by M. Boothe
His hand had kept moving up my stomach, over my ribs, and he finally touched my chest. Dear Heart, before last night I had never been touched in that kind of way. I don’t even mean by a boy or so intimately. I just mean gently, with so much care that I might break with too much pressure. I felt powerfully fragile while he explored under my shirt, kissing his way back to my lips.
He moved again, fully putting himself between my legs. My pajama pants weren’t the thickest, and I could feel how much he liked what we were doing, how his breath had started to change against my lips, my skin. It was an unusual feeling for me. I didn’t know if I was supposed to do something, if he wanted me to do something. I shifted against him, feeling him move against a part of me that had never been touched before. I couldn’t help the noise that came out, and I suddenly stopped, feeling so embarrassed.
Dawson put his hands on my hips, keeping me still. His mouth found my ear and he told me I had to be quiet. He asked me if I was okay as he started to move his lower half against mine. I think I nodded, because he kept moving, but I don’t remember much except for the feelings he gave me, the feelings he showed me.
He kept his mouth near my ear whispering about how much I meant to him, how he loved making me feel good, how he loved knowing I was his. When I started becoming desperate for his movements, his mouth found mine again, making it even harder for me to breathe. I could feel something inside of me building. I couldn’t explain to you what it felt like. I just knew that I needed it. It felt like I was trying to chase this feeling, but he whispered against my lips that he’d take care of me, that he had me.
I could barely acknowledge what he was saying before I finally fell apart, my entire body going up in sparks and quakes. He kissed me while I came back down from wherever I had landed.
I don’t know how long we laid there like that, with his forehead against mine. I felt so awkward with him still on top of me, but he grabbed my face, holding it still in front of him. His thumb moved over my bottom lip, and he said he loved me. He told me not to say it back yet. He knew that he had sprung it on me. He wanted me to be sure. He didn’t want me to feel pressured.
He kissed me again before telling me that Drew was going to kill him. I had forgotten about him being outside. I laughed with my arm over my face. The next time I see Drew I’m going to be so embarrassed.
I watched Dawson as he climbed out my window and walked to Drew’s car before I covered myself back up again. I didn’t even want to go to sleep anymore. I just wanted to lay there and keep thinking about what just happened, about the love he gave to me tonight.
Do you think I’m lovable, Dear Heart? Not a lot of people have been able to show me that I am, to give me that. I know that Mason has always been there for me. His love is a different kind of love. That love is friendship and familial. It’s different than the kind of love parents are supposed to give you. It’s different than the love I think we all search for.
Do you think love is a gift freely given with no expectations, or does it come with a price that will scare you?
Always,
Abby
Ruin
I know how selfish it sounds and how crazy it’ll come across, but I want to be your end.
I want you to look into my eyes and never want to paint with another color.
I want you to taste my lips and know you would starve without me.
I want to be your happiness, in the worst possible way.
I want to ruin you for anybody else.
I want to know that after me, nobody else will suffice.
February 14, 2004
Dear Heart,
Do you think that it’s Karma when the person who has the least amount of love and affection in their lives also happens to be born on Valentine’s Day?
I wonder what I could have done in a past life to deserve this ironic birthday. When I was in grade school and it was Valentine’s Day, Dad would surprise me with those little boxes of candy hearts that had cute messages on them. Sometimes he’d secretly deliver them at school without telling Mom he did it. Sometimes he’d hide them somewhere in my room for me to find. Occasionally I’d find more than one box.
That stopped when I was maybe ten years old. I don’t know what made him decide not to do it anymore, but I cried when I spent two days looking for tiny hearts that didn’t exist. I was never brave enough to ask him about it.
For my birthday each year Mom makes a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. I’m not sure why because I told her it was my least favorite. But each year if I don’t eat it, I get a lecture about being wasteful. So, I usually just pretend it’s the strawberry I asked for. I pretend like for once I got something I wanted on a day that was supposed to be just for me.
Today is Saturday. Dad isn’t home. Mom is too stoned to bake my cake, and there’s barely any food in the fridge for me to eat. I’ve been lying on my bed most of the day, staring at a fried bologna sandwich that I made around lunchtime. It’s gone cold and the bread is soggy with mustard. It’s almost as unappetizing as chocolate cake.
It’s not all bad, really. Yesterday Mason brought me a cupcake, and Dawson gave me a rose as an early present. He also gave me a letter, and then told me not to read it until today. I’m going to include it at the end of this entry for you to read and keep safe for me. I love it so much. It’s the first letter he’s ever written to me.
We haven’t had any more luck with being alone. He’s also not tried to climb into my window again. A part of me wishes we won’t, and he can’t. But another part of me wishes so hard to feel like I did that night. I really hope he calls me tonight so that I can have somebody to talk to. I don’t even really have anything to say. I just feel so lonely. Today is a day made for celebrating couples and love. I’ve been hiding alone all day because there’s no love in this house.
