The Choice
Allison J. Kennedy
Booktrope Editions
Seattle WA 2015
Copyright 2014, 2015 Allison J. Kennedy
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]
Cover Design by Maria Aiello
Previously published as The Choice, Astral Ink Publishing, 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Print ISBN 978-1-62015-805-0
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-824-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905402
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Acknowledgments
Interview of the author: with Teryn O’Brien
More Great Reads from Booktrope
For Erin.
Someday we’ll see you again.
Until then, run wild and free with the angels like you.
No rape story is typical. Everyone heals differently.
This book is fictitious and should in no way imply that a victim should recover in silence.
Please see the acknowledgments page at the end of the book for information on how to report a rape, and for resources on getting support.
One
Now
SHE’S ONE YEAR OLD. She has so much hair. It frames her angelic face in golden curls, and I wrap them around my fingers as I sing her to sleep. Lights from the carousel on her dresser dance around her dim, peaceful nursery as I rock her. My heart aches as she nuzzles against my breast. This is love. This is peace. Each day she grows, she teaches me how to let go.
Then
IT WAS THE FALL OF 2010. A Friday. I remember the exact day because I remember how miserable the weekend was following it. My senior year at Ocean View Private School had just begun. Ocean View was the only private school in Newport, Oregon. Honestly though, I didn’t understand what that particular school had to offer differently than the public one up the road, other than stricter studies and easier access to drugs. I mean, we were rich kids, after all. I never touched the stuff though. I avoided most recreational activities that might have made me “cool” to instead focus on my future. I wanted to be a doctor—a cardiologist, to be exact. And that’s what I was trying to explain to Danika, but she wasn’t listening.
“It’s a lot of school, but I think it would be worth it. My dad thinks I should be a neurosurgeon like him though. I just don’t think that’s the right path for me.”
“Mm,” my blonde-haired, blue-eyed friend vaguely concurred while she scrolled through her text messages. She was leaning over her phone with her forehead in her palm like she always did during our lunch break. I learned long ago that I couldn’t count on her listening when she was expecting a text message from Tyler Jenkins.
I sighed, watching her. Her highlights were fresh and perfect. She was wearing a new shade of pink lipstick. Her nails had glossy French tips. I always felt like she was supermodel quality, and she saw me as one of her style-starved spectators. I wasn’t though. Her perfume was always stifling, and I preferred my Converse shoes over heels any day. “I’ve decided to skip college altogether and be a stripper,” I said casually.
“Mm.”
I tapped my fingertips on the table until she finally looked up at me, seeing recognition dawn in her eyes. “Wait, what?” she stammered.
I smirked. “I said I’m nervous about how many years of school I’ll have to make it through. It’ll be worth it, right?”
She locked her phone and tossed her hair over her shoulder as she shifted in her seat. “I think it will. You’re smarter than anybody I know, so it shouldn’t be too hard if you just take it day by day.”
I brought my apple juice box to my lips and positioned the straw between my teeth while I evaluated her. Did she mean what she was saying, or did she just feel obligated to follow a compliment up with something cliché? I wondered why I was talking to her about this anyway.
“We’ll see,” I muttered around my straw, putting the box down without drinking. As I watched her return to her phone, I decided then and there that Danika, although she had been my friend for nearly a decade, was never going to be someone who cared much for other people’s victories, defeats, hopes and dreams. She was incredibly sweet in that “girl next door” sort of way, but she rarely thought about anyone but herself.
I missed Addison, the third and final piece to our friendship triangle. She was the keystone that kept Danika and me supported. But she was in Italy, and without her presence, I was quickly learning how unstable my relationship with Danika really was.
“When is he going to text me?” Danika huffed and crossed her arms.
“Well, he’s two tables away. You could go talk to him.”
“He needs to take initiative, not me.”
I stared at her manicure as I fought the urge to shut down her five-hundred-and-something’th rant about boys. Looking back, I wished I had. “I’m going to call my sister before class starts. See you there,” I said, rising to my feet and slinging my book bag over my shoulder. I made my way out of the buzzing cafeteria and let the doors swing shut behind me, submersing myself in the rare delicacy of quiet halls. With a sigh, I walked across the sun-soaked, wood floor and stopped in front of my locker to turn the dial.
After opening it, I dug through my book bag for my cell phone. I tapped the first number on my speed dial and pressed the device to my ear. A clique of girls burst out of the cafeteria, chattering excitedly just as my house phone went to voicemail.
“Grace, it’s me. Just calling to check on you. Are you there?”
