by Lindsey Iler
His head whips up and he groans as he leans against the cushion behind him. “That’s it, then, huh? I just let her go.”
“Without trying to sound completely cliché, –and if you tell anyone I even said this, I will kick your ass– but maybe you need to let her go so she can find her way back to you.”
“Did you just ‘if it’s meant to be, she’ll find her way back to you’ me? Seriously? I can’t sit here while she’s out riding strange dick to get it out of her system. She either wants me or she doesn’t, and if she doesn’t, then fine. I’ll deal. I’ll move on, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for her to decide if I’m good enough for her.”
“You should make that clear to her.”
“I did. A part of me thought it would snap her stubborn ass out of this funk she’s in, but it didn’t. She’s spewing some crazy shit about how love is a joke, and there’s no point in trying anymore.” He shrugs. “I’m done talking about it. I can’t think about it anymore.”
“Okay, but know–”
“I know. You’re here. It’s about damn time I’m not the one giving you advice. Even with all this shit with Vi, I’m happy for you and Ken. The world sort of makes sense now.”
“You’re such a sap.” I shake my head. Even in his crappy situation, Dan sees the good.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask Violet to group?” Bea questions as we head out of the café and walk down the bustling sidewalk toward the poor excuse for a building on the corner.
“Things have been strained between Violet and me. There’s no doubt she would come if I asked, but we’ve been keeping our distance,” I explain, fiddling with the strap of my purse.
“I thought you two had worked things out.” Alex bumps her elbow into my side.
To be honest, I’m not sure what’s going on between us. I’ve kept quiet on my opinion of her choices, and she’s been supportive from afar. Last week, she’d come to my biggest performance of the year, but I’m not sure if her motivation had been friendship or obligation.
“It’s not that easy. I felt weird asking her to come when things are unsettled between us.”
“Well, you have us.” Bea wraps her arms around my shoulders and tugs my body against hers.
“I asked Graham. He has baseball, so …” I hold the door open for the two of them, dismissing his absence.
As we enter, Dr. Wilson is filling a cup with coffee. Bea introduces her sister. When Dr. Wilson’s attention turns to me, I shrug, filling my own cup and taking my usual chair. The sisters take the two across from me.
“Thank you to all who’ve come out today. Sometimes it’s strange to discuss the inner workings of our mind with those we love. We’re afraid of judgment, ridicule, and more importantly, shame,” Dr. Wilson explains, searching the room for any sign of such. She takes a deep breath and releases. “For as long as I’ve been doing this, the one day that sticks out in my mind is this one. It’s where we see the most growth, and we get to experience the strength of those we’ve gotten to know quite well.”
Dr. Wilson ghosts her hand to Bea. She nods as she rises to stand. She peers down at Alex.
“Some days, I need you to release me. Give me a chance to slip up, make a mistake here and there. It’s because of you, I feel strong enough to wake up in the morning.” Appreciation radiates through every word she says to her sister, expressing and reliving her past for the rest of us to hear. “There was a time pulling the covers off my body was unbearable. It physically pained me to have others’ eyes on me. You taught me to push that demon away. You’re the reason why I’m standing here, alive, today.” Bea sits back down, taking her sister’s hand in hers. “It’s okay now. You don’t need to watch me every second of every day.”
Alex wipes the tears from her sister’s face. The small gesture says everything we need to know.
“I have been so afraid to lose you,” Alex whispers, brushing tears from her cheeks.
“I know you have, but I’m okay. For the first time in the past year, I can honestly say I’m okay.” Bea nods.
“This brings up an interesting point,” Dr. Wilson asks, sensing Bea and Alex’s need for a shift of attention. The two of them sit, hands clasped, listening. “For those closest to the victims, how hard is it to cope with what has happened to them?”
“Impossible,” a familiar voice speaks from behind me, followed by the sound of the metal door slamming shut.
I twirl in my chair to remind my brain it couldn’t possibly be …
“What are you doing here? What about your game?” I ask.
“It’s impossible for us, because we sometimes don’t know what to do. Hell, sometimes there’s nothing we can do,” Graham continues. He steps into the circle of chairs and kisses the top of my head. “My game got over, and I rushed here. You’ll never be alone again, okay? I’ll always find a way to be here.”
I spring from the metal chair and wrap my arms and legs around him. He sways back and forth, me wrapped in his arms, shushing me as his hand runs over my hair. I hadn’t realized how important this was to me until I laid eyes on him.
“I love you,” I whisper into his shoulder.
“You have no idea,” he whispers back, setting me back down to earth. A chair magically appears beside mine, and we sit, hand-in-hand.
“You must be Graham,” Dr. Wilson addresses him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He offers her a smile, peers down at me, and then back at her.
“Would you guys like to go next?”
“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to say or do.” His voice trembles. I place my hand over his forearm to assure him.
Dr. Wilson smiles. “Let me do this then. How about I ask you a few questions? Would that be okay?” Graham nods. “What do you know about Kennedy?”
“Everything, and nothing at all, if that makes a lick of sense.” Graham laughs awkwardly.
