by Nessa Morgan
It’s so hollow here.
Baby girl… the voices whisper. Baby girl, I’m here for you. Louder and louder, the voices carry. I’m here with you. My hands cover my ears, praying for silence, but the sounds grow louder and louder, always louder and louder.
I can’t escape. My usual climb has halted, my usual struggle has ended when all fight left my body, and I just fall, weightless, into the darkness.
Wherever I land… that’s where I’ll remain.
Seven
Saturday morning and I’m lying in bed still trying to process, still trying to somewhat understand what the hell happened last night. I didn’t get much sleep. I couldn’t sleep at all, really. Every time I closed my eyes, I just felt… hands on me, scouring me. I stayed up until three in the morning trying to ignore what happened. When that didn’t work, I tried to make sense of what Ryder was doing, or trying to do, to my body.
How he had me pressed hard against the desk, into the desk, one hand roaming my body, copping feels, the other hand in my hair, yanking my head back until it hurt. How he ripped my shirt, his body pressed into mine on the couch.
Holy balls.
It was disgusting, repulsive—it is disgusting. If he did anything like that to Alexia, I feel sorry for her. If she liked it, she’s crazier than she tells people I am.
But how could she like that? How could she like the feeling of someone controlling her body, taking something from her with the use of that much… force?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
Well, Homecoming is off, whether he knows it or not. He hasn’t called me, and I don’t want him to. If he does call, I’ll threaten to press charges for attempted rape—even though that’ll definitely be an empty threat, one that he’ll certainly see right through. I just don’t want to talk to him and I don’t want him to try and talk to me.
But I need to do something tonight, anything to keep me and my mind occupied.
Hmmm…
I know just the thing.
I grab my phone, dialing a number I’ve neglected for a while.
“Hello?” Harley says on her end of the line after three rings. When I’m bored, I count things.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly, sitting up in my bed. I look toward the window, the part in the venetian blinds lets me see Zephyr’s window across the alley. His white blinds are shut.
“Junk food and movies,” she tells me. I hear the rustle of a bag in the background. Has she already started the ritual?
“Bring them over here,” I tell her, loving the idea of a girl’s night. “We’ll start our own Homecoming tradition.”
Harley’s quiet for a moment. I can picture her running her hand through her messy bed head or playing with her lip ring. “What happened to the dance,” she finally asks, her curiosity getting the best of her.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I reply quietly. My eyes dart to my window and I just want Zephyr to open his blinds and pop his head out his window, his voice low as he calls to mine. But how can I expect everything to go back to normal just because I called on him last night? “Not now, anyway. Will you come over?” I ask, knowing that I’ll eventually tell her—possibly, if I ever work up the nerve—just not tonight. And definitely no time in the near future. Maybe during our twenty-year high school reunion when both of us will have completely forgotten this conversation and we’re both too busy with our separate lives to care about something that happened during our junior year.
That sounds like a plan.
“Let me find my most comfortable sweats,” she starts. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”
I smile.
We hang up and I change into my own comfy clothes; oversized black sweatpants with flowers running up the sides, a bright pink camisole, and my bright green Abercrombie & Fitch zip up hoodie.
By the time she arrives, holding less junk food than I originally pictured, we take a trip to the nearest Fred Meyer’s, loading up on enough sugar and salt to put us in a coma or an early grave. We buy a few new DVDs, mostly of the horror/slasher variety, and now we’re set for the night.
I hear a light tap, tap, tap against the front door while Harley sets up the coffee table—covering it in bags and bowls of chips and cookies, and cans of Mountain Dew and Cherry Pepsi. I open the door, still laughing with Harley about a joke she told, half-expecting Ryder to be on the other side holding a corsage or some stuff like that. Believe me; I’m completely prepared to punch him in the throat.
That isn’t who I see—that isn’t who’s standing on the other side of the door, long dark hair messy as if his hands have recently been through it, dark brown eyes trained on me as the nervous smile stays on my face.
