Looking at her, I thought, You’re so pretty. Despite everything, you are still so pretty, Mom. I don’t notice it much anymore, but she is, she’s beautiful. I thought about telling her that, too, then she took a sip of beer and said, They’re cutting back at work, and I said, But they already cut back. She nodded. More, she said, and I said, You lost your job? It was so awful, my mouth fell open. Not exactly, she said, but I’ll be working part-time now, which is better than nothing. I said, I’m so sorry, Mom, because I didn’t know what else to say.
My mind started reeling, trying to figure out what we’d do, where we’d go, what I could do. I’ll try to get a job, after school, I said, and I knew it sounded dumb, because if there were any jobs, my mom could get one, too. Thanks, babe, she said, smiling, but not wanting to talk about that yet. Looking at her face, I felt so bad, because I spend so much time keeping her out of my life, keeping away from her in every possible way; I forget how much I need her. But the thing is, I’m almost afraid of how much I need her since she just isn’t very strong anymore.
What else? I asked, sensing she hadn’t told me everything, and she dropped her head side to side, shoulder to shoulder, a few times. You’ve gotten lots of offers, Thea, people offering a lot of money for your story, Thea, and then I knew, seeing the look in her eye. She lost her job, and we needed money, and people wanted to pay me to talk about Cam and me. To tell my story, right, but how could I do that? On the other hand, look at our house. Look at where we are. How could I say no, knowing how badly we needed money? So, I said, there, almost laughing, almost crying, just covering my mouth: What do I do?
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 28, 2010
(FOUR MONTHS EARLIER)
9:54 PM
I must’ve seemed like a prude, I stopped him so many times. I’d finally told him just about every secret I have to tell, but I still wouldn’t let him touch me. For like two months, soon as he’d reach under my shirt or touch my skin or just about anything, I’d tense up. Like even my sleeves, anything above my knees, I’d pull away. Like it was fine if he touched me over my clothes, but never under, and I’d always turn out the light, too. Then, one night, after I told him about Spencer’s party and everything with the hospital, Cam goes, Thea, why won’t you let me see you? And I said, You can see me.
He goes, No. You won’t let me see you; you won’t let me touch you, he said, and he wasn’t pushing—Cam never pushed. He just wanted to understand what was going on with me, and he could tell—I mean, of course he could tell, when I wouldn’t even let him touch my bare arms, something’s not right. So, finally, I decided I’d told him that much, I might as well show him. So I sat up, and I turned on the light, and I got up. I go, I don’t let you see me, and I don’t let you touch me, because I have scars all over my body, and he looked at me, and I took off my sweatshirt, so he could see the scars up and down the inside of my biceps, both sides. Then I took my shirt off and let it fall on the floor. And I unbuttoned my pants, starting to pull them off, and he reached—I’ll never forget that, that he reached to stop me, like I didn’t have to do that, and I shook my head no. I did have to do that, because I needed him to see. I needed him to see me, all of me, not just 3 percent.
So I took my jeans off, and I stood there, in my bra and underwear, and I turned around in a full circle, so he could see them all. He was sitting up, on the side of my bed, then he reached for my hands, pulling me to him, and he goes, Oh, baby, what happened? And I thought about it, where to begin, then I told him: Me. I happened. I did it to myself. That’s why they sent me to the hospital, my mom and dad, I said. Because I couldn’t stop cutting myself, and they couldn’t get the drugs right.
I didn’t tell him, but at that moment, I remembered what Brandon had said about me, after that night, that party. He told everybody I looked like I’d been in a slasher film, naked. God, the way Cam was looking at me, the moment he brushed a tear away from his eye, on the back of his hand, and then he said, Come here. I swear, I don’t know what I was more afraid of, that he would touch me or that he wouldn’t. Come here, he said, in a softer voice than before, so I stepped forward. I felt so brave, but only for a second, and then I got a chill, and I’m standing there, covered in goose bumps and scars: gross. I felt as sexy as a raw chicken breast, and I laughed, because I was so nervous, so naked. And then I felt choked up, looking at him, holding my face in his hands, looking into those big gray eyes of his, thinking, What’s happening? How or… where do I know you from?
