Almost

by Anne Eliot

  “Maybe you can catch up to her in the Mental Ward, because that's where you're heading dude, if you try to follow up on this one.”

  Michelle steps between Corey's face and my fist just in time.

  “Guys. Do not have this fight. Let's go home before we all do something we will regret.”

  “You mean something else,” I say.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jess

  I stop running when I reach my front steps. I sit, taking in a deep, very quiet, breath. Rather than fight against the dream—the memories—I do something I've never done in my life.

  I welcome the voices, the images, the sounds, and the smells from the nightmare. From the worst night of my life.

  I play it over. Sifting and sorting it into consecutive order until the entire memory solidifies and makes sense. Start to finish.

  I even piece together what my parents said at the hospital that night. Every word uttered when they thought I'd been asleep is now burned into my brain.

  ...

  Mom. Crying: “The doctor told me nothing happened. She doesn't remember how she got upstairs in that house. They think she might have been drugged. But we'd need to test for that.”

  Dad, next. Shouting. Accusing: “No. No tests! What's the point? They pumped so much alcohol out of her system she could have died. She can't even remember who's to blame for this. She lied to us. Jess is lucky as hell. Lucky as hell! I hope she learned a lesson.”

  “She was almost raped! What lesson is there in that?” Mom, sniffling again. More tears.

  Dad. Angry. “We've told her how to behave! We've told her not to drink, and that parties are not allowed. The first chance she gets to walk out of our house as a high-school freshman and she pulls this stunt? She put herself in the wrong place at the wrong time and this is what happened.”

  More sobs. Mom falls apart. “I can't believe she was almost raped.”

  “Almost. Thank God. Almost. Nothing happened, right? Honey…you know I don't blame Jess. I just want to kill someone. Our poor girl—”

  And then, a sound more terrible than any of the others: My father, crying.

  “Poor Jess. Poor Jess. What she must have been through. I hope she doesn't remember. They said she might not. I hope that's true. I never want her to remember. I just want her to be fine.”

  ...

  I wipe away my last few tears and pull in a long breath, wondering how long I'd been sitting out here. Wondering if I'd missed my curfew yet.

  As if that matters anymore. I hope my parents ground me forever.

  The safety of my bedroom is all I want right now. I swear I'll never leave this house again. My entire body feels hollow. I can't feel my heart. I can hardly feel myself.

  I slowly open the front door and walk into the entryway. Mom peeks out from the kitchen, as though she'd been sitting in there waiting.

  “Jess. That you? I didn't hear a car pull up,” she says, walking closer. “How was it?”

  I don't try to hide my tearstained face. At least I don't have to pretend I'm upset. I need this to go quickly, so I pull in a long shaking breath and say, “Oh, Mom.”

  The tears start falling all over again.

  Mom ramps right in. “Honey! What's wrong?”

  “I walked from the corner. We—it's over. We broke up.”

  “Why? I thought things were going so well?”

  “It's me. I couldn't deal with it. It was all just moving too quickly. He and I are too different.”

  I can tell by Mom's expression that she's completely on board. She hugs me. I have to admit her arms feel wonderful. I cling to her, wrapping my arms tight around her and hold on for way too long. And then, I remember what I need to do.

  “Mom.” I pause and sniffle again, pulling away. “Will you tell Dad? The BBQ's going to have one less guest. And I'm sorry. I just want to go to bed.”

  “Oh honey, of course. I'm so sorry too.”

  I cringe at those words, and head up the stairs. More tears rain down. I make no attempt to wipe them away. The lingering smell of lavender and the warm feeling from Mom's hug has me stopping and calling out to her just before the landing.

  “Mom?” I turn back, she hasn't moved. “Tomorrow, if you have time, I really want to talk to you and Dad. I need to tell you some things. Some major things. Some are not so good.”

  Mom's face brightens. The expectation in her eyes almost blinds me. “Yes. Of course! Dad and I had wanted to talk to you tonight, about your boyfriend too. But now, it's late and Dad's sound asleep on the couch anyhow. Maybe morning is best. We'd be happy to hear anything you want to tell us.”

