by Harper James
“My father?” Tyson asks. I hear a camera shutter click, and then a brief skirmish— “No photos,” Tyson says, and I realize he met have forcibly taken the camera from the reporters hands. There’s a clunk as he sets it down on a hard surface.
“Yes,” the reporter says, discouraged but not defeated. “Did you convince him to change his plea to guilty? Or did your mother?”
Tyson is silent for a moment; I listen in shock, stunned to hear this news. Tyson couldn’t have known about his father changing his plea— he’d have told me, I’m sure of it. I swallow, throat still tight from the few tears which have finally won out and are slipping down my cheeks.
“My father’s plea is his business,” Tyson says curtly, after a long pause.
“Does this change your own opinion of his guilt or innocence?” the reporter presses.
“My opinion doesn’t matter. It’s for the courts to decide,” Tyson says. There’s footsteps— two sets. I recognize Tyson’s confident footfalls, and when paired with the scrambling sound of the reporter’s feet I’m left suspecting that Tyson is backing the man to the door.
“I’d love to do a real sit down with you, though— to hear what you think. Sebastian did one—“
“That wasn’t a sit down, you people put a recording device in the locker room.”
“Ha, well, with you we’d do a legit sit down and—“
The door slams.
The room goes still. I can hear the reporter outside, still talking, but the words are muffled and pointless. I suppose I could open the door now, but I don’t. I sit in the silence, in the dark, tears running down my face, nose scrunched and jaw tight with hurt. Tyson’s feet finally walk toward me, and he swings open the door. His face is relieved— until he sees mine.
“I just didn’t want them to see you—“
“Of course not,” I interrupt, voice cracking. As shocking as the news about his father is, the hurt over being shoved into a closet is more powerful for me, and the silent tears I’d been fighting escape in full force. My words are stuffy and I know my cheeks are turning red, and I can’t stop either.
“Anna,” Tyson says, reaching toward me. I smack his hand away. Tyson is stunned, staring at me like the impact truly wounded him. I shake my head and shove past him, out of the closet, into the room that’s now flooded in bright white daylight. I’m still fully naked, a realization which only makes me cry harder.
“Anna,” Tyson says more urgently as I grab for my clothes, my purse, my things, and frantically begin to put them on.
“You should have chosen Trishelle. Or if not her, some girl just like her, someone you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with,” I say through tears, pulling my inside-out shirt on over my head.
Tyson’s eyes widen and his jaw goes tight. “I am not embarrassed to be with you.”
“You introduced me as your minder to your mother. You sneak me into and out of buildings. You rent a car so no one can see you bringing me here. You shove me in a closet rather than risk someone seeing me,” I say as I nearly fall down stepping into my panties.
“That’s because of my father and all his drama, not because of you. I’d have done the same with literally any girl, cheerleader or otherwise.”
“Maybe,” I say with a tearful shrug, finally sliding my feet into my shoes. “I don’t know, maybe. But it’s one thing to keep a relationship private, and it’s another to shove a girl you just slept with into a closet.”
“Anna, stop, don’t go like this—“
“Why? Because there’s still a reporter outside, and he might see me?”
He presses his lips together, hard, and it’s the exact answer I feared— Yes, that’s why. Don’t leave like this because you’ll be seen.
I nod, fears morphing to raw anger. “You’re trying to avoid being defined by your father, but you’re letting his actions run your entire life. You only play football because of him, then you step back from leading your team because of him, then you treat me like this because of him. You’re a coward, Tyson. You’re a coward hiding behind muscles and talent. You were right about one thing, though— I’m strong. And I’m way too strong to let anyone treat me like a dirty little secret.”
“Anna, that’s out of line,” Tyson says, voice hard. He’s furious, and I thrive on it— I want him as angry as I am. I shake my head at him, tuck my purse to my body, and stomp to the door. He could stop me, I know. He could physically restrain me and I’d be unable to stop him. He doesn’t, though, allowing me to fling the door open. I crash into the reporter, then unapologetically negotiate around him, gunning for the elevators.
“Ma’am!” the reporter calls as I sprint away. “Ma’am, do you have a moment? I’m with the—“
“Leave her alone,” Tyson’s voice growls.
I think he’s intentionally saying it loud enough to reach my ears. I bite my tongue and punch the elevator call button like it’s personally wronged me. I don’t care if he tries to make it up to me now.
It’s too late.
The elevator chimes, and I jump on, partly hoping that he will chase after me and get here before the doors close.
But he doesn’t chase after me, and the doors shut and then I’m alone.
And I’m crying again.
I hope Tyson regrets everything, from kissing me to shoving me into the closet— because if I have to live with this awful, gnawing sense of regret, then I want him to as well.
I regret it all. I should have known better. I should have known that someone like me and someone like Tyson Slate wouldn’t work out. I should have paid attention to the warning signs, to Trishelle’s bitter claims, to my own hesitation. I gave him everything, and now I’m never going to speak to him again.
I gave him my heart, and right now it feels like I’ll never be able to truly get it back.
18
I almost leave school a week before the Thanksgiving break.
But I refuse to let them win. I refuse to slink away from campus with my tail between my legs.