I waited for a few moments to listen as I arched an eyebrow at the four sophomores who moseyed past me, making no effort to keep their voices at a reasonable decibel. Grace didn’t answer. I sighed and began rifling through my locker for my biology textbook. “Alright, well, you might want to make sure you do the dishes or Mom will get mad. I’ll check your schoolwork when I get home. Love you.”
“Playing teacher?” a guy said behind me.
I put my phone back in my bag and turned around, meeting eyes with Tyler Jenkins. I glanced toward the cafeteria to see if Danika was hot on his trail. “Not really. Well, sort of. It’s my little sister, Grace. She’s homeschooled and my parents inducted me as her tutor.” I turned my face back to him and noticed for the first time that he
had flecks of green in his hazel irises. He was attractive, but not in a “pretty boy” sort of way. It was something else. He wasn’t traditionally handsome; he just had this way about him. It was really no wonder Danika liked him, although I couldn’t say much about his personality. I knew he was known for being a man slut.
“Your dad is my dad’s doctor,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“I see.” I nodded slowly. “Is your dad sick?”
“Seizures. Not too bad though. Just enough to interfere with his daily activities. He can’t drive or anything. What I meant to say is that your parents seem to be pretty smart people. Couldn’t your mom tutor her?”
I wondered how this was any of his business. I tilted my head, trying to decide if he was being rude or if I was just defensive. “My mom is a lawyer. She’s pretty busy. Grace homeschools because she has trouble concentrating in groups.”
“Gotcha,” he nodded, rocking back on his heels. “That wasn’t really any of my business. Sorry if that was rude.”
I shrugged as I closed my locker. “No, you’re not rude. I’m just protective, you know?”
“That’s a good thing!” he said emphatically. “Actually, I saw you leave the cafeteria and I came to ask you a question . . . but that one just seemed to come out instead,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m having a party tonight. Nothing huge. Just thought it would be cool to eat lots of junk food and play dumb games like Apples to Apples and Pictionary.”
“You play Pictionary?” I asked skeptically. The idea brought a smirk to my lips.
He threw his hands up in surrender. “What can I say? I’m a boring private school kid like the rest of us.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Danika chimed sweetly, hooking her arm with mine in a way that always annoyed me. She looked up at Tyler and I didn’t have to look at her to know her eyes were glistening like a doe in heat.
“How deprived we rich kids are,” Tyler said with a note of humor.
“He’s having a party tonight. Boring games and unhealthy food. You should go.” I brought her up to speed as smoothly as I could without making it obvious that I was trying to tiptoe my way out of it.
Tyler tilted his head. “You should both come,” he said with an almost genuine smile.
“Well, it’s just . . . I have to help Grace with her schoolwork. And I don’t really do big groups.”
“It’s the weekend, May,” Danika said carefully, but her tone indicated something else altogether: a quiet demand that I comply because that’s what friends are for. “You can help her tomorrow. We haven’t done anything fun in months!”
“I thought horseback riding was fun.”
“Oh, it was,” she promised, but I knew she was lying. “But this way, we don’t have to get dirty.”
I almost rolled my eyes as I turned my attention back to Tyler. He was watching me expectantly and stiffly, almost like he wasn’t giving me a choice. It wasn’t hard to deduce that he didn’t want Danika there.
And the thing was that if I didn’t go, she would most definitely make a fool of herself. She would probably just end up crying all night behind the locked door of a bathroom. I knew enough about Tyler to know he wasn’t the type to be pursued. He did the chasing.
“Alright, fine. I’ll go. But we can’t stay too late.”
A crooked grin slipped onto Tyler’s face and his eyes remained on me as he backed away. “Good. Seven o’clock. Just bring yourselves.”
Danika almost squealed when he was out of sight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You owe me,” I grumbled. “And if this party turns wild, I’m leaving.”
“Deal. I’ll leave with you.”
Yeah, I’m sure you will, I thought with a sigh.
* * *
“MOM?” I CALLED, shrugging my backpack onto the kitchen island. The house was quiet, so I figured she wasn’t home at her usual time. I noticed a folded note next to the bowl of plastic fruit. Something was scribbled across the front, and I knew immediately that it was from my dad because I could barely read my own name. I unfolded it and sat on a stool.
May,
Your mom went to Portland for business. She’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll be home late. Call me if you need anything.
Dad
I rolled my eyes. At least I had an excuse not to go out. Dad would never let me leave Grace here at night. I left the note where it was to begin rummaging through the fridge. After grabbing a package of chicken breasts that I’d thawed the night before, I closed the door and paused to look at one of the only decorative magnets my mom allowed: a small laminated picture of our family, taken during a vacation in Maui. I was thirteen and Grace was eight. Dad’s hair was still free of gray and Mom’s boobs were two cup sizes smaller. Our smiles were all stiff and fake. We wore the same smiles we did in all of our family photos.
