Naked

by Stacey Trombley

  “Covering the gym with strings of light?” He stares at me for a second, then he beams with excitement. “We could actually make it look good this year.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “I like it. So if we’re doing that theme, we should have a sign or something with the Eiffel Tower, too. Think we can draw or make a big Eiffel Tower or something?”

  I shrug.

  “We’ll need two big signs, I think, one a welcome sign for when you walk into the school that says Welcome to the City of Light, and the other a poster of the Eiffel Tower. With the lights, the gym won’t really need anything else.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m glad I was able to suggest the lights, because I feel a bit oblivious about everything else.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Harkins after school to get his okay on it all, then we can figure out exactly how to do it.”

  “One more thing,” I say. “We’ll need more help, don’t you think?”

  He blinks. “Who?”

  “Think Jen and Alex will be down?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jen agrees eagerly when we ask her to help us decorate for homecoming. Alex is harder to convince.

  “That’s seriously lame,” she says.

  “It’ll be fun!”

  Alex shakes her head. “No way.”

  “You know, we’ll probably need to work during school,” Jackson says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I can get you out of some of your classes.”

  She pauses, her hot dog midway to her open mouth. “Even French?”

  Jackson smiles. “It’s Paris themed. I might be able to get you extra credit for skipping French.”

  Alex sighs. “Fine.” Then she smirks and I smile. How could she say no to that?

  “Yes!” I say.

  But after lunch, apparently word is already out about who’s decorating for homecoming, and someone isn’t happy about it. I hear her voice before we even clear our trays.

  “Oh my God, you’ve got to be kidding. Homecoming is going to be horrible this year.”

  Marissa and Liz are staring straight at us, arms crossed

  “The freaks are decorating. What’s the theme? Sexual dysfunction?” Marissa says.

  I actually laugh at that and turn to Jackson. “That’s a good idea. What do you think?”

  “Yeah. We can put cardboard cutouts of Freud and Viagra bottles everywhere. Serve hot dogs and doughnuts.”

  “Ugh, I’m so not going,” Marissa says. Her friends roll their eyes, which I kind of find amusing. Then a boy walks up from behind her and wraps an arm around her shoulder.

  “Oh, you’re going,” he says.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Brandon, it’s going to suck,” Marissa whines.

  He whispers something into her ear, and she looks to the ground, defeated. Is it normal that I feel sorry for her? Even a nasty girl like her deserves a choice. Still, I turn and walk away with Jackson, Alex, and Jen.

  “Come back here, bitch,” Marissa calls to me, but I don’t stop, and neither does Jackson.

  We walk down the hall, ignoring the jeers they send our way. Halfway down, Alex and Jen go right while we turn left. I think we’ve avoided more jabs from Marissa and Brandon—

  Until a hand grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward them.

  I pull back. “Don’t touch me.”

  Marissa crosses her arms, and her boyfriend grins beside her.

  What’s their deal?

  Two more girls stand there with worried looks on their faces. Her friends from the bathroom. I remember the blank looks.

  “I wasn’t done talking to you,” Marissa says to me with a sneer.

  “Marissa, just drop it,” the dark-skinned girl says. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Yeah,” the brunette next to her says. She leans in and starts to whisper, “She—”

  But Marissa whips a hand up and swats her away. “This is my business. Cool it.”

  Her business? What business could she possibly have with me? She just wants to make someone else feel worse than she does.

  I can’t do it. I can’t stop myself from saying something.

  “Just because your boyfriend treats you like shit doesn’t give you the right—”

  “Excuse me?” Marissa says much too loudly. Her eyes grow wide, and her boyfriend takes a step forward. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  Like that your boyfriend is blackmailing you with a sex video, I want to say. Yeah, I know plenty enough. I don’t say anything, though. I let my eyes tell her what I know.

  Brandon gives me the kind of sadistic smirk I’ve only ever seen in johns. Maybe my joke was closer to the truth than I thought.

  “You’re a whore, Anna Rodriguez. We know it. Everyone knows it.” He spits my name like it’s disgusting.

  It is disgusting.

  But my advantage is that he’s lying to get under my skin. He doesn’t know how close to the truth he is.

  Does he?

  I think of the note in my locker.

  Did he somehow find out what happened to me in New York?

  A soft hand grabs my arm and pulls me back, and Jackson puts himself between me and them.

  “Shut the hell up,” he says. “You know nothing about her.”

  I get that sick feeling again. Jackson’s standing up for me again. Only…I don’t know if Brandon is only calling me a whore to get under my skin or if he really knows. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s right.

  I am a whore.

  Or was.

  Or…I don’t know. Can you ever stop being a whore? Somehow, it becomes part of you.

  Brandon grins. “And you do?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, buddy.”

  At this I turn and push my way through the crowd of bodies. They part for me like they’re afraid to touch me, but I’m glad, because I need to get away as fast as I can. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink to keep them back.

  “Anna!” Jackson calls, and he runs after me, but I don’t stop.

  I keep pushing, keep running from the horrible past I won’t ever be able to escape. But hell if I’ll stop trying.