Do you think they know that? Do you think my parents wake up some mornings and regret everything they’ve done, everything they’ve put each other through, me through? Do you think they ever look at me when I don’t notice, and they think about how they’ve been doing this all wrong and they want to do something to make it better? Do you think Mom ever opens her pill bottle, looking at the mistake she’s about to swallow, and thinks about how she can throw them away and help heal our family?
I’m not sure they think about anything at all, let alone anything about me.
Always,
Abby
**Dawson’s Letter**
Hey Abs,
I’m sorry we can’t be together on your birthday. I don’t even care that it’s Valentine’s Day. I don’t need a day on a calendar to tell me it’s time to love you.
I love you no matter what day it is, no matter what time it is. If I could draw like Jack, I’d show you how I see you, how I feel about you. I’d also try to draw you how I want to see you, underneath me again and out of breath, your fingers clutching my shirt.
Will you think about that tonight? Will you think about me sneaking into your room again?
I wish I could do that every night so that you’re not alone in that hellhole. Don’t forget that you can call me if you need me over the weekend. If anything happens let me know. I’ll find a way to get to you.
I’ll be thinking about you all the time. Maybe too much.
February 29, 2004
Dear Heart,
There isn’t going to be much to talk about today. It’s Sunday and I’ve been sitting in my room rereading some of the things I’ve written to you. It hit me that most of what I tell you are the bad parts, the mad, sad parts. I don’t want to become so enveloped with the darkness that I forget that there’s stars shining down on me, too. Of course, I’m also smart enough to know that sometimes you have to make it through all of the darkness to get to the other side.
I’m going to make a promise that I’ll try to find something positive to talk about with you, too. I’m not sure how often that will be, and I’m always going to be honest with you, but you don’t deserve to be
filled with just the scary parts of me, of my life.
I know I told you once that I didn’t believe in magic anymore, but today is a magical day, don’t you think? This year is a leap year, and today is the day that gets to disappear. I want to believe that whatever bad things happen to people today, gets washed away from their memories. Whatever sad thoughts get conjured, whatever horrible mistakes happen today, just vanish overnight and you get to start again the next day. There’s not going to be an anniversary of that even next year. There’s no February 29th next year to dread meeting again.
Imagine the possibilities of that. Imagine feeling absolutely devastated over something, having the worst gut punch of your life, but then it’s absolved while you’re resting, while you’re sleeping. Imagine not having to work to hide the sadness.
Some of us are so tired.
Always,
Abby
March 6, 2004
Dear Heart,
This morning Dad woke me up super early to go have breakfast with him. He’s done this several times, and it’s always something bad. A couple of years ago it was to let me know that my grandma, his mom, had passed away while she slept. He told me with a mouthful of a half-chewed sausage biscuit. When I tried to ask what had happened, he said he didn’t want to talk about it.
I got dressed fast while he waited outside. We went to our usual fast-food place. I don’t know if you can really call it our usual place. I think we’ve been here five or six times in fourteen years. But it’s the usual place he takes me to when he has to drop bad news on me.
I ordered a stack of pancakes and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
When I was down to one bite left, I finally asked him if something was wrong, and he told me he was going to try to make Mom stop taking her pills. I laughed for a second before realizing he was serious. He told me that he couldn’t stand looking at her anymore while she killed herself, and that he’d kept quiet because he was so tired and disgusted with her.
I told him that if he tried, to be prepared for her to fight back. I begged him not to leave me alone with her. I didn’t even know what I was saying, but I begged him.
He told me I was embarrassing him.
Always,
Abby
March 8, 2004
Dear Heart,
This entry may not make sense. Dad hid Mom’s pill bottle. I’m locked in my room in the closet. Mom is pounding on the door, threatening to shoot the doorknob off if I don’t let her in. I called Mason and told him that if I wasn’t at school tomorrow to look behind the mirror.
I’ve been clutching the broken wing for support, turning it over and over in my hand. I keep trying to find some kind of answer in its ridges, in the old glitter that barely sparkles across the feathers.
Dad left me.
Always,
Abby
March 9, 2004
Dear Heart,
Do you think teachers have to weigh the pros and cons of helping their students? Do they sit at their desks during their planning block, trying to decide if plan A doesn’t work then maybe B will? Do they question if they should even make a plan because the outcome could be worse than the current problem?
Today at school I had to laugh away a question about my busted lip. I learned a while ago that walking into doors is way overused. I usually just laugh now, saying I’m just too clumsy. I let people use their imagination. If they keep questioning it, I’ll make up an entirely preposterous story about being chased by wolves or something. Anything, really to get them to stop.
They just don’t know that the wolves sleep in the room next to mine.
Mason was worried today, but I don’t think he really knows how bad it is. He just kept looking at me today. He asked if I was okay at least ten times. Then he asked what he’d find behind the mirror, so I told him a little bit about you. He knows to look for you if something happens, if I suddenly don’t show up at school. Maybe if the house catches on fire.
