Tamsin

by Abigail Strom

  Joan smiles. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Good work today, you two. See you next time.” Then she leaves, her shoes echoing on the linoleum floor.

  Neither of us says anything until the exit door closes behind her.

  Then:

  “What’s up?” Daniel asks. His expression is curious, and there’s a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth.

  I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I just wanted to know if you meant it. What you said in our scene.”

  He doesn’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about, which I appreciate.

  “About rape? Yeah, I meant it. I’m not that good an actor.”

  I take a step closer to him. It’s dead quiet in this hallway, and one of the fluorescent bulbs above us is out. One side of Daniel’s face is lit and the other is in shadow.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He shrugs. “This whole damn class is like a personal question. What’s one more?”

  “Do you know someone who was raped?”

  I hold my breath waiting for the answer. I’m not sure I should have asked it, but it’s too late to take it back now.

  The lighting makes it hard to read his expression. I look into his eyes—they’re dark blue, almost navy—and I can’t tell what he’s thinking, or if he’s angry with me.

  With half his face in shadow he looks almost…I don’t know, dangerous. Which is ridiculous, because Daniel Bowman is probably the least dangerous guy I’ve ever met. Dyshell said he doesn’t even drink.

  On the other hand, he is a football player. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Andre and Will, it’s that anybody willing to get pounded on that field day in and day out is tough. And capable of violence, even if they only ever express it through the game.

  I can’t read Daniel’s expression, but something about him right now—the way he’s holding himself, maybe—makes me very aware that he’s capable of violence.

  Maybe he’s thinking of the girl he knows who was raped.

  “No,” he says, just as I’m reminding myself that he hasn’t answered my question yet. “Not raped.”

  Something tells me that’s far from the whole story. But I can’t bring myself to ask anything else.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry. It’s just that in our scene, you…”

  “What?” he asks after a moment.

  “You were kind of…intense. In a good way,” I add. “I mean, you did a great job.”

  The corner of his mouth goes up again.

  “You only think that because I was taking your side of the argument.”

  “But you said you agreed with part of my argument. At least…maybe I’m assuming too much. If you got your way and abortion was banned, would you want to see exceptions for rape, incest, and the life of the mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  I guess that’s something.

  Arguments rise up inside me about the other reasons women choose abortion—women like Izzy and my friend from high school. But the truth is, I wish we could talk about something else for a while.

  We could if we were friends. We could talk about lots of things.

  But we’re not friends. And it doesn’t seem likely that we ever will be.

  “Hey, Tamsin?”

  He’s going to tell me he has to go now.

  “I know, it’s getting late. I’ll see you next—”

  “I’m going to take you out on a date.”

  I blink.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  That quirk at the corner of his mouth has turned into a full-on grin, and it’s sexy as fuck.

  “You heard me.”

  “But that’s—I don’t—why would you—”

  I can’t think how to finish any of the sentences I started, so I stop talking.

  It seems so unlikely that Daniel Bowman would want to take me on a date that for a second, I wonder if he’s actually making fun of me.

  But a joke like that would be mean, and Daniel isn’t mean.

  “I don’t understand,” I say finally.

  Daniel drops his backpack on the floor and leans back against the stairwell.

  “It’s not that complicated,” he says, sounding like he’s enjoying himself. “I’m going to take you on a date. Have you ever been on one?”

  Okay, that’s insulting. “What are you talking about? You lived in Oscar’s dorm, didn’t you? You saw us together all the time.”

  “Yeah, I did. That’s why I’m asking. Oscar didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would take a girl on a date.”

  Now I see what he’s driving at.

  “You’re talking about picking a girl up at her place, giving her flowers or whatever, and taking her out to dinner and a movie?”

  Damn that grin.

  “Now you’ve got it. Have you ever been on one of those?”

  “It’s not 1950, so no. For one thing, I like to pay my own way. I never let a guy pay for me. Not even a movie ticket.”

  “See, now, this is one of the things feminism gets wrong. The guy should pay on a date. Especially the first one.”

  I fold my arms. “Money is power. Financial independence is power. I choose not to give a guy the illusion that he has power over me.”

  He looks at me for a moment, his head cocked to the side. Then he shakes his head slowly.

  “When two people are into each other, they take turns having power. But that’s not why a guy pays on a date. Or at least, it’s not why I pay.”

  That short beard of his makes me want to run a hand along the line of his jaw.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you pay?”

  “Because on a date, a guy is auditioning for the role of someone who wants to dote on you. And because it’s romantic.”

  I feel hot and then cold. What is happening here? What is he saying? Is he…does he…

  “You want to dote on me?” I blurt.

  He flashes that grin again.

  “That would freak you out, wouldn’t it? So I won’t say it. I’ll just say I think it would be fun to take you on a date. To show you how a real man does it.”

  A real man.

  I feel like I’m struggling to keep up at this point, but I take another shot at it.