  Finally I reach the end of the hall and I stop. I’m far away from the crowd of gossipers, and the bell is going to ring soon, so the halls are clearing out.

  I press a hand over my mouth and cry. I want to stop when I see Jackson coming closer, but it’s too late now.

  “Anna,” he whispers from behind me. When I don’t turn to him, he walks around and stands in front of me. “You can’t let them get to you.”

  I shake my head, fighting the tears. The more I react, the more he’ll suspect I’m not what he thinks I am. I’m not that good girl with a slightly troubled past. No, I’m royally fucked up.

  I’m not the damsel in distress.

  I’m the villain.

  It’s only a matter of time before he realizes this.

  “I don’t understand why you let it get to you so much, Anna. What they say…it’s stupid. It’s not true, so it doesn’t matter.”

  I choke on another sob. Only it is true. I wish I could tell him this. Maybe I should. Maybe I should just rip the Band-Aid off. Take off my mask and let him see the scars beneath. Then I could stop being so scared he’ll figure it out on his own.

  Except I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want him to see.

  I don’t want him to change the way he looks at me, the way he feels about me. I need his faith in me. It’s the only thing keeping me going right now.

  The bells rings, leaving only Jackson and me in the hall. He wraps his arms around me, and I press my wet eyes onto his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else and only pulls away when I do.

  “Ready for class?” he asks me.

  I nod and wipe the tears away. I feel so stupid for crying. So what if some idiot teenager called me a whore? I
’ve been called a whore a million times, hooker a million more. I’ve called myself those words. They’ve been true for years now, and I’ve never been afraid of that truth. Until now.

  Until Jackson.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After school, Jackson, Jen, Alex, and I stay to work on the decorations. We only have two weeks to get everything together, but today isn’t the most productive day. Jackson starts off just showing us some of his old props and some pictures of last year’s homecoming decorations. They’re pretty lame, I won’t lie. Ugly red ribbons tied in bows all over the place, one big sign that just says Homecoming. They didn’t put much effort into it, that’s for sure.

  If Jen and Alex saw or heard about what happened in the hall after we left the cafeteria, they don’t say. No one speaks about it at all.

  This is both good and bad. Mostly, I’m just not in the mood to be happy. Not anymore.

  Then, as Alex lies back to take a nap and Jen and I flip through the book of old decorations and sets, Jackson disappears behind the curtains of the stage.

  It’s quiet on the old stage, only the sounds of Alex’s fake snoring and the plastic of the photo album crinkling. Then Jackson emerges from backstage with an armful of beanbags and an enormous grin.

  “They left the prop box unlocked,” he announced.

  “Uh-oh,” Alex says.

  Before the rest of us can react, Jackson gives a blood-curdling yell and starts throwing little beanbags at all three of us.

  Jen screams. I cover my head, the beanbag hitting the wall right behind me with a thump. Alex jumps up, does this weird roll thing, and grabs some of the discarded beanbags to throw back at Jackson.

  I crawl to hide behind a mural of a sunset, feeling pretty numb. I’m not mad, or scared or happy. I’m nothing. I want to be happy. I want to be able to play with my new friends, but my heart still hurts.

  I pick up one of the beanbags that hit the wall next to me. It’s softer than it looks. I take a deep breath and allow some of the pain, the heaviness to fall away. I let my lips form a small smile and I step out from behind the mural and throw the beanbag back at Jackson. It hits him in the side of the head.

  Everything stops.

  Jackson turns slowly to me, his face unreadable.

  Then he yells “Ahh!” and runs at me with big stomps of his feet. I laugh and run away from him, picking up whatever beanbags I can find and tossing them at him. One hits him in the face, and then I trip and roll to the ground laughing.

  Alex jumps in front of him with her fists up like she’s a boxer. “Don’t worry, Anna! I’ll protect you!”

  “You’ll protect her?” Jackson says, incredulous. “I’m supposed to be the hero!”

  “Why? Because you’re the guy? No way. Besides, you attacked. Heroes don’t attack people.”

  He puts his hands on his hips, and I laugh.

  “I don’t need saving. How about that?”

  “Deal,” Jackson says and flops down next to me. Alex narrows her eyes, like she’s not done playing their stupid game.

  “You guys are seriously insane,” Jen says.

  “Yes, they definitely are.”

  They both shrug.

  I look around, beanbags all over the stage, pages from the album twisted and ripped, photos and paper everywhere. Whoops.

  “Well, we had a productive first day,” I say.

  Alex beams. “I could get used to this. You get extra credit for doing this all the time?” she asks Jackson.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Damn, I’m doing high school wrong.”

  Jackson gives one firm nod.

  I watch Jackson as he stands and grabs a big broom to sweep all the mess into a pile. What is it about him that makes me feel like a kid again? Like I really am innocent. Like I can have a normal, happy life.

  And then people like Marissa and Brandon remind me that while a normal, happy life might be possible for other people, it’s probably never going to happen for me.

  Finally, I get up to help him clean, and Alex and Jen take my lead. It doesn’t take long for us to get things back in order, except that some of the pictures from the album are irreparable. Jackson says no one will notice, and considering how bad some of them are, I believe him. No one should remember those horrible red bows.

