All plants are like that. By cutting off the damage, you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch—by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block.”
I hate it when my father pretends to know more than he does. He sells insurance. He is not a forest ranger, wise in the way of the woods. The arborist fires up the mulcher at the back of their truck. I’ve seen enough. I grab my bike and take off.
The first stop is the gas station, to pump up my tires. I can’t remember the last time I rode. The morning is warm, a lazy, slow Saturday. The parking lot at the grocery store is full. A couple of softball games are being played behind the elementary school, but I don’t stop to watch. I ride up the hill past Rachel’s house, past the high school. The down side is a fast, easy coast. I dare myself to lift my hands off the handlebars. As long as I’m moving fast enough, the front wheel holds steady. I turn left and left again, following the hills down without realizing where I’m heading.
Some part of me has planned this, a devious internal compass pointed to the past. The lane isn’t familiar until I glimpse the barn. I squeeze the brakes hard and struggle to control the bike on the gravel shoulder. A wind rips through the phone wires overhead. A squirrel fights to retain her balance.
There are no cars in the driveway. “Rodgers” is painted on the mailbox. A basketball hoop hangs off the side of the barn. I don’t remember that, but it would have been hard to see it in the dark. I walk my bike along the back edge of the property to where the trees swallow the sun. My bike leans into a collapsing fence. I sink to the shade-cold ground.
My heart thuds as if I were still pedaling up the hill. My hands shake. It is a completely normal place, out of sight of the barn and house, close enough to the road that I can hear cars passing. Fragments of acorn shells litter the ground. You could bring a kindergarten class here for a picnic.
I think about lying down. No, that would not do. I crouch by the trunk, my fingers stroking the bark, seeking a Braille code, a clue, a message on how to come back to life after my long undersnow dormancy. I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears? I dig my fingers into the dirt and squeeze. A small, clean part of me waits to warm and burst through the surface. Some quiet Melindagirl I haven’t seen in months. That is the seed I will care for.
PROWLING
When I get home, it’s time for lunch. I make two egg-salad sandwiches and drink an enormous glass of milk. I eat an apple and put my dishes in the dishwasher. It’s only one o’clock. I suppose I should clean the kitchen and vacuum, but the windows are open and robins sing on the front lawn, where a pile of mulch with my name on it is waiting.
Mom is impressed when she drives up at dinnertime. The front lawn is r
aked, edged, mowed, and the bushes are mulched. I’m not even breathing hard. Mom helps me carry the plastic deck furniture up from the basement and I scrub it with bleach. Dad brings home pizza and we eat on the deck. Mom and Dad drink iced tea and there is no biting or snarling. I clear the dishes and throw the pizza box in the trash.
I lie down on the couch to watch TV, but my eyes close and I’m out. When I wake up, it’s past midnight, and someone has covered me with an afghan. The house is quiet, dark. Cool breeze slides in between the curtains.
I am wide awake. I feel itchy inside my skin—antsy, that’s what my mother would call it. I can’t sit still. I have to do something. My bike is still leaning against the pruned tree in the front yard. I ride.
Up and down, across and diagonal, I pedal my sore legs through the streets of a suburb mostly sleeping. Some late-night TVs flicker from bedroom windows. A few cars are parked in front of the grocery store. I imagine people mopping the floors, restacking loaves of bread. I coast by the houses of people I used to know: Heather, Nicole. Turn the corner, downshift and pedal harder, up the hill to Rachel’s house. The lights are on, her parents waiting for the fairy prom-goers to come home. I could knock on the door and ask them if they want to play cards or something. Nah.
I ride like I have wings. I am not tired. I don’t think I’ll ever have to sleep again.
POSTPROM
By Monday morning, the prom is legend. The drama! The tears! The passion! Why hasn’t anyone made a television show out of this yet? The total damage included one stomach pumped, three breakups of long-term relationships, one lost diamond earring, four outrageous hotel-room parties, and five matching tattoos allegedly decorating the behinds of the senior class officers. The guidance counselors are celebrating the lack of fatal accidents.
Heather is not at school today. Everybody is griping about her lame decorations. I bet she calls in sick the rest of the year. Heather should run away and join the Marines immediately. They’ll be much sweeter to her than a swarm of angry Marthas.
Rachel is in her glory. She ditched Andy in the middle of the prom. I’m trying to piece the story together from grapevine gossip. They say she and Andy argued during a slow song. They say he was all over her with his hands and his mouth. While they danced, he was grinding against her and she backed off. The song ended and she swore at him. They say she was ready to slap him, but she didn’t. He looked around, all innocent-like, and she stomped over to her exchange-student buddies. Ended up dancing the night away with a kid from Portugal. They say Andy’s been really pissed off ever since. He got wicked drunk at a party and passed out in a bowl of bean dip. Rachel burned everything he ever gave her and left the ashes in front of his locker. His friends laughed at him.
