What Unbreakable Looks Like

by Kate McLaughlin

  Jamal pours the butter over the huge mound of popcorn in the bowl. “You should probably ask him. It’s not really my place to say.”

  I roll my eyes as I set Isis on the floor. She scampers after a piece of popcorn that has fallen onto the tile. “Way to leave me hanging, Jamal.” He smiles at me and gets salt out of the cupboard.

  Krys hands me a can of flavored seltzer. She’s been trying to get off soda lately. “I’m glad you still believe a boy might be worth being friends with.”

  I think about Zack and how he stood up to Mike. He’s been so nice to me, even when I was an ass with him. But Mike was nice at first too. So was Mitch.

  “We’ll see,” I say, and head into the living room.

  * * *

  Monday morning, I come downstairs to go to school and find Zack sitting at the kitchen table having coffee with Krys and Jamal.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand when they all look at me. Isis lies across his feet like she’s his dog, not mine—the traitor.

  My uncle raises an eyebrow at my tone. “I called Zack and asked if he’d give you a lift to school this morning.”

  My frown turns into a scowl. “Why?”

  “Because Mike and his friends were arrested Friday night, but the school has yet to take action. I don’t want you going in alone.”

  “I have Elsa.”

  Jamal folds his hands on the table. His wedding ring glints in the sunlight coming through the window. “Alexa, in the past few days, you’ve been assaulted on school property and verbally and physically threatened. We’ve had calls from the parents of the boys involved that we’ve not taken, but the voicemails were … intense. You’ll have to forgive me for being worried about you. I don’t even want you going to school until those boys have been dealt with, but your aunt tells me that’s your decision to make. So, this one is mine—you either go to school with Zack or I take you, and if I take you, I will not be responsible for what I do or say to anyone who gets in your face.” He says this calmly, as though talking about picking up his dry cleaning. It’s only when I notice how tight his knuckles are that I realize his hands aren’t folded, they’re clenched.

  The last thing I want is for Jamal to get into trouble because of me. I look at Zack. “Let’s go.”

  Sitting in the driveway is the same silver car he drove me and Elsa home in Friday night. “Is it yours?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Mom helped me buy it.”

  I remember he’d been saving his money all summer. “Must be nice.”

  “Your aunt and uncle don’t let you use theirs?”

  “I’d have to get my license first.”

  He tosses me a surprised look over the top of the car before opening his door. “You can’t drive?”

  “No.” I get in and shut the door.

  “Do you want to?”

  I hadn’t thought about it much since the night Elsa and I talked about it. Driving seems pretty low on the list of things I need to address. “I guess.”

  He nods, but doesn’t ask any more questions. He starts the car and pulls out into the street.

  “You might want to reconsider being friends with me,” I tell him. “I’m not going to be very popular.”

  He frowns. “Fuck off. I don’t care about popular.”

  I look out the window. “You’re going to hear things about me.”

  “Like you were trafficked? Yeah, I figured that out.”

  No one has ever put it like that. They say “victimized” or “forced.” “Coerced” is a favorite. No one ever puts it so simply. Blamelessly. Shamelessly. I glance at him. “I was.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I clear my throat, but I don’t have anything else to say.

  “Is that how you got those scars?” he asks.

  For a second I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Oh, right. I started stripping in front of you in my room.” My cheeks warm. “Not my proudest moment. Yeah. Some people can’t get their rocks off without inflicting a little pain.”

  “It makes them feel powerful to hurt others.” There’s a bitterness in his voice that makes me think he knows what he’s talking about.

  “How’d you get that scar?” I’m looking at his left forearm. I haven’t had the nerve to ask about it before.

  “Broken arm.”

  “How’d you break it?”

  He hesitates. “I didn’t.” He glances at me. “My father did. He was one of those people. Mom and I were the closest targets.”

  This is why Jamal thought Zack and I might make good friends.

  “It sucks when someone you trust turns on you,” I say.

  Zack nods. “It does.”

  Silence falls between us. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s … heavy.

  “I secretly like to listen to Bon Jovi,” I blurt out.

  He laughs. “Okay. You’re telling me this, why?”

  Yes, why? “I don’t know. I’ve never told anyone else.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “And yours is safe with me.”

  He looks confused. “What secret?”

  “About your father breaking your arm.”

  The car turns into the school parking lot. “That’s not a secret. I don’t care if people know what he did to me.”

  “You’re not a victim,” I say.

  He puts the car in park and turns to me. “Do I look like a victim to you?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t look like one to me either.” He opens his door before I can reply. Grabbing my bag, I open my door and get out. Zack grabs his books from the back seat, and we walk toward the school together.

  People look at us. I hear them talking as we walk past. I can’t hear what they’re saying because I’m humming in my head to block them out. I don’t care what they say, I tell myself. I don’t care.

  But we all care what people think of us, don’t we? Even if it’s just a little.

  Mike’s friends are in his usual spot outside on the steps, but he’s not there. None of the boys from the bathroom are. The crowd falls silent as Zack and I walk up. I don’t trust their silence. I feel their glares burning holes in my back, and I have to force myself not to look at them. Not to hurry past.

