“Hey,” I announced when I arrived, hoping for some explanation for Zack’s presence.
“Hey,” Zack replied.
Turning to Megan, I chose the weakest member of the group, the one most likely to give a play by play of the last ten minutes since I had seen her.
“Hey, Zack asked if he could join us. It seems that the two of you are going to some kind of dance together and he wanted to know what you were going to wear. Since you haven’t gone shopping yet, I told him that he would have to wait for you to answer that question,” she said with a huge grin on her face.
I glanced at Zack, who was perfectly at ease sitting with my friend as he smiled at me. He had what looked like a tuna or chicken salad sandwich sitting in front of him on his crumpled tinfoil. His can of Coke had been popped open and he was sharing a bag of chips with Kris, who was eating something from a thermos. It appeared that he had nestled in during the visit and wasn’t planning on leaving.
It took everything I had not to look at his usual table to see what kind of faces or gestures his friends were giving him, but I did make the mistake of glancing at Heather’s table. Six of the girls surrounding her were whispering to each other, while Heather looked like fire would shoot from her hair in the next five seconds.
I had two choices, either declare to the world that Zack and I were “dating”, which meant that we were okay with eating lunch together, or I could sit in the last stall of the bathroom and eat my lunch, as I had done a few times freshman year when Megan was out sick. It took a second longer to decide than I would have expected because Heather appeared ready to combust and take me out in the aftermath. My growling stomach made the choice for me and I walked around the table to sit on the other side of Zack. I fully prepared for a battle cry from Heather or a deafening explosion to rise above the chatter in the room. Instead, I heard something even better.
“I waited for you at your locker this morning, but I didn’t see you. Is everything okay?” he asked, leaning toward me.
He had waited for me, just as he promised. It was a small thing to wait for someone by their locker, but his words meant more than I could explain. I began to tear up until I caught myself. I didn’t want him to think that I would cry in front of him for no reason.
“Sorry, I didn’t get to talk to Megan during the weekend and she had some major news to share. It was important girl talk,” I said, sounding serious.
He laughed. “Girl talk is always serious,” he said firmly.
“Thank you for waiting,” I whispered as Megan started to talk about Todd’s wavy hair.
He pretended to lean over to scratch his leg. “Are you okay?” he asked discreetly.
“I survived,” I said under my breath.
He nodded and grabbed his sandwich as he looked up at Megan and pretended to listen to her. He shoved half the sandwich in his mouth and nodded at Megan’s question about whether guys like smart girls.
He casually placed his hand on the bench between us and held his palm up, though he was still listening to Megan and Jill, who wanted to know if guys liked tall girls, since Jill was nearly six feet tall. I gave Zack a lot of credit for fielding the questions with tact and thoughtfulness, but I couldn’t take my eyes off his palm. He was asking for permission to hold my hand. He wasn’t forcing me and he wasn’t assuming anything. My hand twitched, desperate to hold his, but it symbolized a little more to me. It proved that he understood me.
I finally slid my hand out of my lap and carefully placed my hand in his. He slowly pushed his fingers through mine until they were interlaced. I tried in vain to hide my stupid smile and my red cheeks. Megan, thankfully, didn’t point out that I resembled a tomato. Instead, she winked at me and pretended that she had an eyelash in her eye. I was grateful for her support and her approval since I would need her to run interference at some point if I ever wanted to see Zack in the real world.
“So,” Zack said loudly enough for the table to hear him, “What are you wearing to the dance?”
I wanted to laugh at his less-than-subtle question since it was the supposed reason for his arrival at our table.
“I’m not sure. My mom and I are going tomorrow night to find something. What are you wearing?” I asked, trying not to stare at his handsome face, which was close enough that I could move a few inches and kiss him.
He shrugged. “I could always wear my football uniform from my old high school. Although, I’m not sure about that since our schools are rivals, and I don’t really want to get jumped in the parking lot. I do have my costume from last year. I was the Grim Reaper. I had a plastic scythe and everything,” he said, boastfully.
Everyone laughed about his impressive scythe.
Megan snatched one of the chips from his bag. “I love guys in football uniforms, but I agree that you will get jumped in the parking lot. The Reaper sounds cool, but I have a feeling Alicia will want to see your face since you are going together. You need a third option,” she said unabashedly.
I was grateful for my friend’s wisdom. I did want to see his face.
Zack turned and looked at me thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought about that. See, girl talk is important. I promise that I won’t wear a mask,” he winked.
My heart sputtered. I was happy that I would see his face, but it was the way he said the word mask that implied a deep meaning. I could swear that he meant that I would get to see the real Zack, not the face he put on at school or the one he had for his father. I was looking forward to that more than seeing his face through his costume.
“I don’t like that one,” I said, sticking out my tongue at a weird mermaid costume my mother was showing me.
“Well, you have to pick something. We have looked at every outfit in the store and there is a reason for each of them to suck, according to you. You can’t go in your underpants,” my mother huffed as she put her hand on her hip and glared at me in the middle of the party store.
“That’s because they all suck,” I replied. I hated drawing attention to myself for any reason. The costumes in the store were glittery, short, and revealing—three things I hated.
