What Unbreakable Looks Like

by Kate McLaughlin

  Bony fingers, strong as steel and stained with nicotine, clamp around my wrist. Frank yanks me backward. He’s skinny, but strong. His tobacco breath is hot and sour against my ear. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Let her go.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall figure approach. Zack? He followed me. Asshole. I’m so happy to see him.

  Frank releases me. I rub my arm as I back up toward Zack, putting as much distance between me and Frank as I can. Over Ivy’s shoulder, I see Detective Willis walk toward us. Krys isn’t far behind.

  Look at all the people coming to rescue me. If only they’d all been around when Mitch first started grooming me. My life might have turned out completely different.

  Frank notices as well. “Time to go,” he says to Ivy.

  “Don’t,” I tell her. “Come home with me.”

  She looks disappointed—that’s the only way I can describe it. “See ya, Pop.”

  “My name is Lex,” I tell her.

  She shrugs and moves closer to Frank.

  “Mr. Granger,” Detective Willis says when she reaches us. “What a coincidence. Ivy.”

  Ivy looks away. Frank stares at Detective Willis like she’s a bug he wants to squash. “Look at that, Ivy, they’re lettin’ darkies be police now.”

  Detective Willis makes a face. “This isn’t Mississippi in the sixties, Mr. Granger. What are you doing here?”

  He hitches his jeans. “I brought Ivy to see my stepdaughter. No law against that, is there?”

  My teeth grind together. “I am not your fucking stepdaughter.”

  Frank grins, flashing that stupid tooth. Zack takes a step forward. His hands are clenched into fists.

  “What are you all about, boy?” Frank demands. “You think you’re her boyfriend? Shit, anyone can have her for the right price. I—” He stops. I guess he remembers I’m underage and there’s a cop beside him.

  Zack doesn’t look at me. He stares at Frank, silent. Frank twitches. Zack might be twenty years younger than him, but he’s several inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier.

  “Let’s go, Frank,” Ivy says. “I’m bored.” Yeah, right. She’s jonesing for a hit is what she is.

  “Whatever you say, doll.” He grins again. “You all have a lovely day.”

  I don’t try to stop Ivy. There’s no stopping her. I knew in the hospital and I know it now. If I brought her home, she’d steal whatever she could carry from Krys and Jamal, and take it all back to Mitch.

  “Why are you letting him go?” Krys demands. Red splotches stain her cheeks as she faces Detective Willis. “Goddamn it, Marianne, he’s a friend of that pimp.”

  I cringe at the word. Zack doesn’t seem to notice. He’s watching Frank.

  “I can’t arrest him for being in a park,” the detective argues.

  “She’s a minor—and stoned,” I say.

  Detective Willis glances at me, a sad expression on her face. “Jaime’s eighteen now.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “My guys will follow them,” she tells us. “Hopefully they’ll lead us back to Mitch.”

  Right, Mitch—the big fucking prize.

  I sigh. “Can I go home?” I’m so tired.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Krys says, putting her arm around my back. “Come on.”

  Detective Willis smiles at me, and I smile back. I get that she couldn’t arrest Frank, that’s not what matters. What matters is that she came when she said she would. I glance back at Zack. He turns his head and meets my gaze. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me now that he knows my secret. But when I look at him, I think I see a friend.

  That makes two. Yay, me.

  My gaze jumps down the street to Ivy as she gets into a car I don’t recognize. Frank’s driving. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look back at all.

  I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.

  PART TWO

  Lex

  chapter nine

  “C’mere,” Mike whispers. His breath is warm and damp against my ear. I shiver. He smiles because he thinks I like it. He’s wrong. We’ve been together—sort of—since his party back in June. We get together when we want, hang out, have sex, and don’t talk for a couple of days. It works. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. I figured he’d broom me as soon as school started.