“Zephyr?” I ask, staring at his brown eyes, not angry, nor tired, this time. It’s not one in the morning; I haven’t sought his help like a stupid little girl expecting someone to save her. He’s just standing on my front porch, a small smile covering his lips, like he’s happy to see me. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Homecoming,” he answers with a shrug.
I ask, “And?”
I know what day it is.
“Just wanted to check on you,” he pauses, shaking his hair from his face. “You know, before you went to the dance,” he says quietly.
“Zeph,” I start, leaning against the edge of the door. That isn’t a smart thing to do, especially if the door moves at all. Then you’re falling on your ass while your friends stare, point, and laugh at you. But the door doesn’t move. “You should know I'm not going to the dance tonight.” I don’t want to be anywhere near it. Not without reinforcements.
He slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunch forward—he looks relieved. “I wasn’t entirely sure,” he tells me. “What are you going to do, then?”
“Movies. Food,” I start, turning to watch Harley place more things on the little wooden coffee table. “The usual girl’s night, really,” I say.
“Okay.” He smirks.
We both stand there, surrounded by awkward silence, just staring at each other.
“Wanna join?” I ask.
His eyebrows shoot up. “For a girl’s night?” he asks, disbelief and sarcasm in his voice.
“Why not?” I ask with a shrug of my shoulders. It’d be fun, I think.
“I’m missing crucial body parts—plus the extra one I have—to be considered a girl, Jo,” he points out. As if I need to be reminded about that. I’m well aware he has more between his legs than me.
My eyes trail down his body, taking in the outfit; dark jeans and a black sweater—a sweater? Hello, Mr. Rogers—he’s slightly overdressed for the occasion.
“You’re just a little”—I hold up my hands, using my fingers to accentuate—“overdressed,” I tell him.
“Who’s overdressed?” Harley asks from the couch, her eyes surveying over the sugar buffet we’ve created.
“Zephyr,” I answer. I see her eyes roll. “I’m inviting him to our girl’s night?”
“Only if he can handle the gore,” Harley shoots back.
With a slight hesitation, Zephyr nervously asks, “What gore?”
I don’t tell him. With a smirk, I do tell him, “Change into some sweats, this party has a dress code.” I let him look me over in my lounge attire, and I see happiness light his eyes. I love the feeling of his eyes on me. Interrupting his brief perusal, I say, “Then head back over.”
After ten minutes, Zephyr’s on my couch, clutching a bag of Doritos while Saw plays on the giant flat screen television Hilary won in a church raffle—back when we went to church. To make sure that we had enough blood, guts, and dismemberment, Harley grabbed the Saw series—all seven movies, including the 2003 short film—from her house, stealing it from her brother’s room. Zephyr brought over his Hostel series, all three movies. Me, I contributed Wrong Turn and its four sequels. Hilary loves these types of movies.
I know we won’t get through every movie today;
we just love options.
Within twenty minutes, I’m lightheaded and bending to rest my head between my knees with Zephyr rubbing his hand on my back in large, soothing circles.
I hear his snicker quietly.
“Shut up,” I mutter from between my knees.
Halfway through Saw III, Hilary walks in to find us surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans. We’re cowering on the couch, huddled together. I’m nearly buried behind Zephyr and Harley’s sitting in my lap, clutching my arm so tightly, her nails are drawing blood.
“What are you three doing?” she asks loudly, causing us all to jump and yelp with extreme fright. None of us heard her walk through the door, which is weird because we can see the front door.
“Horror—movie—marathon,” I respond between long gasps. I clutch my hand to my racing heart, willing it to calm down, willing the air the fill my lungs.
It takes a few moments, but we all calm down and Harley backs away. I stay tucked beneath Zephyr’s arm.
“Is that Saw?” my aunt asks, her head tilting to the side as she watches someone wake up in a trap. The usual MO for this film.
“Number three,” Harley answers, reaching for a bowl of Cheetos on the table. The last bowl of chips was thrown into the air—by me. The remains are scattered around us.
