by Karen Rivers
She’s floating in my grip.
Maybe I am a superhero after all.
But then I see the most shocking thing I think I’ve ever seen ... her friends, her so-called-friends, are laughing. Aurelia hiccups loudly, changing the mood into something else. Madison waves. Sam is laughing like something is hysterically funny, holding her gut. They’re drunk, but so what?
I somehow get Michael back to her room. Their room. But I lock the door and bolt it. The other girls can sleep outside, that’s what they deserve. I put her in bed. I think she’s awake, but she’s letting on. Her eyes are tight shut like a toddler trying to block out something on TV that she doesn’t want to see. I don’t know what else to do, so I crawl into one of the other beds. It takes a long time, both of us breathing, the sound of that filling up the room. I think she’s crying, but I don’t talk. I want her to have her privacy. I don’t want to freak her out. Finally, I sleep myself, listening to the sound of her sobbing.
In the morning, I wake up. Confused. Don’t know where I am. The sheets smell unfamiliar and are tangled around my legs like a net.
It takes me a minute, and then I remember.
Michael is awake. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, back to me. She’s crying. Still or again, I don’t know which.
“Don’t tell anyone, Y,” she says. “Don’t tell.”
“Of course,” I say. My mouth is so dry. Doesn’t she wonder why I’m here?
“If no one knows, then it didn’t happen,” she says.
“Right,” I say reassuringly. I don’t know how to tell her that she’s wrong. That everyone knows. Everyone. She must know, though; she must already know.
We sit together all the way home. For the first time ever, I don’t feel faint on the bus. The bus itself doesn’t make me feel sick. Not the smell, the air, nothing.
No one asks me why I’m here. Not even the teachers who look hung over themselves. Do they know?
Don’t they have to count heads? I hope we didn’t leave someone behind, someone whose place I’m taking. No one cares. You could cut the tension with a knife. Tony is sitting by himself at the back, sprawled over two seats. Everything about his demeanour suggests that, if you come near him, then he’ll growl and spit. Israel stares out the window through one black eye. Did I do that? Somehow he still looks fierce. Impenetrable.
Innocent.
How can he not look guilty?
Sam, Aurelia and Madison whisper and stare. Whispering and staring is what they do, though this time it’s subdued for them. Others are listening to music. Reading. Everyone looks dazed, like they’ve just survived something terrible and don’t know how to process it, how to describe it, even to themselves. All over the bus, you can imagine them rewriting the story in their heads to make it okay. To make Israel, the school hero, not the bad guy.
I’m getting the feeling that it’s not going to come out so well for Michael. Everyone is quick to hate and blame the pretty girl. Girls will turn on her fast, faster than you can imagine. And boys will be happy to follow along.
I glance over at Michael. Her iPod on, of course. She ignores me. Her skin is blotchy, red. Her hair is stringy. She looks like someone else. Like she’s metamorphosed backward into something worse than she was, a butterfly becoming a caterpillar.
Her eyes sag at the corners, like she’s lost the ability to keep them fully open.
It’s a good thing she has the headphones on.
She won’t hear the sound of the tide turning, the blame falling squarely on her. The story changing under her feet, leaving her with nothing solid to find her footing on. Leaving her alone.
Just like me.
****
Tony
Chapter 14
Dad’s taking me for dinner. Like this is supposed to thrill me. This is supposed to make up for the fact that he’s an asshole. Just fucking delightful, I’m sure. In light of everything else, I find it hard to take it seriously. It feels like a part in a play that I’m not sure I’m even in anymore.
I wonder where he’s going to take me. Chuck E. Cheese? I’m getting tired of him. I’ll admit that at first I wanted him to come home, to be normal, to make everything okay. Now it’s different. Mum is okay, after all, without him. He’s a storm that has passed only he doesn’t realize it. He thinks we’re still there waiting for his next move.
Like we care.
It’s almost comical.