So I return to the apartment Trishelle and I share, going straight to and from my room, avoiding Trishelle at all costs. I want to talk to her, but it’s old Trishelle I want to talk to. The Trishelle who, upon learning that my heart was broken, would have gone out to get me Gushers and Milk Duds, and watched old movies with me and told me what a loser the guy was who dumped me.
Maybe we would have made a bonfire and burned all the memorabilia from our tragically failed romance.
Except, there’s not really anything we could burn. Tyson never wrote me letters. Never sent me flowers. Never got me a card. We had no anniversaries or receipts from first dates. We’re just finished.
Which is why I really, really wish Trishelle and I were speaking, because I have no idea how to get through a breakup like this without her.
I throw myself into preparing for my theater audition instead— it’s only a week away, the day before we leave for the holiday— but there’s only so many times you can read a scene before you start to crack. Given that I lost my virginity after reading the hostess scene to Tyson, I distract myself by memorizing the other two scenes just for fun. I’m reciting the comedy one to myself one afternoon when I realize that there’s a game today.
Morbid curiosity beats out my desire to stay far away from Tyson, and I turn on the television, though I leave it muted— I can do without more speculation from the commentators on his love life, thanks.
Charlotte is up by a touchdown, but even my novice eyes can tell the game isn’t going particularly well. Tyson is playing decently, but it’s nothing compared to how he’s been doing for the last few weeks. He seems distracted, and I’d bet money that the commentators are pondering on if it’s something to do with his father’s guilty plea. As the game goes into the half, the camera swings across the cheerleaders, and I frown. I don’t see Trishelle with them.
I guess it’s possible that she just ran to the restroom or something, but my stomach feels more than a li
ttle knotted. I watch the game for a while longer, paying close attention to the cheerleaders in the background, waiting to see if Trishelle returns to the group or if she was just left out of the shot earlier. She’s not— she’s nowhere. I bite my lip and glance at my phone. Something must be wrong for her to miss a game— I mean, the captains wouldn’t even allow her to wear flats or go without makeup. Missing a game is surely off limits, right?
I could call her. I could call her just to check in, just to make sure everything’s fine. I should call her. Just because our friendship might be over doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned.
I shake my head.
Trishelle has her new friends now— this isn’t my battle to insert myself into, assuming there’s a battle to begin with. Plus, I’m just not sure I can tackle another fight yet, and the odds seem good that even if I call with good intentions, we’ll end up in a war. It’s easier to just avoid her, to avoid the conflict, to focus on getting through the tail end of the semester and nailing my theater audition.
I go back to my audition piece, reading through it for the thousandth time.
I hear Trishelle arrive home late that night. I lie still in bed, listening to the sounds of her opening the fridge, running water, flipping through the mail on the counter. Her phone rings, and she silences it without answering. It rings again, and again, and she silences it each time. It’s unusual behavior for her, given how married she is to her phone, but it’s also nearly midnight, so it’s not impossible to write off. But then it rings again, and I hear Trishelle sigh and answer.
“Hello?” she says. There’s the muffled sound of someone on the other end speaking— no, yelling. I swing my feet off the bed and roll-step to the door to eavesdrop. “Yes,” Trishelle says, voice quavering. “Yes, of course I want off probation. Yes. I know. I don’t know how I can prove it to you. I wasn’t trying to flirt with him, I swear! I know. Alright, I— alright. I’m on my way.”
My eyes widen in surprise, and I hear Trishelle putting her shoes back on, then of her gathering her keys. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly in the darkness, and then slowly turn my doorknob. I don’t know why, exactly, I’m trying to open the door quietly— I guess so I can close it again without detection should I lose my nerve. I peer out into the hallway; Trishelle is at the opposite end, by the door, collecting her purse. She’s wearing the highest heels I’ve ever seen in my life— platforms with an additional heel, and they’re lucite, like the sort that strippers wear. I frown, and in doing so accidentally move the door a bit. Trishelle picks up on the motion and her eyes fall on mine.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice harsh.
“Sorry. I just heard you come in and— sorry,” I say, shaking my head. I move to shut the door as quickly as possible—
“Wait,” Trishelle says. It’s not the word that stops me, but her voice. It’s cracking and high, broken in a thousand places. I freeze, then look up at her through the slim space between the door and jamb. Trishelle looks up, trying to keep her tears from falling, and then sort of flings her arms out. “So, I’m sort of fucked,” she says shakily.
“How?” I ask, opening the door wide. I take a step out and lean in the frame, arms folded across my chest protectively.
“After the…um…after that stuff with Tyson, I was really upset. I went to this party, and this really, really nice guy gets me a drink. He’s telling me how cute I am, and how he’s noticed what a great athlete I am, and it’s just all super nice,” she says, jaw trembling. She bites her lower lip at the last word, but there’s no stopping tears now— her eyes overflow, and they begin running down her face. “But it turns out that he’s one of the senior’s boyfriends. Not one of the captain’s, but basically one of the captain’s best friends, and so they were all just furious with me.”
