by Amber Smith
“She is one fucked-up girl, okay?” he said, eyes all wide, raising his eyebrows. He pointed a finger at me. “You watch your back with her, all right?”
I stood there, dumbfounded, silent, in disbelief. By the time my brain told my mouth to say “What?” he was already driving away.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Get back here!”
But he was long gone.
• • •
I ran the rest of the way home, took a shower, dressed, and ate sandwiches with Isobel in the kitchen before she had to go to work. I even went for a long drive, but none of those things helped to get Neil’s words out of my head.
I knew I shouldn’t let him get to me. This was the same guy I’d watched push Maia around at that party, the same guy who’d slashed her tires. Someone who does those kinds of things was not worth my mental energy. Yet he was in my head, under my skin.
I knew she wouldn’t be home until later in the afternoon—she said around four—but every little noise I heard outside made me jump up to the closest window or door.
As soon as the time changed from 3:29 to 3:30, I debated driving over to pick her up, but we hadn’t planned on that and I didn’t want to overstep. We’d never actually made a real plan.
Then four o’clock hit.
I stood on the porch.
No sign of her.
Around four, I repeated in my head. That could mean anywhere from three thirty to four thirty.
I went back inside and messed around on my phone—I could be patient a while longer.
I watched as 4:10 passed. Then 4:15, 4:20, 4:25, and 4:30 came and went.
I was driving myself crazy. I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, and sat on the couch. I closed my eyes and vowed to not look at my phone again until I’d completed five cycles of that slow deep breathing Isobel had taught me when I was rehabbing from my broken ribs.
Inhale. Exhale. One.
Inhale. Exhale. Two.
Inhale. Exhale. Three.
Inhale—
• • •
We’d been walking awhile off the path, and I can’t remember now if anyone was talking or not. Just as I became aware that I could no longer hear the sounds of the coaches’ whistles and yelling back at the school, we came to a clearing. Everyone stopped and stood there, looking at me.
“What?” I said when no one made a move. “So, who has the fireworks?”
They snickered and smirked at one another with these sideways glances.
“Why are you pretending to be a boy?” Ben asked, ignoring my question.
My heart started racing. Run, that voice said again, louder this time.
“I’m not,” I answered.
“You’re not pretending, or you’re not a boy? Which is it?” Ben countered, barely able to get through the words without laughing. He placed his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels, waiting for an answer I couldn’t supply. “Can’t be both.”
“You know what? Fuck you,” I mumbled, knocking my shoulder into Ben’s as I started to walk away from them.
Run.
Fuck you, I told that voice in my head too. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of running away. He grabbed my arm, though, and yanked me back so hard that I thought my shoulder dislocated. I went to push him away, but I was too slow, or he was too fast, and now he had both my arms. I thrashed around, convinced I could shake him off, but that only made him hold on tighter.
“Let go of me!” I yelled, hating myself for the way my voice was shaking.
“You don’t wanna fight me, Christina,” he said, his voice set at a tone that was both a warning and a dare. He twisted my wrist and shoved my hand against his jeans, rubbing against his penis so roughly that it felt like the zipper cut the skin of my palm open on its metal teeth. “You feel that?” he shouted over Tobey and Jake clapping and laughing and hooting—but what I remember the most was the way his breath felt on my face.
I got my arm free, but before I could do anything, Tobey jumped in and grabbed it. He got me in one of those wrestling moves from behind, looping his arms under mine and pressing down on the back of my neck so I couldn’t move. I’d seen this one before, some kind of nelson—half nelson, full nelson, I couldn’t remember. I knew there was a specific way to get out of it, but right then, I couldn’t remember that either.
Ben stepped in toward me and grabbed me between my legs, his fingers probing through the layers of sweatpants and boy shorts and girl underwear from my back-to-school shopping trip, harder and harder, until I had no choice but to wince, biting back the scream. “Feel the difference?” he yelled. “You got nothing there!”
I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. I was aiming higher, but it was enough to make him take his hands off me, and when he bent over, I kneed him right in the face. Then I stomped on Tobey’s foot and he let go of my arms.
And, finally, I ran.
I didn’t even know if I was heading in the right direction, but I kept going. I could hear them trampling through the dry leaves, breaking branches off the trees as they ran behind me. “You’re dead!” one of them shouted, I couldn’t tell who. All I cared about was putting distance between us.
I was fast, the fastest—didn’t I have a whole wall of track-and-field ribbons at home to prove it? I knew I could beat them out of the woods. But my foot caught on a rock that was unearthed, and I tripped. I got up quick, but the second my left foot hit the ground, excruciating pain soared up my leg, through my spine, all the way to my brain. I kept moving, even though I was pretty sure I’d at least sprained my ankle. It slowed me down too much. I yelled “Help” as I tried to keep going, but my voice got swallowed up in the trees and leaves and stillness. They caught up. When I turned to face them, Ben’s nose was gushing blood.