Now he’s taking on the role of divorced dad like he’s been watching too many movies: he wants to go to hockey games. Concerts. Movies. He calls my cell phone and leaves rambling messages that I can’t bring myself to respond to.
Dinner is a new thing, though. I don’t think we’ve ever done that. I feel like I have to go because he delivered the invitation in person. Showed up at the dock this morning, his awkward bulk looming out of the darkness, startling me, as the team went about the morning stuff we always do: bringing the boats down from the boathouse, hosing off the dock, chasing away the fat seals who like to sleep on it. I was so caught up in the routine that seeing him suddenly standing in front of me was like a nightmare. Out of context, it took me a minute to think of how he could be there and what he could want.
“Been having trouble reaching you,” he said. He was wearing too-tight sweatpants and a Habs jersey. I hate the Habs. That’s what I was thinking: how can my father be a Habs fan?
It didn’t make sense, but nothing does. Not anything. Not anymore. Not after what happened this weekend, like a nightmare I can’t get out of my head — my knuckles wrapped in tape still, probably all broken, not that I’m going to go get them X-rayed. The pain reminds me of what happened, of what I wasn’t fast enough to stop. What I should have known was going to happen.
I shouldn’t have let Israel out of my sight. I should have protected Michael.
I should have known. And I did. I did know.
My dad’s presence in my space, my boathouse, my territory? That made the least sense of all.
“Phone’s broken,” I lied. A handful of the guys stopped what they were doing, looking at us strangely. We don’t get many drop-in visitors at five in the morning, I can tell you that.
Coach hovered nearby. “All right?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “My dad.”
He shrugged, went back to attaching lights to the bows of the boats bobbing in the rippling water.
“What do you want?” I asked. “Why are you here?”
“Dinner,” he said. His hands were twisting. Looked like he wanted to be holding something. He put his hands in his pockets, pulled out his keys and started tossing them in the air. “Just want to see my son for dinner tonight, is that so wrong?”
“Dad,” I started. Then I heard the coach’s whistle go. I didn’t want to get into it. “Fine,” I said over my shoulder. “Whatever.”
I guess he left. I didn’t look back. My heart was beating like I’d already finished the workout and I hadn’t even started. Got into the boat and nearly overturned, like all my movements were too big. I felt self-conscious. But once I got going, I could make all the noises in my head shut down. Funny enough, I beat my best time trial. It was like the water was pushing me along instead of stalling my progress. Shooting me forward. So much adrenalin going through my body it felt like something was going to give, something so powerful I’d be propelled out of the boat, into the sky, into the atmosphere, gone.
I tried to forget about Dad. Put the whole thing out of my head. But now I’m waiting for him, worrying. Dinner is awkward, it means too much conversation, normally something he avoids so the invitation itself means he’s going to tell me something. Some big announcement. I fucking hate that I’m scared that he’s going to say that he’s getting his own place, that he’s gone for good.
I want him gone. I don’t know why I wouldn’t.
Mum’s doing so well, so much better. She can get through a whole day without crying. She’s going to work. I don’t want him to fuck it up. I don’t want anyth
ing to do with him. But I hate that I’m sort of looking forward to it. Like I’m a baby, a little kid. Like I should get all excited that Daddy’s taking me out for a goddamn burger.
And then he doesn’t show up.
“I’m sure he’s coming, honey,” says Mum. Standing behind me. Touching me on the arm like she wants to hug me but she doesn’t remember how or maybe I’m too old now for that to be okay.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
I wait. I watch some TV and it’s getting dark outside and he’s not coming. It’s always what you don’t expect, you know? I thought he’d come and give me some bad news; turns out he was never coming at all.
I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m going to cry or jump out of my skin. I almost want to. Want something to happen. Anything. “I’m going out,” I tell Mum.
“Oh!” she says. She looks like she’s going to cry, but at least she doesn’t. She’s getting stronger. I can see it in the iron grey of her eyes. The way her shoulders are squared, like she’s going to lift or push something heavy. She looks different. Maybe it’s just the lipstick. I give her a quick, awkward hug.