  “Good,” I answer, feeling slightly lighter that at least I hadn't lied on that last one.

  I stop in the hall bathroom to wash away the sticky, drying tears with cold water before I brush my teeth. When I reach my room, I quickly put on the softest pajamas I own, throw my hair into a bun, and head for my desk.

  Without even pausing, I take my final college application essays and throw them in the small trashcan under the desk. Maybe I can apply to some online school…

  No matter how I try not to think of Gray, I can't purge all of the terrible things I'd said to him. How he must hate me now. And as much as I'd claimed to hate him.

  But I don't. No matter how hard I try, I can't.

  I also can't blame him for leaving me alone that night.

  He'd just met me, after all. Or…I think he'd just met me. Sadly, I still can't remember meeting him. I wonder if that moment will be erased forever. Gray had tried to tell me about it. Now, I'll never be able to know the rest of that story. I picture Gray as a freshman, all scrawny and puny. I must have blown him off like he'd said.

  I pull out my yearbook from that year and flip to my photo. I'm amazed at how young I'd been. I looked a lot like Kika does now. I'd been sporting a major set of braces too. Plus I had some big attitude that I was a complete woman who could handle anything. Even sneaking out to parties—drinking and talking to upperclassmen.

  My thoughts tumble, and my head begins to hum and spin as my endless tiredness sets in.

  All I want to do is close my eyes and fade into blackness…fade away.

  I stand and pace the room, fighting the sleep monster. The monkey on my back.

  I'm so tired of having this war with myself.

  My gaze scans all of the things that usually make me feel better after I've the nightmare. First, I watch the plastic jellyfish bobbing aimlessly up and down. They swim and twirl in the changing colored light. I realize that even my pets are fake.

  I sigh and move to study the movie posters: Mr. Darcy with his hand on Elizabeth's cheek does nothing for me but make me want to spit. He might love her, but for his whole life, Mr. Darcy means to be a cranky bastard. Edward Cullen, with his arms protectively around Bella while Jacob glares at them, makes me want to puke. And they named their baby Renesme? PLEASE. Jack and Rose from Titanic have me clenching my fists. Rose should have ditched him day one. If she had, she would have made it to the life raft. Romeo and Juliet seem like idiots to me now. They knew it wouldn't work out. Romeo should never have gone back to her balcony. It was his stupid fault. He KNEW. If he had simply not tried, they both would have lived. And who drinks stupid poison to solve problems? Lame. Pathetic. All of them.

  The faces in the posters seem to be mocking me back. I should not have tried, either.

  Who hires a stupid, fake boyfriend to solve problems? Huh? Huh? A lame, pathetic person, like me.

  I've been an actor just like them, all summer long. Stupid stories. None of them are real.

  I peel my BBB, Boys in Books are Better bumper sticker off my wall and scrunch it into a ball. I've learned one thing from this summer: Boys in books are not better.

  Not better than Gray Porter holding my hand, even when I was paying him.

  Before I can register what I'm doing, I've reached up and pulled out the tacks on the Pride and Prejudice poster. I watch it slide down the wall on
to the carpet. I pull down the next, and the next until all are down and rolled up in the closet. I do my calendar photos next. Then all of the torn out magazine pages of characters from films who've stolen my heart. Everything—until my walls are completely bare.

  As I admire my work, I'm feeling better, like I can breathe. I'm well past the point where I should be counting. For the first time ever, I don't bother. That's when I realize I'm actually not afraid anymore.

  I'm just pissed. Annoyed and tired. Minus my usual shake-and-quake crying party!

  Finished with the walls, I head for the jellyfish lamp and unplug it. The LED back-light fades, out and the silicone jellyfish stop swimming blindly in circles. In seconds, they float to the top with their tentacles spread wide like they're dead. Even that, is freakishly realistic.

  I grimace, wondering why—or how—I ever liked this stupid plastic lamp at all.

