by S. L. Naeole
“What about it?”
“It…I should have never worn such a revealing top. If word gets out that I was even at that party, much less dressed the way that I was, I might lose my job. You were the only one who attended that’s still a student here—even if for only a few more weeks—and I’d like it if you kept what you saw to yourself.”
This confused me, because nothing she had done or said or wore had seemed inappropriate to me in the slightest. “Okay.”
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
We walked in silence the rest of the way, and I took my place in the near empty classroom as she apologized for being late to the three other faces that stared, bored, at the whiteboard in front of us.
The next few hours proceeded as dully as possible, Mrs. Deovolente’s usually cheerful voice dropping down to a sullen monotone that forced at least one student to fall asleep.
When the bell rang, I felt ten pounds heavier from just the weight of it, but I was also glad for it. Anything to keep my thoughts from being filled with Robert’s accusation or his indifference, I told myself.
It had been three days now since I’d left, and he hadn’t so much as visited me. I closed my eyes that first night back and waited for him to appear, waited for the dip in the bed, for the arms to embrace me, but nothing came. The next night repeated the same loneliness, and I realized by the second morning that it wasn’t better, waking up alone in my father’s house. In fact, it was worse.
“Grace, do you think you could stay a while? I have a question to ask.”
My head lifted at this and I nodded enthusiastically. She noticed this and my head stilled, but it was too late.
“Don’t want to go home so soon, do you?”
I looked at her and sighed. There was no hope in denying it now. “Not really.”
“Trouble with your father?”
“No. No, things with my dad are great. He’s…he’s honestly the best dad a girl could want.”
“Then it’s trouble with your boyfriend, the handsome one. That’s it, isn’t it?”
No matter what my mouth wanted to say, my eyes screamed the truth out at her and she nodded in understanding. “Guys are the bane to a woman’s existence. What’s been bothering you?”
“I don’t—I don’t know if I can talk to you about it.”
“Has he been pressuring you? Is that it?”
I shook my head, as I laughed sarcastically. “If only…”
“You’ve grown apart then. He’s planning on moving on—or you are. Is that it?”
“We’re apart. We’re always apart. Even when he’s right there with me, we’re not in the same room, and it wasn’t like that before. Before, it didn’t matter where he was, he was with me. He was right here.” I pressed my hand against my chest, my heart slowly pounding inside.
“Perhaps it’s for the best. You’re young, Grace. You have your whole life ahead of you. College, marriage, kids. There’s so much that you have to look forward to, with someone who will always be there for you. Maybe this is an opportunity for you.”
“No offense, Mrs. Deovolente, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She eased back in her chair, obviously surprised by my response. “Well, excuse me but I do take offense to that. I was young once too, you know. I thought I was in love when I was your age. I thought that the sun rose and set with the person I was in love with, but it turned out that I was wrong. I got hurt, and I let that hurt derail plans that I had made for myself. It took me a long time to get back on track, and I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.”
“Trust me, it won’t.”
Mrs. Deovolente stood up and took careful, measured steps around her desk. She pulled the chair that was beside me out from under its desk and sat down in it. “I worry about you, Grace. I see so much potential in you, and when I see you looking as though your entire world is caving in around you, I feel it, too.”
“Look, Mrs. Deo-”
“Call me Mel.”
“Fine. Look, Mel, I’m not saying that you don’t know what you’re talking about for yourself. You’re probably some kind of relationship guru in that department. You just don’t know what you’re talking about when it comes to me.”
“Then help me to understand. Maybe I do know. Maybe, even if I don’t, I can give you my opinion from another perspective.”
As much as I wanted to, as much as I wanted to tell her and hear what she might think, I couldn’t. Who was this person to me but a teacher? One whom I’d never see again and who couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to love an angel?
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Well, then tell me something you can. You said ‘if only’ when I asked about being pressured. Are you worried that your boyfriend isn’t attracted to you?”
I gaped at her, my mouth hanging open like an empty pot. “I don’t think that’s any of your business!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But, if it’s true, if that’s something you’re concerned about then I think I might be able to help.”
“How can you help me?” I asked, doubt and aversion wreaking havoc with my tone.
“Well, for starters, have you ever thought of seducing your boyfriend?”
“I don’t think this is something a teacher is supposed to instruct me on,” I pointed out, but deep down, I was intrigued.
“Well, you are an adult, aren’t you?”
“Being eighteen makes me legally an adult, but that doesn’t mean that I’m any more comfortable with the idea of you giving me sex advice.”
She held up her hands in defeat and gave me a wan smile. “If that’s how you feel then alright.”
“What could you tell me anyway? You don’t know Robert, or what he likes or dislikes.”
I hadn’t meant to say it. I didn’t even realize that I had until the words had left my mouth and Mrs. Deovolente was responding.
“I might not know what Robert likes, but he is a guy, and all guys like knowing that you’ve made an effort at trying to look sexy for them. They appreciate that.”