My shoulders slumped when I looked at the rack of fluffy, frilly outfits. There was something seriously wrong with the designers of these clothes. I was a girl who didn’t want to show off my cleavage or my backside, yet there were baby-doll outfits that included stockings and short shorts, cowgirls with cutoffs where the boots were the only things covering their skin, and my favorite, a Catholic School uniform that was shorter than my actual skirt.
My mother frowned as she picked through the costumes. “What about this one?” she asked, pulling out a Wonder Woman costume.
I looked at the star spangled outfit and raised my eyebrow at her. “You said that I can’t go in my underwear,” I said, pointing to the blue bathing suit bottom with the shiny stars imprinted on it.
She looked down at the outfit and nodded absently, finally seeing the problem. She put the outfit away and walked further down the aisle, while I perused the men’s costumes. Why were they allowed to cover themselves completely in black fabric? I hated the stress that this dance was causing me. One, I was going to the dance with a boy, which was strictly forbidden, and two, I had to find clothing that Phil wouldn’t ogle me in or accuse me of dressing slutty for my date, who he didn’t know about. I was screwed either way.
“Has anyone asked you to the dance yet? It’s only a few days away,” she asked, sifting through the bagged costumes on the wall.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. This was one of the few times I wished that I could be honest with my mother. I could use her advice. Heck, I wouldn’t even mind being teased because a boy liked me. Sadly, I couldn’t say anything to her because I didn’t trust that she would keep my secret from Phil. She had no idea what was happening to me because she didn’t want to know.
I had tried to tell her what was going on a few times, but somehow there was always a “miscommunication” between what I told her and the lies Phil
concocted in order to save himself. He was good at manipulating her and would ultimately have her so confused that she disregarded my version of the story. When I finally came out and told her that he had “touched me,” my simple statement was somehow turned into something far less sinister by Phil and nothing ever came of my cry for help.
I began to believe that she ignored by breadcrumb trails because she too had to listen to his endless lectures about how to fold the dishrag in the sink properly or how to make a bed the right way. She had been pushed into her own protective shell by his overbearing, control freak persona. The frustrating thing was that she understood half of the truth. He had stalked her, driven her friends and family away, and berated her over nonsense until she finally shut down and hid in her bedroom, just like me. The problem was that she was so busy hiding that she couldn’t see what I was going through.
“No, Mom. I don’t have a date,” I lied convincingly. I had been practicing it for my trip to the dance with Phil for the inevitable interrogation.
“That’s a shame. It’s so much more fun going with someone,” she sighed. “I remember having to take my cousin to the prom and let me tell you, we had more fun than anyone. All the couples were fighting and breaking up, but we laughed and danced all night.”
I rolled my eyes as I put down a black witch’s hat. “You want me to take one of my cousins? None of them are even old enough. I’m the oldest grandchild,” I said, wrinkling my nose.
Stuffing a robot mask back into a box of random masks, she waved her hand at me. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just want you to have fun, that’s all. You don’t get to redo your high school years. I don’t want you to miss out on anything,” she smiled sincerely.
I knew her reasons for wanting me to enjoy my life and I appreciated that she wanted those things for me; I just wished she understood why I couldn’t enjoy it. The last time she and Phil had been on the verge of breaking up, she had threatened to move out and searched for apartments. She had stood in the middle of the small kitchen inside the cramped apartment and asked me if I wanted to live like this. She was asking me if I wanted to be poor again and leave the spacious house she had grown accustomed to. My answer was a resounding yes, but I could see it in her eyes. She couldn’t live like this. At that precise moment, she had decided to live with the strange, socially awkward man that our family disliked. She had agreed to be questioned about her spending. She had agreed to Phil’s unusual possessiveness of me that seemed to set her teeth on edge, though she rarely voiced her disapproval of it. Moreover, she had agreed to remain a prisoner in a place she called her home, but though he often reminded her that it wasn’t her house. In the end, I agreed to return to Phil’s and kept my mouth shut. I was afraid that she would ultimately resent me if I refused to go back and blame me for our altered lifestyle. I tried to find a balance between loving my mother and being disappointed in her.
Unwilling to continue this shopping nightmare, I made a desperate decision and grabbed the first costume I could put my hand on. I wanted to be out of the store and away from her, at least until I calmed down. I’d had enough of her trying to push me into a life I wanted more than anything, but could never have.
“Found it,” I announced briskly.
“Are you sure?” she asked, confused by my sudden choice.
“Yup,” I said curtly.
It wasn’t until later that I fully understood the mistake I had made in rushing this all-important decision. When I got to my bedroom, I stared at the color photo on the bag and wanted to sink into the floor. It was possible to return the costume, but I didn’t want to repeat the agonizing experience and still end up hating my choice.
