Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “You’re so done,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “It’s over for you.”

  “Sophie.” I shook my head. “Please. Just—”

  “Get out of my face!” she said. “Get out!”

  And then, as quickly as it had fallen away, my view came back and I saw everything. The crowd of faces that had somehow gathered in the hallway. Will Cash, in my side vision, still sitting on the bed. The sea-foam green of the carpet beneath my feet, the yellow glare of the light overhead. It was hard to believe that only moments earlier, all of these things had been cloaked in such a thick darkness, so hidden I wouldn’t have been able to recognize a single one. But now, like me, they were exposed.

  Sophie was still standing in front of me. It was quiet all around us. I knew I could have broken the silence, could have spoken up. It was only my word against his, and now hers. But I didn’t.

  Instead, I walked out of that room and everyone watched me. I could feel their eyes as I stepped around Sophie, then pushed out into the hallway and started for the stairs. Once in the foyer, I went to the door, pushing it open, then stepped out into the night, crossing the damp grass to my car. I did all of this very carefully and with purpose, as if having control over these actions would somehow balance out what had just happened.

  The one thing I didn’t do, though, all the way home, was look at myself. Not in the side mirror. Not in the rearview. At every stoplight, every time I downshifted, I picked a point up ahead—the bumper of the car in front of me, a distant building, even the broken yellow line of the road—to focus on. I did not want to see myself like this.

  When I got home, my dad was waiting, like always, sitting up by himself. I could see the light from the TV, pale and flickering, the minute I stepped inside.

  “Annabel?” he called out as the volume on the set began to decrease, bit by bit, before falling silent entirely. “Is that you?”

  I stood there for a second in the foyer, knowing that if I didn’t show my face he’d suspect something. I reached up, brushing back my hair with my fingers, then took a breath and stepped into the living room. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s me.”

  He turned in his chair to look at me. “Good night?” he asked.

  “It was okay,” I said.

  “There’s a great show on,” he said, nodding at the TV. “It’s all about the New Deal. You interested?”

  Any other night, I would have joined him. It was our tradition, even if I only sat down for a few minutes. But this time, I just couldn’t.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  “All right,” he said, turning back to the TV. “Good night, Annabel.”

  “Good night.”

  He picked up the remote and I turned away, walking back into the foyer, where the moonlight was slanting in the window over the door and falling on the picture of me and my mother and sisters on the opposite wall. In that bright light, you could see every detail: the distant caps of the waves, the slight tinge of gray to the sky. I stood there for a moment, studying each of us, taking in Kirsten’s smile, Whitney’s haunted gaze, the way my mother cocked her head slightly to the side. When I got to my own face, I found myself staring at it, so bright, with dark all around it, like it was someone I didn’t recognize. Like a word on a page that you’ve printed and read a million times, that suddenly looks strange or wrong, foreign, and you feel scared for a second, like you’ve lost something, even if you’re not sure what it is.

  The next day, I tried to call Sophie, but she wouldn’t answer. I knew I should go over to her house, explain myself in person, but each time I began to I had a flash of being in that room, that hand over my mouth, the bang of my foot kicking the door, and I just couldn’t do it. In fact, whenever I thought about what had happened, my stomach twisted and I felt bile rising in my throat. Like some part of me was trying to push it up and out, purging it from my body entirely in a way I could not seem to do on my own.

  The alternative wasn’t good either, of course. I’d already been labeled a slut, and who knew how the story had grown in the hours since. But what had really happened was worse than anything Sophie could make up and pass on.

  Even so, deep down, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. That this wasn’t my fault, and in a perfect world, I could tell people what happened and somehow not be ashamed. In real life, though, this was harder. I was used to being looked at—it was part of who I was, who I’d been as long as I could remember. But once people knew about this, I was sure they’d see me in a different way. That with every glance, they’d no longer see me, but what had happened to me, so raw and shameful and private, turned outward and suddenly scrutinized. I wouldn’t be the girl who had everything, but the girl who’d been attacked, assaulted, so helpless. It seemed safer to hold it in, where the only one who could judge was me.

  Still, I had times when I wondered if this was the right decision. But as the days passed, and then weeks, it seemed like even if I could have told my story, now it was too late. Like the longer the distance from it, the less people would be willing to believe it.

  So I did nothing. But a couple of weeks later, I was with my mother at the drugstore, picking up a few things, when she said, “Isn’t that Sophie?”

  It was. She was at the other end of the aisle, looking at magazines. I watched her turn a page, wrinkling her nose at something she saw there. “Yeah,” I replied. “I think so.”

  “Then go say hello. I’ll get this,” she said, taking the list from me. “Just catch up with me up front, okay?” And then she was gone, shifting her basket farther up her arm and leaving us alone.

  I should have just followed her. But for whatever reason, I found myself walking toward Sophie, coming up behind her just as she stuffed the magazine—which had a cover entirely devoted to the latest high-profile celebrity breakup—back onto the rack. “Hi,” I said.