“It does.” Dr. Wilson nods. “Can you relive a moment where you witnessed Kennedy’s greatest strength?”
“Time Square, a week ago,” Graham says out loud, but it seems as though he’s speaking to himself. He gazes at me. “You are breathtaking every day of the week, Kennedy, but that day, you soared to the clouds. It was the moment I realized you would never allow anything to hold you back in this world.”
“I bled all over the cement. It dripped from me. Every insecurity, every self-doubt. Everything drained from my body in front of that crowd.” I close my eyes to remember.
The sky is dark, but life permeates through the space between every shop and building. They’re built up around us as shields from the unknown of what lies behind them. I wait for the melody to play through the speakers.
My head hangs low, stretching the muscles on the back of my neck. At the first piano key, my head springs up. I don’t see the massive crowd my presence has brought on. Instead, I see my past play out on the Jumbotron above me. My eyes stay locked as I allow every emotion the past four years of my life have brought on. Happiness. Fear. Beauty. Recklessness. Abandonment. Hate.
Love.
I spring forward until my body wraps around one of my classmates. He catches me midair, twirling with me in his arms. Our bodies tell a story, a story the audience is unaware of, but I know it’s there, hidden under every movement. By the second verse, my entire class has joined in telling my story to a crowd of strangers.
The girls are dressed in white, and the boys are draped in black. Each side tugs on my arm, fighting for my attention. It symbolizes the struggle of recovery, knowing which way your mind and body will lead you. The girls push forward until the boys are out of space around us. They circle me, hand-in-hand, protecting me from my demons.
My head leans back, my eyes glued to the sky as I twirl one last time. My leg extends high into the air, holding for a beat, and I fall to the cold, hard cement to a rush of applause and excitement.
“You were brave that day. A bravery I wasn’t sure you were capable of.” Graham’s voice breaks m
e from the memory. “After the …”
“Rape,” I finish the thought and see him swallow down the lump in his throat. I know how hard it still is on him.
“I envisioned you as helpless, and I’m not even sure why.”
“That’s completely normal,” Dr. Wilson explains.
“But you weren’t and never have been helpless. Day in and day out, even when it’s the most difficult, you’re the definition of strength.”
I dry the tears forming at the corner of my eyes, and squeeze his hand.
“Is there something you’d like to say to him?” Dr. Wilson asks me.
I look to Bea. She offers an encouraging smile as I turn back to Graham.
“There have been days since that night at Dan’s where I didn’t want to wake up. I prayed something miraculous would happen, and while I slept, I was freed from all the pain and suffering. Still, when I woke up the next morning, I knew there was a reason I survived another night.” I shake my head, fighting back every emotion to get the rest of this out. I aim my attention to Graham. “You.”
“I didn’t do anything, Kennedy. You did it all on your own.”
“Even so, I knew every morning I woke up a bit stronger, it was another day I allowed you to find me.” I rub the face of my compass charm.
“I’ve got to ask.” Graham looks ashamed. “Why didn’t you reach out to me? Why didn’t you try to bridge that gap?”
“Graham, I created this idea in my head that you didn’t need me anymore. As far as I was concerned, you were in Georgia, and we both know what I thought you were up to.” I pull my hand back and wring it with the other on my lap. “I guess, as more time passed, it became easier to believe you were the guy you always claimed to be. It would’ve made sense for you to move on, but somehow both of us held on in our own little way.”
“It seems you two have managed to teach each other quite a bit, even in your time apart,” Dr. Wilson adds. “You should cherish what you two have found.”
“We do.” Graham cups my head in his hand, and pulls it down until it rests on his shoulder.
The remainder of the session is spent listening to everyone else’s stories. Even after all this time, I find something to learn from each of them and their relationships with their boyfriends, parents, and siblings.
The cool air hits our skin as we step out onto the street, our hands clasped together as my other grips his bicep.
“Bea …” Graham begins, and my spine stiffens. “Was she there for her sister or–”
I cut him off. “The only thing I can say is it’s not my story to tell. I’d appreciate if you’d keep her being there private.” I step in front of him, eager to get away from the topic. “Thank you … for coming today.”
“It’s nothing, really.” He brushes off my appreciation.
I stop walking and look him directly in the eye. “No, it’s more than that. For everything you said in there. For not listening to me, once again, when I say I’m okay. I said it wasn’t necessary for you to come all this way, but I’m so thankful you did.”
“Don’t you know, Kennedy Conrad? I would go to the ends of this earth to make you happy.” Graham kisses the tip of my nose and wraps me in a hug. My eyes shut and I breathe him in. A sense of relief cascades around me until I hear the familiar clicks of the camera.
“You’re Kennedy Conrad, correct?” a stocky male asks, holding a camera in front of his face.
Graham shields me with his arm until I’m tucked into the passenger seat of his car. “What the hell is that all about?”
“It’s been happening all week. Every news station has asked me for an interview. They want me to tell my story. Apparently, my dance in Time Square has gained quite the following on the internet, and people want to know about the girl who wowed the world. Their words, not mine,” I explain, searching the parking lot for more reporters.
