And that’s when things go sideways. When she gets to me, she lowers herself onto her haunches—probably not easy for an overweight fifty-year-old woman to do—and looks me directly in the eyes.
“How are you feeling, Emma?” she whispers.
“Fine,” I say. Why is she asking me that? And why does she look so concerned? It’s not like I’ve been away from school for weeks with mono or hepatitis. I’ve only missed one day.
She nods and smiles. “I understand,” she says.
What is that supposed to mean? I’m starting to feel very uncomfortable. Our little chat is attracting stares from the other kids.
She pats my hand. “Well, if you have to leave the room for any reason, don’t feel you need to ask for permission. Just slip out quietly. I’ll understand.”
There’s that understanding bit again. Exactly what is it that she understands?
She grabs onto my desk with both hands and hauls herself back to a standing position. Then she glances at the clock on the wall, and in her official teacher voice she says, “Five more minutes, people, and then we’ll take up the assignment.”
I turn back to my work and try to concentrate on algebra. But I’m gripping my pencil so tightly and pressing so hard on the paper that the lead snaps off and flies into space.
“Great,” I mutter and head for the pencil sharpener. When I get back, I see a folded paper on my open textbook. A note? From whom? I look around the room for a clue, but everyone is focused on their work.
I lower the paper into my lap and open it. It’s a crude stick drawing of a guy and a girl doing it. There’s a word bubble coming from the guy’s grinning face. How ’bout it? it reads.
An icy wave rolls through me, and I suddenly feel sick. I want to run and hide. But I know that whoever sent that note is watching, and I won’t—I can’t—fall apart. It takes all the willpower I possess, but I keep my face blank, slip the paper into my backpack and return to the assignment. I write down whatever numbers shoot out the end of my pencil.
I may seem calm on the outside, but inside it’s chaos. Why would someone send me that rude drawing? Has Ross been bragging to his friends? Does the whole school know what happened? I’m so mortified, I want to die.
When the class finally ends, I think about bolting for home, but I can’t hide for the rest of my life. So I tell myself the vulgar note was a one-off from a stupid jerk who doesn’t matter, and I head for geography class.
It goes okay. There are no more incidents. Third class is fine too. Looks like I was letting myself get all worked up over one pathetic moron. Just forty minutes more and the morning will be done. I’ll have half a day behind me. The thought cheers me up, and I make my way to English.
But I’m not even in my seat when I spot the graffiti scribbled on my desk in bright green ink. Nothing unusual about that, except that this graffiti is about me. For fun and games, call Emma—and my phone number. Though I’m horrified, I try not to show it. Casually I set my books on top of the graffiti and sit down. I’m tempted to check my cell for messages, but I don’t dare. If there are replies to the graffiti—and I pray there aren’t—I prefer to see them on my time, without an audience.
When the bell rings for lunch, I stay behind, pretending I need help with my essay. The truth is, I want to scrub the graffiti off my desk. I also want to avoid the crowds in the hall. My strategy works, because by the time I get to my locker, everyone has either left the building or made their way to the cafeteria.
I retrieve my lunch, shut my locker—and stop. Where am I going? Definitely not to the crowded caf. And it’s too cold to eat outside. I start down the hall. Maybe I can find an empty classroom. The second door I try is unlocked, so I let myself in.
Though I’m grateful to have found temporary refuge, the situation feels wrong. I’m a social person. At least, I was before Ross messed up my life. I shouldn’t be sitting by myself in an empty classroom. I should be in the cafeteria with Jen and my other friends.
But things between Jen and me changed the instant Ross showed interest in me. I wanted to tell her what happened that day, but I couldn’t. She was already upset, and I was afraid she wouldn’t understand. By the time I realized I was pregnant, our relationship was so strained I wasn’t even sure she’d be on my side. So I didn’t say a word. Every day we drifted farther apart. Now we don’t hang out at all or even phone each other. And even though our lockers are side by side, we barely talk at school. We didn’t have an argument. We just stopped being friends.
I hear the classroom door handle jiggle, and I spin toward it just as a girl walks in. When she sees me, she stops. It’s Gwen Robson. She’s in my geography class.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know anyone was in here. Can I come in? I just had a fight with my boyfriend, and I don’t want to talk to him right now. I don’t think he’ll look for me in here.”
I shrug. The last thing I want is company, but I can’t very well tell her to leave.
For a few minutes we eat our lunches in silence. It’s Gwen who finally speaks.
“You weren’t in geography class yesterday.”
I shake my head. “Did I miss anything important?”
“Not really. Were you sick?”
“Nothing contagious,” I say.
She smiles. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. I almost never get sick. My mom says I have the constitution of a horse.”
I don’t even try to return her smile. My face doesn’t do that anymore. I just nod and take another bite of my sandwich.
She changes the subject. “My boyfriend can be such a jerk. Sometimes I think I should break up with him and find someone else.” When I don’t reply, she adds, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
It’s none of her business, but I can’t be bothered to tell her so. Instead I shake my head again. “No.”
“You were going out with Ross Schroeder though, weren’t you?”
That catches me off guard. “No,” I say too quickly and too emphatically.
