Girls Like Me

by Kristin Butcher

  “Yeah, I guess. But I don’t have a ride to the game. I usually go with someone on my team, but we’re kind of not talking at the moment.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find you a ride. You just be ready to play.” As I stand to leave, she adds, “And Emma, my door is always open. If you want to talk some more or just need a shoulder to cry on—any time—I’m here.”

  Mrs. Hargrove is right about people losing interest in me. At school the next day, there are no notes or dirty pictures in my locker, no graffiti anywhere and, as far as I can tell, no one leering at me. In fact, aside from a few curious glances, nobody even seems to see me. I’ve gone from living under a spotlight to being invisible. Overnight. It’s weird, but it’s also a huge relief.

  As for volleyball, Mrs. Hargrove has arranged for me to ride with Kelly Vale. Though Kelly and I are both on the volleyball team, I don’t really know her.

  “Did Mrs. Hargrove tell you I’ll be leaving right after the game?” she says, aiming the remote at her car. It beeps, and the taillights flash.

  “Yeah. I was hoping to get home right after, so that’s good,” I reply, opening the passenger door. The seat is covered with fast-food cups and wrappers.

  “Sorry about that,” Kelly says, sliding behind the wheel. “Just dump them on the floor.”

  I sweep the junk off the seat and onto a pile of even older garbage. There’s barely room for my feet, but I squeeze in and buckle up.

  “I’m not really part of the in-crowd,” Kelly says. “That’s why I never hang around after games.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” I tell her, although a couple of months ago I would never have said that. Back then I was proud to be part of the popular crowd.

  “You have Mrs. Frome for math?” Kelly asks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s she like? I get her next term, and I need to get a decent mark. The thing is, math isn’t my best subject. I need a teacher I can really understand.”

  “She’s okay,” I say. “I’m not a math whiz either, and I’m getting 81 percent. If you get stuck, maybe I can help.”

  She smiles. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.”

  We talk easily the rest of the way. Kelly seems nice, and she never once says anything to imply she knows about my situation. That lifts my spirits a little. Maybe the whole world isn’t judging me after all.

  The girls play first, and we win our match easily. Though I’m usually a starter, the coach doesn’t sub me in until the second game. I can’t help wondering if he’s heard the rumors about me and is being cautious because of my recent “condition.”

  Of course, the guys are in the bleachers, cheering us on. I try not to look at Ross, but I can’t help it. He must have heard the gossip. So as casually as I can, I glance in his direction once in a while during the match. The thing is, I never once see him looking back. He only has eyes for Jen. I can tell it’s not her volleyball skills he’s interested in.

  After the match he heads straight for her and gives her a hug. Jen hugs him back. Then they talk for a few minutes, laughing and finding reasons to touch. It’s easy to see what’s going on. It’s the mating dance for sure.

  When Ross finally moves onto the court for his match, Jen turns toward me, like she knew all along I was watching. She smiles the smile of someone who thinks she’s won.

  My heart drops into my shoes, and not because I’m jealous.

  Chapter Six

  I watch Jen and some other girls from my team climb into the stands. Later they’ll go to some fast-food joint with the guys. Not long ago I was part of that crowd. It’s strange to be on the outside looking in, and I can’t deny I feel a twinge of envy. But then Ross passes through my line of vision, and my heart hardens.

  “Ready to go?” Kelly says as she fishes her keys out of her gym bag.

  I force a smile. “All set.”

  I know we chat on the drive home, but when she drops me in front of my house, I can’t remember a single thing we talked about. My brain must have been on autopilot.

  The only thing on my mind is Jen and Ross. They were flirting in the gym, and I’d bet anything they step it up a notch when the teams go for something to eat. I don’t even want to think about what could happen after that. Thank goodness Jen has her own car. At least Ross won’t be driving her home. Hopefully that means she’s safe—for today anyway. But if what Mrs. Hargrove said about guys like Ross is true, it’s just a matter of time until he takes advantage of her like he did me.

  I have to warn her.

  I worry for Jen most of the evening and into the night. The thought that she could be Ross’s next conquest makes me feel sick. I don’t want her to go through what I went through—what I’m still going through. It’s over, but I can’t seem to get past it. Will I ever? I try to convince myself that I’m jumping to conclusions. Ross might not even try anything. Yeah, right.

  When morning finally arrives, I feel like a bag of dirt. I look like one too. But at least I’ve made a decision. I can’t stop Jen from going out with Ross. But I can tell her what he did to me.

  My confession is going to have to wait until the afternoon, though, because this morning I am meeting Dr. Abernathy.

  I hop on the bus heading downtown. I push my concern for Jen to the back of my mind and start worrying about what the doctor is going to say.

  Dr. Abernathy has been my doctor my whole life, but I’ve never liked him. Every visit feels like a test. One that I never quite pass. When I was eight, I got bronchitis and missed a whole week of school. I thought he would be sympathetic, but all he did was talk about the importance of washing my hands and keeping my coat zipped. It was more of the same when I fell off my bike and broke my arm. As he was putting the cast on, he lectured me about bicycle safety and the rules of the road. Every single time I see him, I come away feeling like it’s my fault for getting sick or injured. I don’t imagine today will be any different.