  I walk the thing to my trashcan and pull my college essays back out. Gingerly, I place the lamp at the bottom of the basket so none of the water leaks out. But I don't put the essays back in. I close my laptop and push it to the side of the desk. It almost covers the long, scratched-in column of ‘nightmare numbers’.

  Tomorrow, I'm going to sand them away. I can paint the top of my desk over, and rearrange this entire room. I'm done counting and I'm done with romance movies. And done with night lights. And I'm officially done being afraid I might have a bad dream.

  Bring it on.

  Hugging the college essays now, I walk over and stare at my bed. My heart pounds with a small anxiety surge as my bravado fades away.

  Am I really done avoiding sleep?

  I admire my beautiful, sage green comforter…the soft down pillows.

  The clock reads 11:37PM.

  Can I do this? Can I just crawl in?

  I already had the nightmare while I was in the van. I've never had it twice in the same night. Besides, it's not like I will ever go through an episode bigger than the ordeal I survived after the van ride.

  Vomiting aside, I think I handled it well. Or not.

  I shake my head. Whatever.

  I set my essays on the bedside table, and bravely clamber into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The warmth and softness of the blankets envelopes me.

  I feel strong. Again, I acknowledge I'm not one bit afraid!

  Not of myself and afraid of falling asleep! Not afraid of what might happen if I do. I pull in a deep breath.

  The nightmare holds no power over me anymore. Now that I remember, I feel like I'll be able to handle it when, or if, the nightmare ever comes back. I flip off my light and stare at the empty walls, imagining how I'm going to place the furniture tomorrow.

  I'll ask Kika to help me with the bed and ask Mom to help me patch the little holes my tacks left in the walls. After I apologize to them all over again.

  And I'll tell them every second of my summer. ThunderLand. The contract. How I got my first and last kiss, and how bad it feels to have my heart broken.

  I sigh and turn on my side.

  And maybe, if I'm ever done being grounded, Mom will let me get a little goldfish or a couple of those tiny swimming frogs. They're cute…and real and alive...novel idea, that. Pets being alive...

  ###

  I wake to the sound of Dad calling up the stairs, “Jess. Wake up. We need you down here.”

  It takes me a second to recognize whose room this is—that I'm in my bed, under the covers with my head on the pillow. I've slept the whole night. And I feel pretty good, except the part where my heart hurts really bad.

  My stomach rumbles as the smell of Dad's hot maple syrup hits me at about the same time the memories of last night sink in.

  Here we go again, back to square one.

  Same old, same old.

  As I swing my legs out of the bed, my gaze lands on my college essays packet and my heart speeds up. I realize suddenly that I feel pretty good.

  And that nothing feels the same. Nothing at all!

  Yes, I can feel the weight of my broken heart; yes I'm about to get permanently grounded when I tell my parents what I've done.

  But the sun is shining across the bare walls of my room. I slept in my bed all night long, and I've trashed my jellyfish nightlight!

  More importantly, I don't feel one bit tired, not one but afraid of what I have to do today.

  All this, and I've remembered. Everything.

  I grin, and walk out of my room.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jess

  As I hit the bottom step, I hear a low rumble of voices along with my mom's higher pitched whisper. All coming from the formal dining room that adjoins our large front hall. I roll my eyes, figuring my parents must've invited people over for Sunday brunch. They always do that.

  Figures. I've got tons to say and now I'll have to wait.

  Worse, could they not have warned me? I'm still wearing jammies. How embarrassing. Turning quickly, I move to escape back up the stairs and change, but my Mom sees me first.

  “Jess. Good.” Mom's face looks pinched. She also does not have the supportive, sympathy-filled look I'm expecting after our shared moment last night.

  It only takes a few seconds to decipher the reason behind the attitude change: Mom's holding my iPhone. From the look of the currently lit monitor, it's now completely charged. And I can tell from here she's in my text messages.

  So much for the fleeting minutes when I thought I wasn't afraid of anything anymore!

