Authors: Mechelle Morrison
23
EM TIPTOES ACROSS
the kitchen floor, her boots hardly making sound. I squeeze against the base of the window seat and watch the swish of her white down-filled coat. I’d clamp my eyes shut against the sight of her, but I can’t seem to even blink. She stops at the counter’s edge, fingering the wood of the butcher block and giving me an all-too clear view of her. If she turns, she’ll see me. I don’t dare breathe.
S
he edges round the barstools and pauses in the kitchen doorway, staring at the fire as it crackles and snaps. She’s listening to Angella and Deb, I guess; their conversation drifts from the front of the house. Quietly, she unzips her coat.
T
he back door opens suddenly. It scares me; I almost scream. Cold air rushes into the room; Em whirls around. Her coat parts like a ladybug’s shell then drops into place.
She’s wearing my belt
.
My belt!
I make the slightest noise, a sort of gasp, just as Ray Thacker yells,
“You’ll get the hell out of my house.”
Em shakes her head
, her eyes wide and scared. She steps back, away from Ray. “I’m here with my mom,” she says.
“
You could be here with God himself. Get out!”
F
rom the hallway Angella says, “But—who let you in here?”
“
Where’s Kyle?” Em asks. Her voice quivers. She folds her coat round her body, hugging it closed. “I haven’t seen him, not for two weeks now. I heard he took up with Ret—with that new girl, Aspen. I’m worried for him. She, like, attacked me in the hall.”
“
Good god.” Ray digs his cell phone from somewhere in his duster. He touches it, like he’s checking email or something, then I think he slides it into the front pocket of his shirt. His shoulders heave—once up, once down—as he pulls his hat from his head and throws it aside. “You’re gonna straight-faced lie? I was there, Em Harrelson. I saw you brutalize that girl!”
“
I didn’t brutalize anybody! I was defending
myself! That girl’s been after Kyle from the first day of school. It was because of her that things went too far!”
Ray shakes his head.
“Get out.”
“But
—”
“You’re
in my house uninvited. You want trespassing? On top of your suspension?”
“
I’m just thinking of Kyle! That girl’s probably hurting him, you know. She’s like that, I can tell. I thought to warn him, is all.”
Hot tears flood into my eyes.
I hate this! I hate how smoothly Em paints things her way. I want to run at her, screaming, and spit in her face. I want to rip my belt from around her waist the way she stole it from around mine. But for how much I ache to defend myself, I can’t. My memories of the time I spent under the grind of her boot heel are too strong. My body grows numb. I begin to shake.
Ray grips
the counter. His knuckles fade to white. “You think I haven’t seen what you did to my boy?” he asks. “You think he didn’t show me?”
Em
blinks once, then again. Behind her, Angella and Deb crowd in like inky ghosts, featureless in the unlit hall. Angella sniffles.
But
Ray is glacier ice, in terrible control. “I’ve seen the shit you dealt my son. Now you stand here in my home, expecting I’ll listen to you blame an innocent girl for your abuse? Is that how you’re playin’ this?”
“I didn’t
cut him,” Em says.
“I don’t recall mentioning you did
,” Ray answers quietly.
Em
shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m just sayin’. Kyle cut himself. On accident. He fell and stuff, running. Ask him, ‘kay? It happened all the time. I’d tell him, don’t be so clumsy. I’d tell him to watch out.”
Deb
Harrelson clears her throat. “Emmy, honey. It’s time we—”
“But I haven’t seen him!”
A tear glistens on Em’s cheek.
“
I’m sure he’s fine,” Deb says. “Ray and Angie would have told us otherwise. Let’s go. We’ve outstayed our welcome.”
“Outstayed?”
Ray asks. He takes one step forward, and then another.
Em’s
eyes flash with panic, like she’s just awakened from a nightmare. She runs from Ray, her footsteps clattering over the entryway slate. Angella Thacker slips into the kitchen.
I
erupt in tears.
Ray
shouts, “A person can’t outstay what was never offered in the first place,” and he slams the door. The house shudders, as though his fury is infectious.
My fear boils over
then, knotting my body with tension and renewing the bruising ache in my side. It hurts to cry, which only makes me cry more.
