by Katie Henry
“What happened?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” She rests her hand on my knee. “Izzy. Please.”
So I take a breath, wrap my arms around my stomach, and tell her. More accurately, I tell her shoes, because I can’t look Mo in the eyes as I do it. No matter what her expression is—pity or disgust or anger—I can’t see it and speak at the same time. I start from the moment he approached at me the bar, and by the time I get to the end, the legs of my jeans are covered in little wet spots. This is so stupid. I didn’t cry then. Why am I doing it now, when it’s over and I’m safe? What’s wrong with me?
Mo only lets the silence linger for a half second after I’m done, just a cursory moment to be sure there’s nothing else. Then she explodes.
“That creep. That total fucking creep. I’ll kill him.”
“Mo—”
She’s already digging her phone out of her coat pocket. “I’ll tell everyone I know. And tell them to text everyone they know. Good luck booking anyone in your shitty little club after that.”
“Mo—”
“We’ll blacklist him.”
“He’ll blacklist me.” I put my hand on hers, the one holding the phone, and ease it down. “I just found my way into this world, you know? You and the guys have been so nice to me, but no one else knows who I am. No one else has any reason to believe me.”
“Then they’re assholes.”
“Okay,” I say. “So they’re assholes. That doesn’t change anything. That won’t make anyone decide to book me.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to be the girl who got propositioned on her first gig.”
“It was just a bringer show—” Mo tries to say, but I talk over her. Because that’s not the point.
“I don’t want to be that guy’s victim, okay?” I say. “I don’t want my name to be attached to his name every time I get up on stage. That isn’t how I want people to know who I am. I want my own name.”
Mo looks off into the distance for a moment. Then back at me. “Is that really why you don’t want to say anything?” I look away, but she moves closer. “Or because you think it’s your fault?”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“It’s not your fault,” she says. “I know it might feel that way, but what Mitch did, none of it is your fault.” I nod, but I don’t believe her, and I think she can tell. “Whatever he did, for whatever reason he thought he was entitled to do it—or could get away with it—It. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”
“But if I had . . .” I trail off, because I can’t even pick what to say next. If I had believed I wasn’t good enough for an invited show. If I had worn something different. If I had seemed less young, less naive, less like myself.
Mo shakes her head. “Stop. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘He’s a dickless predator.’”
I think about that for a moment. “Yes, there is.”
“Fine,” she concedes. “‘He’s a . . . sleazy predator.’ Okay?”
“Okay. But—”
“No. Full stop. You are not responsible for that man’s terrible behavior.”
I start to nod but then feel my phone, deep in my jacket pocket, vibrating. When I dig it out, I see not only that Alex is calling, but—oh, shit—I’ve missed a whole string of texts from him. Twelve, over the last hour, showing the full range of human emotion, from Hey (#1) to Isabel if you don’t text me the fuck back soon I swear to god (#12).
“Fuck,” I breathe out.
“Are you okay?” Mo asks.
“It’s my boyfriend. He—” I stare at the phone, not knowing quite what to do. “He texted asking where I was, but I didn’t respond, because we were talking, so now he’s calling—” The vibrating stops. I text him back as quickly as my thumbs will go:
Sorry!!! Phone was on silent I’ll call in 1 min
When I look back up, Mo glances away so quickly I can tell she was reading over my shoulder. I put the phone in my pocket.
“It seems like he texts you a lot,” she says, working to keep her tone even.
“He likes to know where I am.” And then feeling defensive: “But it’s because he wants to know I’m safe.”
“That’s one reason,” she says in the same forced tone, “he could be doing it.”
My phone rings again. I don’t know whether Alex didn’t see my text or didn’t think it was an acceptable response.
“I have to talk to him,” I tell Mo, getting up. “I’m already in trouble.”
Mo’s face contorts into something unreadable. Surprise. Pity. And maybe some of her own anger, too. She shakes her head and clears the expression.
“Izzy,” she says gently. “You shouldn’t be in trouble with your own boyfriend.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. So why do I still feel like I’ve done something wrong?
“I really have to go.”
“Don’t forget what I said.”
“Mo,” I plead. “I don’t want you to tell anyone about Mitch.”
“I heard you. We’ll handle Mitch however you want. I’m not talking about that part.”
“Then what?”
“You are not responsible for any man’s terrible behavior.” She leans closer. “No matter who he is.”
Chapter 17
MO INVITES ME out to two open mics that week, but I turn her down both times. The thought of getting back onstage makes my stomach clench. What if Mitch told people? There’s nothing to tell, but what if he lied? What if this whole time, the audience has seen me exactly the way he did? A stupid airhead with nothing to give the world except her looks and a blow job?
I can’t do it. I tell Mo I just can’t. She says she understands.
So my entire Spring Break is a week of days with Alex and stomach cramps and black-and-white movies. But on Thursday night, Mom announces she’s taking me out to lunch on Friday.
She has a hearing in federal court first, so I meet her at our usual spot, a little Italian place close to her office. The owner’s mom makes all the pasta by hand, and whenever Mom sees her, they’ll have a short back-and-forth that always ends with them both laughing at my mom’s terrible Italian.
