But not completely. They’ll go on. Mitch has gone on. Stall 313 has gone on. Their lives have not been ruined. I’m the only one who is ruined.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say, setting Isis on the floor.
Elsa nods. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” I give her a look I hope she’ll understand. “Thanks, El, but I need to be alone.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Krys says, a worried frown on her face.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I won’t be long.”
“But…”
I don’t give her time to finish; I turn on my heel and walk out of the kitchen and out the front door. My pace quickens as I head toward the street until I’m running. I run as hard and fast as I can for as long as I can, until my lungs are burning and my legs feel like they’re going to give out. I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, but I don’t fall. I stop running. Bent at the waist, I gasp for breath and don’t stand up until I feel half-normal.
I glance at my surroundings. I’ve crossed into the next neighborhood. One block up I see a house I recognize as Zack’s. His car is in the driveway.
Still breathing hard, I walk the rest of the way until I’m on his doorstep, ringing the bell. He looks surprised to see me when he opens the door.
“You okay?” he asks, stepping back to let me inside.
“They got probation,” I say, moving around him. “Is it okay that I’m here?”
“Yeah, of course. Mom’s at work, so we can talk.”
He leads me into the living room. His books are laid out on the coffee table. Who starts homework as soon as they get home from school? Zack, apparently.
We sit on the couch. “Do you want a drink?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Another shake. “No.”
“Okay.” There’s a silent question—what do I want?
I look at him. He’s so perfect—his hair, his bones, his skin. Everything about him is exactly as it ought to be. I admire and hate it. I admire and hate him.
What do I want?
Suddenly, I launch myself at him. Zack gasps in shock as I straddle him, using my body weight to push him back against the couch. I press my mouth against his as I yank at his shirt. I shove my tongue between his lips and grind against him.
He pushes at me, pulls away. “Lex, what the hell?”
“Fuck me,” I whisper, still rubbing against him. “Please.”
“What? No.” He shoves my hands away, but I keep coming back.
“Fuck me,” I beg. “Hurt me. You can do whatever you want, I don’t care, just make me feel something. Please. Please!” There’s a loud ripping sound, and I realize I’ve torn his shirt.
I’m airborne as he pushes me off him. I hit the back of the sofa hard, and I welcome the pain in my shoulder blades. It feels so good.
Zack jumps up off the couch, puts a few feet between us. “Lex, stop.”
I lurch forward, falling to my knees before him, like I was for Mike last week. I don’t smell urinal cakes this time, just Zack. I grab at his jeans, try to unzip them.
“Lex, stop!” He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me back. Then, he’s on his knees too, and he’s got my face in his hands. He’s looking at me like he’s scared, worried.
“I’m never going to hurt you,” he tells me. “And I’ll never, ever use you. Not even when you ask me to. Especially not when you ask me to.”
I stare at him, at his perfect face and his perfect eyes. I see a girl reflected in his gaze—a pale and scared little girl who looks like she needs a hug, and I know that’s how he sees me.
I wish I could hug her. I would hug her so hard. I want it to be okay for her. I want her to have the life that someone took from her a long time ago—a life full of hope.
Tears burn my cheeks. Zack and the girl blur until I can’t see either one of them. I’m sobbing now—a great, wet, snotty mess. I don’t resist when Zack’s arms close around me. I don’t freak out and try to break free. I lean into his chest, into the ruined fabric of his shirt, and let the tears flow. He holds me so tight, a breath couldn’t even slip between us. I wrap my arms around his waist and clasp my hands in case he tries to push me away. But he doesn’t push, not Zack. That’s not who he is. I’m the one who is always pushing and pulling. He’s just … still. Grounded.
Warm lips press against my forehead as he strokes my hair. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
And even though it’s a lie I’ve told many times, I let myself believe it.
Because when he says it, I almost do.
chapter eighteen
Thursday morning, I’m tempted to stay home from school. I don’t want to face the people who will throw Mike’s win in my face. Mostly, I don’t want to see Zack. I’m not sure I ever want to see him again.
Also, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to see me. Why would he? I’m the girl who went absolutely crazy on him. I tore his favorite T-shirt. Which was why I asked Krys to drive me to West Farms last night—so I could get him a new one.
My aunt asked who the gift was for.
“It’s not a gift,” I told her. “It’s an apology.”
She didn’t ask any more questions, except if I wanted to pick up “apology” wrapping paper for it.
So, even though I don’t want to see Zack, I am going to school and I’m going to walk up to him and give him the new shirt. I’m going to tell him I’m sorry.
He’s on my doorstep when I open the door.
“Oh,” I say. “Hi.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Hey. I thought you might want a lift.”
I glance at his car. Elsa waves at me from the back seat. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” I pull the shirt out of my bag and hand it to him.
He frowns at the sloppy wrapping. “What’s this?”
“A new T-shirt.”
He goes very still. Slowly he raises his head and his gaze meets mine.
My heart skips a beat. What’s he thinking?
“Thank you,” he says.
“I’m sorry.” I take a step forward and hesitate. “For all of it.”