Except for the gossip, there is no real point in coming to school. Well, there are final exams, but it’s not like they are going to make any difference to my grades. We have—what? Two more weeks of classes? Sometimes I think high school is one long hazing activity: if you are tough enough to survive this, they’ll let you become an adult. I hope it’s worth it.
PREY
I’m waiting for the clock to end the daily torture-by-algebra session when WHAMMO!—a thought slams into my head: I don’t want to hang out in my little hidy-hole anymore. I look behind me, half expecting to see a sniggering back-row guy who beaned me with an eraser. Nope—the back row is struggling to stay awake. It was definitely an idea that hit me. I don’t feel like hiding anymore. A breeze from the open window blows my hair back and tickles my shoulders. This is the first day warm enough for a sleeveless shirt. Feels like summer.
After class, I trail behind Rachel. Andy is waiting for her. She won’t even look at him. The kid from Portugal is now Rachel’s numero uno. HA! Double HA! Serves you right, you scum. Kids stare at Andy, but nobody stops to talk. He follows Greta–Ingrid and Rachel down the hall. I am a few steps behind him. Greta–Ingrid spins around and tells Andy exactly what he should do to himself. Impressive. Her language skills have really improved this year. I’m ready to do a victory dance.
I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I’d like to keep some of my tree pictures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, as long as it doesn’t have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year.
Haven’t been able to get rid of the smell. I leave the door cracked open a bit so I can breathe. It’s hard to get the tree pictures off the walls without tearing them. The day is getting hotter and there’s no circulation in here. I open the door wider—who’s going to come by now? By this point in the year, teachers take off faster than students when the final bell rings. The only people left are a few teams scattered on the practice fields.
I don’t know what to do with the comforter. It’s really too ratty to take home. I should have gone to my locker first and gotten my backpack—I forgot about the books that are in here. I fold the comforter and set it on the floor, turn out the light, and head out the door for my locker. Somebody slams into my chest and knocks me back into the closet. The light flicks on and the door closes.
I am trapped with Andy Evans.
He stares at me without talking. He is not as tall as my memories, but is still loathsome. The lightbulb throws shadows under his eyes. He is made out of slabs of stone and gives off a smell that makes me afraid I’ll wet my pants. He cracks his knuckles. His hands are enormous.
Andy Beast: “You have a big mouth, you know it? Rachel blew me off at the prom, giving me some bullshit story about how I raped you. You know that’s a lie. I never raped anybody. I don’t have to. You wanted it just as bad as I did. But your feelings got hurt, so you started spreading lies, and now every girl in school is talking about me like I’m some kind of pervert. You’ve been spreading that bullshit story for weeks. What’s wrong, ugly, you jealous? Can’t get a date?”
The words fall like nails on the floor, hard, pointed. I try to walk around him. He blocks my way. “Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere. You really screwed things up for me.” He reaches behind and locks the door. Click.
Me:
“You are one strange bitch, know that? A freak. I can’t believe anyone listened to you.” He grabs my wrists. I try to pull them back and he squeezes so tight it feels like my bones are splintering. He pins me against the closed door. Maya Angelou looks at me. She tells me to make some noise. I open my mouth and take a deep breath.
Beast: “You’re not going to scream. You didn’t scream before. You liked it. You’re jealous that I took out your friend and not you. I think I know what you want.”
His mouth is on my face. I twist my head. His lips are wet, his teeth knock against my cheekbone. I pull my arms again and he slams his body against mine. I have no legs. My heart wobbles. His teeth are on my neck. The only sound I can make is a whimper. He fumbles to hold both my wrists in one hand. He wants a free hand. I remember I remember. Metal hands, hot knife hands.
No.
A sound explodes from me.
“NNNOOO!!!”
I follow the sound, pushing off the wall, pushing Andy Evans off-balance, stumbling into the broken sink. He curses and turns, his fist coming, coming. An explosion in my head and blood in my mouth. He hit me. I scream, scream. Why aren’t the walls falling? I’m screaming loud enough to make the whole school crumble. I grab for anything, my potpourri bowl—I throw it at him, it bounces to the floor. My books. He swears again. The door is locked the door is locked. He grabs me, pulls me away from the door, one hand over my mouth, one hand around my throat. He leans me against the sink. My fists mean nothing to him, little rabbit paws thumping harmlessly. His body crushes me.
My fingers wave overhead, looking for a branch, a limb, something to hang on to. A block of wood—the base of my turkey-bone sculpture. I slam it against Maya’s poster. I hear a crunch. IT doesn’t hear. IT breathes like a dragon. ITs hand leaves my throat, attacks my body. I hit the wood against the poster
, and the mirror under it, again.
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