At home, I waited for Miles to return. Once he did, I rushed into his room. I didn’t even knock, I just ran in, and he jumped at my sudden entrance. I wrenched a sketchpad from the pile of books and papers on his desk.
“Here,” I said, and thrust the pad and a charcoal pencil at him. “I need your help.”
I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and described the face of the man that had materialized during my bloodflower vision. Miles listened, the pencil clenched in his fist, but he remained motionless.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked. It was only when I looked closer that I saw his eyes were red and unfocused. He must have been on bloodflower himself, must have turned to the drug as an escape. I pushed that knowledge aside. “Miles, please. Draw.”
And he did. My brother drew the face I described. It took a long time, and it wasn’t easy for either of us, but we worked at it together. Miles focused so intently on the task that he didn’t seem to understand the implications of what I had asked of him. He sketched as if in a fugue state, with faith and without fear.
When we finished, I pulled the drawing from his grasp. I held the paper so tightly I thought I might grind it to dust in my hands.
“Celeste,” Miles said. “What have we done?”
I lifted the sketch. “Everyone acts as though I’m the only one who played a part in my abduction, that it was my fault I was taken. No one ever talks about the man who did this to me. But here he is. He exists, and I just proved it.”
My brother’s face went white. “You know the police won’t accept this, right?” he asked.
I shook my head, disappointed that my brother had missed the point. But then I looked at the drawing again and felt sick, like I’d done something unholy. I had brought to life in the physical world what was meant to stay concealed in murky memory.
Miles reached for the drawing but stopped before touching it, like it might burn him. I wanted my brother to keep going, to tear the drawing to pieces and swallow them whole. To obliterate this man’s face and what had been done to me.
But I knew he would not. What I held in my hands was my weight alone to bear.
“Promise me you’ll get rid of that,” Miles said.
I left my brother and floated toward my room. The drawing was mine. I had birthed it, and I would be the one to destroy it.
Strategies for Reintegration: A 7-Stage Guide for Recovery and Rehabilitation
Stage 6: Bargaining and Denial. By this point in your recovery, your physical injuries have healed and your mental and emotional states grow stronger by the day. Once you have fully regained your strength and have faced reality, you may engage in the fantasy of returning to your former life as though nothing has changed. Perhaps you’re convinced that if you say or do just the right thing, you can return to school, rekindle old friendships, or resume your role as the favorite daughter at home. Do not fall victim to this line of thinking.
As in the other stages, you may return to bargaining and denial many times throughout your recovery, but you must be vigilant against it now. Repeat to yourself: Nothing is the same, and everything has changed, and I am incapable of altering the tide of fate.
This is the first step toward acceptance.
19
My mother took me to school on Monday morning and joined me in the principal’s office, where we sat before a stack of paperwork. As a returned girl, I had to complete admission forms as though I’d never attended this school in the first place.
Mr. Radshaw stood facing the window while I worked. From time to time I glanced at his back, so straight and stiff and unpleasant. I thought I sensed discomfort emanating from him. I thought he didn’t want me there.
I filled out the final form and passed it to my mother to sign. She held her pen poised over the signature line.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “I want my diploma.”
She signed the form. The ink of her signature looked a bit shaky, but it was there.
“Thanks, Mom.” I looked at her expectantly. “You can go now.”
She worried her fingers along the strap of her purse. “I don’t know about this.”
“I’ll be fine. Just go, please. I have class.”
She stood, and Mr. Radshaw came over and shook her hand. I braced myself for the adult conspiracy, a whispered conference about me, but it didn’t happen. My mother just asked Mr. Radshaw to look after me, and then she left.
“Am I free to go to class?” I asked.
Mr. Radshaw lowered himself into his chair. He placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, showing me more of his balding head. Instinctively, I shifted my weight back in my chair.
“It takes courage to come back,” he said. “Most girls don’t.”
“Like I said, I want my diploma.”
He nodded, but his mind seemed elsewhere. “Let me know if you have any trouble out there. You can come to this office at any time. Understand?”
I agreed. I was ready to burst out of that office, to succumb to the relief of crowded halls and gossiping students. I was in such a hurry to leave Mr. Radshaw that I didn’t dwell on how he described the school. Out there, he’d said. A wild landscape, vicious and raw.
That was exactly what I found. In the hallway, where I stood before my open locker, a boy ran by and slammed the locker door shut so suddenly he nearly caught my fingers inside. He was a brown-haired blur, a rush of rage.
“Slut,” he said. He hovered there for a moment, full of righteous energy, before he banged a fist against the row of lockers and took off again down the hall.
I stood with my mouth agape. The girl next to me—Trish, that was her name, an alto in chorus—had watched this scene with a disapproving look.
“Can you believe that?” I said.
“Sure I can believe it,” Trish said. She leaned in close. Her tone was hard, and although some prehistoric part of my brain was sending out warning signals, I couldn’t make myself move.