She sits forward on her chair, and her eyes bug out. “Yes, you were. You must have been. Everyone says he’s the one who got you…” Her voice trails off.
“He’s the one who got me what?” I throw the words back at her. “Flowers? Concert tickets?”
She goes red in the face and then starts speed-talking. “Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying. I must have mixed you up with someone else. Sorry.”
“Right,” I mutter. Who’s she trying to kid? She didn’t mix me up with anyone. She probably came in here to pump me for information.
I shove the remainder of my lunch into the bag and stomp out of the room.
Chapter Four
I spend what’s left of the lunch hour locked in a bathroom stall, trying to calm down. If that little bomb Gwen Robson dropped is true, everyone in school thinks I’m pregnant! How can I ever show my face again? But then I have a thought. When it becomes obvious I’m not pregnant, whoever is spreading that rumor is the one who’ll look stupid. I just have to hang on until that happens. Which could be months, I remind myself, getting wound up all over again.
That’s when the bell rings, sending me into total panic. I can’t go to class. Even if no one speaks to me, I’ll know what they’re thinking.
But I can’t avoid people forever. Besides, I still have my pride. I shut my eyes and dig all the way to my toes for courage. Then I lift my chin, throw back my shoulders and head for my locker.
Jen is getting her stuff when I arrive. She’ll know who’s spreading the rumors. I tap her on the shoulder. She spins around, banging her hand on the locker door and dropping the book she’s holding.
“Ow!” she cries as she bends to pick it up. “What the hell, Emma?”
“Why are people talking about me?”
She raises an eyebrow. “As if you don’t know.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” I snap. I grab her arm. “I know you know, Jen. Tell me.” When she still doesn’t answer, I add, “I
thought you were my friend.”
“And I thought you were mine,” she snarls and pulls her arm free. “Looks like we were both wrong.” She turns back to her locker. “I have to get to class.”
“Please, Jen,” I say. “Ever since Ross paid for my food that night after volleyball, you’ve been mad at me. I get it, but I never meant for him to get in the way of our friendship. I swear. It just sort of happened. If he’d picked you instead, you would have done the same as me.”
She whirls around again. “Have sex with him the very first time he looked at me? I don’t think so, Emma.”
She might as well have reached out and slapped me. Her words have the same effect. “It…it wasn’t like that,” I protest weakly.
But now that Jen has unleashed her anger, it keeps right on coming. “Oh, please. Stop pretending you’re innocent. The whole school knows how easy you are. The fact that you got pregnant and then lost the baby is pretty much proof, don’t you think?”
I stagger backward. I’m too stunned to deny the accusation. “How can people possibly know that?”
Jen seems surprised by my response. “So it’s true then.”
“Who’s saying this?” I demand.
She shakes her head. “I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Who told you?” I ask for the third time, my voice shrill in my ears.
“If you must know—Deena Watson. She’s told everybody. Her older brother is an orderly at the hospital. He was there when the ambulance brought you in Saturday night. He heard a nurse say you’d had a miscarriage.”
Suddenly I feel totally exposed. I might as well be standing in the middle of the hallway naked. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for the floor to open up and swallow me, or for the ceiling to crash down on my head. When I open my eyes again, Jen is gone.
By the time I drag myself out of my stupor, the halls are empty and the classroom doors are closed. The bell must have rung, but I didn’t hear it. It doesn’t matter. I have no intention of going to class anyway.
I dial in my combination and tug open the locker door. As I reach for my coat, a couple of papers slide off the shelf and flutter to the floor. I pick them up. I’ve never seen them before, and I have no idea how they got into my locker. One is a porn photo. The other is a religious flyer, urging me to find God and save myself.
I look from one to the other in disbelief. Is this torture ever going to end? I crumple to the floor in a broken heap. I’m not even seventeen years old, and my life is ruined. I bury my head in my arms and let the hurt pour out.
“Get up, Emma. Come on. Come with me.”
I look up through my tears. Everything is a blur, but I know there’s someone bending over me. The gentle voice murmuring comforting words belongs to Mrs. Hargrove, the school counselor. But where did she come from? And when? I blink to clear my vision. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting on the floor.
“Come on,” she says again, sliding an arm under my elbow and pulling me to my feet. She grabs my coat and drapes it over my shoulders. Then she closes up my locker and leads me down the hall to her office. She eases me into a chair and pushes a box of tissues across the desk. Then she opens a bottle of water and sets it down beside the tissues.
“Now,” she says, as she pats my hand and pulls up another chair, “you can have yourself a good cry in private. No one will bother you here. And when you’re done—if you feel up to it—we can talk.”
I should try to pull myself together. Apologize for causing a fuss. Tell Mrs. Hargrove I’m fine. Take my coat and leave. But I don’t do any of those things. I haven’t stopped crying since Mrs. Hargrove found me at my locker. The thing is, I don’t think I could stop even if I tried. And it’s too late to be embarrassed. So I grab a handful of tissues and continue to bawl.