  “You want to take me on a date not because you’re into me, but as a kind of…demonstration?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, let’s call it that. A show-you-how-it’s-done kind of thing. I had to watch Oscar screw up his time with you for an entire year, and I want you to know that some guys aren’t assholes. That some guys are actually worth your trouble.”

  My arms are still folded, and they feel like my only protection from this weird melting feeling inside me, right behind my breastbone.

  “You want to take me on a date on behalf of the male gender as a whole? To prove that some of you are decent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But not because you’re into me.”

  It’s the second time I’ve used that phrase, and I feel my cheeks heating up.

  He shakes his head.

  It occurs to me then that I asked the question wrong. I should have just said, Are you into me? Because the way I put it leaves room for the interpretation that while his primary reason for taking me on a date isn’t that he’s into me, he could, in fact, be into me.

  But there is no way on God’s green earth I’m going to attempt to clarify this point. Because believe it or not, I actually do have some pride.

  “But while we’re on the subject, do you know what I figured out today?” he asks.

  “What?”

  He takes a step closer. Even though he’s not touching me, goose bumps sweep across my skin. Then he bends his head, bringing his mouth to within an inch of my ear.

  “You’re into me.”

  Now it’s not just my face that’s hot. It’s my whole body, from my head right down to my toes.

  I take a step back, my legs shaky.

  “You’re out of y
our mind,” I say automatically—even though it’s a lie.

  He’s better lit now, and those navy blue eyes are impossible to look away from.

  “You were staring at me all during class.”

  I’m amazed I don’t break into a flop sweat.

  “That’s—that’s just because—” I swallow. “I was thinking about our scene. And anyway, how the hell do you know where I was looking? Do you have eyes in the back of your head or something?”

  “I didn’t know,” he says, his expression smug. “It was just a guess.”

  Well, shit.

  I wish I knew how to wipe that grin off his face. But there’s no question he won this round.

  I try to get the conversation back on point.

  “Look, Bowman—I don’t go on dates as social experiments or whatever.”

  “That’s not why you’ll go. You’ll go because you’re into me.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I’ll pick you up Saturday night at seven. We’ll go out to dinner, but it’ll be a casual place. You can wear whatever you want.”

  “I won’t—”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  I huff out an annoyed breath. “What makes you think I’ll go on this date with you?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” he says. “It’s another guess. But I’ll be right again, because you’re into me.”

  He still hasn’t said whether he’s into me. I want to ask him, because the power dynamic is totally screwed up right now and I want him to feel as off balance as I do.

  But I can’t ask him. Obviously. I mean, what if he says no?

  What if he says yes?

  And that’s when I realize I don’t know which answer would be scarier.

  All I can do is stare at him, feeling like I’m not wearing enough clothes. But it’s not my skin that’s exposed.

  “What about after the date?” I ask suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are you expecting?”

  I’m not sure why I’m asking this. Is it my way of asking if he’s into me without asking if he’s into me?

  “Nothing,” he says. “In fact, that’s the first ground rule for Saturday night. No fooling around. Not even kissing.”

  I feel myself relax a little, which is confusing. I am actually into this guy, and I’m a girl with a healthy sex drive. So why should I feel relieved about the no-fooling-around thing?

  Not that I’ve even agreed to go on the date, of course.

  “What’s the second ground rule?”

  “We don’t talk about abortion. Or religion. Or politics.”

  I start to smile. “That sounds good.” I pause. “But I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “I know. But you will.”

  He looks at something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Izzy and Charlie coming down the hallway.

  “Your friends are looking for you,” Daniel says. “I’ll see you Saturday night, Tamsin.”

  Then he picks up his backpack and walks away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Daniel

  This is the first night of the new school year that I’ve really felt autumn coming.

  Thank God for that. My heart is pounding and my face is hot, and I need that hint of cool in the air. I walk fast across the quad, not even sure where I’m going, but knowing I need to get away from Tamsin.

  What the hell did I just do?

  It was that damn class. That damn radical honesty thing. It pulled all those words out of me onstage, and I felt naked afterward. And then, still naked, I met Tamsin outside the theater door.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Here’s some advice. If you’re into a girl but you shouldn’t be a couple, don’t take an acting class with her. Because it’ll leave you raw, with nothing between you and how much you want her, and you’ll do something stupid like ask her out on a date.

  That stupid fucking scene. The stupid fucking things I said. I mean yeah, they were true, but they ripped open a wound so rotten and festering I was terrified everyone in that theater had seen it.

  Tamsin had.

  Do you know someone who was raped?

  No, I said. Not raped.

  Talk about half truths. Talk about lying by omission.

  So much for radical honesty.

  But I thank God for that, too. I thank God I didn’t blurt out the truth to the girl I have a crush on.

  It was me. But I wasn’t raped. I was only molested.

  I’ve crossed the quad now, and the library is in front of me. There’s a little garden around back that no one ever goes into, and that’s where I head.