  Zack opens the door and I go first. The second I’m inside, they start talking again. They say awful, terrible things about me, but nothing I haven’t heard before. The words roll off me like drops of water on glass.

  “Assholes,” Zack mutters.

  “They can say what they want,” I tell him. “I’m not ashamed.”

  He glances down at me as I toss his words back at him, and he smiles. We attract stares and whispers in the hall too, but no one approaches me. No one says anything loud enough for me to hear. I’m not sure if they’re afraid of me, or afraid I’m contagious.

  Zack walks me almost all the way to my locker, where Elsa is waiting. She looks relieved to see us together. When he sees her, he stops. “This is where I leave you, my lady.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “For everything.” It sounds silly, but I’m not really sure if you’re supposed to thank people for being decent.

  He nods and turns to leave.

  “See you later?” I ask.

  Zack tosses me a grin over his shoulder. “If you’re lucky.” I watch him go until the crowd swallows him up.

  Huh. Maybe my luck’s about to change.

  chapter fourteen

  By lunchtime, it’s all over school that Mike and the other boys have been expelled. I expect the glares and sneers I get. I even expect the nasty comments. I don’t expect support.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to you,” a girl says to me in the hall.

  “Yo, Mike’s an ass,” from a boy in the cafeteria.

  Mr. Case makes an announcement after lunch reminding everyone of the school’s “zero tolerance” policy regarding sexual assault on school property.

  “Anyone who commits such acts is in direct violation of school
policy and will be immediately expelled,” he says. “Anyone caught bullying or harassing someone who has been the victim of said behavior will also face disciplinary action.”

  I can feel gazes burning into me. God, I hope he stops talking soon.

  Eventually, he does, and class resumes. I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t like people knowing my business, but I also don’t care what they think of me.

  Would I feel better if he’d expelled me instead of the boys? Maybe. Yeah. It’s what I expected.

  After class, I go to the bathroom. I’m standing at the sink washing my hands when a girl I don’t know walks in. She stands there, staring at me. I return the stare as I rip off pieces of paper towel.

  “I was raped at a college party last year,” she blurts out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. I’m not sure what she wants from me, or why she’s telling me this.

  “You probably already have a therapist and stuff, but there’s a small group of us—survivors—that meet on Wednesday nights at the Y. Seven thirty, if you ever want to come by.”

  I hate the word “survivor” almost as much as I hate “victim,” but I don’t tell her that. All of us have words that make us feel broken, just like we have words that, like tape, hold the jagged edges of us together in delicate chaos. They’re the labels we assign ourselves.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She looks at me a moment, nods, and spins around. I watch her leave, throwing the paper towel in the garbage and following her out. I should have waited. I walk right into Liane Dunne—Kyle’s girlfriend. I remember the things he said to me in the bathroom—the things he told me to do and the names he called me. My scalp still hurts from how he pulled at my hair. Other than Mike, he was the one who seemed to enjoy himself the most.

  Lianne’s gaze locks with mine. She looks pissed. The last time a girl looked at me like that was when Daisy thought I’d stolen her drugs.

  “Did he really do it?” she demands. “Did he make you…?”

  When she stops, I nod. I watch as tears fill her eyes. “Asshole.”

  It takes a second for me to realize she’s not talking to me. In fact, I don’t realize it until she pushes past me into the bathroom. Her friends follow her. I can hear her crying as I walk away.

  I can’t take this. It’s too weird. Too hard. I can’t stand people talking to me like they understand, and I don’t want to feel bad for the girlfriend of a guy who thought it was fun to make me go down on him. If I can’t have drugs …

  I go straight to my locker, grab my things, and make a run for it. I’m almost to one of the exits when I see Zack coming out of a classroom. He looks at me and his expression changes. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care.

  “Take me home?” I ask.

  He pulls his keys out. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I keep my head down at school for the rest of the week. With Mike and his friends gone, it’s oddly quiet. I know they’re all talking about me, but I feel like there’s this weird invisible bubble around me that keeps them a few feet away. Only Elsa, Zack, and my teachers talk to me.

  I think some of it, though, is that it’s not just rumors anymore. The boys have been arrested, and what they did has become more than a joke. It’s become real. Serious.

  It’s been on the TV, internet, radio, and in the paper that a girl was “sexually assaulted by five juveniles” at a Middletown high school—not like there’s a lot of those in town. Word gets around.

  Jamal has Zack pick me up every morning. He starts picking up Elsa too. He also drives us home, even on the days he has to work after school. We haven’t talked any more about his father or what happened to me. With Elsa in the car, the conversation is rapid, light, and full of movie quotes. She’s like a walking Red Bull. I don’t even want to think about how quiet my life would be without her in it.

  I go shopping with Krys on Friday. She thinks I should take some snacks to Elsa’s for movie night. I still haven’t made up my mind if I want to go.

  Watching Elsa and Maisie flirt and get to know each other, it’s too much. I don’t want to watch them do the stupid things that have been stolen from me. How can I flirt with someone when I know all he wants is to get between my legs? I know how sex ends, and at best, it’s disappointing. At worst … well, I’m not going to think about it.