“My girlfriend, the internet sensation.” Graham pokes my leg playfully, and drives out into the street toward my apartment.
“It’s not funny. They won’t leave me alone.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell your story. I see the way those girls looked at you in there,” he points back to the building, “and they look up to you, Kennedy. They listen as you speak. Maybe you can do some good by speaking out.”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head and look out the window. My fear boils until tears fall down my cheeks.
“I’m not saying you have to. It’s just an idea.” Graham’s eyes lock on the side of my face, and I reach out to grab his hand, but don’t look up at him until we pull into my apartment building.
Later that night, after dinner, I turn to Graham. “I think maybe I’ll give the Columbia Daily Spector an exclusive.”
*****
“I know this must be hard for you.” Doug, the head reporter, says, ushering me to a contemporary black couch tucked in the back of the office.
“Yes,” I say reluctantly.
My head stays bowed as I take the seat Doug offers. He sits opposite of me on the sofa. His smile is friendly and puts me at ease.
“I want this to be as casual as possible. Please feel free to tell me, with full honesty, if something makes you uncomfortable when the video starts rolling. We can edit anything out.”
“Your junior reporter e-mailed me the questions. I’m okay.” I smile to erase some of his obvious unease about the topics we’re sure to brush up on.
“Okay, Ms. Conrad, let’s talk about the dance in Time Square. In the beginning, it seems like a typical routine, but it quickly turns into a social statement.”
“I never meant for it to come across as a social statement. I had the opportunity to choreograph my own dance, and to me, dance has always been a form of therapy. It’s a way to express myself when sometimes words don’t come as easily.”
“What was the dance meant to say?”
“The world knocks us down sometimes. People knock us down. But what I’ve learned is, standing up, in spite of obstacles, is what shows our character and strength. For me … the dance is a recovery.”
“Have you watched it, your performance?” Doug asks.
When I shake my head, he offers to play it for me. As I watch the video that’s been viewed over a million times since uploaded, my eyes begin to water, but I push the tears back.
“You have a clear reaction to the video.” Doug hands me a few tissues. I dab the corner of my eyes. “What do you see? Because I can tell you what I see. A girl who’s fought.”
“I’m not ashamed of what happened to me. It took me a while to realize I’m not pigeonholed into being a victim.”
“You wouldn’t classify yourself as a victim?”
“No, I wouldn’t, and that doesn’t take away from what happened to me.”
“Would you mind discussing what happened to you?” Doug taps the lid of his pen on his paper.
“I was in high school. My attacker tried once, but wasn’t successful. I suppose I’ll never know what it was about me that stood out. I remember wondering if it was because I was weak, like how lions spot out the weakest gazelle.” I shake my head. “He attacked again. Raped me on a slab of concrete, hidden behind a tractor.”
“What happened to him?”
“Because of his rich parents and their sense of entitlement, he was let out on bail. He attacked again. A girl just like me.”
“If there is one thing you could tell young girls who’ve been through what you’ve been through, what would it be?”
“You can’t walk through life feeling afraid, but you also need to have a sense of awareness. There were small signs right in front of me, and I didn’t pay attention to them. I want every girl out there to know it isn’t their fault, and that they can find a strength within themselves if they dig deep enough.”
“Kennedy, thank you so much for talking to us today, and believe me when we say that you were an inspiration in Time Square, and you’re an inspir
ation today.” The camera is turned off. “I’ll make sure to send you a copy of the news article and video before we publish. You get the final say.”
We shake hands and I leave the office. There’s an obvious pep in my step as I walk down the steps.
“How’d it go?” Graham leans against the passenger door, ready to open it for me.
“It went well.” I slide onto the leather seat.
He runs around the front of the SUV and slips behind the wheel. The engine roars, and he jerks the gear into reverse, but before pulling out of the space, he steps on the brakes.
“What do you want to do today?” He grins.
“I don’t know. For the first time, I feel free. A weight’s been lifted.”
He leans over the center console. His lips graze against mine and they lift at the corners.
“Then let’s soar,” he whispers between our lips.
Today is the biggest day of my life. I have experience with college scouts watching me pitch. Professional scouts, on the other hand, are a whole different level of intensity. Twice today, I’ve thrown up, as if my body knows it needs to rid itself of my nerves.
My phone vibrates. I flare the screen to life and find pictures from Kennedy. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘The pitcher’s my boyfriend’ on the front, and the back shows my last name and number. The text says, “You’ve got this.”
“You ready for this?” Rico asks. “Big day.”
“Don’t remind me,” I groan.
“You’ve had a near perfect season, man. There’s no reason to stress. Do what you do in every other game, and you’ll be pitching in the pros in no time,” Mark adds, dragging his gear out to make sure everything is in its rightful place.
I scrub my hands down my face, plug my headphones into my ears, and zone out. My teammates scurry around the room bullshitting, while I anticipate in quiet fear of my future. This day could change everything. This day will change everything.
Fifteen minutes and a series of rock songs later, Coach Boone calls me into his office. A middle-aged man with a strong build stands from one of the chairs.