  I come to the iron fence and the brick path leading into the garden. The path winds around a little and then circles a big maple tree.

  There’s a stone bench on the far side. I sit down, the trunk at my back and the tree branches above my head.

  The garden is lit by the glow of the library windows. This is one of the oldest buildings on campus and the windows are tall and arched, kind of gothic looking. Light spills through them onto the ivy and trees and bushes out here.

  Inside that building are hundreds of students reading, writing, and studying. Normal people doing normal things.

  I’ve never felt less like one of them.

  I’ve never told anyone about what my neighbor did to me eight years ago. I never will. I didn’t even tell Father Warren, because he’d want me to tell my mother.

  The last thing she needs is to feel guilty because she didn’t protect me or help me or whatever. It’s just her, my little sister, and me, and that’s enough of a burden for a single mom.

  It’s been eight years since it happened, and I don’t think about it much anymore. Sometimes weeks will go by and I don’t think about it once. That’s one of the advantages of not dating, to be honest. Because as much as I love kissing and fooling around, what happened when I was twelve years old screwed me up when it comes to sex.

  Which makes it pretty damn hard to have a normal relationship.

  It took me a while to even be able to masturbate. I felt disconnected from my own body for a long time. I do plenty of that now, at least. But no girl has ever made me come.

  I fantasize about it. There was a stretch freshman year when I fantasized about Tamsin every damn night. But when I’m actually with a girl, even if I’m totally into things, I freeze up if she tries to go down on me or even touch me.

  I’ve figured out ways to avoid that happening. The secret is being so good at making a girl come that she’s perfectly happy to stick with that.

  It helps that I love going down on girls. And a good kissing session can go on for hours.

  I don’t have any issues with our bodies touching—the grinding that happens when you’re making out. It’s just when a girl goes to unzip my pants that I get messed up.

  I always figured I’d get over it someday. I hope I do. But it’s not going to happen with Tamsin.

  Tamsin is totally comfortable with her body, with sex, with herself. There’s no way she’d be happy just to kiss a guy she’s dating, or even just to let him go down on her. And how would I explain not wanting to go further?

  I can’t lie and say it’s about religion, because it isn’t. Some people in my church want to wait until they’re married, and that’s fine—but I don’t have a problem with premarital sex.

  It’s not that I don’t want to do it. It’s that I can’t do it. And there is no way, absolutely no fucking way, that I’m going to let Tamsin Shay see exactly how screwed up I am. I’ve lusted after this girl since the first time I saw her, and I couldn’t stand for her to find out that part of me is broken.

  Maybe it’s old-fashioned. Maybe it’s bullshit. But if you’re going to be with a girl like Tamsin, a girl who’s smart and funny and challenging and sexy, I think you should be whole. I think you should have something to offer her.

  I slide down on the bench a little, resting on my tailbone. The cool breeze feels good and my heart rate has settle
d down. It’s time to stop freaking out and put things in perspective.

  Okay, so I’m not whole. And if we were talking about a relationship, then yeah, I wouldn’t have much to offer Tamsin.

  But I didn’t say anything about a relationship. I didn’t ask her to be my girlfriend. I didn’t even admit I’m into her, although she probably figured that much out.

  What I did was ask her on a date. And whatever part of my brain is in charge of self-preservation kicked in, because I told her I just want to show her what a date should be like. How a real man should treat her.

  As opposed to, say, an asshole like Oscar.

  So, fine. I can stick with that. No kissing, I said. No fooling around. Just a good old-fashioned date. All during freshman year I saw Tamsin do little things for Oscar—bake cookies for him and get coffee for him and rub his shoulders and help him study for tests—while he hardly ever did anything for her.

  That’s fucked up. And if I can stay focused on that—on treating Tamsin the way she deserves to be treated—then I’ll be okay.

  It’s just one night, after all. One date. And after that, things will go back to normal between Tamsin and me. We’ll have zero in common, spar in class, and disagree about pretty much everything.

  But maybe Tamsin’s next relationship will be with the kind of guy she deserves. And if I can show her what that looks like, then the torture of a romantic night with a girl I’ll never be with will be worth it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tamsin

  “How do I look?”

  I haven’t been this nervous to go out with a guy in years. I spent the last two days thinking about what to wear, and I finally settled on the white blouse and gray skirt I wore to my cousin’s wedding last summer. My makeup is minimal, my hair is up, and I’m wearing my low-heeled Mary-Janes.

  Rikki looks up from her book and studies me for a long moment.

  “Well?” I ask finally. “What’s the verdict? How do I look?”

  “Like you’re about to knock on a stranger’s door to talk about the miracle of God’s love. If that’s what you’re going for, well done.”

  I turn to look in the mirror. Is she right?

  Maybe. I mean, I don’t think I’ve gone full-fledged Jehovah’s Witness or anything, but it occurs to me that if I were going on a job interview, this is the outfit I’d wear.