by Leigh, Tara
They mean nothing now. They belong to the person I used to be. The person I will never be again.
I set the essay aside as Michael steps into my room. He’s holding a folder, and the expression on his face tells me I won’t like what is in it. “Mind if I close the door?”
Panic claws at my composure. I don’t want to be alone with Michael, or with any guy. But explaining why is impossible. “Yeah, sure.” At least no one from my dorm will overhear this conversation.
He pulls out the chair from my desk and sits down, nodding his head toward the other half of my room. “Wren left already?”
“She did. Last night.”
Michael exhales, then passes me the folder. It’s blue, with the WU emblem stamped in gold on the front.
I take it reluctantly. “Am I being expelled?”
Michael shakes his head. “No, no. Of course not.” With nothing left to hold, he wraps his hands over his knees, palms rubbing at his worn jeans. “They wanted me to give this to you personally, walk you through everything and then, you know, if you have any questions, direct you to the relevant person.”
I want to ask who they is, but the question shrivels on my tongue as I open the folder and pull out the papers inside with stiff fingers. The first is an invoice. My eyes are immediately drawn to the line item at the bottom of the page. Ambulatory medical services. The amount listed makes my breath catch in the back of my throat. Nearly a thousand dollars. Money I don’t have. “Michael, I, um, I don’t—” I take another breath, try again. “How am I going to…”
“I know. I’m really sorry. Apparently, insurance covered your hospital costs, but not the ambulance ride from campus.” He stands up, reaches in his pocket and opens a folded sheet of loose-leaf paper. “I wrote down the case officer assigned to you if you have any questions.”
This time, I make no effort to reach for it, so Michael places the creased paper on my bed and sits back down. My lungs feel like they’ve shrunk in the past two minutes, I can’t get a deep breath. “It’s not fair. How can they expect me to pay for…”
But I don’t finish the sentence. Won’t say the four-letter word that starts with r and ends in ape. That night is a mistake.
I don’t need Wren to tell me that I can’t point my finger at Tucker, levy an accusation that will affect me as much as him. Maybe more. He’s a Stockton and I’m a scholarship student. If I speak up, regardless of who is right and who is wrong, his family can easily buy another building or pay a team of lawyers to slant the facts to his advantage. No. Much better to keep my mouth shut and my head down.
If that makes me a coward, so be it.
Pushing out a breath heavy with desperation, I set the invoice aside. Next is an appointment confirmation with a WU Judicial Administrator. I look up at Michael. “What’s this?”
“Well, any time a student is found to have violated school alcohol policies, you have to go before the WUJA Board.”
I feel the blood draining from my face. “So, I am in trouble for what happened.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why do they want to see me?”
“I think it’s just policy, really.”
“Policy.” I let the word sink in. “Have you ever gone before the…”
“The WUJA Board,” he fills in. “No. But it’s not all that uncommon.”
“Has anyone from our floor had to?”
“Well, no.”
“The dorm?”
“Poppy, I really can’t say.”
“Can you at least tell me what I should expect? Will I have to tell them everything that happened?” I’m not telling anyone what happened. I just want to get my lies straight.
He gives a slow nod, the paper in his hands rustling. “Um, yeah. I think so. Tucker will talk to them, too, because there was alcohol in his room that night.”
I swallow. “Will we have to go together?”
“No, no. You each have your own appointment.”
Beyond my closed door, I hear the shouts of students as they celebrate coming back from an exam, or turning in a final paper. Suitcases are knocked into walls, there is yelling up and down the hall, music is playing, various songs clashing so that I can barely differentiate between them. Noise. But mostly what I hear is a buzzing in my ears, and the hurried thump-thump-thumping of my heartbeat.
I turn my attention back to the remaining piece of paper in the folder. Worthington University Counseling Services is printed at the top, with a date and time written in by hand below. “Another appointment?”
“Yeah. It’s a session with a counselor, so you can talk about what happened.”
I look into Michael’s face, imagining what he would say to me if he knew what actually happened. “Isn’t that what I have to do in front of the WUJ whatever people?”
His face reddens. “Yeah. Kind of. But they’re different. It’s mandatory for anyone caught with alcohol to see a counselor. I think they evaluate you to decide on the best course of action for moving forward.”
“The best course…” my voice trails off.
“Like, whether you need to take an alcohol abuse class. Or—”
I interrupt. “It’s fine. Forget it.” A tear drips onto the page in my hands and I let go of it, then press the heels of my palms against my eyes.
How can I pretend that night never happened if everyone else won’t let me?
After all, it was just a mistake.
“Was any of this sent to my mother?”
“No. You’re over eighteen so it’s up to you what, or how much…” Michael’s voice trails away and I sense him stand up. A moment later, he places a box of tissues in my lap. “I’m sorry, really.”
Something deep inside me breaks, cleaves completely away. I manage to grab a handful of tissues and hold them to my face. I need to be alone. “Please, just go.”
“Are you sure? We can talk about this. I can stay.”
He means well, I know that. But I’m falling apart and I don’t want any witnesses. My hands drop and I glare at him through a veil of tears. “Go,” I repeat in a strange kind of gurgling growl.
