by Katie Wismer
Sam touches my arm again, but this time, the rage doesn’t leave. It’s a living, writhing thing inside of my chest.
Our side of the table is silent for several minutes as we shovel the food into our mouths. I can’t take my eyes off Papa’s slightly smug face. I can’t even taste the food.
And for a moment, just a small, quiet moment, I think in the very corner of my mind, I hate him. Guilt overwhelms me as soon as I think the words, and I know they’re not true. I could never hate him. But this? I do hate this.
Finally, the subject shifts. As Papa starts talking about this week’s service, I force down three long, deep breaths and finally pry my eyes away from him. I lean over to nudge Harper’s foot beneath the table to distract myself. “I forgot to tell you,” I whisper. “Sam gave me a rough draft of his story today so you could get started on the illustrations.”
“Really?” Harper perks up and leans around me to see Sam.
“Yeah, I’ll grab it for you after dinner.”
“And there’s no rush on the pictures,” Sam tells her. “I’m still revising the story—what Mare gives you is just a rough draft—so it’ll probably take me awhile. Just get them to me whenever you can.”
“What’s this about a book?” Maman asks.
I try not to flinch. I’d kind of hoped our parents would be too invested in their own conversation to hear ours.
“Sam’s writing a children’s book, and I’m going to illustrate it for him,” Harper says, her voice hesitant, as if she’s not sure whether she’s supposed to share this information.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Maman beams.
I glance over at Sam to make sure it’s okay to talk about this. The lines around his eyes are tight, but he smiles back at Maman and nods. “Yeah, I thought it’d be a fun project.”
“What is it about?” Papa asks.
Sam looks away and sips his water. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s amazing.” I lay a hand on his leg beneath the table. “Really. He has it all planned out—”
Mr. Johnson makes a humph noise across the table. Sam tenses beneath my hand, his eyes shooting to his father.
“Sounds cute and all,” Mr. Johnson says. There’s a twinge of something I don’t like in his voice. “But do you really think that’s the best use of your time, son? You’re going to be graduating soon, and then you’ll be off to college, and before you know it you’ll be working toward a career in the real world. Don’t you think it’s time to start dedicating your time to what you’re going to do with your life?”
A tense silence settles over the table.
Sam and his father exchange a silent look. I can’t see Sam’s face, but judging by the hard line of his jaw, it isn’t pleased.
“It is hard to believe that they’re both about to graduate, isn’t it?” Maman offers, clearly trying to shift the subject. “Time flies. It seems like just yesterday, the two of you were playing out in the sandbox—”
Mr. Johnson clearly does not take the bait.
“Don’t give me that look,” he cuts Maman off, his eyes on his son. “We’ve had this discussion many times. I thought we agreed you’d stop wasting your time with all this writing and start being serious about your future.”
I glance from the empty wine glass in front of Mr. Johnson to Sam.
Sam clears his throat and shoots an uncomfortable smile at my parents. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to have this conversation, Dad,” he says quietly.
Oblivious or uncaring about making a scene, Mr. Johnson reaches across the table, grabs the wine bottle, refills his glass, and takes a gulp. I’ve lost count whether that’s already his second or third. “Tell me when we should then. Since it seems no matter how much we talk about it, it ain’t sinking in.”
Sam takes a slow, steadying breath, his eyes trained on his plate. Besides his clenched fists beneath the table, he still manages to look calm. That makes one of us. My own hands are shaking, my pulse panicking in my veins.
For a moment, no one says anything. I try desperately to come up with a way to shift the conversation, but as usual, my mind supplies me with nothing useful.
Finally, Papa clears his throat. “So, how was school, Harper?” he asks. “Didn’t you have a presentation today?”
Harper shifts a little in her seat as all heads swivel in her direction. “Um, yeah. It went well. I filled up my time slot, which was what I’d been most worried about, so that was a relief. And my teacher seemed to like it.”
“What was the presentation on?” I ask. My voice comes out slightly strangled.
Every nerve in my body is on edge. Sam is still tense beneath my hand.
“It was for my business class. I just talked about managing money, and how to plan for life after college, and stuff like that.”
“See.” Mr. Johnson thumps his fist against the table, making the silverware on the table jostle. “That a girl. She knows what’s worth her time. Good for you, Harper.”
I should probably just stay out of it, but now my heart is in my throat, and it shoves the words from my mouth before I can stop them. “You know, if Sam were to publish this book—which I really think he should at least try to do, because it’s completely brilliant—even though the picture book itself might not make him much money, it would probably look really great on his resume for future jobs and whatnot. It would show the employer that he’s motivated and has a good work ethic and is creative—all things that are essential in today’s job market.”
Mr. Johnson doesn’t look the least bit impressed, but before he can open his mouth and spew out whatever hateful words he has lined up next, Papa cuts in.