Please, let me look at you, Thea, he said, putting his hands on my hands, pulling them away from my chest. He looked at every inch of my body, and I rolled my eyes back, trying so hard not to cry, and then he stood up, right in front of me, and he said, Beautiful… I think they’re beautiful. My scars—he meant my scars. I mean, there I am, so ashamed, I’m shaking, hiding myself, and there he is, telling me they’re beautiful, that I’m beautiful, and that’s when I started crying, asking him, How can you say that? Cam said, Because they’re part of you. And then, ugh, I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like that, and he just held me the whole time, smoothing my hair. Look at all my scars, Thee—we match, he said, and I said, You got those from skateboarding—it’s not the same. And he opened his mouth, about to say something, then he nodded no, tilting his head. Doesn’t matter, he said. When I stopped crying, he goes, Thee, I know I can’t stop you, but I don’t want you to do that to yourself anymore. Please, he said, listen, and he swiveled around, something serious to say to me, I could tell.
Listen, he said, grabbing both my hips. Shit like that’s always bound to come up at you again, sooner or later, and I can’t stop you, no one can, I know that, Thee. But you’ve got to fight. Promise me, if you ever feel the urge to do that, to cut yourself, Cam made himself say, so I’d know he could say the words—he wasn’t afraid of saying what I am, really. Promise me that if I’m not there—. Where would you be? I asked him, suddenly worried, and he said, Promise, you’ll put up a good fight? Okay, I promise, I said. Good. Say it again, he said, and I said, I promise to put up a good fight, laughing and exasperated. And it felt so good, knowing that he could love me exactly as I am, who I really am, but the trick is, now I had to be that person. Real. I blushed, actually, realizing that as messed up as I am, he could love me, and as screwed up as I am, he would never judge me. And then he reached out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me to him.
He sat right there in my computer chair, in front of me, pulling me forward, pulling down my underwear, leaving nothing, not a stitch. He still had his jeans on, it’s just me who was naked. What I remember most clearly is holding his head in my hands, how bristly soft his hair felt, and looking down, watching him, running his tongue down my right tit—watching the hairs on my arm stand on end, getting the chills, completely erect, when he sucked my nipple, and then slowly kissed his way across my chest to the other nipple. I didn’t even think I liked pretty boys, and watching his face—god, he’s so pretty—I had that spasm again, where I can’t believe how beautiful he is, and yes, I did want to take a picture of his face, slightly in profile, kissing across my chest. But I didn’t: I just watched him, thinking, You are so beautiful, and you are so… tender. I really had no idea what that word meant until then, tender.
People always talk about your first time. The thing is, there isn’t just one first time, there are many first times, if you really love that person. I mean, there’s the first time between your legs, with your body, but there’s the first time inside your chest, in your heart, too. And that was our first time.
SUNDAY, MAY 22, 2011
(SEVEN WEEKS LATER)
10:37 AM
I kept drawing. I kept working on Hubble, drawing and writing in it every day, because what else could I do? Who else could I talk to? Even if—even if Cam was dead, and I know he’s not, but even if he was dead, he’d still be the only person I could talk to. So I wrote like I always had, like he’d read it tomorrow, when I handed it back to him before first period. I told him everything
he was missing, whether it was funny, or I was angry or scared or both. I told him, I wish you could see my face now. Every day, I wish you could feel what I feel, even though I know you can’t. And you couldn’t yesterday, or the day before that, or last week, and chances are, you won’t feel what I feel tomorrow or the next day, either. But I still can’t stop wishing that you could. So what is it, chemical? Really, is hope just another chemical? I don’t know, I really don’t. Whatever.
You know there are videos of us all over the Internet? Or at least there are videos of people who look like us—exactly like us, you and me. Someone sent me a new one yesterday. From that night we went to 7-Eleven? Remember that time we went and I got so upset because they had that can at the counter for donations for abused animals? And it had that picture of that dog and the cat, and we were having so much fun, but that picture almost made me cry? It was a tape from the security camera, right above the counter. It’s black and white and grainy, and you can’t hear very well, but I remember the color, the live version, and I, I remember everything.