Michael blinks twice, nods once, then backs away until his heel hits the door. Opening it just until there is enough room for him to squeeze through, he disappears into the hall.
I wish I could escape, too.
There is a speaker on the shelf above my bed and I start the Spotify playlist I’ve recently created. KoRn, Rage Against the Machine, Nine Inch Nails, Betty X, Rollins Band. The manic rhythms and angry lyrics tunnel deep inside me, assuaging the broken bits I hide from everyone else. I turn up the volume, and then I let go.
I’m crying, choking. Drawing deep, ragged breaths that do a terrible job of getting oxygen into my lungs, into my brain. My chest hurts and my brain is sludge. A scummy, noxious puddle. At the back of my throat, bile rises up, burning the delicate tissue.
Kleenex is no match for my tears. It’s like defending a nuclear attack with a pocket knife. Useless. I flip over on my bed, pressing my face into the pillow. And scream.
Over and over and over.
Until my throat is a ragged tube, destroyed. My lungs ache, sharp pains lancing through my heart with each rasped breath.
I can’t handle this.
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
That night was a mistake. A foolish freshman fuckup. I don’t even remember it.
Maybe it di—
But no. I picture the clear plastic bag, the yellowish condom.
The nurse’s question. The doctor’s urging. Tucker’s explanation.
It happened.
Even as tears transform my pillow into a damp sponge, the logical part of my brain can’t understand why this hurts so badly. Why I hurt so badly. If I don’t remember Tucker unzipping my jeans, pushing them down my thighs, taking off my underwear—why can’t I pretend it never happened?
If I didn’t hear the sound of plastic tearing, see him sheathe himself in latex, feel him enter me—why
does knowing he did hurt so fucking much?
But it does.
I asked Tucker about it last week, when he stopped by my room looking for Wren. I hadn’t seen him since the morning I came home from the hospital.
The question popped out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I’d wanted to race after my words, grab them in my hands and shove them back down my throat. Send them back where they came from, never to emerge again. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, waiting for Tucker to answer me.
Well, of course I used one. But then you started to shake, so I stopped. When you got sick, I rolled you to the side so you didn’t choke. I pulled the condom off and made sure you were dressed, then went to get help.
It wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t even an acknowledgment that he’d been wrong.
Then he’d shaken his head. The first time we have sex and neither one of us gets off. Kind of sad, don’t you think?
Recalling Tucker’s words, my lungs constrict. He genuinely believed I wanted to have sex with him. He must have, to be so cavalier about it all.
And why wouldn’t he?
I flirted with him, didn’t I? I did shots with him and smiled at him and held his hand. I wanted Tucker to kiss me. And when he did, I kissed him back.
The shame running though my veins calcifies. How could I have betrayed Gavin so quickly? Wherever he is, he’s better off without me in his life.
The embers of hope I’d been stubbornly guarding give a final flicker before dying completely. Even if Gavin were to come back, with a perfectly reasonable explanation for leaving, a reason for every day he’s spent somewhere else, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Because I have betrayed him.
I have betrayed us.
We aren’t us.
We are nothing.
Legs shaking, I stand up and go to my mirror. I’m pink-faced and blotchy. My hair is a riot of tangles, wet around my temples and forehead. Snot is smeared above my puffy lips. My eyes are red and swollen, as is the tip of my nose, like a clown.
And my neck is naked. No silver necklace, no iridescent sliver of moonstone perched on the subtle rise of my collarbone.
This is what I will remember about that night. Not the act itself. But my ruined, almost unrecognizable face. My blotchy, unadorned neck.
I am nothing.
Chapter 17
Sackett, Connecticut
Thanksgiving Break, Freshman Year
Thanksgiving in the Whitman household is a simple affair. Normally, I envy those who celebrate the holiday with chaotic gatherings of extended family. But this year, I am grateful it’s just the three of us at our small kitchen table.
My mom mostly sips her wine quietly, for once poured into an actual wineglass, while Sadie quizzes me on every last detail about my life at Worthington. Somehow, I manage to plaster the mask of a happy, carefree college co-ed on my face, sprinkling lies in with the truth. School is great. Wren is an acquired taste but she’s fine. Sure, I’ve made tons of friends. My professors are tough, but fair. Yes, there is a lot of work but it’s manageable. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. No, I haven’t been to any fraternity parties.
She’s applying to colleges now, and has already submitted her application to Worthington, early decision. Sadie is convinced she’ll get in because, according to her, she’s a legacy now. I decide not to remind her that getting in isn’t the hard part. Without the same kind of financial aid package they gave to me, there’s no way she can afford to go.
Finally, dinner is over. Sadie and I insist on cleaning up, and our mother tops up her glass and heads into the living room.
“Please tell me you’re too full for cake,” Sadie urges quietly, as we gather up the dishes and bring them into the kitchen. “I don’t want us to get there late.”
“Get where late?”
“There’s a party—”
“No. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Are you serious?” The plates in Sadie’s hands clatter to the countertop as she spins around to face me. “Everyone’s going out tonight!”