“You disgust me,” she added. And then she spat in my face.
* * *
* * *
After a solid twenty minutes in the bathroom—five of those minutes spent washing and rewashing my face, then another fifteen hiding in the far stall to cry—I wiped my eyes and stepped back into the hallway. As much as I wanted to run home, I had to stick it out. A little spit was nothing compared to what I’d lived through.
I proceeded to history class, which was already half over. No one looked at me when I came in and took a seat in the back, not even the teacher. I didn’t bother to open my textbook or take notes. When the bell rang, I walked heavily down the hall toward my science class. This was what I’d been dreading all day: Cassandra and Marie were in this class. I was afraid to see them, afraid I’d ruined everything between us forever.
Like a coward, I entered the room and immediately ducked into a seat. I stared down again, not looking up even when I heard whispers rising around me.
“I can’t believe she came back,” someone said.
“It’s revolting,” someone else responded. “Can you imagine where she’s been?”
Another student, a boy, laughed.
I took out a pen and pressed it hard into the desktop. I didn’t draw anything, just kept forcing the pen down into that one spot. As if I could drill through to the other side if I only used enough pressure.
“Celeste?”
I looked up. Marie stood before me with her hands clasped in front of her, like she was about to pray or beg. Cassandra waited next to her.
“Hey, guys,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, you know. About what I said at my house.”
“Never mind,” Marie said quickly. “We know you’ve been through a lot.”
“And we think it’s brave that you came back,” Cassandra added.
I smi
led, fighting the tears that threatened to start at this show of kindness. “I want to get my diploma.”
Cassandra nodded. “I can respect that.”
Marie put a hand on my arm. “Really, Celeste. It’s good to see you.”
I was about to say something more, maybe blurt out how relieved I was that they didn’t hate me, but the bell rang, signaling the start of class. My friends returned to their seats and, for the first time that day, I managed to pay attention to the lecture. Afterward, Marie and Cassandra waited for me and we spent a quick moment together in the hall between classes, huddled close like old times.
Throughout the rest of the morning, I floated from class to class. Most teachers treated me as though I’d never left, which I found preferable to the few who made a point of welcoming me back. By lunchtime, I felt a little better. I took my bagged lunch to my regular table, where Marie and Cassandra were already eating.
“Oh, you’re sitting here?” Cassandra asked as I sank into the chair next to her.
I looked around. The table sat four people, and we were the only three there.
“It’s just that Jonah and Anne have been sitting with us sometimes,” Marie said. Her face was red.
“You don’t want to sit with me?”
“That’s not it,” Cassandra said, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. “We’ll pull up an extra chair when they get here.”
“This table’s too small for five.” I shoved my sandwich back into the bag. “I’ll go.”
“Celeste, stay,” Marie insisted. “Besides, it won’t be like this for long, anyway.” She glanced at Cassandra. “Cassie’s leaving us.”
I stopped gathering my things. “What do you mean?”
“I got into Laurel Haven,” Cassandra said. “I start next quarter.”
“That snobby private school across town? You’ll have to wear a uniform.”
“If I want to get into medical school, I need to be serious. I need a school that will look impressive on my transcript, not one that has a reputation.”
“A reputation,” I said slowly.
“It’s complicated,” Cassandra went on. “Think of it from the perspective of a university admission panel. Two girls from the same school taken within a few weeks of each other does not look good. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.” She leaned over and put a hand on mine. “It’s nothing personal, Celeste.”
I pulled my hand away. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an inconvenience to you.”
My chair squealed when I pushed back from the table, and then I was hurrying through the cafeteria. I had nearly reached the exit when a boy I didn’t recognize grabbed my wrist.
“Relax,” he said as I tried to wrestle away. “I just want to see you up close.”
“Let go.” I pulled harder, but he held fast.
“It’s not like I’d be the first,” he added. He yanked me closer and put his hands on my sides, like we were dancing. One hand traveled up, stopped just by my left breast. The heel of his palm pressed there, not quite groping, not quite grabbing, but enough to show me what he could do. A suggestion of ownership, and maybe a promise of more to come.
He let go just as quickly, but I could still feel his hand on my body. I stood in front of him for a moment, sputtering. I couldn’t breathe. I’d dropped my lunch bag in the tussle, and it lay smashed at my feet. The boy’s entire lunch table—three boys, one girl—broke into laughter.
“I can’t believe you touched her,” the girl said. “You might have caught something.”
I turned and ran from the cafeteria. I wasn’t thinking, I was merely fleeing, so it came as a surprise that I headed straight for the principal’s office. I burst inside, gasping, to find Mr. Radshaw drinking a cup of coffee. He calmly set it down upon my entrance, as though he’d been expecting me.