That was an easy one, too. Most of the videos aren’t easy, not even close to the ones of us in my bed. And I know it’s not you, that you couldn’t have taken them, but the way they’re shot, the only person that close to me was you. Seriously, the only person who could have shot them was you. Because there’s a camera pointed in my face, at my neck, looking downward, pointed at my crotch, your crotch, and it shows everything. It makes me sick, watching the two of us, in my room, in my bed. It’s you and me, and I can’t even stand to watch us, you know?
All I know is, I almost hope… I almost hope… I’m sorry, but I almost hope something happened to you. I’m sorry, but it’s true, because it’s like I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you if you just ran away like that. No, not if you left me here, alone. Because I shouldn’t have to deal with this alone—with school, my mom, your mom, the whole town, the whole world, every day. I keep my phone turned off all the time now, and I can barely stand to open my computer anymore, the messages people leave, the things people post about me, e-mail me. No one deserves that, but I definitely don’t.
So I don’t know what people see or don’t see, except when they make comments in the halls. Do you know how paranoid it makes you, someone sending you a video of yourself that only one person could have taken, but knowing there’s no way? I tell them, too—I tell my mom, Knox, the lawyers, that it’s impossible. You couldn’t have shot that, because you would have had to have a camera in your hand to get that close. So I don’t understand, because it’s just not possible. But it’s there, online. Everyone at school has seen it—the whole world’s seen it. They try to take it down, Apple does, YouTube does, but every time it gets a hit, the image becomes clearer. Even that 7-Eleven surveillance video of us, that’ll be high-def by the end of the week.
Every day, every single day, there’s a moment when I think I’m going to lose it. Why would you do this to me? But I have no idea what to believe, what’s true, if it even matters anymore. The real joke is that everyone knows who we are now. We’re big news, right? We’re celebrities, Cam. And then, sometimes I think about sending you a postcard that says: We’re famous. Wish you were here.
I stopped there, looked at the words, and closed the book. I checked my calendar, wanting to date the page, and I don’t pay much attention to days of the week anymore. I mean, yesterday, tomorrow: same difference. So I put Hubble away, and I went to bed, sometime around four, I think, and then, next thing I know, Mom’s knocking on my door, and of course, I panicked. It just reminded me so much of Karen knocking, and I got up, right away. It wasn’t early, though, I’d just been up late, writing. Actually, it was almost noon, and I opened the door, and Mom said, Wash your face, and come to the living room, and then she turned around.
I could tell it wasn’t Cam, so I put on my slippers, washed my face and brushed my teeth. Then, pulling a sweatshirt over my head, I walked to the living room, thinking we were going to have another talk about the book offers. So, no warning, whatsoever, I walked in, and then I froze. Because it wasn’t the lawyers again; it was worse: It was my dad. Sitting in our living room.
I didn’t recognize him at first, because I was so unprepared to see him there, but he looked just the same, but a little older, a little richer. He was wearing a gray cashmere V-neck sweater, dark Levis, loafers, and a big new watch that probably cost more than my mom makes in a year now. He looked tan, too—probably took a two-week vacation with his new family in the Bahamas, and I thought, Take a good look around: because this is what you did to us. He stood up, smiling, and said, Hello, Thea. I’m so glad to see you, and I looked at him, then I looked at Mom, and then I said, Get out. Get out! Get out of our house! My mom told me to calm down, but I wouldn’t listen. I just started losing it, and it all came back, this wave of rage. At my dad, my mom, at Cam, at the whole fucking world, and I remember my mom putting up her hands, walking over to touch me, and I said, Don’t you touch me! Get out, and go to hell, I said, clenching my jaw. Then I turned and went back to my room, and I slammed the door.
I didn’t come out of my room all day, not until my mom forced me to, sometime after six. She knocked on my door and I said, What? Then she opened the door and she goes, What are you doing? I was sitting at my desk, trying to work, and I go, What’s it look like? She goes, Well, it looks like you’re glaring at me. Dinner, she said, and I said I wasn’t hungry, and then she said, I don’t care. Get out here, Thea, now. I know when I can push, but I could tell by her voice it wasn’t one of those times.