I snorted, an unladylike snort that was definitely not sexy. “I couldn’t pull off sexy if you poured it on me. It’s not possible.”
“Well, have you ever tried?”
“No,” I snapped indignantly.
“Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you need to entice him. Wear something provocative, something skimpy.”
Instantly my mind was drawn to that night I had worn his shirt, and only his shirt. It had provoked an unexpected reaction, one that changed everything between Robert and I, and I could do nothing but acknowledge that in everything else, he had been able to resist what both of us struggled with. But was it that simple? Did he not come to me because of my choice in clothes?
“Have I struck a chord?”
My head snapped up and I realized that I had been so lost in my thoughts my silence had told her everything she needed to know—there was no denying anything now.
Instead, I revealed a fear that I hadn’t realized I possessed until it was past my lips. “Why am I not enough the way I am?”
The hurt in my voice, the visible hurt in the furrowing of my brow, and the painful twisting of my mouth brought her forward, her arms wrapping around me in a comforting embrace.
“If he doesn’t find you attractive enough to be with the way you are then he’s not worth your time. I’m sorry for even suggesting that you’re the problem, Grace. That’s a woman’s worst mistake—I should have never even brought it up.”
My body shook with rejection of her apology. “No. No, you were right. The only time we’ve ever…the only time we’ve done…” My words failed me, the subject so uncomfortable and private that my mouth could not complete the sentence.
“You don’t have to say another word, Grace,” she said mercifully. “Perhaps this is for the best. It’s far better to remove yourself before you become too involved. There’s a price to pay f
or getting too involved.” Her voice trailed away, even as she pulled away, and I could see that there was pain in her eyes that seemed to mirror my own.
“Mel?”
“I’m sorry. This obviously is not the most appropriate conversation we should be having. I have to get going, Grace, but we’ll talk more tomorrow. Alright?” With that, she stood up and hurriedly gathered her things before dashing out of the classroom, leaving me to ponder just what had happened to her that could have hurt her so badly that she’d be able to comprehend just how awful I felt.
I was also left wondering if perhaps her advice, regardless of whether or not she had retracted it, would work. Robert had always maintained a semblance of control, even when it appeared that I was the one who had drawn things to a halt. I never fooled myself once into thinking that perhaps if I had just kept my mouth shut that things would have been different—not when it came to that.
As I grabbed my backpack from the ground beside me, I frowned at the ideas that ran through my mind. Horrible ideas that left me feeling low in both spirit and body. The compliments that Robert had given me had always been seemingly never ending, but as I rifled through the memories of each one, each one that I so preciously coveted because they had been from him to me, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that the majority of them were given when I was wearing something that wasn’t…well, me.
I rode my bike home with slow, steady strokes, and with each marker that I passed, I counted yet another moment when the only compliments I received from him—or anyone—had been when I was dressed in something that I would not have chosen for myself. Each tick on the invisible chart that kept track of them seemed to scream at me just how foolish I had been.
Did I doubt that Robert loved me? Never. I couldn’t deny that he loved me as fiercely as I did him. But by the time I reached my father’s house, I realized that what I felt for him, this passionate need to be with him, wasn’t something that he seemed to share for me.
It definitely wasn’t the heated, unquenchable desire that Lark obviously felt for Graham and vice versa. They hadn’t spent a single night apart that had not been forced upon them, and even when they were together, there was barely a foot of distance between them, their need to be close to each other far too strong to ignore.
I was a quivering, blubbering mess by the time I reached my room, my bed still a mess, my nightstand now bearing the duck lamp that I had borrowed from Matthew’s room.
I lay down on the bed, too deeply embedded in my sorrow to hear the phone ringing in the drawer beside me. When Dad knocked on the door a few minutes later to tell me that the call was for me, I don’t recall blindly fumbling with the drawer pull to reveal the phone, or even lifting the receiver up and pressing it to my ear.
My voice creaked as I spoke into the phone, “Hello?”
The person on the other end waited until the tell-tale click of the other phone being hung up could be heard, and then the sound of an odd voice filled my ear.
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sean. Sean Kim. Stacy’s brother.”
“Oh.” I sat up, my head instantly shoving aside the makings of my own self-pity party and quickly replacing it with the harsh words he had thrown at me, the cold stares, and the hidden threats. I treaded cautiously. “What can I do for you, Sean?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s about Stacy.”
“What about her?”
“This is going to sound crazy, and since I know you’re crazy, I figured you wouldn’t think this strange at all. I think Stacy’s alive.”
The phone fell out of my hands, slamming against the legs of the nightstand before coming to rest partially beneath the bed. I bent over it with clumsy hands, fumbling with it several times—pressing a button or two in the process—and pressed it against my head once more, my hands firmly holding it there, creating a vacuum between the clammy receiver and my sweaty ear.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “What makes you think that Stacy’s alive? You saw her die. We all did.”