  She jumped, startled, then turned around. When she saw me, she narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

  I hadn’t planned what I was going to say, but even if I had, this would have made it harder. “Look,” I said, glancing over to the next aisle, where my mother was examining an aspirin display, “I just wanted to—”

  “Don’t talk to me,” she said. Her voice was loud, much louder than mine. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Sophie,” I said. I was almost whispering now. “It wasn’t what you think.”

  “Oh, so you’re psychic now, and not just a slut?”

  I felt my face flush at this word, and instinctively looked over again at my mom, wondering if she’d heard it. She’d glanced up, and now smiled at us and moved on farther down to the next aisle.

  “What, is there a problem, Annabel?” Sophie said. “Let me guess. Just the regular family drama?”

  I just looked at her, confused. Then I remembered: This was what I’d said to Will in the alcove that night, for what reason I still didn’t know. Of course he’d tell her, use this, the stupidest of confessions, against me. I could just imagine how he’d spun it, me confiding in him, then following him upstairs. I don’t know, he’d said that night as I waited for him to explain himself. She just…

  “If you know a guy has a girlfriend—especially if that girlfriend is me—there’s absolutely no reason you should be doing anything with him that could be taken the wrong way,” Sophie had said to me, all those months ago. “It’s a choice, Annabel. And if you make the wrong one, you have only yourself to blame when there are consequences.”

  In her mind, it was that simple. I knew this wasn’t true, but I felt a flicker of doubt and fear as the pieces came together, building against me, my worst fears realized. What if even if I had told, or did tell, nobody believed me? Or even worse, blamed me for it?

  My stomach twisted, that familiar taste filling my mouth.

  Sophie glanced over at my mom, watching her for a second, and I had a flash of her that night at dinner, wincing as Whitney slammed her chair into t
he table. I’d been so worried about her that night, so many nights, and I couldn’t imagine what she’d make of this if it ever got back to her.

  “Sophie,” I said again. “Just—”

  “Get away from me,” she said. “I never want to see you again.”

  Then she pushed past me, shaking her head, and walked away. Somehow, I managed to turn around and make my way back down the aisle, the shelves blurring as I passed them. I saw a woman with a kid on her hip, an old man pushing a walker, some stock clerk examining a price gun, and then, finally, my mom, standing by a sunscreen display, looking for me.

  “There you are,” she said as I approached. “How’s Sophie?”

  I forced myself to take in a breath. “She’s good,” I said. “Fine.”

  It was the first lie I told my mother about Sophie, but by no means the last. Then, I’d still thought everything I felt about that night—the shame, the fear—would fade in time, healing like a onetime gash to a single, barely noticeable scar. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, the things that I remembered, these little details, seemed to grow stronger, to the point where I could feel their weight in my chest. Nothing, however, stuck with me more than the memory of stepping into that dark room and what I found there, and how the light then took that nightmare and made it real.

  That was the thing: Once, the difference between light and dark had been basic. One was good, one bad. Suddenly, though, things weren’t so clear. The dark was still a mystery, something hidden, something to be scared of, but I’d come to fear the light, too. It was where everything was revealed, or seemed to be. Eyes closed, I saw only the blackness, reminding me of this one thing, the most deep of my secrets; eyes open, there was only the world that didn’t know it, bright, inescapable, and somehow, still there.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  “Hey,” Owen said, smiling as he turned around to face me. “You made it.”

  And I had. I was there, at Bendo, standing in front of the stage. How, though, I wasn’t exactly sure. In fact, everything since Emily and I had finally come face-to-face was a bit of a blur.

  Somehow, I’d managed to finish the fashion show, modeling three other outfits and clapping as Mrs. McMurty pretended to be both totally embarrassed and completely surprised to be coaxed onstage for flowers, just like every other year. Afterwards, I’d gone backstage, where my parents were waiting.

  When my mother saw me, she pulled me in for a hug, her hands smoothing over my back. “You were fantastic,” she said. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Although that dress is a little low-cut,” my dad added, eyeing the white sheath I’d worn for the formal segment, the last one of the show. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “No,” my mom said, swatting him as she pulled away from me. “It’s perfect. You were perfect.”

  I forced a smile, but my mind was still reeling. There were so many people behind the stage, so much noise and commotion, but all I could think about was Emily. She knew, I thought as my mom said something about finding Mrs. McMurty. She knew.

  I reached up, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I felt nervous, jumpy, the noise of the crowd and the heat of all those bodies not helping, and now my mother was talking again.

  “…just wonderful, but we should get home. Whitney’s fixing dinner, and I told her we’d be there ten minutes ago.”

  “Whitney?” I said as my dad nodded at a man in a suit as he passed, saying his name. “She’s not here?”

  My mom squeezed my shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sure she would have liked to come, but it’s still hard for her, I think…. She wanted to stay home. But we loved it. We really did.”

  With everything that had happened with Emily, I felt crazy, but I knew one thing: That had been my sister, watching me from a distance as I reached the end of the runway. I would have bet my life on it.

  I felt a hand on my arm, and turned to see Mrs. McMurty standing there, a tall, gray-haired man in a suit beside her. “Annabel,” she said, smiling, “I want you to meet Mr. Driscoll. He’s the head of marketing for Kopf’s, and he wanted to say hello.”