So I walked out, fuming, and sat down at the table, thinking, You can’t make me eat. And then, before she could even say anything, I started in. I said, He has no right to be here. And she goes, He does. He has a legal right to see you, Thea. I go, Not here, not in my house! She goes, Thee, when are you going to forgive him? I said, When I’m ready. That’s when, I said, pushing my chair away from the table, standing up, and she goes, Sit. Down. Sit your ass down, right now, young lady, and eat your dinner, she said, so I parked it.
She brought over a bowl of soup, and she said, I want you to eat before you leave this table. I go, I’m not hungry, and she goes, I didn’t ask if you were hungry—in fact, I didn’t ask you anything. Eat, she said, speaking to me like I was three years old. I said, Please, Mom, I’m not hungry. She goes, Thea, you’re losing weight. You don’t go out; you barely leave your room—. I can’t go outside, I said, and she goes, I know. But I want you to start taking care of yourself. I didn’t argue, Thea—I didn’t say a word about you missing school—I know perfectly well how many classes you’ve been skipping, and I haven’t said a word. Because I know you need space; it’s got to be hell, I know. But you’re going to eat something. Right now. Come on: four bites, she said, and I looked at the bowl.
I pushed my spoon around, and I tried, but the smell of food was so disgusting. I said, I can’t, Mom. I can’t do this—I can’t do any of this anymore, and I started crying. I didn’t think she’d budge, and then she stood and walked to my chair, before hugging me.
It’s going to be all right, she said, kissing my head. I looked at her, and I said, How can you say that? She tilted her head, side to side, then she goes, Good question. I don’t know, sweetheart…. I guess, I guess you just have to believe, like it or not, she said, hugging my head to her stomach. Made me so angry, too, I raised my voice again, and I go, Believe in what, Mom? In what? She took my chin in her head, and she lifted my face, and then she said, In you, Thea. I believe in you.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2010
(FOUR MONTHS EARLIER)
2:47 PM
There were parties all week, and Cam kept asking me to go, but I wouldn’t. I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone saying something, making a dig—anything would have set me off. But finally, he was just like, Thea, what’s the deal? I mean, we’d gotten so close, and I think he thought I was pushing him away. Maybe I was, but then I decided to tell him. I knew he mu
st have heard something, so I told him all about the party, what happened, the hospital, how one thing lead to another, you know?
It got really bad after Spencer’s party, after all my friends turned on me. That Monday, after the party, I can’t describe it, but soon as I walked in the door, I knew something had changed, and whatever it was, I knew it had something to do with me. It started building like a headache, little by little. After a few days, I didn’t feel anything but pressure, all day long, from the moment I opened my eyes, until I closed them. Even in my sleep, I felt pressure, building and building, and the only way to relieve the pressure was to cut it out—I had to get it out. That’s what happened. One day, after school, right before spring break. I cut too deep, and I got blood everywhere. When I passed out, seeing all the blood, I hit my head on the side of the bathtub and gave myself a concussion. I was completely out, when my mom found me, and then she freaked and called an ambulance, and they rushed me to the hospital, wheeling me behind these curtains, cutting off my clothes…. It was so awful.
After the doctors told my mom how I just missed an artery in my thigh, and how scarred up I was, they had to call in Social Services to be sure it wasn’t child abuse, and they contacted my dad. When my dad found out what happened, how my mom found me in the bathroom, about the ambulance and everything, he gave her an ultimatum. He said if my mom didn’t take action, he would, and not only would he have me institutionalized, he said he’d sue her for full custody. And that he’d win. God, I hate lawyers.
She signed the papers that day. They kept me overnight for observation, but my mom committed me that day, and she didn’t even tell me—I had no idea what was going on. So when we got home, the next day, I walked into my room, and she’d already torn my whole room apart, like I did that day my parents told me they were getting a divorce. She searched every inch of my room, looking for razors, anything I might have hidden—my computer, my phone, all my notebooks. She even cut the lock off my footlocker, my hope chest. The place where I keep all my treasures safe, like that Easter card Gram sent.
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