He walked up to me slowly, like an animal. I held my arms up, ready to fight, wishing I had taken tae kwon do with Coleton over the summer instead of going to astronomy camp. But I hadn’t, and so I had very little idea of what the hell to do other than protect my face. Ben moved in closer and in one swift movement he punched me in the stomach so hard, it sucked all the air out of my lungs. I keeled over, but Tobey and Jake each grabbed one of my arms and pulled me upright. Ben punched me again. And again. Then he punched me in the face, once, twice, ten times, I don’t even know.
And when they realized they didn’t need to restrain me anymore, Tobey and Jake joined in. They didn’t hold back at all. They kicked my ass like I really was a guy. When I finally went down, I hit the ground hard. And they started kicking me in the stomach, the back, legs, everywhere. When they stopped, I opened my eyes and looked up at them. Except they weren’t looking at me like I was a guy. They were looking at me like I was a girl and they weren’t about to let me forget it.
Ben got on top of me, one knee on either side of my hips, and he ripped the zipper of my track jacket open, then jerked my T-shirt up, peeling it over my head. It got tangled with the jacket sleeves that were still clinging to my arms. I could feel the air and the ground against my bare skin. No. I counted the layers he would still have to get through: spandex tank top and two sports bras to go, each so tight that even I had trouble getting them on and off every day.
“What the fuck?” Ben spat the words. “All this just to hide your tits?” I felt his hands moving up my stomach, then reaching down, to the elastic band of my sweatpants.
“Get off her!” It was Coleton’s voice. They all looked up at the same time. I tipped my head back to try to see if it was really him. Everything looked blurry and fuzzy, but he was definitely there, standing a good twenty feet away from us, holding his phone up in the air. “I just called the police, you fucking scumbags!” he screamed, his voice cracking.
I let my eyes close.
When I opened them again, the boys were gone and Coleton was kneeling over me, pulling my shirt back down. “Can you sit up?”
I moaned—I hurt too much to talk. I could feel my body curling in on itself, and I wondered i
f I was actually going to die. Every inch of me felt like it was on fire, yet somehow I was so cold. Coleton took his track jacket off and folded it under my head, and then he stretched the end of his shirtsleeve down over his hand and wiped my mouth. When he pulled his hand back, there was blood all over it. The look on his face scared me, so I let my eyes drift shut again. I could hear sirens wailing in the distance; that was the last thing I remembered.
• • •
I heard the dog barking. My eyes flew open. I jumped up and ran to look from the kitchen window. Roxie was outside. Maia’s bike was there next to the porch where she always left it.
MAIA
I HADN’T BEEN OUT TO the barn all week, and I would only have a little time before Mom and Dad would be home from work.
The file folders were still out, haphazardly stacked, just the way I left them. I took a few at a time and placed them back in the desk drawers where they belonged, only I couldn’t get them to fit right.
Her camera was sitting out on top of the desk. I wondered if my mom knew that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It felt heavier than usual as I picked it up. I opened the bottom left desk drawer and set the camera inside, where it was the first time I came out here.
I closed the drawer, then turned the key that was still sitting there in the lock.
“Mallory?” I said out loud.
I held my breath, waiting.
Waiting for a sign from her, for a flicker of the lights or a cold breeze. Aren’t those the kinds of things that they say happen when there’s something supernatural afoot? I wanted her to tell me that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that she liked me here, among her things, remembering and trying to make sense of it all. I wanted her to tell me that I was doing exactly what she wanted.
Unlike all those times I felt her pushing me forward, nudging me along, whispering in my ear, making me do things I never would’ve dreamed of doing, I couldn’t feel her now.
I laid my head down on my folded arms and breathed in that tart yet buttery scent of linseed oil that was soaked deep into the wood table. As I closed my eyes, the images started like a slide show, rolling over a darkened screen in my mind: each picture, but mixed in with my own memories.
Gas station, riding my bike, the open road, clouds with silver lining, tires screeching, the sound of the shutter clamping shut, then opening back up, skinning my knees, falling out of the tree, Neil, the windows rolled down, the breeze blowing through my hair, the green grass at the cemetery, Emily, the taste of exotic foods, laughing, rain, Saturn, hands touching, the damp night air, graffiti, Chris, kissing, tires flat against the pavement, camera strap around my neck, the scent of weed, the scent of incense, the scent of Chris in my hair, lying on the warm concrete, the lines of my palm, hands light on my bare skin, my breath catching, strawberry ice cream dripping, wrought iron gates, strawberry lip balm, Chris—
One after another, faster and faster, until I was spinning, my head dizzy.
It was like a dream, but I could still feel my body planted in the chair, solid and heavy, grounded and drained. My arms were sticky against the wood. My forehead sweaty against my arm. Part of me was still here.
I heard my name being called, over and over, but I couldn’t answer, couldn’t move.
“Maia?”
All at once, the images stopped.
“Maia,” the voice said again.
Not Mallory.
The table was hard and cold beneath me. I opened my eyes, raised my head off my folded arms.
“I was knocking,” he told me, standing in the open doorway. “Were you asleep?”
I sat up, beginning too slowly to understand what was happening.
Chris.
“You okay?” he asked, taking a step over the threshold of the doorway.
He can’t be in here.