“That’s a good point, Mare,” Papa says. He turns to Mr. Johnson and deftly switches the topic again to the state of the economy and the ridiculous struggle for jobs right now. And for a moment, the conversation seems to distract Mr. Johnson enough for him to drop it.
Sam gives me a grateful smile and squeezes my leg. I squeeze back, the muscles in my shoulders finally daring to relax. When I glance up, I catch Maman watching us over the table, a knowing glint in her eye.
✦✦✦
After dinner, our parents head to the front room. Harper makes an excuse about needing to write a paper, but as she heads upstairs, she asks if she can grab Sam’s book from my room to start working on it.
I lead Sam out to the back patio, where we lean against the railing and stare up at the stars. The sky is clear and dark, and we leave the porch light off so as not to ruin the view. It’s not nearly as good as it was at the drive-in, but it’ll do.
“Thanks for saving me in there,” Sam whispers.
I pause before responding, fighting my urge to pry. “Is it always like that with him?”
Sam pauses, too, and locks his hands around the railing. “More and more so, lately. He means best, I know that. I just wish…” He shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t even know.”
“You just wish he’d be more supportive.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “And if not supportive, the least he could do is be a little less against it, you know?”
“Maybe he’ll come around.”
Sam laughs like he doesn’t believe that’s even a remote possibility.
“Thanks for stopping me from stabbing my dad with a fork.”
He reaches over and takes my hand, holding it palm-up between us. There are still faint lines from the fork. His fingers are feather-light as he traces the path they carve. The touch sends a small shiver up my spine.
“So what exactly was all that about?” he asks. “He doesn’t like your health class?”
I let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know how it works for you guys, but we’re required freshman year to take a health class.”
Sam nods.
“And there’s a chapter on sex education in the class.”
“Oh.” Sam nods again, slower this time. “Got i
t. So, he wants what? Them to nix that chapter all together?”
I shrug. “I honestly don’t know. He found Harper’s homework the other day and freaked out, so I knew he was mad, but I had no idea he was going to these kinds of lengths. It just…it makes me mad.” I laugh in an attempt to extinguish the rage starting to build in my chest again. “Anyway. Thanks for coming tonight. Even though it was kind of a disaster.”
“At least the food was good,” he jokes.
“God, I was so tense all night, I barely even tasted it.”
“You were tense? What were you so tense about?”
“Honestly? I was terrified my parents were going to scare you off.”
“And then my dad turned out to be the one misbehaving.” He turns and leans his back against the railing so he’s facing me. “So, did he scare you off?”
I roll my eyes and let him take my hands again. “You know he didn’t.”
He pulls me a step closer to him. “Then you should know that there’s nothing your parents could do to scare me off.”
“You say that now,” I mumble. “But you have yet to experience the full extent of the Beaumont insanity.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Looking forward to it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. The night breeze is cool as it sweeps across the patio, twisting my dress around my legs. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the scent of the damp trees and fresh air and let out a content sigh. “It’s such a beautiful night,” I whisper.
When I open my eyes, Sam is staring at me. His hair is tousled and loose around his temples, his lips slightly parted.
“You’re staring at me,” I say. I don’t mean for it to come out as a whisper, but I seem to have lost my voice.
“I can’t help it,” he responds, equally quiet.
I don’t remember moving, but suddenly we’re standing very close to each other. His back is pressed against the railing, my chest nearly pressed against him. His arms snake around my back, his fingers pressing lightly into my spine. My hands find their way to his chest.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” he whispers.
I swallow hard, probably loud enough for him to hear. My cheeks flame, and my voice comes out rough when I say, “Well, it’s a good thing we’re out here then, isn’t it?”
He leans in until there’s no more space between us, until his lips find mine. The kiss starts off slowly, like it’s the first time. His hands are gentle as they caress my back, and I smooth my hands over his shirt. I inhale the scent of him—fresh laundry with obvious hints of breath mint—and it does strange things to my head. This time when we kiss, I’m not thinking about what to do with my mouth, or where to put my hands. I don’t worry if I’m doing it right, or if he’s judging my inexperience. I just lean into him, feeling his warmth under my fingertips and this inexplicable calm that rushes over me, like the way a tight hug slows your nervous system down in the midst of an anxiety attack. And for a beautiful, blissful moment, my mind is quiet.
Our lips separate, just for a moment, our panting breaths mingling in the space between us.
“Meredith,” he whispers. Something about him saying my full name, his voice rough and low, sends shivers up my spine.
Laughter sounds inside the house. Sam and I jump apart so quickly that I almost fall over. I balance myself against the railing, and Sam seems to do the same. The door is still firmly shut. Our parents are still in the front room.
We both let out sighs of relief.
My heart hammers so violently in my chest, it feels like it’s bruising my insides.
“We should probably go back inside,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Probably,” he agrees.
But neither of us moves.
Not for a long time.