Cleaning later should be loads of fun.
“I love these movies,” Hilary replies, grabbing the package of Oreos from the table and taking a seat in the recliner against the front window.
“Only you would say that, Aunt Hil,” Zephyr states with a nervous laugh. He was actually scared earlier, but I know he won’t admit it. He’s too manly for emotions
“And me,” Harley offers, her orange dusted hand rising into the air proudly.
“You so don’t count,” I counter, lightly tapping her on the back of the head. “You were just as scared as me a moment ago.” The smile drops from her face. She’s caught and she knows it, ha. “And Aunt Hil is the only one demented enough to do anything like this.” I motion to the screen in front of us.
“Not that I ever would, Joey,” Hilary defends from her chair. “Unless provoked,” she says quieter before popping an Oreo in her mouth, catching all of our curious attention. We all stare, openmouthed, at the woman that’s my guardian, my caregiver.
“Now I’m scared,” Zephyr tells me as I lean back to my original place under his arm, his hand rubbing my upper arm slowly.
“As well you should, young Zephyr,” Aunt Hil says, a tiny giggle escaping her lips.
I snort loudly, Harley chokes on a chip, and Zephyr stiffens. I can only imagine the look on his face at this precise moment.
“Gosh, take a joke, will ya, kid?” My aunt’s joking, thankfully. “Not that I don’t love slasher movie marathons and all that but I thought you were going to the dance?” my aunt asks, distracted.
Again, really, can’t a girl change her mind around here?
“Plans change.”
Plans change, shoes change, feelings change, people change. Everything changes around here.
I reach past Harley to steal a Cheeto from the bowl in her lap, quickly popping it into my mouth and mashing it between my teeth with too much force. I accidentally bite the inside of my cheek, wincing lightly at the pain.
“It’s good to see Zephyr lounging on our furniture again,” she says with a full mouth, her words muffled between the bits of munched food. “I kind of missed him. Ryder doesn’t have the same flare.”
At the sound of his name, I grab a handful of Cheetos and stuff them into my mouth before I take a long drink from my Mountain Dew. Zephyr taps me on the head, beaming at me when I turn to look at him with a mouth full of Code Red. I swallow before I reach up and pull his long, dark locks lightly in a tease, watching him wince with faux-pain.
“I know what you mean,” I tell my aunt once my mouth is empty. I’m truly happy that Zephyr is back in my life. I wouldn’t trade him for anything. No Ryder can compete with Zephyr—he’s one of a kind.
“Wait a minute,” Harley starts loudly. It’s like she’s having an epiphany. “Does that mean that I no longer have to feign interest in football at lunch?”
Since when did Harley feign interest in anything Ryder said at lunch? She glared at him; she pictured launching Chinese throwing stars at his face. I know these things because she told me.
“That’s exactly what it means,” I tell her, light kicking her in the side with my pink-socked foot.
Ryder, as of last night, is out of my life. Good riddance. I don’t know why he wanted in my life to begin with, maybe last night had something to do with it—he wanted something and I just wouldn’t give it to him. I’m looking forward to a normal lunch at school again.
“YES!” Harley yells with exuberance, Cheetos flying from the bowl as her arms punch into the air.
“What if I started talking about football right now?” Zephyr quietly asks me, whispering into my ear. His breath against my skin sends a shiver up my spine, one that shocks me.
“You’d be heavily ignored,” Harley warns, her eyes shooting toward him, throwing the metaphorical daggers into his direction.
“Duly noted,” Zephyr mumbles, nodding his head in understanding. He knows if he starts talking about football, he’s going to be wearing the bowl of anything on his head.
After a few minutes and a few more overly exaggerated kills on the flat screen, Harley snaps her attention to me. “The only downside to us just camping out on your couch all night,” she starts, popping a chip into her mouth. “Is that no one’s going to know what your dress looks like.”
“Jamie took a picture,” I confess. They seem to ignore me.