“Well, everyone won’t include me.” My full stomach churns with an unsettling mix of guilt and exasperation. Over the past year, Sadie’s interests have expanded to include real boyfriends as well as fictional ones. Her current boyfriend is on the football team, which has her embracing an entirely new social circle.
I’m glad she’s happy and having fun. But her plans don’t have to include me.
“I thought things would change once you went off to college, that maybe you would miss me.” My sister’s face is pinched, her lips set in an angry pout. “But I guess you’re still too good to hang out with me.”
“What?” I don’t know what to make of her accusation. “Where is this coming from?”
“I’m just telling it like it is. You haven’t wanted to spend time with me in years.”
“That’s not true! I—”
“Oh, please. Stop lying. You’re always hiding things from me, keeping secrets. We’re a year and a half apart, Poppy. Stop treating me like I’m a baby.”
“I don’t.” But I know I do. After so many years caring for Sadie, watching out for her, protecting her, it’s a hard habit to break.
“It is true,” she insists, the gold in her hazel eyes flashing brightly, the venom in her voice cutting deep.
“Girls!” our mom admonishes from the other room. “Do I need to come in there?”
“No,” we say, in unison, turning away from each other. Grateful for something to do with my hands, I begin washing the pots from the stovetop.
For a few minutes, there is only the sound of running water, stacking plates, and the muted hum of the television coming from the living room. Sadie disappears for a minute to wipe off the table. When she returns, she slaps me with the dish towel in her hand. “I just miss you, you know.”
I jerk back, nearly dropping the slippery pot cover I was washing. I set it down in the sink and turn off the water. “I miss you too, Sadie.”
I hate fighting with my sister. Especially within earshot of our mother. And I know Sadie does too. The fear that she’ll leave us again has never truly dissipated. When DCSF came for us, my mother had been gone for three days. A neighbor finally called the police, hearing Sadie crying for food and my unsuccessful attempts to soothe her through the thin walls of our government-subsidized apartment.
We were taken away, but only after she left us behind.
My sister and I have had plenty of arguments before, but I’m not the person I was just a few months ago. Though I’m standing upright, it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to drop to the ground and curl up in a ball.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking directly at Sadie. And I am. I resented my sister when she was young. I was a kid myself, tasked with caring for Sadie as if I were her parent. And it’s clear that she resents me now, mistaking my indifference for apathy. But as much as I love her, I can’t be the sister she needs right now.
Sadie nods her head. “I’m sorry, too.”
She gives me a hard hug and I feel awful for not being a better sister. I want to say that I’ll go out with her tonight. That I’ll drink with her and her friends, make conversation with whatever guy she’s currently crushing on, tell everyone how great college is and how I can’t wait for Sadie to join me at Worth U next year.
But I can’t do that. I wish I could. But I can’t.
I can’t explain why either. I’ve always shielded Sadie from ugly truths. I turned my mother’s extended absences into elaborate games, made long nights pass quickly with Scheherazade-like stories, and protected her from bullies at the group home.
I’ve backed myself into a corner, and now I’m caught in a trap of my own making. How can I confide in Sadie about Tucker with telling her about Gavin, too? I’ll have to admit that I’ve been lying to her for years.
Losing Gavin nearly broke me. And what happened with Tucker is a hot stone
I can barely carry. If Sadie turns away from me now, I—
I don’t even want to think about it.
“Want to go to a movie tomorrow?” I ask. It’s a peace offering. A flimsy one.
Sadie takes the lid from me, though she rebuffs my olive branch. “I’d much rather grab a cup of coffee and actually talk about what’s going on with you.”
I avoid her tenacious gaze by looking around for something else to wash, but the sink and counters are clear. “Nothing’s going on with me.”
“You were moping around here before you went away, and you’re still moping now that you’re back.” She lowers her voice to a stage-whisper. “It’s a guy, right?”
Elbowing Sadie aside, I reach into the cabinet below the sink for the spray cleaner. “Jesus, Sadie.” Why won’t she just drop it?
She leans back against the counter, interpreting my non-answer as a yes. “Who is he?” I hear her suck in a breath just before she hits me with the dish towel again. “You finally hooked up with your roommate’s guy, didn’t you? That hottie lacrosse player? Come on, tell me everything.”
She may as well have tossed a bucket of ice water over my head. “Sadie, stop looking for dirt. Especially since there’s none to find.” A chill penetrates my spine and I shiver, regretting letting Sadie come visit when Wren decided she needed some “retail therapy” and spent a weekend shopping in New York City. Sadie had practically drooled over Tucker when she saw him.
To avoid looking my sister in the face, I spray every inch of the countertop with cleaning solution, the plastic bottle belching with each squeeze. Ripping off a wad of paper towels, I attack the fake granite, rubbing so hard the finish starts flaking off.
Sadie watches me, looking entirely unconvinced.
I’m saved by a bell. Well, technically, it’s a horn.
Exchanging the dish towel for her purse, Sadie is halfway through the door before she turns back, pointing at me. “We’re not finished, by the way.”
“Be home by midnight,” Mom yells, although whether Sadie heard, or intends to abide by her curfew, is anyone’s guess.