“Okay,” she says. “Be careful.”
“I’m just going for a walk,” I tell her. I take my basketball though. It’s comforting, you know? Head down to shoot some hoops. In the dark, in the light, what does it matter? A hundred will make me feel better. I know it. Or maybe less. Maybe just ten in a row will be enough. Maybe fifty. Maybe it doesn’t matter how many. Maybe there’s no formula for it, after all.
I bounce the ball as I walk. Counting without thinking. I pass Yale’s house in the dark. Her scooter is parked out front. She’s the hero, not me. But instead of being jealous or feeling somehow like my role was stolen, I like her more.
I have her eyes in my head and I can’t stop thinking about her. I saw her carrying Michael out of there, saw it from where I was pinned under Matti. Him holding me down. Preventing me from doing what I wanted to do so bad, to Israel. What I couldn’t stop myself from doing.
I guess it’s good that he stopped me.
It’s definitely good that Yale was there. She stopped him first.
Weird thing is, I don’t remember seeing her on the bus on the way up. Don’t remember her being there at all. Like in the comic books, when the heroine swoops in and saves the day. Only she wasn’t naked. Didn’t have huge boobs.
I lose control of the ball and it rolls across the street, I have to jog to catch up to it before it goes all the way down the hill. A dog barks viciously from behind a closed door. I jump. I’m so ratcheted up, my nerves feel like they are hopping: popcorn popping in hot oil.
I start to sprint. Counting footsteps, losing count, counting breaths, holding the ball tight like it’s going to escape. Counting heartbeats. Lines in the sidewalk. Everything, anything.
Trying not to keep seeing the image of Israel’s face. Israel’s smirk as Yale clawed at him. Like she wasn’t hurting him, only she was. She really was. He wouldn’t give that away, though; not on his smug face. He tried to make it look like she didn’t matter, like he was stopping because he was done. But that wasn’t it.
She stopped him.
He makes me so sick, I can’t stand it. My guts cramp like a balled-up fist.
Rape, right? Because that’s what it was. There’s no way it’s anything different. There’s no way she agreed to that. I think of how her hair was always so perfect. Lying there, she looked a mess. She looked so tiny, like a bird that had fallen out of its nest and couldn’t fly away.
I filled out my college applications when I got home. Pretty much the minute I got in the door. I wanted to call the police, but I didn’t know ... I mean, what would that start for her? It wasn’t my choice to make. I also wanted to go to Israel’s house and kill him. I wanted to call Michael, see if she was okay. But I didn’t. Instead, I leafed through the sheaf of papers. Got out my chewed-up pen and started filling in the blanks. It was all I could think of to do. I wanted to pack a bag right then, leave this town and never look back, and that’s as close as I could get. It was two in the morning and I was hunched over those application essays, writing like it was going to save someone. Like maybe it would save me.
Hank’s slumped in his usual spot. For the first time ever, he lifts his hand in greeting. I wave back, stand on the foul line, start shooting. I shoot and shoot. And shoot. Over and over and over again. I don’t hear Israel at first, and then he’s there, next to me. On that stupid skateboard, looking cocky as ever in spite of his bruises. Coughing. Smoking a joint.
“What do you want?” I say.
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just hanging.”
“Don’t hang here,” I say.
“What’s your bent?” he says.
“My bent,” I repeat. “What’s my bent?” I pass the ball to him so hard, to the chest, it knocks the wind out of him. The joint falls into a puddle. He throws the ball back to me, a girl throw. Bounce pass. I catch it easily in one hand.
“What the fuck do you think?” I say.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not embarrassed. Why are you being such an asshole?”
“Why am I being such an asshole?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I said.”
“Is,” I say.
“What?” he says. He’s standing back a bit. Wary. Like he’s going to bolt at any second. I take a step toward him.
“None of that is okay, you sick fuck,” I say. “None of it is okay.”