  “Hi,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And you as well,” he replied, reaching out his hand. His palm was dry and cool. “We’re all big fans. We loved you in the back-to-school commercial.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Great show.” He smiled, nodding at my mom and dad, and then he and Mrs. McMurty were moving on, through the crowd. My mother watched them go, her face flushed.

  “Oh, Annabel,” she said. She squeezed my arm again, not saying anything else, but I got the message. Loud and clear.

  Just then, over my mom’s head, I saw Mrs. Shuster, a coat folded over her arm, standing by the back edge of the stage. She looked at her watch, then glanced around, worried. A second later, her face relaxed, and I saw Emily walking toward her. Her hair was still up, her makeup on, but she’d changed back into regular clothes and wasn’t talking to anyone as she made her way through the crowd.

  “Um, I should go change,” I said to my parents. “These shoes are killing me.”

  My mom nodded, then leaned in, giving me another kiss. “Of course,” she said as Mr. Driscoll walked past again, this time without Mrs. McMurty. My mom watched him go, then said, “I’ll put aside a plate for you, all right?”

  “Actually,” I said, “um, some of us were going to go out for pizza. You know, to celebrate the show being over, and all.”

  “Oh,” my mom said. “Well, I know you must be exhausted, so don’t stay out too long. Okay?”

  I nodded as, behind her, I watched Mrs. Shuster reach out to Emily, handing her the coat and standing there, her face somber, as Emily shrugged it on. Then she slid her hand down her daughter’s arm, rubbing it slightly, and they started toward the mall exit. I turned my attention back to my mother, quickly. “I won’t be too late,” I said.

  “Eleven at the latest,” my father said as he leaned down to give me a hug. “Right?”

  “Right,” I replied.

  The entire time I was changing out of my outfit, then walking to my car and driving across town, I told myself I had to push what had happened with Emily out of my mind. I’d been looking forward to going to Bendo, and I was determined to enjoy it. Or try to.

  Starting right now.

  “So,” I said as Owen turned back to the stage, “what’d I miss?”

  “Not much,” he replied as someone bumped me from behind. As I pitched forward he reached out, grabbing my arm. “Whoa,” he said. “Watch the footing, this place is kind of a madhouse.” There was a burst of feedback from the stage in front of us, and a group of people to our left let loose with a loud chorus of boos. Owen leaned his head down closer to my ear. “How was the fashion show?”

  I didn’t want to lie to him. At the same time, though, I knew I couldn’t tell him what had really happened—not here, not tonight. Maybe not ever. “It’s over,” I replied, which was, technically, true.

  “That good, huh?” he said as a tall girl in a sequined top, holding a drink, pushed past us, splattering as she went.

  I smiled. “Pretty much.”

  “Well, never fear. When the band comes on, your night will improve.”

  “You think?”

  “I know,” he said just as he got bumped, hard this time, by a guy in a black coat who was passing by, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Owen glanced at him, and the guy shrugged, hardly bothered, and kept walking. “Okay. Time for a space break. Come on.”

  He turned and started back through the crowd, and I did my best to follow him as he led me to an open booth against the wall.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing for me to slide in. “The view isn’t as good, but at least no one’s elbowing you in the spleen.”

  I could hear what sounded like someone tuning up, followed by a burst of feedback. “The opener,” Owen said, nodding toward the stage. “They were supposed to go on a half hour ago, but—”

  This thou
ght was interrupted by Rolly, who suddenly slid in beside him, landing with a thump on the bench. “Oh,” he said, breathless, “my God.”

  “Finally,” Owen said, turning to look at him. “Where the hell have you been, man? I was beginning to think you’d been abducted or something.”

  “No,” Rolly replied. “You are not going to believe what just happened.”

  “He went to get drinks about a half hour ago,” Owen explained to me. “I mean, I know the crowd is big, but that’s ridiculous. And where’s my water?”

  Rolly shook his head. “Dude. She’s here.”

  “What?”

  Rolly took in a breath, then held up his hands, palms facing out. “She’s here,” he said again. Then he paused, letting this sink in before adding, “She’s here, and she smiled at me.”

  “For thirty minutes?” Owen asked.

  “No. Only for a moment.”

  “This is the girl that punched you?” I asked, clarifying.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get my water,” Owen said.

  “Would you just forget about that for a second?” Rolly pulled a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you’re getting the significance of this situation.”

  “So you talked to her,” Owen said.

  “No. Here’s what happened.” Rolly took a deep breath. “I was on my way to the bar and then, suddenly, there she was. Boom! Popped up right in front of me, like an apparition or something. But just as I’m about to speak to her, someone steps between us. And the next thing I know, she’s gone, walking away, surrounded by people. Since then I’ve been hanging back, waiting for the perfect in to present itself. I mean, it has to be just right.”

  “Why don’t you offer to go get her a water?” Owen suggested. “You can pick up one for me while you’re at it.”

  Rolly just looked at him. “What is up with you and this water thing?”

  “I’m thirsty,” Owen told him. “And I was going to go, but you offered. Insisted, I might add.”