“I saw her. The other day, while I was driving to Shawn Bing’s house for that stupid party he was throwing. I saw her standing across the street. She was staring at the sky. I swear I saw her. I blinked—I freaking blinked—and when my eyes opened again she was gone. I need to know if you’ve seen her, too.”
“Why would you ask me something like that?” There was nervousness in my voice that I hoped he could not hear. I hoped…
“Because you were one of her best friends, and I know that you’ve seen her, too.”
“What?”
“At the funeral. I saw you looking at the window. Stacy was there—you saw her, too.”
“Sean, I-I don’t know what to tell you.” My stammer was almost as bad as my grip on the phone, which continued to threaten to slip out of my grasp at any moment, my fingers growing slicker by the moment.
“Look, just tell me the truth, okay? I won’t tell my parents—they’d never understand anyway—but I don’t feel like something’s missing. I don’t feel like she’s gone, even though everything else says that she is. If she’s not, then I know that you’d know for sure. I know that you’d know if what I’m feeling is me just being crazy or if there’s something else going on.”
He was vulnerable. I sensed it in his voice, his closeness to his sister unmistakable and firm, another connection that I now found I envied.
But how do I go about trying to explain something to him that was unexplainable? What did I say to him? Do I tell him the truth, or do I lie and tell him that he’s crazy?
“Grace?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“She’s not dead, is she?”
“She’s dead, Sean. She’s stone cold dead.”
There was a silence on the other line that I did not like. And then a voice that was colder than I’d ever heard before. “You’re lying.” The click of the other end being slammed was nowhere near as deafening as that accusation, and I shivered from the implication that it brought.
I wasn’t lying. It didn’t matter that my words had a double meaning, and that he’d taken it for face value. Stacy was dead. She wasn’t alive, not in the way that he’d accept, and there was no way that I was going to reveal that to anyone. Not even her own brother, even if that cost me something that I had not yet realized I had to lose.
But sitting up now, with the phone still pressed against my ear, my thoughts now an endless pit of doubt and hurt and confusion, I fought to regain some semblance of control over what I was going to do. Robert stained my thoughts like ink, turning everything dark. Sean was willing to fight for the possibility that his sister was alive. Why couldn’t I fight for the possibility that Robert’s need for me was as well?
Realizing that I was making a foolish gamble based on the crazed hopes of someone who despised me, even as he turned to me for advice, I went to the bathroom to wash away the evidence of my crying. I returned to my room only to grab my wallet from my backpack and shove it into my jeans pocket.
I ran downstairs and slipped out the door, grabbing my bike in the process and pedaling as fast as I could down the street.
“If I hurry, I can make it there before they close,” I said to myself out loud, my destination clear, my intent clear, my nerves shot to pieces and scattering behind me like frayed ribbon.
CRACKED
God, what a stupid thing to do. I paced the room, my bare feet padding on the soft carpet, my hands nervously clenching and unclenching the thin robe that hung around me like a scarlet curtain.
I hurried to the bathroom to check my reflection once more, unsure as to whether or not this would be passable, or whether I looked like some hooker circus clown prowling the streets for Johns.
After leaving Dad’s house, I had pedaled like a mad woman to get to the mall. There were still a few hours before it closed and I needed every single precious minute to find what I was looking for. A woman with short, dark hair watched me ente
r the small store, near panic set on my face at the abundant amount of things that were lacking. Lacking in material, lacking in coverage, lacking in actual clothing; a store filled with nothing but things meant to entice and seduce was where I found myself after deciding to test out Mrs. Deovolente’s theory.
I silently cursed her—and Sean—for being two separate reasons for why I had to try this approach because if it failed, then I’d know for certain where I stood with Robert and I dreaded the answer. I dreaded it as much as I dreaded the look on the saleswoman’s face as she saw within me a virgin customer ripe for the picking.
“Hello, dear. Can I help you with anything?” she asked me in a voice that was all too sweet, all too kind.
“I’m looking for something…” was all I could say to her. I didn’t know what I was looking for. What did one buy in a place like this that didn’t leave them feeling cheap? Okay, after looking at the prices in here, cheap is the wrong word. Expensive. Very, very expensive is more appropriate. And poorer; definitely poorer.
“Is this a gift for someone else? Or is this a personal purchase?”
My head tilted to the side as I tried to decipher what she meant by gift when she smirked and added, “Or both?”
“Can it be both?”
“Oh definitely,” she said with a knowing smile. “You seem quite young to be looking for something of that nature, though. Do you mind if I ask you how old you are?”
“Eighteen,” I answered stiffly.
“Well, that’s the perfect age to start learning about what to wear when you want to feel provocative.”
There was that word again! Provocative was what Mrs. Deovolente had used. Provocative was what I, in my boxers and tank tops, had not been. I wanted to be that word.
“Do you think you could help me?” I asked nervously, and the woman smiled at me like a sculptor would a piece of clay. She dragged me towards the back of the shop, and pushed me behind a pair of dark, striped curtains.
“You stay there and start to undress,” she commanded. “I shall return with a few things for you to try on.”