I run out of tears before I run out of hurt. It goes right on twisting inside me like a corkscrew. My eyes are sore and puffy, and my eyelashes are stuck together. Whatever makeup I had on is long gone. My face is hot, and my nose is running. I give it a good long blow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hargrove,” I say as I drop the used tissues into the wastebasket. I sound as if I have the worst cold ever. “I feel much better now.” I stand up and take some more tissues. “I should go.” I don’t actually feel any better, and I have no idea where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.
Mrs. Hargrove waves me back into the chair and taps the bottle of water. “You sound like you’ve been eating sand. Have some water.”
I do as she says and take a sip. I am surprised at how it soothes my throat.
“Good.” She nods. “Now, why don’t you tell me what has you so upset. Maybe I can help.”
I thought I was out of tears, but one trickles down my cheek. Damn! I shouldn’t have had that water. I brush the tear away. “You’ve been so nice.” I sniff. “And I’m grateful. Really. But I’m fine.” I stand up again. “I should go.”
She offers me an encouraging smile. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine. You know, sometimes even just talking can help.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” Mrs. Hargrove seems like she genuinely wants to help, and I so want to tell her the whole horrible story, but I don’t dare. She’s the school counselor. I know that if she even suspects a student has been abused, she has to report it. I can’t risk that.
Still…I could tell her it happened to a friend. I discard the idea before I’ve even finished thinking it. She’d see right through that. Nobody falls to pieces over someone else’s problem.
“It’s my boyfriend,” I blurt. Why did I say that? Now I’m going to have to explain.
Mrs. Hargrove nods to the chair but doesn’t say anything.
I should shut my mouth and leave, but I sit back down. My brain is spinning a million miles a minute. What should I say now?
“We broke up,” I lie. “He wanted to do it, but I didn’t.” That part’s not a lie, though there’s more to it.
“I see,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “That’s obviously upset you very much. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”
Despite her assurances, part of me says, Don’t do it! Even though I wouldn’t be telling the whole truth, it would be too close for comfort, and I might slip up. But another part of me—the frightened, lost and desperate part, the part that’s weary of going it alone and wants to be rescued—is hopeful.
So I crack the lid on my box of secrets and let a few of them trickle out.
Chapter Five
I don’t tell Mrs. Hargrove what really happened, but I find sharing even part of the truth is a relief. I don’t mention Ross by name, and I don’t say he forced himself on me. I just say I wasn’t comfortable with how things were going and worried about next time. So I broke up with him.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” Mrs. Hargrove says, “but I think you made a wise decision. Chances are, he would have been more insistent next time. And if he forced you, that would be rape.”
Hearing the word makes me wince.
“Yes, Emma. Rape. The thing that makes it so terrible is that it is as much about power as it is about sex.” She pauses and then adds, “It’s a criminal offense.”
I pull back in shock.
She puts a hand on my arm, and my blood pressure comes down a notch. “And it’s not generally a one-time thing. A guy who rapes once will probably do it again. It sounds like you had a lucky escape.”
“I guess,” I say. “But what if I hadn’t?” The second the question leaves my mouth, I want to bite it back.
Mrs. Hargrove looks at me for what seems a very long time. Finally she says, “But you did.” It’s more a question than a statement. “Even so, the situation has clearly upset you. It might be a good idea to talk to a trauma counselor. I could make the arrangements.”
I quickly shake my head. “No, no. I’m good. Really. I was just feeling sorry for myself.” I shrug. “You know—about breaking up with my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure I’d done the right th
ing. But now I see that I did. Like you said, I was lucky.”
She frowns but nods. “Okay. That’s good. But you realize that girls who aren’t as lucky should talk to the police.”
My stomach does a somersault. There’s no way I can go to the police. I’ve seen the shows on television, and I’ve read the newspaper. People always think it’s the girl’s fault—that somehow she asked for it. And if my dad found out what happened, I would just die.
The bell rings, announcing class change, and I shoot Mrs. Hargrove a panicked you’re not going to make me go look.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” she says. “I’ll check you out at the office. Tomorrow morning you’ll come back to school and make a fresh start, get on with your life.”
I know Mrs. Hargrove means well, but I can’t bear the idea of ever facing the kids at school again. They all know—or think they know—what I’ve done.
“But I’m so embarrassed,” I mumble. “People saw me crying. I just know they’re going to be talking about me.”
“There’s nothing you can do about gossip,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “It hurts, but you can tough it out. You’re strong enough to live through it. Besides, it won’t last. In a day or two you’ll be yesterday’s news, and the gossip mongers will have moved on to something—or someone—else.” She squeezes my hand. “You’re a good person, Emma Kennedy. Remember that. Don’t let anyone bully you into believing differently. Hold your head high.”
I nod and try to smile, although inside I’m panicking. It’s easy for Mrs. Hargrove to give me a pep talk. She isn’t the one everyone will be staring at and whispering about.
“I’ll go to class tomorrow,” I say, “but I’m not going to volleyball after school.” I start to say, The guy who raped me, but catch myself. “My ex-boyfriend is on the boys’ team.”
“You shouldn’t give up doing what you enjoy. Seeing him could be uncomfortable, but you can avoid him. Stay close to your team and leave right after your match.”
Girls Like Me Page 2