  Jackson’s dad picks us up from school and takes us all home. Well, except that Jen comes to my house for our tutor session. I don’t speak to Jackson’s dad, but I try not to look at him like a cop. He’s Jackson’s dad, and that has to mean something, right?

  I take a deep breath.

  Unfortunately, trust is something you can’t force.

  I’m feeling about a thousand times better now than before our beanbag war. My heart is lighter, and even though I’m still scared and feel completely guilty for misleading Jackson, I know I made the right choice.

  This is just something I have to live with.

  As Jen and I study, Mom gives us Cheetos and chocolate milk for a snack. Weird combination, I know, but actually pretty good.

  Jen finally asks me about what happened at school.

  I shrug. “I just let Marissa and Brandon get to me.” Which is true. I hate that I let them get under my skin…they just hit me with a seriously low blow.

  Jen is still quiet, but she’s opening up. She not the kind of person I’d usually be friends with, but we both need friends. We’re both kind of messed up.

  Mom invites Jen to stay for dinner, but she declines, keeping her eyes cast low.

  I walk her to the front door, then tell her good-bye and watch her walk away, alone, down the sidewalk.

  I wish she’d be more confident. Hold her head higher or something. But I kind of understand why she doesn’t after what she went through with Brandon. You only have to be told once that you don’t always have a choice before you realize the truth. You’ll never have as much power as you thought you had. Not over yourself. Not over your destiny. Not at all.

  Dinner’s quiet, and I notice that my father still won’t look at me. Mom is pretty good at faking nice-happy, but at least I can pretend our shopping trip made a difference, at least a little bit.

  We’re about to go our separate ways, Mom to do the dishes, me to my room, when my father clears his throat.

  “We haven’t had a chance to catch up,” he says. “So you two enjoyed your little outing over the weekend?”

  I don’t dare meet his eyes. I shrug and pick at what’s left on my plate.

  “Darling?” he says, looking at my mom, and he frowns when she smiles but doesn’t answer. “Not speaking tonight, are we?”

  No choice now. Why couldn’t he have stayed at work tonight?

  My mother opens her mouth but then shuts it. I feel like I’m missing something here. Some part of an argument I wasn’t in on.

  “Go ahead. Tell me about it,” he says, his hand clenching into a fist on the table—a show of power.

  “I…took her shopping.”

  “Shopping, huh?”

  “We had a nice time,” I say, stepping in, unsure exactly how to help. My mother must not have told him about the shopping trip. Does he know about the dress?

  “And what did you buy?” he says calmly.

  My mother swallows and smiles. “We got Anna the prettiest dress.” She glances at him. “It’s very respectable. Modest.” Then she glances at me. “But still beautiful.”

  My father slowly nods. “Beautiful. Well then, let’s see it.”

  Mom freezes. “What?”

  “The dress.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin, a careful, deliberate motion. Controlled. “Let’s see it.”

  The dress is in my room. I should have taken it to Jackson’s. To school. Somewhere far away from here. Far away from him.

  “I’ll go get it,” Mom says. She rises from the table.

  “No,” he says. “Let Anna.”

  I swallow. He rubs his napkin over his hands, as though wiping any hint of dirt away. Cleaning them for s
ome special purpose.

  My mom’s eyes have gone wide. She wants to be there for me. And I guess I want to be there for her, too. We both know the only way out of this. We have to play along.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll be right back.”

  Three years ago, I would have taken my time going to my room and coming back. But all I can think of is my mom in the kitchen with him. Alone, under his cold stare.

  So I go to my room and take the dress—hanging in its plastic garment bag—out from my closet. I go back down the hallway, the dress held close to me, and I hate that even now, telling him no isn’t an option.

  I hear his voice when I get close to the kitchen.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t know about it? Really, Nora? You used my credit card.”

  “I’m sorry, Martin. I just wanted to spend a little time with her. She’s my daughter.”

  “She’s my daughter, too! And she will do exactly as I say. And so will you. Or by God, I’ll put you in line, too.”

  My hands and the dress they’re holding shake. It would be so easy to drop the dress. To forget about all of this and run out of the house and back to the city. But then I hear my mom’s voice.

  “Martin, you know she’s trying. We’re trying—”

  “I’ve got it,” I say as I come into the kitchen. I stop by the counter.

  My father straightens, then holds his hands out, gesturing for me to continue. “Don’t just stand there. Take it out of the plastic.”

  I swallow and do what he says. I kneel down and carefully remove the dress from the garment bag, and then I stand up and hold the dress in front of me so that it can be seen unfolded to its full length.

  It’s more gorgeous than I remembered. That black and pink zigzag pattern on the top is perfect. Maybe not perfect for Project Runway or whatever, but absolutely perfect for me. And that’s why I’m afraid.

  “Okay, Anna,” Mom says. “You should put it back so it doesn’t get dirty—”

  “Bring it here,” Dad says. “Let me get a good look.”

  I step closer, the dress held to my chest, and stop a few feet away from him.

  He wipes his hands again, lays the napkin down—