  The bell has rung for fourth period, and we’re all shuffling through the hall like zombies. I’m one week into my senior year, and yeah, it’s weird being back in school. My sort-of boyfriend pinches the sleeve of my shirt in his fingers and pulls me toward the boys’ bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. My heart speeds up a bit. I’ve been in enough bathrooms with guys to know what he has in mind. Mike likes making out and having sex in dangerous places. I don’t know if it’s the thrill we could get caught, or if he wants to see if there’s anything I won’t do. He doesn’t understand sex is meaningless to me. It’s like flossing my teeth, but slightly more intrusive. He thinks I’m into it.

  Or maybe he doesn’t care if I am or not.

  He pulls me into the bathroom. The lights are bright and harsh, giving the white walls a slight yellowish cast. There are a couple of stalls opposite the wall of sinks, and against the back wall, a row of urinals is lined up like we used to be every night at the motel, waiting to be chosen. Taken.

  There’s a guy at the sink. I recognize him as Trent, one of Mike’s friends. He looks surprised to see us. “Oh,” he says, backing up against the porcelain.

  Mike grins at him, and the bottom falls out of my stomach. Elsa warned me that Mike’s using me for sex. I know he is, but at least I’ve had a say in whether or not he gets it.

  I begin to think that’s changed when Kyle, another friend of Mike’s, walks in. He’s followed by Ethan and Tyler. They line up across the room, blocking the exit. A couple of them look nervous, but the others … the others look at me like I’m a rabbit and they’re starving dogs. I turn to Mike. He’s still smiling, like we’re about to go on a roller coaster or zip-lining.

  I haven’t gone to a theme park with Mike. He hasn’t taken me zip-lining either, though I know he’s done both with his friends. I’ve never really hung out with any of his friends.

  Until now.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Lex?” he asks, touching my hair. “I’ve been telling the guys how hot you are, and they’re jealous. They want to find out for themselves. I told them you’d be cool.”

  There’s a switch inside me that falls down, hard. Suddenly, I’m as numb and unfeeling as a stick of wood. I’m stronger than wood, though. Wood can splinter and break. I’m steel. Screw breaking, I won’t even bend. I’m not afraid—these boys are nothing to be scared of. I’m disappointed.

  But not surprised. I knew confiding in him was a mistake, but I did it anyway. He asked about my scars and I told him. Stupid.

  “Yeah,” says Ethan. “We want to find out for ourselves how hot you are, Lex.”

  They move closer, crowding into the bathroom. I smell bleach, urinal cakes, and their cologne. They’re all wearing too much of it, and they mix together into something skunkish. There’s no escape—I know it. The path of least resistance is always the one that keeps you safe—keeps you from getting beaten. Keeps them from using you so hard you bleed.

  Mike stands in front of the urinals, but he faces away from them instead of toward. How many teenage boys piss on this floor every day? I wonder absently. How many do it because they can? Most men, I’ve discovered, have little to no regard for the mess they make for someone else to clean up, or the damage they do that someone else has to repair.

  If it can be repaired.

  I stand there, silent and waiting. It’s better if I don’t speak. Mike puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes. I don’t need to be told what to do; I sink down. I’m on my knees on the hard tile floor as he unzips his jeans. Oral, then. That’s better. I’ve been out of the life long enough to know how surreal and sad it
is that I think letting them use my mouth is somehow okay. Behind me, I hear one of his friends says, “Oh, shit” like he can’t believe this is actually happening. I was like that once—a long time ago. It’s better to accept it and let it go. It’s happening but it doesn’t matter.

  That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, my grandmother used to say.

  Mike’s hand wraps around the back of my neck. He pulls me closer. I don’t feel like this is going to make me stronger.

  “She’s gonna do it,” another voice whispers.

  “She’s going to do us all.”

  I smell sweat and skin and all that awful cologne. My jaw opens. I almost gag, but I catch myself in time. I force myself to take a deep, acrid breath. I close my eyes and go somewhere else.

  Anywhere but here.

  * * *

  The boys leave when they’re done. Not like there’s any reason to stick around. They don’t want to be that late to class, I guess. Good thing they’re boys—the whole thing hadn’t taken longer than four or five minutes. Some old guys take forever.