15
On Wednesday morning, the world is purple and the rain is unrelenting. I walk into school at my normal time, surrounded by other students hurrying into the buildings, huddled beneath their rain jackets because everyone’s too cool to use an umbrella.
My Converses slosh in the puddles, soaking my socks. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt to try and deflect some of the water from my eyes, but by the time I make it inside, I’m soaked. The tile floors are slick and streaked with mud.
As I make my way to my locker, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. I glance up from my usual vantage point—the floor—and notice all of the eyes on me.
The underclassmen glance over their shoulders and look away as soon as we make eye contact, giggling. The seniors stare without shame, some whispering to friends and bursting into laughter. One of my hands flies to my face on instinct, checking to see if there’s something there, but if Thomas Anderson hardly got any attention when he forgot to put his pants back on after gym class last week, I don’t think some leftover toothpaste would create this much of a reaction.
Two members of the Pretty Committee approach in matching red rain boots and long black jackets, their arms linked at the elbow. As they near, they separate from each other so they can pass me on both sides. As they do, they each mutter slut under their breath, then hook their arms back together once they reach the other side, giggling to each other.
I whip around and watch as they keep walking. Was that directed at me?
I glance over to see a pod of football guys leaned against a drinking fountain across the hall, smirking. One of them presses the button, and water shoots from the faucet. “Thirsty, Meredith?” he asks.
I stare at them. Their faces are vaguely familiar, but I don’t know any of their names. Which means they definitely shouldn’t know mine. And why would I be thirsty? I have a water bottle—
Oh my God.
They can’t be talking about—
They couldn’t possibly—
I turn and speed-walk the rest of the way to my locker to escape, hyperaware of every laugh, every whisper, every word. I turn the corner and freeze. Taped to my locker is a sheet of paper, and it takes me less than two seconds to realize what it is.
The Anti-Virginity Pact is written on the top in large, neat letters, and at the bottom is my signature.
And it’s a photocopy. Which means there are probably more.
Many more.
I rip the sheet from the locker, feeling like I might somehow vomit my own heart out of my chest. I want so badly to sink into myself, to fold in until I disappear altogether.
Or go home and cry. And never leave my bedroom again.
One of the two.
This cannot be happening. With shaking fingers, I manage to put in my combo and pop the locker open, if for nothing else than to hide my head behind the door. A folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. I grab it and try to unfold it, though it’s difficult with how much my hands are shaking.
It reads: James Wofford - call anytime gorgeous ;), followed by his phone number.
Someone slams my locker shut, and I jump back. A hockey player with long blonde hair and a black eye leans against the locker beside me, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He smiles a full-faced smile. There are a few teeth missing toward the back.
“You know,” he says under his breath. “I’d be happy to help you out with that little task of yours, if you’d like.”
I don’t—can’t—respond. I just stare at him, my mortification like fire licking its way up my entire body, before finally ordering my legs to turn and walk away as quickly as possible. I shove the two pieces of paper into my bag, tearing other copies from lockers as I go.
“I’ll just leave my number in your locker in case you change your mind,” he calls.
I want to die. I want to die right now.
How could this have happened? Jo kept both of the contracts, and she was the only person who knew about them. And she would never do this. Never. My mind is churning so quickly, I can hardly keep up with my own thoughts. The group meeting at Johanna’s house. When Ashley went upstairs to use the bathroom. What
if she’d taken the pact from Johanna’s room? She had been acting strange once she’d come back down, but I’d dismissed the thought at the time. How could she have even known about the pact, let alone that it was in Johanna’s room?
My mind whirls through all of the conversations Jo and I had in Mr. Graham’s class about the pact, with Ashley right there. I’d thought she wasn’t paying attention, but what if she’d heard everything?
But if it was her, does that mean she plastered both contracts around the school, or did she only manage to get her manicured claws on mine? Does she know about Jo and Mr. Graham too?
Oh my God, I have to call Jo.
The tears come, and I’m caught between trying to hold myself together so no one sees and sprinting to the bathroom to hide. The hot, bubbling panic in the pit of my stomach makes the decision for me.
I’m vaguely aware of more heads turning in my direction as I push my way down the hall, but my vision is edged with black, and all I see is a door in the distance. Calls and jeers are blotted out by the roaring in my ears.
I think I hear someone call, “Meredith!” but I’m almost to the bathroom. A few people are lingering at their lockers outside, and I can feel their heads swivel in my direction as I lurch forward and throw myself at the girls’ bathroom door.
Mercifully, it’s empty.
Shoving into the nearest stall, I fall on my knees before I have a chance to lock the door, crying so hard I’m hiccupping. I clutch one hand to my chest, trying to calm down, but my breaths just keep coming faster. My mind is a kaleidoscope of images.
The paper on my locker.
The hockey player’s missing teeth.
The laughing gang of football players.
The Pretty Committee whispering slut as they passed.