  As I ride the elevator to the fifth floor, I study my blurred reflection in the stainless-steel walls. Even out of focus I look awful. I comb my hair with my fingers, pinch my cheeks and stand up straighter.

  The doors open onto a long hall with a blue-patterned carpet. Dr. Abernathy’s office is directly across the way, so I go through the door and let the receptionist know I’m here. I consider hanging up my coat but decide against it. I might want to make a quick exit. There are two other people in the dimly lit waiting room, one at each end of a row of armless chairs lining the wall. I grab a magazine and take a seat halfway between them.

  I’ve barely started flipping the pages when the receptionist calls my name. “Emma Kennedy? The doctor will see you now.”

  I’m surprised. Though I’m right on time for my appointment, there are patients ahead of me.

  “But—” I gesture to them.

  The receptionist waves away my objection. “Mrs. Murray is waiting for her husband, and Mr. Dockery is early. You’re next.”

  I take the magazine with me. Good thing, too, because it’s another ten minutes before Dr. Abernathy shows up.

  When he finally arrives, he’s carrying a file folder with my name on it. He shuts the door, sits at the desk and opens the folder.

  I hold my breath.

  Eventually he looks up. I think maybe he’ll smile to break the ice. But no. My mother would say his expression shows concern. I say it smacks of disapproval. He’s definitely frowning.

  “How are you feeling?” he says.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  “No more heavy bleeding or cramping?”

  “No.”

  “Any fever? Fainting? Nausea?”

  “No.”

  “How about mood swings?”

  “Sometimes I get a little emotional, but it doesn’t last.”

  “That’s normal,” he mutters into the folder.

  He studies its contents in silence for another minute or so, then turns his full attention on me. Under his unwavering gaze, I feel self-conscious.
>
  “How old are you, Emma?”

  “Sixteen,” I say. “I’ll be seventeen in a couple of months.”

  “And you have a boyfriend.”

  “No.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “But you’re sexually active.”

  Bam! I walked into that one. Now he thinks I’m a slut. “Not really,” I protest meekly. “It…it was just that one time.” Heat rushes into my cheeks. I look down at my hands. I want to make Dr. Abernathy understand that it wasn’t my fault. That I was forced to have sex. But I’m too embarrassed to say a word.

  “And you became pregnant,” he says.

  I feel my jaw tighten. Why does he keep stating the obvious? We both know what happened.

  He opens the drawer of his desk and pulls out a handful of pamphlets. “Here.” He passes them to me. “This is information on birth control. I want you to read it. If you have any questions, come back and see me.”

  Fat chance of that!

  He turns to his computer and types something. A few seconds later the printer on the shelf beside the desk spits out two sheets of paper. He hands one to me. “This is a prescription for vitamins,” he explains. “You’re a bit rundown, and your body needs to build itself back up. These vitamins will help. And this”—he holds out the second paper—“is for birth control pills. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

  I don’t even want to touch the paper. I don’t need birth control pills! I’m not having sex! I silently scream.

  Then he stands, so I do too. Thank goodness we’re done. The clock on the wall says our talk has taken ten minutes, but it feels like hours.

  “Thank you, Dr. Abernathy,” I mumble and start for the door.

  He stops me. “One more thing, Emma.”

  I turn around.

  “I don’t know the specifics of your situation, and I can see that you would like to keep it that way. But I think you should talk with someone—a friend, a teacher, a counselor maybe. Of course, the best person to speak with is your mother. She cares what happens to you as much as you do. And no one knows you better.”

  Horror at the mere thought of sharing this horrible experience with my mother must show on my face, because he adds, “Trust me. It will help.”

  Chapter Seven

  On the bus ride home I replay the appointment in my head. It went pretty much as I expected—except for the birth-control prescription. I wasn’t ready for that. But I understand why Dr. Abernathy assumed I needed it. A girl doesn’t get pregnant by holding hands. I shove the piece of paper to the bottom of my pack and get back to worrying about Jen.

  I arrive at my locker way before the start of afternoon classes. Lately I’ve been avoiding people, but today I have no choice. I need to talk to her. The thing is, she doesn’t show. She isn’t there at the end of the day either, and I wonder if she’s been at school at all. I ask the girl with the locker on the other side of hers. She says Jen was there in the morning.

  Maybe she went home sick or had an afternoon appointment of some kind or a field trip. I consider calling her on her cell, but what I have to say isn’t something I want to share over the phone.

  “So how did your appointment with Dr. Abernathy go?” Dad asks at supper.

  I just about choke on my mashed potatoes.

  “Ed, really.” Mom clucks her tongue. “That is hardly an appropriate topic for the dinner table.”

  My father looks confused. “Why? I’m just asking if Emma is on the mend. I would think you’d want to know too, Miriam.”

  My mother starts to reply, but I jump in. “I’m fine,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Dr. Abernathy gave me a clean bill of health—and a prescription for some vitamins. He thinks I might be a bit rundown.” I want to change the subject, but I know my dad must have seen my bloody sheets. I have to explain them somehow, so I say, “The doctor said that sometimes heavy bleeding—”

  “Okay, okay,” he interrupts. “I don’t need all the details. But you should listen to the doc, Emma. Maybe slowing down a little isn’t such a bad idea.”