24
FOR THE FIRST
time since leaving the hospital, showering feels good. I stand with my back to the water, wetting my hair and thinking. My stitches tug as I move—a feeling more irritating than painful—though they ached all morning thanks to my unexpected dive under the kitchen table.
I was there for a while.
As Em left, I wrapped my arms around the table’s post as though it was salvation. I wouldn’t come out, even when Angella begged. She finally dropped to her knees, crawled in next to me and pried me away from the furniture. Then she held me like an infant. I let her, because at first what she did reminded me of Kyle all those weeks ago in his truck. But Angella didn’t feel like Kyle or smell like Kyle or say the things Kyle would say, and my thoughts turned to Mom. I cried even harder. I missed her then, so much.
While I cried
Ray paced, the heels of his boots too loud against the floor. He punched the air and said things like, “Damn-it Angie, we’ve got it all on record, a right fine confession.” When Angella didn’t acknowledge him he stooped down, peering under the table. “Listen up,” he said, and thrust his cell phone toward us.
Hearing
Em blame her abuse on me again only made my crying worse. Ray boosted the volume. So we could hear, I guess, over my hard-core tears.
That’s when
Angella yelled, “Lord, Ray, just go on!”
I
smooth my fingers through my hair; a torrent of water gushes down my back. Thinking on how I cowered while Em stood there, wearing my belt and blaming me for hurting Kyle is, well, embarrassing. It stings—in some ways worse than being kicked. She’s looking to frame me with her truth.
I need to do better than cling to a table leg and bawl.
And anyway
Em’s bullying feels harder to face than it did before. I don’t like the way it defines me—as a victim. A part of me can’t believe it, even with the proof of stitches and bruised ribs. I know my silence protects Em. But I can’t help it. It’s like by keeping quiet I somehow keep the truth less real.
Going verbal seems confrontational
, like I’ll just make things worse. Now I guess I have no choice. I’ll have to talk, starting with the principal. After him, maybe I’ll open up to my crisis counselor. Maybe I’ll give the history of my run-ins with Em to the police. But if all that talking doesn’t work I’ll need to be ready. I mean, Em is wearing my belt. I’m going to get it back.
I turn and sigh,
allowing the warm water to splash across my face. Right now I just want to relax. I want to think of nothing. It’ll all be easier to deal with once I’m better. I’ll talk to people then.
I reach for the shampoo, groping along the tiled ledge
to my left. A draft rolls over my body and I shiver.
“
Aspen.”
My eyes fl
y open.
“Hey, girl
.” Kyle holds the shower door just wide enough for one smiling blue eye to peer through. “You’re looking good. Just a bit yellow-green.”
“
How’d you get in here?” Wringing my wash cloth, I dab the water from my face. I’d cover up, but he’s already seen all of me there is to see.
Kyle
grins, opening the shower door a little wider. “I picked the lock.”
“
Naughty boy,” I say.
“
My parents went into town and I’m wonderin’. You feeling well enough to let me in?”
“
The shower?”
“Yeah.”
“Is your house locked?”
Kyle laughs.
“People in Gillette don’t lock their doors.” His dimple flashes. “Though I guess that doesn’t count the girl showering in my bathroom.”
“
Didn’t your parents tell you? Em came here today. She snuck in through the kitchen. Your dad threw her out.”
Kyle’s
gorgeous eyes darken. He frowns and says, “They—I’ll be right back.”
I scrub myself
then, like a maniac, top to bottom. I’m finishing my feet when he returns. He shuts the bathroom door and locks it, too—at least I think I hear it click. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, I watch him pull his shirt over his head. He yanks off his boots and socks. He steps out of his jeans and boxers.
“
Still good to go?” he asks.
Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh
.
“Sure,” I say.
He steps in and closes the door. We stand still as sculpture, staring at each other. Steam wraps around us like fog licking a rugged coast. Water collects in our lashes. It drips from our noses and chins.
“
You’re so beautiful,” Kyle says.
I bite my lip
and smile. He’s the beautiful one.
He
touches my stitches. “I need to kiss you, girl,” he says. “I need. To feel you.” His fingers travel to my stomach then trail upward.