  My mind reels with the possibilities of what she's read. I have no idea what's on there.

  If Mom has read any of the conversations between me and Gray, then she's probably seen awkward love messages he'd sent after the hospital. Messages that I haven't even seen yet!

  Those aren't a big deal because they'll seem legit. They'll back up my too-fast too-soon break up story. But Holy. Who knows what madness that guy might have tried to text me last night? I'm sure he couldn't resist sending something.

  Which means…if they saw those messages, then I've been scooped.

  I need to read what's on that phone to get my story sorted out.

  I go for a calm expression combined with a steady voice. “Oh, you found my phone. Great. Can I have it?”

  “Not so fast. Your sister plugged this in for you this morning. It went so crazy with incoming messages, your dad and I thought it had been taken over by one of those virus-things.”

  Kika is coming down the stairs behind me, but stops on the third step from the bottom as though she's too afraid to approach. I dart her a glance. Has she told? If she has, then that changes my story even more! But if she hasn't…if she's just standing there to listen to me confess like I promised then…

  My eyes are drawn to a movement by the dining room door.

  Holy. What THE F-oh-no! No. No. No.

  A stressed looking Coach Williams steps out of the dining room trailed by my father.

  “This is just perfect,” I say. “Perfect.”

  I push past my mom and turn to face them all in the front hallway. “Couldn't you guys at least have talked about me in front of my own face?”

  Coach Williams clears his throat. “We'd only just begun. That's why we called you down.”

  “Does this mean we aren't having pancakes?” I ask, shaking my head at Coach Williams and working to cover the extreme anger that's threatening to blow to the surface.

  Not counting Kika, these people—people I trusted—have been lying to me for years.

  I speak to Kika first, deciding to play this straight. “What have you told them? What do they know?”

  “I didn't tell them anything. It was your phone that started it all.” Kika shrugs, her face a mask of tiredness and stress.

  “Your sister refused to say anything until we woke you up,” Mom says. “Coach Williams just got here. We called him because he is very well acquainted with Corey Nash.” She holds up my phone. “This morning—because you were so upset last night, I read your text messa
ges. All of them. I'm concerned, honey. From what I read, things were getting too serious. Is that why you ended things with Corey last night? Did he pressure you to do something you didn't want to do?”

  “You broke up?” Kika asks, her tone hopeful.

  I almost laugh. My parents still don't even know!

  I risk a glance at Coach Williams. I can tell from his darting eyes, and his uncomfortable throat clearing that the guy could easily be prepared to spill it.

  I'm going to need to divert him and talk first. I decide to use the typical teen tantrum to buy myself time: “My messages are private. Private! How could you have read my texts?”

  Mom responds right on cue. “We've always told you girls that we'd check your texts and emails if we felt as though you'd been lying to us. And Jess, we think you're doing just that. The way Kika's been protecting you makes me sure of it.”

  I flick my eyes to Coach Williams. “And what about my favorite teacher?” I know he's heard the sneer in my tone. “Does he think I'm lying? What has he told you, exactly?”

  “Nothing. Yet,” Coach answers, confirming what I'd thought.

  My dad is next. “Honey, this kid seems to be pressuring you.” I roll my eyes because Dad's using the ‘good guy’ voice. “It's obvious that this Corey's fallen for you. Which is not a bad thing. But from what your mom and I can tell, you seem to also have feelings for him. We don't think it's a good idea. For someone like you—with the past you've lived through—you're—”

  “Don't say it, Dad. I know I'm a lost cause and I can't have a boyfriend but I don't need to hear it from you!”

  Dad shakes his head. “No. That's not what I mean. Let me finish.”

  I meet his gaze and shrug.

  Dad continues, “For someone who's been through what you've been through, you've got to really be careful and honest with your boyfriend as you go along. Maybe you haven't actually lied to us, but you've kept some information from us. And Mom and I hope you haven't done the same with your boyfriend. I called Coach last week and asked him a few questions about this Corey Nash and he told me Corey was a nice kid, so that's good.”