But she’s not up front today, so my meal with Mom is quiet. She gets a salad to start. I go for the minestrone soup.
“So. How’s school?” Mom asks.
It takes me a second to realize I have absolutely no idea. I don’t think I’m failing anything. But ever since I started doing shows, none of my classes have seemed super relevant. Chemistry isn’t going to make it into my tight five. How helpful is US history, really, unless I’m going to do a bit about the time Ben Franklin tried to cook a turkey by electrocuting it, as a party trick.
I grab a piece of bread. “Fine.”
Mom looks skeptical. “When we get your mid-semester report, there aren’t going to be any surprises?”
Aren’t surprises just supposed to be for good things? Otherwise, it’s shock or horror, or something. No one comes into the house and yells, “Surprise! I backed over the dog with my ATV!”
But I smile at Mom and shake my head.
“Well, good.” She smiles back. “How are things going with you and Alex?”
“Fine,” I say again, but it comes out weird, like I have a piece of bread stuck in my throat, even though I don’t.
“Almost six months, right?” she says, all eager, like I’m about to let her in on a secret. A good secret. A surprise. “That’s pretty serious.”
“Yeah. I mean, not that serious. Not that he isn’t serious about me, but six months is long for high school. Not long in real life, right?” I don’t even notice I’m tearing the bread to bits until the crumbs start gathering in my skirt. I brush them off. “We’re great. We’re, you know, it’s—” I search for the right word. They all suck. I give up. “We’re great.”
Just then, Mom’s phone buzzes, and she picks it up without a moment of hesitation.
“Shit,” she whispers when she sees the ca
ller ID. Her chair squeaks against the floor as she pushes it back, phone in hand, mind already on the case. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I watch Mom through the big front windows as she paces, one hand clutching her phone to her ear, the other clutching around her waist. She forgot to take her coat. It must be a real crisis, if she had to run outside without her coat.
I’m nearly done with my soup before Mom returns to the table, cheeks flushed from the cold. She sighs, and it lasts a full three seconds. “God.” She picks up her fork but doesn’t move to eat anything. “The incompetence of some people with seven-figure salaries would astound you, Isabel.”
It wouldn’t. I nod anyway.
“What were we talking about?” she asks.
I think: Alex.
I think: We were talking about Alex and I said everything was great, but I don’t know if it is. I want it to be great but that doesn’t make it true.
I say: Nothing.
She uses the silence as an opportunity to type out a quick message to someone.
I can’t throw my problems at her when she’s got so much to handle already. What’s happening with Alex is fine, and what happened with Mitch . . . is over. It’s fine. I’m fine.
“How was court?” I ask.
“Well.” She sets her fork down, then sets the stage. “Matt and I get to the courtroom—you remember Matt?”
I nod again, because I know he’s my mom’s cocounsel for this case, but truthfully, all the young dude lawyers they seem to pair Mom with blend together.
“So he and I are appearing before Judge Riley, in the Greg Shea case. You remember which one that is?”
She knows we live in the same apartment, right? Not only has she been working nonstop on this case for months and talking to Dad about it nearly every night she’s home, but Greg Shea is way too weird to forget. “The guy with the clown collection.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Mom grimaces. “I’ve never argued in front of Judge Riley, and neither has Matt. My opposing counsel has, though. So we get to the courtroom, and this judge—a dinosaur, seriously—starts talking to Matt. Only to Matt. And it takes Matt five tries to explain to Judge Riley I’m the lead counsel.”
“Why would he assume Matt was in charge? He’s so young,” I say. Then, quickly, “Not that you’re old.”
She laughs. “Thank you. Yes, Matt is young. Matt is also male.”
Oh.
Ugh.
“That’s awful,” I say. “That’s so—”
“The judge is an old guy.” Mom shrugs. “It’s not typical.”
My mom can do anything. I’ve always known that, so it seemed impossible anyone would ever doubt her. I guess I knew it hasn’t been easy, her getting where she is, but I didn’t think it was because she’s a girl. I thought it was because she was a mom.
She only planned on two kids. Charlotte made sure I knew that, and the older I got, the more sense it made. None of the guys at her level ever had to show up to court eight months pregnant. She must have been thrilled to find out about the twins. Two babies, one maternity leave! But then she was pregnant again, less than a year later. And that’s when all her plans got messed up.
She hasn’t ever said that to me. But I overheard her once. She was talking to one of her friends at a party, a stay-at-home mom. “It definitely threw a wrench in things. A giant wrench.” That’s what she said. “Isabel put me on the mommy path. And it’s been hell trying to get off it.”
Those are the words she said. I would get on a witness stand and testify to every single one.
“So,” Mom continues, “we finally establish I’m the one in charge, and I present my evidentiary motions, the things I want excluded from the trial, all of that. And then the prosecutor, my opposing counsel, he takes his turn. And do you know what he asks for?”
I shake my head.
“He moves to exclude ‘emotional displays.’”
Emotional displays? “He doesn’t want your client freaking out on the stand, or something?”
Mom starts laughing. “Honey, that man is not taking the stand.”
“Then—?”