  “Oh, Ed, you heard Emma. She’s fine,” my mother says. “Don’t make such a fuss.”

  Dad sighs, and that’s the end of the conversation. We carry on with supper.

  But it’s a different story when we’ve finished eating. Dad takes his dessert to his man cave, and Mom and I start cleaning up. I’ve just begun loading the dirty plates and cutlery into the dishwasher when she says, “So what really happened with Dr. Abernathy?”

  I look up and frown. “I told you. He said I’m a bit rundown, but otherwise I’m fine.”

  She glances toward the hall to make sure Dad is out of earshot. Then, in a hushed voice, she says, “Did he talk to you about…” She pauses. “Birth control?”

  My mouth literally drops open.

  Placing a finger beneath my chin, she closes it. “It’s a little late to play the shocked card, Emma.”

  Which shocks me even more. I know my mother realized I was pregnant and that I miscarried, but I can’t believe she is bringing up the subject. Until this moment she hasn’t even acknowledged that anything happened.

  “Well?” she prods.

  It’s my turn to look toward the hall. “Yes,” I hiss. “He gave me a prescription for birth control pills.” And suddenly I’m not sure my mother has been as tight-lipped as I’d thought. She may not have spoken to me, but... “Was that your idea?” I say. “Did you ask Dr. Abernathy to do that?”

  At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “We may have talked,” she mumbles.

  “About me. Behind my back,” I say, forgetting to keep my voice down.

  She scowls and glances toward the hall again.

  “I didn’t see that I had a choice. You clearly weren’t taking precautions. Someone has to look out for you.”

  “I don’t need to take precautions,” I protest, “because I’m not having sex!”

  My mother winces. “You don’t have to be vulgar. And keep your voice down. If your father finds out about this, he will be very upset.”

  “Did you hear what I said, Mom? I’m not having sex.”

  She grits her teeth and closes her eyes. “Stop saying that. You were pregnant, Emma. You had to have been having—relations.”

  “Relations?” I hoot. “That sounds so clinical. If you can’t say sex, why not go for sleeping with someone, being intimate or making love?”

  “Emma!”

  I ignore her and push on. Instead of tiptoeing around the topic, we might as well get it right out in the open. “The truth is, I wasn’t doing any of those things, Mom. I didn’t take any precautions because I didn’t have the chance. I was raped.”

  There. I’ve said it.

  She doesn’t gasp or spin around. She doesn’t hug me or even look at me. She doesn’t even stop wiping the counter, and I wonder if she’s heard me.

  I say it again. “A boy raped me. He forced me to have sex.”

  I can only see her profile, but her jaw tightens. When the counter can’t get any cleaner, she tosses the dishcloth into the sink and turns to look at me. I can tell she’s trying to organize her thoughts.

  Finally she says, “That’s a serious accusation, Emma. I understand how you might have been caught up in the heat of the moment and changed your mind when it was too late, but that’s not rape.”

  I shake my head vehemently. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t change my mind. I never wanted sex. He attacked me. He held me down. He forced me.”

  She puts a calming hand on my arm. “Okay. All right. Don’t get all worked up. Just tell me what happened. Where were you?”

  “In his car. He was driving me home from volleyball and stopped on a secluded road and—”

  She frowns. “I thought you went to the games with Jen.”

  “I do. At least, I used to, but she left without me that night.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  I lower my eyes. “Because we liked the same guy
, and he was paying attention to me.”

  “The boy who drove you home?”

  I nod.

  “So did you lead him on?”

  “Mother!” I squeak. “What is wrong with you? I flirted with him. Yes. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to have sex.”

  “Well, obviously he got a different message.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “Are you defending him?”

  “No, of course not. I just think maybe you got in over your head without realizing. You’re a pretty girl, and—well—you do dress provocatively sometimes, Emma. You have to know boys are going to notice.”

  “I don’t dress any differently than other girls. And anyway, it shouldn’t matter how I dress. What I wear doesn’t give a guy the right to rape me! I told him no, Mom. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Why isn’t my mother sticking up for me?

  She hugs me and murmurs, “Of course it counts. He was wrong. But there’s not much we can do about that now. What’s done is done. It’s a hard lesson, but I’m sure you’ll be more careful in the future and not allow yourself to end up in that situation again.”

  She holds me at arm’s length and smiles. “You need to put it behind you, sweetheart, and get on with your life.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” I tell her. “Everyone at school is talking about me. They all know I was pregnant and that I lost the baby.”

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “They just do. And it’s awful.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma. I know that must be hard on you, but try not to think about it. In less than two years you’ll be finished high school. If you work hard on your studies between now and then, it will help take your mind off what happened. You’ll be so busy you won’t notice what people are saying. And it’ll mean you can get into any university in the country. Then you can leave the past behind and start over.”

  As my mother continues to paint pictures of my future, I tune out. I don’t feel her hands holding mine either. I am numb. I know she loves me and she means well, but it’s as if she’s lifted the corner of the living room rug and swept me and my problem under it.