“You should show us,” Zephyr says. His hand taps me on the head. Again.
“I want to see it,” Aunt Hil chimes from the recliner. She hasn’t seen it. I didn’t show her when I bought it, I never brought it up during the past two weeks while it sat on the back of my closet door.
“No, I shouldn’t,” I say to Zephyr and Harley, even Hilary. “I’m returning that thing.” I’ll be sad to see it go, it really is a beautiful dress.
“Please!” Harley and Zephyr beg at the same time. This feels like a set up. Maybe they rehearsed this when I hit the bathroom an hour ago. Harley juts out her pierced bottom lip in a forced pout, putting on the puppy dog eyes. Damn.
“Pretty please?” Hilary begs, using her own form of pouting and begging.
I look to the three of them, all trying to convince me to change out of my comfortable sweats—my pants feel like a cloud, no lie—and change into a formal gown. Are they serious?
“No,” I tell them, attempting to make a stand. I refuse.
“We should at least see you in it before you return it,” Harley reasons, making a good and valid point. But, like a little girl stomping her foot in frustration, I just don’t want to.
And yet, I know that I have to, damn it.
“Fine,” I stubbornly relent, shoving my way from the comfortable couch and warm nook I created beneath Zephyr’s arm. “Pause the stupid movie, I’ll be right back,” I grumble, stomping up the stairs. I hear my supposed friends snicker behind me. Some friends you are.
In my room, I drape the plastic covered dress across my unmade bed. I untie the bottom of the bag it hangs in, and strip out of my clothes, quickly slipping the dress over my head. I feel it fall down my body, falling down my legs softly until it hits the floor. I don’t bother with the shoes, I don’t need them to walk through my house, and they’re getting my hair the way it is—unruly and messy.
“Okay?” I call once I start walking down the hall, holding the fabric of the gown to keep me from tripping and tumbling down the stairs. I can’t return this if it’s covered in my blood.
“Wait!” Harley yells up to me. “You should make an entrance,” she calls.
An entrance? …the hell?
I stop in my tracks, rolling my eyes in frustration. “Who are you and what have you done with my best
friend?” I yell down to the main floor, seriously wondering if I should be concerned. “I think you’ve switched body’s with Kennie or something.” I need to look for blonde hair peeping from beneath a wig when I walk into the living room. This can’t be Harley Davidson.
And yes, her full name is Harley Davidson—after the motorcycle manufacturing company. Her dad was in a biker gang when he met her mother. His first born, which he thought was going to be a boy—the doctor told them they were having a boy—turned out to be a girl. They still liked the name and it stuck. Then they had a boy, named Arthur, after one of the founders of the company.
It’s a fun family story, a cute story—it’s better than mine. My full name, Josephine, comes from Josephine Baker, the talented dancer and my mother’s idol growing up. She aspired to be the next Josephine Baker one day but when her dreams fell short because of one decision she made, she decided to immortalize her dreams with me.
As the memory comes to me suddenly, as most of them do, my hand instinctively clutches the locket I never take off. The locket that somehow matches the dress I wanted to wear tonight.
Quickly, I push it aside. It’s a little too heavy for this moment.
“Shut up, would ya?” That’s the Harley I now.
“You can come down the stairs now.” That’s Hilary’s voice. No doubt, she’s waiting for this. She’s never seen me in a formal gown.
“What type of entrance can I…” I start, walking down the stairs—trying hard not to stumble—while bright lights flash in my face, blinding me with every step I take. Spots flutter in my already horrible vision. “Are you taking pictures of me?” Stupid question. Another bright flash followed by another. I swear Hilary has a—what the hell?—video camera attached to her hand.
When did I walk into a teen movie?
“We need to remember the night you could’ve danced away,” Hilary says, angling a lamp my way to better the lighting.
“Fu—” I stop myself as her kind expression hardens. “Forget you,” I joke, censoring myself as best I can in front of my aunt. Harley gets it instantly, her smile widening as she pauses between pictures.