I’m barely allowed in here.
My heart revved up to hummingbird-wing pace in a matter of seconds.
I was on my feet. I tried to regulate my heartbeat, my pulse. But I couldn’t. I could feel it pounding forward with my footsteps as I walked toward him.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, looking around. “This is completely badass.”
He wandered along the rows of old built-in shelves that lined the side wall, running his fingers over the glass jars that crowded each level. Each one full of a variety of random objects Mallory was always collecting: acorns, pinecones, dried flowers, stones, old burned-out lightbulbs, rusty bent nails, broken glass, seashells.
He picked up one of the jars—smooth gray stones—and examined them, turning the jar toward the light. “Wow,” he said. “Are these actually sea urchin fossils?”
“Chris,” I said as I approached him, but I was having trouble figuring out what to say next. “Don’t,” was all I could come up with as I reached for the jar he was holding.
The air between us moved like water, like currents, like he was making waves, rocking everything—shifting all the things that I’d worked so hard to keep still.
“Sorry,” he said softly, gently letting go of the jar.
I set it back on the shelf, directly within the circle of dust that had formed around it. I crossed my arms, then quickly uncrossed them.
His eyes focused somewhere above my left shoulder, and his feet followed, stepping past me. I turned around too. He was looking at the wall of pictures.
All the lies were palpable, hanging in the air between us.
I took careful steps toward him, until we were standing in front of each other, and then I wove my fingers between his. I wanted to grab his hand and lead him out the door and go far away from here. I wanted to cast some kind of spell and make him forget he’d seen any of this.
I closed my eyes. Pressure was building in my chest, an ache pounding through my entire body. I’d waited too long to tell him the truth, and now this whole thing was toppling over.
He let go of my hand.
No, wait.
I nearly said the words out loud.
Can’t this hold still just a little longer? I silently prayed to whomever or whatever might be listening. But even the ghost of Mallory couldn’t stop what had been put in motion. It was happening. Ending. Right now.
My body tensed. I braced myself for the rocks and rubble and dust and debris that would be coming any second. But all I felt were his hands, cool on my face. I dared myself to open my eyes. And when I did, Chris was still there, right in front of me. Everything as it was.
“Maia,” he breathed. He shook his head slightly, and I didn’t understand what that meant, until he continued. “You are so talented.”
As I watched Chris take in all the magnificent photographs that lined the walls of the barn, exactly as Mallory had arranged them, I did understand. I understood that if I couldn’t bring myself to tell him they were not mine, right here, right now, then I was most likely dooming us.
But if I did, what then?
If I told him I wasn’t this creative, talented person he was falling for, who would I tell him I was instead? The only true thing I was sure of about myself anymore was the way I felt about him. That didn’t seem like enough.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, stepping away from me, toward the wall with the graffiti picture in the center.
I cleared my throat, but it still cracked when I answered, “Yes.”
“Can I see that picture you took of me?”
“What—what picture?” I asked.
“From that first day on the road? When I almost ran you over?” he reminded me, as if I could ever forget that moment. “I just—I thought I saw you take a picture of me. Didn’t you?”
He was still scanning the wall, not finding the nonexistent photograph.
“Will you show me?” he asked again.
“I can’t,” I said, nearly whispering.
“Why?” he asked, smiling in this way that melted something inside me.
I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, Roxie barked outside. I heard
tires coming up the drive. Suddenly my feet came unglued from the spot they’d been stuck to, and I rushed to close the door so it was open only a crack.
It was my dad pulling in, which wasn’t a problem in and of itself, except it meant that my mom wouldn’t be far behind. And I couldn’t let her see us in here, not after the warning she’d already issued.
Chris came up behind me and placed his hand on the small of my back.
“Why are we hiding?” he whispered, his breath warm against the side of my neck.
Dad slammed the door of his truck shut and walked to the house, Roxie following behind him.
“We’re not,” I told Chris, opening the barn door once again. “Let’s get outta here,” I said, taking his hand.
I shut the lights off and secured the door behind us.
As I led us out of the shade of the barn and into the sunlight, this whole situation felt manageable again. I pulled him along, across the field, in the direction of the gray house.
“Is your aunt home?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
Halfway between his house and mine, I pulled him close to me and kissed him. Hard. He hesitated, surprised at first, but then he kissed me back, his hands on my waist—a part of my body I’d always felt self-conscious about, but which was quickly becoming one of the places where I wanted to be touched the most. As we pulled apart, I looked at him, really looked at him.
He knows who he is, I thought as our eyes searched each other. He is authentic and confident and sure of himself and what he wants. For some reason, one of the things he wanted was me—I could see that. Part of me thought, if I paid close enough attention, maybe he could teach me to know myself in that way too.
Chris was doing something to me—from the outside in or the inside out, I really wasn’t sure. I kissed him again, lighter this time, slower.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my mom’s car pulling into our driveway.
I had been thinking that this thing with Chris was one more item that should fall under the category of things my parents shouldn’t know for their own good—because I was living, I was moving on in a way they couldn’t—but in that moment I didn’t care if they found out about us.