“It’s okay.” He’s looking at the shirt, not me.
“No, it’s really not. Thank you for not…”
Zack nods as if he knows exactly what I’m going to say. “C’mon. Elsa will be wondering what we’re talking about.”
He’s right. I have no intention of telling my friend what happened when I walked out on her yesterday. She called last night to make sure I was okay and I didn’t say anything about Zack. It’s not even that I’m too ashamed to tell her—I mean, I’ve told her stuff about the motel—it’s just … it’s private. It’s something no one but Zack and me needs to know.
“Ooh,” Elsa says when we get in the car. “Presents! Where’s mine?”
As luck would have it, I have something for her as well. Out of my bag I pull a plastic container and pass it between the seats to her. “Krys thought you might like a pumpkin muffin.”
She snatches the container from me like she’s starving. “Oh my God. Tell her I love her. Because, I do, you know—love her.”
I smile. “She loves you too.”
“I’d like a little love,” Zack jokes. “Did she send me food?”
“Of course.” I pull another container from my bag and hand it over. “Here you go.”
His smile lets me know everything is okay.
The feeling goes away when I’m at school and in a class without Elsa or Zack. I sit there, in my history class, listening with only half my brain to Mr. Randall talk. The other half has gone somewhere else. There’s a heaviness in my chest that hasn’t been there in a while. When it shows up, it comes back and tries to crush me.
I’m never going to be normal. I know that. I look at the kids around me and wonder if they have any idea of the horrors that are out there. The worst
thing most of them will ever have to face is having their phones taken away. I envy them so much for that, and I hate them for it too.
“What do you think, Alexa?”
I glance up. Mr. Randall is looking at me expectantly. Of course he asked me a question, today of all days. “I’m sorry,” I say, voice rough. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Get on your knees,” someone suggests. “Maybe you’ll hear him better.”
People laugh—only a few. Whatever. These people can’t hurt me.
Mr. Randall turns bright red. “Get out,” he says to the girl who made the remark.
It’s Keyleigh Holmes. I think she used to date Mike a couple of years ago. It’s not a really big school—everyone knows each other. Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Office,” Mr. Randall tells her. “Now. Now.”
“Okay, don’t have a stroke.” I don’t look at her, but I can hear her gathering her things. The entire class has gone eerily quiet. Mr. Randall hardly ever loses his temper. It’s him I look at, with his thick gray hair and kind blue eyes. He looks like he’d be a good grandfather, or host of a children’s show.
Keyleigh takes her time getting to the door, strutting like she’s on a catwalk.
“I won’t tolerate any of you speaking to a classmate with such disrespect,” he tells us before she leaves. “I have no time for ignorance and bullying. If you want to display your stupidity and narrow-mindedness, you do it on your own time, not mine. Got it?”
There is a low murmur of: “Yes, Mr. Randall.” The door slams shut behind Keyleigh. Mr. Randall doesn’t even glance at it.
“Now, Alexa, I asked you—why do you suppose the Romans crucified Jesus—and other Jews who dared oppose them?”
I swallow. “Because it was the most shameful of deaths.” At least that’s what it said in my textbook when I read it last night. “They wanted to put them in their place.”
“Yes,” he says with a smile. “Very good.”
As he returns to his lecture, I stare at my book, acutely aware of the gazes burning into my back. If this were ancient Rome, I have no doubt they’d all try to crucify me.
* * *
“Did you know there’s a lawsuit against Stall 313?” Jamal asks.
We’re at the dinner table. Krys has made fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It’s been months since I left the motel, but I’m still getting used to eating home-cooked meals. I can’t get enough of it. I’ve gone up almost two sizes since moving in with Krys and Jamal. My doctor is finally happy with my weight. Me, I don’t care. I just want another biscuit.
“Yeah. I don’t know much about it though.”
“It was started by a couple of women whose daughters were trafficked on their site. The lawyers attached to it represent at least six other girls. They’re looking to help more.” He gives me a pointed look.
I swallow a bite of chicken and glance at Krys and back to Jamal. “You want to sue Stall 313? I thought you wanted to sue the Fischers?”
“I want to do both,” Krys says, spooning more potatoes onto her plate.
“Do you guys need money?” I ask, stomach dropping. “I can get a job—”
“No,” Jamal interrupts. “We’re not doing it for the money, Lex. We’re fine financially, believe me. No, we want to do this for you—for the principle of it.”
I don’t get it. “How’s making parents pay for what their kids do fixing anything?”
My aunt and uncle exchange glances. “They made Mike what he is. Maybe having to pay something will make them—and him—consider that,” Jamal explains.
“As for Stall 313,” Krys picks up, “they make millions off their ads every year. They’re enabling traffickers and protecting them behind every loophole they can find. If we win a settlement, it won’t buy back your past, but it will make some of the bastards who took it pay. And it will ensure your future.”
I set down my fork. “If we take money from them, won’t it be like they’re paying me for services rendered? That will really make me a whore.”
Krys looks like I punched her. “It will not.”