“What are you talking about?” he says. “You would have done the same. Maybe you could have. She was up for it. If it weren’t for that bitch, Yale, maybe we all would have got what we wanted.”
“You fucking asshole,” I say. I lurch toward him, tripping. Then I’m on my knees and I can tell they are bleeding. He’s running. His feet hitting the pavement like hammer falls that I swear I can feel through my kneecaps. Really running.
I don’t go after him. Let him figure it out for himself.
“Fuck off,” I yell after him. Even though he’s already gone.
In the distance, I can see him slowing to a walk. Bending over like he has a cramp. I used to think he was like liquid but now I see that he’s not at all. He’s just a fucked-up kid who thought he could get away with anything. And he can’t. Or maybe he did.
That’s what scares me the most. Maybe he just did.
Well, maybe he can with everyone else. But not with me. I don’t owe him that much. No way.
I don’t even notice at first that I’m crying, but I am. Again. Crying like a baby. Embarrassing, chest-heaving sobs that threaten to turn me inside out.
Really crying. If anyone saw me, I’d ...
Well.
Hank pats the ground next to him, and I don’t know. Suddenly he looks like the friendliest face I’ve ever seen.
Passes me the bottle.
I drink. And I guess I keep going.
I wake up at sunrise, my face on the ground. Ground into the ground. Broken glass cutting into my cheek. I have no idea where I am, and then I do and I hate myself. That isn’t an exaggeration. I hate myself, lying there. For the first time, ever. I think, what will Mum think?
This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. I can tell from where the sun is in the sky that I’ve missed rowing. I never miss rowing. Not ever. Doing it now feels like a failure.
Not that I could have rowed. My head is exploding. A blinding video game of pain so intense I think, for a second, that I’ll keel right back over again. The sun is so bright, my eyes hurt so bad.
It sounds weird, but I swear that standing over me is Yale, like some kind of creepy transparent guardian angel, and then she’s gone.
My mouth is like paper. So dry.
When I get home, my mum’s on the couch again. She’s crying. Won’t talk to me. Says she was up all night worrying.
I can smell the stench of me, filling up the whole living room with reminders of Joe.
I’m such a fuck-up.
>
Who am I now?
****
Michael
Chapter 15
Of course, she has to go back to school. Head held high. Like nothing happened. That’s the only option. She’s thought of everything. The police, but no. So what if she presses charges? It doesn’t undo it. It just keeps it alive for longer and she’s not up for that. She won’t tell her family, they can’t know. That’s part of it, at least. So she can’t tell.
She should have screamed louder. She should have drunk less. She should have found the strength to run. Clawed his beautiful eyes out of his head. Torn his cheeks open with her nails.
But she didn’t. The cold wintery air touching her skin all over like a thousand hands. She couldn’t get it off her. She couldn’t get him off her. She wasn’t strong enough. He won. She lost.
She hates him. With every cell in her body, she hates him. It fills her up so fully that it’s hard to imagine there will ever be room inside her for anything else. She hasn’t been able to eat or drink or anything and as a result of that — maybe just that, maybe that plus the trauma, the fear, the weird waves of anxiety that are rolling over her like surf — she’s light-headed. Nothing feels quite real enough to matter.
If no one knows, she whispers to herself. She wears her favourite Prada top. Kasil jeans. Frye boots. She’s decked out. Her hair is perfect. But there is something wrong with her face. She knows it. It shows. Of course, it shows. It’s not her skin or her makeup. It’s something in her eyes. Dead fish swimming in a polluted sea.
She’s ruined.
If nothing else, she knows she’s going to take the fallout. It won’t be Israel, she can already tell. He’s too good-looking, too well-liked, too likely-to-succeed. It’s going to be painted as her fault. Someone will suggest that she asked for it and people will want to believe it because she’s one of The Girls.
She’s a bitch.
Did she ask for it?
No, no, no. She didn’t.
She told him to stop. That should have been enough, even if physically he could hold her down. Make her.