Dawson tried to talk me into telling his parents. He wasn’t sure what they could do, if anything. But he thought I should tell somebody. I told him if we told somebody, and Mom found out before I could get help, then it would only make everything worse. Now he’s even more worried about me being at home.
I’m worried, too.
When the last bell rang today, one of my teachers stopped and asked me if I could talk for a minute before I had to get onto my bus. She looked me right in the eye, hers full of wetness, and asked if I’d had an accident. She wasn’t the usual person who would ask. She had a reputation of being strict and cold. I felt bad that I had affected her day enough for her to show some kind of feeling. Feelings she probably wasn’t used to. I told her I popped myself with the door of my locker. She told me I could talk to her if I needed to.
But could I? I’d heard stories about teachers who tried to fight for their students who were having problems at home. Most of them didn’t have happy endings. The look on her face while I was walking to the door showed me that she was probably thinking the same thing.
If her plan A was to call the cops or something, they’d show up at my house and Mom would lie. Dad wouldn’t help. He’d already proven over and over that running was his forte. Then I’d be left there to suffer the consequences. If plan A wouldn’t work, she’d more than likely use plan B to visit me in the hospital. Or worse, read my headstone.
A small part of me wondered if I could handle the consequences if it meant she could be arrested afterward. Isn’t that a frightening thought? While I walked to my locker to grab my backpack, I was thinking about how no child deserves to have to make a decision involving getting beaten just for a chance to be saved.
I’m home now, still hiding in my room. Dad gave Mom her pills back this morning. She took four of them before I even left for school. When I walked through the door earlier, I found her sitting in the kitchen floor spilling a bottle of vegetable oil and screaming and laughing about how messy it was.
Everything seems messy.
Always,
Abby
Haiku
Life throws scars around
A tattoo on the inside
Then says you’ll be fine
March 17, 2004
Dear Heart,
The entire school was full of green today. Every student was wearing green. Every classroom had some kind of green decoration. The cooks even dyed some of the food green for lunch today.
Green. Green. Green.
It used to be my favorite color, but by the end of the day it was the color of my face because of how sick I was.
Remember how I told you that I was disappointed with not being needed to mediate another student. I had been sad because I liked feeling helpful, but it was like every problem people seemed to have had just disappeared. Nobody was fighting, nobody was breaking up, nobody had asked for help. I was glad because it meant people were happy. But I was also peeved because it was something I thought I could be good at. I just wanted to try.
I got that chance today, and I wish I hadn’t.
I was called to the office early this morning and was told there was a student who had asked for help. He needed somebody to talk to after having fought with another kid last week. Apparently, he had gotten suspended, but I didn’t hear about it at school. Usually, fights were few and far between, but everybody talked about them when it happened.
I ate lunch super fast to meet him before third block. When I walked into the classroom where we were supposed to meet, I saw him sitting at a desk with his head down. I don’t judge people. I’ve been judged a lot, and I know that it’s a horrible feeling to know that somebody’s made a decision about you without even knowing anything about you. This kid was Justin Cable. He was a football player. He was also one of those super popular kids that was always surrounded by people. He was a part of the loud table in the cafeteria where everybody laughed through their lunches. Sometimes they made other students jealous with how happy the
y were, how they seemed to have everything.
I couldn’t imagine what he fought about or why he wanted somebody to talk to. It felt so weird. I doubt this kid even knew who I was, but I felt so awkward when I introduced myself. I asked how he was doing, what was going on, how could I help. I tried to be upbeat about meeting him, about helping him. I told him I was interested in helping fix whatever he thought was going wrong.
But then he started talking, and I didn’t want to be there anymore.
We had been told that if anything seemed too big for us to handle to get the principal. We had a list of things that we weren’t supposed to talk about. Things on the list were teen pregnancy, threats toward another student, abuse at home, and drugs.
Drugs.
I sat for a minute, listening to him talk about the guy he had fought with. A guy named Zach. A guy who was supposed to be a middleman for him. A guy who was supposed to take his money and bring him the pills back that were supposed to help him stay up and study. A guy who was friends with Dawson.
I should have told him I couldn’t help him and went to the principal’s office with what he had said. But I couldn’t.
I looked at him. I took in his perfectly styled his hair, his brand-new clothes, his solid white tennis shoes. I knew that appearances weren’t always accurate with what somebody’s life was like, but I had a hard time picturing him needing to find an escape from anything.
He had kept his head down most of the time he spent talking, but when I asked him if he knew who Zach was supposed to give the money to, he snapped his head up to look right back at me, his eyes squinting at me.
I knew before I asked. I knew deep in my stomach who it was. I’ll admit that I hadn’t talked to Dawson about the pills again. It had been months since it was even brought up. I believed him when he said he had stopped. I never even thought to question him. Up until now, I didn’t have a reason not to trust him.