“I can’t do this,” I burst out. I stayed by the door, holding on to the doorknob as though it were the lifeline that could save me.
“Of course not,” he said. “Those kids will make your life hell. But it was impressive that you insisted on trying. As I said, most girls don’t.”
“I wanted to graduate. I wanted to become a psychologist.” I started to cry. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not. But there are other options for your diploma. You’re a smart girl, and you’ll figure something out.” He reached for the phone. “Have a seat and try to breathe. I’ll call your mother to come pick you up.”
I let go of the doorknob and came over to his desk. “I’d rather you didn’t. She was against me coming back to school in the first place.”
“Then she’ll be relieved you’re leaving.”
“Please don’t call her. It’s too embarrassing. I can walk home.”
Mr. Radshaw hesitated. “I can’t let you walk home alone in this state. But I suppose I could have my secretary drive you.”
I shook my head. “You can call someone else.”
I gave him Julia’s number.
She arrived within the half hour, time I passed sitting quietly while Mr. Radshaw worked at his desk. He gave me a book to read, some fairy tale about girls who were really birds, or maybe it was birds who were really girls; I couldn’t focus on it. When Julia finally arrived, Mr. Radshaw nodded to me.
“I wish you the best,” he said, and held out his hand for me to shake. “And you can keep that book.”
I didn’t want the book. It had a hard cover made of aged blue cloth, and it smelled musty. But I took it with me as he asked, all the while knowing I’d never open it again.
“You should have called your mother,” Julia told me as she guided me outside. She had hugged me hard when we met outside Mr. Radshaw’s office, an enveloping, all-consuming embrace. I could still feel it. “You need your mother at times like these.”
“I need a break from my family.”
We reached a car that was unfamiliar to me—a copper-colored, slightly beat-up sedan. I’d later learn she bought it after my abduction, when she was overcome with guilt thinking that if her old car had been usable on First Friday, she could have driven me home.
Julia paused before getting into the driver’s seat. “If you weren’t going to call your mother, then I’m glad you chose me. You and I—we need to trust each other from here on out. Do you understand?”
As usual, I didn’t understand Julia. But I nodded anyway.
“We were all so worried about you,” she went on. “All of us, but especially your brother.” She paused, her gaze landing on my exposed forearms. I was wearing a fitted black shirt with sleeves that stopped at my elbows.
“May I see?” she asked. I nodded again, and she took my arms in her hands.
A few remnants of bruising were still visible, but Julia looked past those to focus on my markings—my adult markings, the ones I hadn’t let anyone see after I changed. How silly I felt for that attempt to hide myself. It had almost worked, too, up to that moment in the alley with Miles, after which I was taken and given these bruises. That was how I saw it, that the bruises were given, a monstrous gift.
Julia looked at my arms carefully, in a way that my mother and even Miles hadn’t. Since I’d been in the hospital, they averted their eyes from my body, as if catching a glimpse of my skin would be shameful.
“You’re all right,” Julia said at last. “I’m so glad you’re back, Celeste. Now get in. I’ll take you to my place for the afternoon, but we have to hurry. I’m late.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer.
During the drive, I considered unburdening myself to Julia. I could confess what had happened with the spit or the boy who grabbed me, but my mind was already cementing over those moments, sealing them off.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I want to earn my diploma, but I can’t go back there. I don’t want to do correspondence classes, either.” I t
urned to face the window, choking back tears. “It’s impossible.”
“There are other ways.” Julia’s voice was quiet. “The education at the Mountain School is stellar—better than anything you’d get here.”
“My family can’t afford that.”
Julia paused, clearly too polite to agree with me. “Don’t give up hope yet,” she said eventually.
I didn’t reply. Hope was another luxury I couldn’t afford.
When we arrived at the townhouse, Miles was standing on the front stoop.
“We’ve been waiting,” he told Julia. “You know I can’t start without you. There’s already a girl in your office.”
I frowned at him. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“I stopped going.”
“You can’t drop out. You’re in your final year.” I paused, shocked. “Do Mom and Dad know?”
“Not yet. But they’ll accept it once they learn I’m bringing in an income.”
I turned to Julia. “You can’t possibly support this. What about his future?” The words came out of my mouth before I remembered that within a few years, that would be a moot point.
“This is my future,” Miles said. “Working as an interpreter.” He opened the front door and gestured toward the parlor.
Inside, we faced about a half dozen girls, all unchanged. Four of them crammed onto the couch, and the other two sat in the armchairs. The mood was that of a dentist’s waiting area: no one was particularly happy to be there, and they wanted even less to be called for the appointment.
“Miles, you stay with Celeste,” Julia said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
Once she left, my brother led me upstairs.
“You can’t do this,” I told him. “The Office of the Future will never allow it.” Back then I didn’t understand much about the Office of the Future, or just how it might infiltrate our lives—but I knew enough to see it as a threat.
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