Next to this magnet was one with the hospital’s logo on it. It held up another photo. This one was of me and Grace on our horses.
Grace and I had ridden ever since we were old enough to sit upright in the saddle. Same with Dad. So when we were born, it was only inevitable that we would be introduced to the lifestyle. I call it a lifestyle because when horses are in a person’s blood, they’re not a hobby or a sport. They’re just a part of the rider. Dad had two, and Grace and I each had one. All of them were Quarter Horses, and all of them were bred to the hilt. But try as he may, Dad could never get me into showing for competition. Grace had already won several trophies in show jumping, and Dad’s event of choice was dressage.
Mine? I rode for pleasure. Properly, I might add, since my dad had me in mandatory lessons until I turned sixteen in hopes that I would decide to show. He said I was a natural; that to not show would be a waste of my talent. I didn’t see the logic in that at all. My talent made me safe in the saddle. It helped me explore different techniques. I could get on almost any horse and apply them, well trained or not. It made me happy.
Painting made me happy too. This was yet another hobby that might have seemed useless to some, but to me it was like breathing. Sometimes it was difficult to concentrate on my studies because all I wanted to do was sit behind my easel and create something new. Painting wasn’t a way of losing myself like riding was though. It was a means of expression. It was a way for me to pour myself into something beautiful and freeing—something separate from the stiff life I had to lead. My parents were career-driven and strict. I should have thanked them for that, but it drove me crazy.
“Grace?” I shouted toward the stairs. “I’m home.”
I began slicing the chicken on a cutting board while mentally preparing myself for the essay I had to write for my English class. Poetry had never been my thing, so I had retained very little in regard to what I’d learned about Dante Alighieri in the past. I was dreading it. I was also dreading the C I was inevitably going to receive for PE this semester. At least Christmas break was almost here. With that came obligatory family functions, stiff exchanges of affection, and the tradition of exchanging one gift between us on Christmas Eve, saving the rest for the next day. There was always so much chaos at my grandmother’s house when it came to gift giving. How my mom had been birthed by this woman made no sense to me at all. She was always laughing, always welcoming, and always tipsy.
But I looked forward to the holidays because it meant two whole weeks of forgetting about school; two weeks to hide in my room or spend with my friends, to avoid the superficial things my parents enjoyed. I was sick of it all. College couldn’t come any sooner.
I heard a door open upstairs and a moment later, Grace stepped into the kitchen. She looked like a miniature version of our mother, with her auburn hair slicked back into a perfect bun, and a royal blue sheath dress. Her silver kitten heels clicked across the hardwood as she approached the bar. I remembered she would be participating in a Spelling Bee this evening. “Hello,” she said softly. “What are you making?”
I not
iced a touch of gloss on her lips and sparkles dusting her emerald-colored eyes, and recalled the day that Mom started making me wear makeup. I never wanted to; it always made me feel dirty. Even as I stood at the stove in my designated school uniform of a plaid skirt and brown top, I knew I was a walking form of rebellion. I had skipped styling my hair though, which was the only choice I seemed to have in my daily attire. Mom wouldn’t be home to see me anyway.
I placed the chicken in a pan with a bit of olive oil and seasoning. “Stir fry. Since when do you wear makeup?”
Grace sat on one of the stools, her back straight and her chin delicately lifted. “Since this morning. Mother said it was time.”
“Of course she did,” I muttered.
She blinked her enormous green eyes as if she was pondering my response, but said nothing.
I turned away and scrubbed my hands under the faucet. “Do you have homework?”
“No.”
“Alright,” I said with a sigh, drying my hands on a towel. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at me and inhaled a long, slow breath. “I think I should speak with Mother about it.”
I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Spill.”
“I don’t—”
“Mom won’t be home until tomorrow, so I’m your next best thing.” I rested my elbows on the kitchen island across from her, smirking deviously. “Do you like a boy?”
She didn’t flinch. “I started my period last night.”
“Oh,” I gasped. Grace wasn’t old enough to start her period . . . was she? I nodded reassuringly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, thank you,” she said, sliding off the stool. “I’m going to practice my music upstairs.”
Her little heels clicked away as she strode toward the stairs, where she ascended them with a hand perfectly poised on the rail. Mom would be so proud.
I released a deep sigh and continued making dinner, deciding I would take some to her when it was done. The strains of Beethoven’s Fur Elise trickled through the walls from above, careful and slow.
Choice Page 1