  I stand at the sink, brushing my teeth. The harsh light shows me too clearly in the mirror—my lips red and chafed, eyes watery. The back of my throat burns, and I scrub the inside of my mouth with the disposable toothbrushes my aunt likes to buy. It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

  Mike leans against the sink beside mine. He’s smiling at me like I’m a puppy that just crapped outside. If he touches me, I’m going to shove this toothbrush through his eye.

  I’m angry. It’s like a slap to my forehead. I’m so fucking angry. Not annoyed or even mad. This is rage, and it’s ugly. What am I supposed to do with it? I can’t let it out. Someone will get hurt if I let it out, and historically that’s always been me.

  “That’s a hundred,” I tell him, spitting.

  He blinks, smile fading. “What?”

  “Five blowjobs. That’s a hundred bucks.”

  Color drains from his cheeks. Because of the money, or because what he did is finally sinking in? “I thought it was a favor.”

  I almost gag on the toothbrush as I scrub the back of my tongue again. More spit. “That’s what every pimp says at first. You planning to rent a stall?” I gesture at the row of partitioned toilets behind us. “It’s cheap and dirty—like me, right?”

  “Lex…”

  “Don’t.” I toss the toothbrush in the trash. I can still taste them—but now it’s cinnamon mixed with shame. “Do me a favor, Mike. Lose my number.” I walk toward the bathroom exit. I’m going to skip class. I’ll get Krys to call in for me, and go home. She can tell them I have cramps or something. I don’t fucking care.

  “You’re breaking up with me?” His tone is incredulous, like it’s the first time it’s ever happened. Maybe it is.

  Breaking up? Were we dating in his mind? How fucked up is that? I turn and look over my shoulder. “Yeah, I am. We’re done.”

  He takes a step toward me, face red. A little boy on the verge of a tantrum. “You bitch.”

  I stand there, holding his gaze. “What are you going to do?” I ask softly. “Hit me? You think I haven’t been hit before? I have, and by bigger guys than you. I’ve had lots of guys bigger than you, Mike.”

  His mouth falls open, but no words come out. I turn and leave the bathroom on trembling legs. The corridor is practically empty, so I go to my locker, get my things, and leave the school as quickly as I can. It’s sheer luck that I don’t get caught.

  I walk home. I’m not scared that Mitch is going to show up. I don’t care if he does. It would be the perfect time. I’d probably let him take me.

  Or try to kill him. Maybe both.

  Krys is at the counter when I walk in. She’s prepping a roast or something for dinner. Her red hair is pulled up in a messy bun that matches her boho personality. She’s wearing a long, knit dress and no makeup.

  She looks up, takes one look at me, and turns even paler than normal. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in school?”

  I think about the bathroom, about the smell of the urinal cakes, and the boys. The heat of their skin, the hair-pulling, the moist clutch of their fingers. My stomach suddenly rolls, acid flooding the back of my throat. I drop my books and purse to the floor and run. I race to the downstairs bathroom. My sore knees hit the tiled floor in front of the toilet hard. I yank the lid up and retch so hard, my diaphragm cramps. I’m sitting on the floor when Krys comes in.

  “What do you need?” she asks me.

  I pat the floor beside me. She doesn’t hesitate, just sits down and opens her arms. I lean my head on her shoulder as her arms close around me. The rage is gone. All that’s left is shame.

  It’s all I’m good for.

  chapter ten

  Krys cries when I tell her what happened. After we get off the floor, she calls my shrink and leaves a message. Dr. Lisa calls me back ten minutes later. She has to be on her lunch break, or between patients, to call back so quickly.

  “Are you all right?” is the first thing she asks. “Do you want to talk about it?” The sound of her voice is enough to make me feel a little better.

  “Some boys cornered me at school.”