“He was asking to preclude emotional displays from me.”
I’m not a lawyer, but I am the daughter of one and have also seen every episode of Law & Order: SVU. And I’ve never heard of something like this. “What does that even mean?”
“He said it was to, uh”—she makes scare quotes—“‘limit displays of emotion that could sway the jury.’ Specifically . . . tears.”
Wait. Crying? He filed a motion to keep my mom from crying? My mom doesn’t cry. I’ve lived with her for sixteen years and only seen it happen once, when my uncle called and told her their mom had died.
“He thought you’d . . . cry?” I ask. She nods. “But why?”
“Like I said, I’ve never argued before that judge. My opposing counsel made that motion to make it seem like that’s my MO. I’m an overly emotional woman who cries to sway the jury.”
“Why, though?”
“That’s how he wants the judge to see me. Every time I file a motion, or make an objection, he wants the judge to think about how I cry in court.”
“But you don’t!”
“Perception isn’t the same thing as truth.”
“That’s so—” I stumble, searching for one word that sums it all up. Backward. Horrible. Infuriating.
Mom reaches over and pats my hand. “I’m fine. It’s just part of the deal.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“I know.”
“They shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“Preaching to the choir, honey.”
“But it’s not fair,” I say.
“It’s not,” Mom agrees.
“Aren’t you mad?”
“I definitely was, when I was younger. Like you. But once I accepted it wasn’t fair . . .” She pauses for a moment. “Once I realized it wasn’t going to be fair, that I would have to work harder and be better to go half as far . . . it was a kind of weight off my shoulders, you know? Okay. So it isn’t fair. I didn’t ask for this, it shouldn’t be happening, but it is. And I’m going to fight like hell anyway.”
That prosecutor and judge didn’t treat my mom like that because she’s weak or stupid. They couldn’t, because she isn’t. And if that can happen to my mom . . . then maybe—maybe Mitch didn’t pick me out because he saw me as weak or stupid, either. Maybe he wasn’t even looking for what kind of person I was, because he never saw me as a person in the first place.
What happened to my mom was awful and unfair. And what happened to my mom wasn’t her fault.
Mo could have told me over and over, and no matter how right she was, I needed to hear it from my mom before I could really believe it.
What happened to me wasn’t my fault, either.
We sit in silence for a long time before I gather up some words. “I’m sorry that’s the judge you got.”
“He’s not so bad, all considered,” Mom says. “I could tell you real horror stories.”
“Was he mean to the other lawyer, or just you?”
“Oh, the judge knows John.” She stabs a spinach leaf. “They probably have drinks together at the Harvard Club. Play squash.”
“How do you know they both went to Harvard?”
Mom smiles. “It’s like with vegans, sweetheart. They tell you.”
Chapter 18
THERE ARE SOME times when kissing Alex feels like making out with a carnivorous plant.
Not that I’d tell him that, because he’d definitely take it the wrong way. This isn’t Little Bedroom of Horrors. It’s not like a Venus flytrap at all, which is the only predator plant anyone seems to know about. As if the only way something can kill you is with a hair-trigger set of teeth.
It’s more like a cobra lily, which you’d never know were carnivorous, if you saw them in the wild, though the tops do curve in, like little snake heads. A cobra lily doesn’t claim its prey by biting down the
second it feels pressure, like a flytrap does. All it does is look inviting. Safe and warm. It’s easy to walk right in. But once the prey steps inside, the exit disappears.
I have homework to do. I said I’d be home fifteen minutes ago. I need to work on my set. I know there’s a world outside this room, outside Alex’s warm body pressed up against mine and his hands in my hair, I know. It’s just that I don’t care.
It’s so easy to get lost in it, sink into it. It swallows me up before I can catch my breath. So maybe it’s more like quicksand, and if you struggle against quicksand, it only drowns you faster. I don’t want to struggle, though the feeling I should itches at my skin.
Something sharp stabs at my elbow.
“Ow!”
“I didn’t hurt you,” he says, almost defensively.
“I know.” I reach behind me and grab the real culprit, my copy of Titus Andronicus. “Ugh. This is the play that would stab me.”
Alex looks confused.
“It’s violent,” I explain. “Like you wouldn’t believe how violent.”
He doesn’t seem impressed. “How violent could it be without guns or grenades?”
Titus and his pals might not have AK-47s at their disposal, but one character’s already been stabbed and another one executed by having his limbs hacked off and his entrails fed to a sacrificial fire. And that’s just in the first act.
“You’d be surprised,” I tell Alex. “It was popular entertainment. People always seem to go for blood and guts, don’t they?”
He nods at the book. “Why don’t you put it on the floor where it won’t hurt you.”
I lean over to set it down, but I can’t help trying to convince him Titus can hold its own against any modern horror.
“Ms. Waldman says most productions need buckets of blood. It’s basically Game of Thrones. Except in the sixteenth century. Actually, it’s set in ancient Rome, but—”
When I straighten back up, Alex has a phone in his hand, but it isn’t his. It’s mine.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t respond. Just frowns at it.
“Alex,” I say, louder. “What are you doing with my phone?”