  We stop by the drugstore first and pick up my prescriptions. Krys takes care of them so I’m not tempted to overindulge. Xanax for when I have panic attacks. Prozac too. It’s pretty old school, but it’s what works best for me. There was one drug that made me feel like I had bugs under my skin. Another made me feel worse. I’ve traded in Mitch’s lovely pills for new ones that don’t make me feel nearly as good, but at least I’m able to function without constantly looking over my shoulder or shaking in a corner, so it’s a win.

  I get my pills and a new lipstick Krys thinks I have to have. I like makeup. We didn’t wear much in the motel because Mitch wanted to keep us looking young. He only let us use it when we needed to cover up marks or zits. My stomach lurches thinking how sweet he was at first. How well he fooled me—all of us. At first he was all about how special I was. How beautiful. How sexy.

  He also beat me when he got pissed off.

  Krys is picking up my birth control too. The woman behind the counter glances at me. I feel her judgment, even though she may not be thinking it. Some days, I feel like everyone knows and everyone is staring at me. Right now I’m sure everyone in the fucking store knows who I am and what I’ve done—what was done to me. In a few minutes, I’m going to have to decide if I need to dry swallow a Xanax or if I can calm myself down on my own. Panic comes unexpectedly. It used to come more often, but now it just seems to hit harder the rare times it arrives.

  I feel the walls start to close in. Sweat prickles along my hairline and under my arms.

  “I have to go,” I whisper to Krys. She looks at me and hands me her purse and keys. She has her wallet in her hands.

  I make it back to the car and climb in. There’s a pillbox in Krys’s purse that has a couple of Xanax in it, what she can trust me with. I want to take both, but I make myself take one, chasing it with warm seltzer from the can in the cup holder.

  “You okay?” Krys asks when she gets in a few moments later.

  I lean back against the passenger seat. “I will be in about twenty minutes.” I force a smile. Try to unclench my fists.

  She takes my hand in hers and rubs her thumb over my knuckles. It helps. I don’t remember the first time she did this, but it’s like magic for me. All I have to do is concentrate on her touch and the rest of the world fades away, and I don’t have to go with it. I can stay present.

  I don’t know how long we sit there, her rubbing my knuckles, but eventually, I open my eyes and glance at her. “It’s okay. We can go.”

  She doesn’t question me. My hand is cold when she takes hers away. My knuckles tingle, and I shove my hand under my thigh as she starts the car.

  The grocery store isn’t far. The parking lot is about half-full—mostly middle-class stay-at-home parents that are out shopping for dinner and after-school snacks. My job is to push the cart and scan things with the handheld scanner while Krys does all the picking and choosing, weighing and measuring.

  “Do you want bananas?” she asks.

  I open my mouth to say sure, but the word never makes it out. Instead, someone behind me says, “You have a lot of nerve.”

  Krys and I turn. Mike’s mother. The Xanax has started to kick in, so I smile. The way her face is all knotted up strikes me as hilarious. She always was a bitch to me. “It was on sale,” I quip.

  She glares at me, but I see Krys’s lips twitch. “Go away, Vikki,” she says.

  “Your niece got my son arrested,” Mrs. Fischer continues. “He was expelled because she doesn’t have a concept of appropriate behavior.”

  She frowns at the older woman. And she is just fed up enough and rational enough to have a
little backbone. “I’m sorry, but is asking your girlfriend to blow your friends appropriate?”

  I expect Krys to shush me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she arches a brow and looks at the older woman. “Is it?”

  Mrs. Fischer waves a hand. “You were never his girlfriend.”

  What’s strange is this hurts more anything else she might have said. It’s so casually tossed out there—like it was obvious. Why would her precious son waste himself on someone like me?

  I suppose if I’d stopped to ask myself the same question, my natural suspicion might have kicked in enough to keep me from dating him. Maybe none of this would have happened.

  “What was she, then?” Krys asks. “Because she thought of him as her boyfriend. She thought he liked her.” Her back is stiff as a board, and her eyes are so bright they glitter. I feel like someone should warn Mrs. Fischer this means she’s about to lose it, but it won’t be me.

  “You know exactly what she is. You remember Michelle Howard.”

  I assume this Michelle is someone they both know, and she was known as the town bicycle—everyone had a ride—because my aunt’s cheeks flush scarlet. “My niece may have been naive when it came to your son’s intentions, but the fact remains that you have raised a young man who believes he has the right to not only objectify women, but to assault them and treat them like dirt. When he’s before a judge, you think about the part you played in putting him there. Maybe then you’ll feel as ashamed of him—and yourself—as you ought.”

  I almost clap. Krys is saying all the things I can’t articulate. I’ve been weak and silent so long, I don’t know how to stand up for myself—or even if I should—but I take a cruel, twisted joy in the hope that this woman, and her son, are suffering even a fraction of what I have.

  Mrs. Fischer takes a step toward me, so she and I are bookended between our shopping carts. “You listen to me, you take back what you said about my boy, or I’ll sue your well-used, slutty little ass for slander.”