Jamal clears his throat. “In 1973, my aunt Tissa was raped by a man who called her a ‘nigger whore’ and said it was no different than raping a dog.”
“Shit,” I whisper. Sometimes I forget how Black people have been—and are—treated in this country.
“The guy was friends with the judge—they were both rich white men—so the charges got tossed out. But her lawyer decided to launch a civil case and that judge was not friends with her rapist. He had to pay her a lot of money. When she died, she left some of that money to me so I could go to college without loans and have a better life. Is she a whore, Lex? Am I?”
I shake my head dumbly. There’s no anger in Jamal’s deep voice; he’s making a point—it hits home, just like in class earlier. Maybe the universe is trying to send me a very pointed message.
Krys reaches over and puts her hand on mine. We’re both so pale and freckled. “If you don’t want to do this, we won’t. But, sweetie, I want to take on this fight with you. I want to make them pay. The lawyer wants us to come to New York and meet the other parents and girls involved in the case. Do you want to go?”
Other parents. My throat grows tight. Does she even realize what’s she’s said? If she feels like that about me, like I’m hers and she’s mine …
“Other girls,” I say. “Like me?”
She nods. “You could talk to them.”
Other girls who have been through what I have. Who understand. Who have decided to take back something for themselves.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Can I think about it?”
The two of them exchange another look. “Sure, sweetie,” Krys says.
I’ve disappointed them. What is so hard about saying yes? Why is it so fucking hard for me to stand up for myself? For me to make up my damn mind about anything? Why do I always seem to make the wrong choices?
I push back my chair. “I’m not feeling great. I’m going to lie down.” I jump up and leave the room before either of them can say anything. They’d probably tell me it’s all right, and I don’t want their understanding.
It makes everything worse.
* * *
Friday comes. I put on the one black dress I own, along with some tights and a pair of low heels Krys thought I needed. I wear my hair down and a little wavy. I even put on some makeup, winging my eyeliner in the way Jaime begged me to teach her how to duplicate.
I don’t know why she attached herself to me. I don’t know why she liked me, but she did, and I liked her. I knew better than to make friends with the other girls at the motel, but I couldn’t help it when it came to Jaime.
“Why did she go back?” I wonder out loud. “I should have stopped her.”
“You can’t take responsibility for the actions of others,” Krys replies.
“But that’s what you want Mike’s parents to do. And the rest of them—to take responsibility for what their sons did.”
“That’s different.”
“It doesn’t feel different.”
“You are not responsible for Jaime. Her parents are—just as the parents of those boys are responsible for them.” She frowns. “Do you want to drop the civil suit? Is that it?”
I stare out the window. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does!” She’s looking down at me. “It’s all for you, Lexi-bug.”
I don’t think it is. Some of it is for Krys and how helpless she feels where I’m concerned. She can’t fix me, but she can fight for me. Like she fought for me in the grocery store the day Mike’s mother said all those horrible things.
My eyes narrow.
His sister threatened my dog.
“No. I don’t want to drop the lawsuit. I want a say in what happens to me.” For once, I want to have a say in my life.
She pulls the car into a gas station parking lot without even signaling. She parks half-assed across two spots, puts the
car in park, unbuckles her seat belt, and grabs me in a fierce hug. It takes me a second to realize she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought I was protecting you, but I’m not, am I?”
I hug her back. “No one’s ever stood up for me like you do.”
She pulls back. “I want to make the world better for you, sweetie. I’m sorry that you feel like I’m not listening to what you want. I promise from now on we’ll talk about everything. Whatever we do, it’s your decision.”
I nod, throat tight and hot. My aunt wipes her eyes, buckles up, and resumes driving. Within a few minutes, we’re on I-91 North. We stop only to use the bathroom and for me to take half a Xanax. I’m freaking out. But going to the funeral of a girl my age, who was killed by a john, or maybe our pimp, is a valid excuse for anxiety.
We arrive at the church shortly after two. The service is supposed to begin at two thirty, so we check our makeup, gather up our things, and make our way inside.
“Not many people here,” I remark, looking at the few cars in the lot.
“We have a while yet,” Krys says. “More could come.”
But they don’t. Only three people wander in after we do. The church isn’t even half-full. Only a couple of mourners are my age. Where are her friends? Classmates? There should be more people here to say goodbye to the girl in the cream-colored casket at the front of the pulpit.
When the family comes in, I’m surprised. They’re not what I expected. Her mother is a heavy woman with bright eye shadow and dark roots. Her father is wearing work boots covered in a thick layer of dirt. They have seven kids with them, ranging from a little younger than me to a toddler. Their clothes look faded from years of hand-me-downs and her parents look exhausted. It’s no wonder Jaime ran off with Mitch. He probably looked like a knight in shining armor. He probably told her she’d be helping her family.
The minister is old, but he obviously knew Jaime. He says nice things about her as a child, and about the family. We pray and the choir sings. The minster reads something from the Bible. I’m not really listening. I’m staring at the box that Jaime’s in. It’s closed. I remember the photos Detective Willis showed me, and I’m glad it’s not open.
What Unbreakable Looks Like Page 19