“And they put you on probation?” I ask, astounded. Isn’t there like an athletic director or dean or someone who can stop stupid shit like this from happening? I guess not— cheerleaders rule the world again, I think to myself bitterly
Trishelle laughs humorlessly and drops her keys, then slides into one of the barstools. She drops her head into her arms and sniffles loudly. “Probation alone would be fine. Whatever. So I don’t have to go to a game. But they said that since I embarrassed one of the seniors, she gets payment in kind. So for the last two weeks they’ve made me wear these stripper heels everywhere, even to workouts, because they say I’m ‘such a slut that I need to wear slut shoes’.”
“You’re working out in those?” I ask, stepping out of my bedroom entirely. My mouth is hanging open as I walk toward her to get a better look at the shoes. They’re rhinestoned and plastic and look like something no one would want to wear for more than fifteen minutes, if that. I doubt I could make it ten.
“Yep. And then when I can’t keep up with them during runs they make me do an extra half mile in them,” she says with acid in her voice.
“Trishelle, that is insane. You have got to quit. This is some next level social torture,” I say, shaking my head at her.
“I can’t quit! I worked so hard just to get on the team, and then worked all semester to follow their rules. If I quit now I’m just letting it all go,” she cries, lifting her head. Her makeup is a disaster, running down he face in thick lines, and her skin is a wreck from the stress. “This is what we both wanted— to reinvent ourselves. And you got Tyson Slate, and what did I get? Stripper heels?” she says.
I swallow and look down. “I should have told you about Tyson. You were right about that,” I say softly.
She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s fine. Whatever.”
“No,” I say, still unable to look her in the eye. “I should have told you.”
“Well,” she says with a shrug. “I guess…I mean, you’re right about me not really being around. And being a shitty friend. I guess I just never thought that something so huge could happen in your life and you wouldn’t hunt me down and tell me all about it.”
I nod.
We sit in silence for a while. Her phone rings again, and she silences it.
“This is what I wanted,” she says softly. “But it isn’t the way I wanted it.”
“I know the feeling,” I answer. She gives me a curious look, and I shrug, trying (and, I’m sure, failing) to look non-chalant. “Tyson and I aren’t a thing anymore.”
“You broke up?” she asks, eyes going wide.
“The term ‘broke up’ implies we were every really together. But you were right. I was basically just his secret fuck buddy. He had me hide in the closet because he didn’t want a reporter to see us together.”
“Are you shitting me? What the actual fuck?” Trishelle asks, and her voice makes me laugh. I don’t know why— it’s not like she’s saying anything funny— but I think it’s just hearing her say something in my defense, hearing her furious on my behalf…it’s such a relief that I can’t help but laugh about it. “When did it happen?” she asks.
“The morning after you found out about us, actually.”
“Two weeks ago? It happened two weeks ago and you’re just now telling me?” she asks.
“Well. Things were complicated between you and me,” I say. “I mean, we weren’t even speaking.”
Trishelle rolls her eyes at me. “Just because we weren’t speaking,” she says, starting to smile. “Of course I still want to be here for you if you need me.”
And now I’m starting to smile and I can feel our anger melting away, and it’s such a relief. It’s like I can see her again, the real her. She never left, not really.
“Well, I’m telling you now. And I need you, Trish.”
She puts an arm around me.
“Did you really like him? Or was it just sex?” Trishelle asks.
“I thought it was just sex. But I really liked him,” I admit, a few tears rolling down my own cheeks.
Trishelle gives me a pitying look. “Do you have anything of his we can burn? Like in the movies?”
I laugh. “No, no— nothing.”
“Or we could at least sit on the couch and watch a bad made for TV movie and eat ice cream.”
“Don’t you have to go somewhere?”
She exhales. “Fuck it. What more can they do to me? Trust me, there’s no punishment worse than these shoes. And anyway, I want to know all about what happened to you these past weeks. The sex part, I mean. Not the stuff that’ll make you cry— just the raunchy bits.”
“There’s sort of a lot of raunchy bits,” I admit, turning even redder.
“Perfect,” Trishelle says, eyes— ruined mascara and all— lighting up.
19
“You’re going to do great, seriously,” Trishelle says as we walk toward the theater. She’s no longer wearing stripper heels— and she’s no longer a cheerleader either. She is, however, on the school gymnastics team.
“I think the apron thing is too much,” I say, smoothing the half apron she convinced me to wear to look more hostess-like.
“Focus!” Trishelle says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Focus. The apron is an accessory, not the role. Don’t think so much about it.”
“This isn’t even a real role! It’s just an audition piece for the department!”
“Anna,” she whines, saying it like “an-NAH” just to prove how exasperated she is with me. I sigh, then push through the double doors into the mural-covered theater lobby. There are dozens of other freshmen here, all reviewing parts, plenty talking about roles they had in their high school programs. It makes me feel a little better— I’m not competing with them, after all, since they’re after something totally different. I just want to get into the department. They’re welcome to play Evita and Maureen and Lady Macbeth and Roxie Hart all day, every day, so far as I’m concerned.
Once I’ve signed in, Trishelle sits with me on the cool tile floor of the lobby, as all the chairs are long taken. We were warned that auditions could take several hours, and I’m surprised that Trishelle, in many ways, looks more nervous than me.