The name on top of the picture read, “1920’s Girl”. In reality, it was a flapper costume. It had sequence, gold streamers that hung from the bottom of the barely-there skirt to the top of one’s knee, and a bust line that showed off exactly what kind of bra the woman was wearing. I wanted to die. If this dress didn’t scream to the world that I had a date and wanted everyone to know it, I didn’t know what would. It even had a headband with a feather sticking out the top of it. The color scheme was burgundy and black, so I hoped that I could hide in the shadows inside the gym, though there were enough reflective surfaces that I could double as a gold disco ball and alert everyone to my presence. It was a beautiful dress—for someone with a real life.
I hung my head and debated what I should do. I tried to figure out if I could hide the dress under one of my long winter coats and tell Phil that I was an Eskimo. It wouldn’t save me from the lecture, but I would at least be allowed out of the house.
Annoyed by my moment of insanity, I stuffed the costume under my bed and pretended that I had picked the werewolf costume that was a size 42 Men’s.
After dinner, I retreated to the back porch wrapped in my puffy blue coat. My mother was forcing Phil to watch some old movie, which meant he would be asleep by the time the opening credits rolled.
I pulled up the hood of my coat and snuggled into the long sleeves. I wanted to be excited about the dance, but there were too many things to worry about. I hadn’t even stressed over what I would say to Zack so that I wouldn’t sound like a complete idiot. I wanted to imagine putting my arms around his shoulders and dancing with him, but I was too busy plotting my escape from the house.
An angry voice broke my meditation and I jumped at the sound. I was afraid that I was in trouble until I realized it was coming from the other street. It was a male voice...an adult, and he was swearing. I heard a car door slam and the yelling stopped. I was running through the woods before I even considered that it might not be Zack’s father yelling.
I hopped up his back stairs and paused. What was I doing? I wasn’t allowed here without an invitation, or a chaperone. I felt stupid for a minute when I thought maybe I had overacted and that Zack was completely safe.
The slamming of what sounded like a chair in the kitchen made my heart sink. It seemed that I hadn’t overreacted.
Holding my breath, I knocked on the metal part of the screen door and waited, hoping that I wasn’t making a fool of myself. I prayed that Zack answered the door since I didn’t have a prepared reason to be there if his mother questioned me.
When Zack opened the door, I was both relieved and furious. Even in the dim light from the back porch, I could see the tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Go away,” he said, wiping his face harshly with his shirt sleeves.
“I heard him yelling. I can get you some Advil and ice if you want,” I said, trying to figure out how to help him. I had never offered anyone comfort from pain before. I had consoled Megan after a boy had said something mean to her, but I had never told someone in pain that it would be okay.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment, the shadows hiding his expression. He finally popped open the screen door and stepped back to let me in.
Looking around his kitchen, I saw that it was a decent size. The counter and sink were to my right, the oven was against the far wall, and the refrigerator sat to my left. In the middle of the room was a metal dinette table with blue and white flowers painted on it and four blue wooden chairs around it. One of the chairs was laying on its side.
I turned around to say something to Zack, but I couldn’t find the words. His nose was bleeding and there was blood on his striped long-sleeve shirt. His hair was standing up like someone had been holding it. The most disturbing thing was the dead look in his eyes. He was in shock from the incident.
My heart stopped when I saw his eyes. I understood that look. He was far away, hiding from the pain inside his body. He probably didn’t even know that he was bleeding.
I walked over and righted the chair. “Sit down,” I said firmly, pointing to the seat.
He complied without a word.
“Will there be bruises?” I asked vaguely since he was still detached from reality.
He nodded as he sat in the chair and stared at the sunflower clock on the wall.
> I walked through the doorway that led to the living room. The lights were off, so I didn’t see much of the room. I found my way through it, only kicking the coffee table once. I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. Opening the medicine cabinet, I gasped. Every kind of prescription medication was lined up perfectly on the shelf, including a number of over-the-counter painkillers. My stomach churned when I saw some of the labels on the bottles. I recognized the heavy-duty ones for pain and sleeping, the ones my mom had taken after a surgery on her foot.
I grabbed the Advil and closed the cabinet. I didn’t want to leave Zack alone for too long. I snatched a small dark red hand towel from the towel rack and clenched my teeth. I wanted to scream at the dark red towels that his mother had purchased—the ones that would hide the blood.
Making my way back to the kitchen, I wasn’t surprised to see Zack sitting just as I had left him.
I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and found the zip bags. I pulled open the freezer to see four full trays of ice, a staple for a maniac who liked to hit people. Filling two bags and zipping them, I took a breath to steady myself. No matter what I saw or what Zack said to me, I had to be strong and get him through this, even if he resisted.
“You need to take off your shirt. There’s blood on it,” I said as I turned to face him.
He didn’t even look down at his shirt. He pulled it over his head and tossed it on the table. Reaching over the table, I took it and tossed it into the sink. I turned on the cold water and plugged up the sink to let it soak. I took out two Advil and filled up a cup with water. Carefully balancing it with my bag of ice, I readied myself for what would come next.
When I turned to look at him, I almost dropped everything. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for what I saw. Zack had little pink scars on his upper chest. There wasn’t any kind of pattern to the small strips of raised skin, but there were a lot of them. I had to shake myself from my horror and remind myself that I wanted to be here. I needed to be here.
We Were Ghosts--The Secret Life of a Survivor Page 8