I make a little sound, a sort of oh-y
“Ah.” My lungs can’t get enough air. Something, maybe adrenaline, replaces the blood in my veins.
“
I’ll be careful,” he continues. His touch wanders now, slow and warm on my skin. “I know you’re still healin’. You tell me, if I hold you too tight. You tell me if you hurt.” He cradles my face in the palms of his hands, lifting my chin until our mouths meet. I close my eyes and reach for him, my fingers clumsy on his waist. Beneath the warm layer of water, his skin is still cool from being outside. I swear I’ve never felt anything better in my life.
Kyle
’s heartbeat is everywhere—in his thighs and arms. It races in his chest. I want to ask if he’s okay but he’s kissing me, harder this time, his tongue tasting my teeth and filling my mouth. He has never kissed me like this before—like he’s starved and I’m his sole source of everything. But it’s more than that. His kisses wipe away my fear. I feel sure of him, of me. Of us.
I break away
and whisper, “Promise you’ll kiss me like this forever.”
Kyle
pulls a clinging strand of hair from my face. He rubs his thumb across the crest of my cheek. When he looks into my eyes, I see all the way to the corners of his soul. “I promise, girl,” he says. “I will.”
25
Journal Entry
eleven | Aspen Brand | AP English
I’ve been staying at the
Thackers’ all week, healing while my dad works and probably spends his free time with Jesse, his new girlfriend. It bugs me that I haven’t seen much of him lately, though he calls me from work. This morning he picked me up and we went to the hospital. The doctor clipped my stitches then pulled them out with small sharp tweezers, one at a time. Soon a little pile of spiky black threads, looking sort of like a beginner’s try at tying flies, sat on a nearby white cloth covering a steel tray. The doctor said ‘Are they your first stitches? Do you want to keep them?’ I said HELL NO.
It’s been good for me,
this week, writing about what Em did. The ‘play-by-play’, Kyle calls it. It’s been better, though, talking with Kyle about how I feel. At first I didn’t think I could tell him. I felt embarrassed, and anyway, at first I didn’t have the words. I don’t know how it is for other people, but for me there’s this big gap between feeling something and verbalizing it and the bridge between the two requires time and translation. It’s not like that with Kyle though. He makes me feel safe. He waits, until I’m ready. Talking is easier, with him.
But
when Em came into Kyle’s house I had a major back-slide. I realized all our talking hasn’t cured me of the fact that being down and kicked has made me scared of that girl. Ray Thacker confronted her while I cowered under the kitchen table. I know it’s not the same. It’s his house and he’s a grown man and I’m a girl with bad memories, two bruised ribs and a bright pink scar. But I’ll admit. It was a long time before Angella Thacker could coax me into the light of day.
Up until that moment
I didn’t know how fear’s shadow can follow you anywhere. I didn’t know that if you let people drive their wedge into you they’ll fill you up with all the fear they can. I mean, if you let it, fear’s shadow will lie across you even when you think you’re safe. That’s what happened to me when Em invaded Kyle’s house. Seeing her wearing my belt and hearing her blame me for all the things she’s done to Kyle freaked me out. And I froze.
If I had to guess
, I’d say fear is at the root of everything bad: insecurity, hate, anger. Meanness. And if I’m right, then Em has a lot of fear somewhere in that onyx heart of hers. Maybe adults have that figured, which is why she doesn’t scare them, but I’m close to being grown-up and I swear. It’s time I got a grip on myself.
My mom fought her fears
. Sometimes she’d talk about how things scared her, but then she’d just go for it and make whatever it was, work. The thing is, my memories of her braveness come from when I was younger. Those days feel like a lifetime ago. Back then I didn’t realize what I was seeing. I didn’t understand the inner strength involved. I noticed what she did, but I didn’t study how she did it.
But j
ust like Angella Thacker, Mom would have set aside her lectures and her eye-rolls and crawled under the table and cuddled me until she’d eased the fear from my blood. I wish Mom could help me through this. I really do. Yet Angella knows how to do what my mom used to do. It’s not the same. But maybe, it’s enough.