  There’s a pause. I know she’s thinking of all the things I’m not saying. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  I’m on my bed, music playing low. Krys is downstairs. I can smell the roast starting to cook and it smells good. My mother thought cooking was microwaving a can of something, but my aunt can actually put a meal together. I’ve gained at least ten pounds since moving in. “No. I’m good. It was only oral.” The back of my throat feels raw and bruised, but nothing serious.

  “That’s still assault, Alexa.”

  I sigh. “Yeah.” But after all those months in the hotel, the days when sometimes it hurt to pee or worse, it seems insignificant. So why am I so fucked up over it? “I didn’t say no.”

  “If you’d said no, do you think it would have made a difference?”

  The side of my thumb is in my mouth. I’m chewing on it. “I don’t know.” I’d like to think it would have, but … “I think Mike would have kept on me until I broke.”

  “Mike?” The concern in her voice is sharp in my ear. “The boy you’ve been dating?”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence. An exhale. “Oh, Alexa. I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  I blink back tears. Since becoming my therapist, Dr. Lisa has also become something of a friend. A confidante. She has experience in sexual exploitation, meaning she’s been in the life. I can’t hide shit from her. She understands all of it too well. Sometimes, the line between therapist and patient and friends gets blurred, and we both let it.

  “I was surprised.” That means I was stupid. I should have known better. I should have been smarter. I am so naive. I thought Mitch cured me of that. I don’t want to be stupid and gullible anymore. “I’m pissed.”

  “I know you are,” she replies. “And I want you to direct that anger away from yourself. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to trust people. It’s good that you are able to.”

  “I wanted to hurt him after, make him bleed.”

  “So, you are mad at him.”

  “I was starting to forget what it was like to be a whore, and he reminded me of what I am.”

  “You were never a whore.”

  “If you say I was a victim, I’m hanging up.”

  “I won’t say it,” she promises softly. “But it wasn’t your choice. I want you to remember that.”

  “I had a choice today.”

  “Did you?”

  I hate when she asks me questions instead of giving me statements. If I had the fucking answers, I wouldn’t need her. “Yes.”

  “You said you thought Mike would break you down until you gave in. That doesn’t sound like a choice.” No, it sounds like the definition of trafficking they gave in that documentary we watched at Sparrow Brook.

  I stare at the smooth white ceiling. The ceiling in the motel had been a
weird yellowish color, with dark rusty splotches where rain leaked through. I used to make pictures out of them sometimes. “I could have fought.” A little voice in my head laughs maniacally at that.

  “How many boys were in the restroom, Alexa?”

  “Five, including Mike.”

  “Did they seem like they would let you leave?”

  I think of the other boys. They looked nervous, but they’d lined up across the bathroom, blocking the door. Had they done it on purpose?

  God, I’m so tired.

  “No,” I reply honestly. “I don’t think leaving was an option.” Maybe it had been, but it doesn’t matter. In that moment, I’d been taken back to a time when I hadn’t had a choice. Five teenagers turned me into that mess, and I hate them for it. I hate myself more.

  I’m tired of hating myself. Lately, I’ve started liking certain things about myself, and to be reminded of all that bad … “What should I do?”

  If she turns the question back on me, I’m going to scream. “Are you asking my honest opinion?”

  “I am.”

  “To begin with, I think you should report them to your principal.”

  I laugh—harsh and raw. Like there is anything remotely funny about this. “Like anyone will believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they believe you?”

  “You know why.”

  “Because you’re such a terrible, awful person?”

  A tear leaks from my eye. I wipe it away so hard, my skin stings. “Yes.”

  “Alexa.”

  I sniff, wipe away another tear. They’re becoming harder to hold back. “Will I ever stop feeling this way?”

  “I think so.”

  She doesn’t make promises, which is one of the things I like most about her. “I’ll think about it.” But we both know I won’t report it.

  “Did you break up with Mike?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if he asks, you won’t go back with him?”

  I’m not insulted; she knows how these things go. She’s known more girls in the life than I have, and she knows how many of them go back to it because it’s what they know. I think of Ivy with Frank. What he might have done to her. Disgust slithers over my skin.