Circle the Soul Softly (11 page)

Our driver shows up happier and more pleasant than before. Not. “Gatorade” is passed around and we head off to After Prom, at a club called Tyranny, smack in the middle of Hollywood. We show our school ID's at the door and walk through a curtain to the real prom: no adults, unless you count the paid bouncers; spike heels and short skirts instead of elegant gowns; tons of “Gatorade” and from the smell, plenty of pot. People are practically having sex on the dance floor, including one male/male couple locked at the lips. Two people I don't recall ever seeing at school are actually doing it in the corner. At least that's what it looks like—it's too dark to tell for sure.

Four of us grab a table, and a waitress drops off cranberry juice, which David promptly dilutes with “Arrowhead.” Jake and his entourage make their entrance, heading past us to the VIP lounge—which they get to occupy since he and Layla “organized” the After Prom.

“At least she
could wipe her nose,” someone at our table mumbles, nodding toward Jake's girlfriend.

David whispers, “Cocaine,” and I wonder how I've managed to live my entire life completely unaware of Real Teen Behavior. I sip some of my Arrowhead-cranberry drink and pretend I can hear the conversation David's having with the guy at the next table. Mostly, though, I watch.

“Check it out,” someone says. Five nearly naked senior girls pose in the doorway, in not much more than bras and bands (read:“skirts”) around their hips. A boy I don't know is trying to talk to one of them. Turns out she's his ex, and he's way drunk. The date he brought to Prom tries to pull him away; Nearly Naked starts “dancing” with another guy—the ex goes postal and Prom Date bursts into tears. Nearly Naked's friends make fun of her, and Random Guy—not connected to this drama at all—decides to stop in front of our table to share everything he's eaten or drunk this evening.

That's it. We head for the door. We're outside and hailing our limo before the guy even gets off the floor.

THIRTY

Final Prom stop—the Sheraton in Santa Monica. Almost the whole floor is taken up by the seniors from Bentley Evans Prep, and I feel very sorry for anyone that isn't part of the party. People stumble up and down the hallways, ducking in and out of rooms. They have champagne bottles and an occasional joint tucked inside a hand. Most of them act as though their fathers own the place. Maybe one of them does.

David and I are technically not supposed to be here. It's a tradition for seniors; most of the juniors and younger dates usually go home or spend the night at someone's house. We're only going to hang out for a while and then catch a taxi back to get David's car. The plan is to watch the sunrise from the roof of his house.

People head up to the rooftop pool, but we escape to a borrowed suite. We slow dance and eat strawberries. It's the best part of the whole night for me, until the door flies open and three boys and a girl burst in with a camera, a script, and a tripod. They're doing a movie version of the musical
Rent
with a Baz Luhrmann twist, and the director, Micah, wants to shoot “Will You Light My Candle?” in our room. I think they're all a bit crazy, but they're so hyper they make us laugh. They start rearranging the hotel furniture. David grabs strawberries, the champagne bottle, and me. We lock ourselves in the bedroom.

We kiss as we dance some more. After what seems like forever, the noise from the living room subsides and we're alone again.

“Thank God,” David says. “I thought they'd never leave.”

I look at him and tingle all over. Seriously.

“Did I tell you this evening how beautiful you are?”

“Only once.”

“You are the
most
beautiful.” He kisses me. “You know I'm madly in love with you?”

“I do. I love you, too.”

“You know I really want to be with you.”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn't have to be now …”

“But it can.”

Silence.

“Are you sure, Katie? Because nothing changes if we don't.”

I can only nod.
In acting, we call it a beat. One part of the action
is over and the next part begins.

We dance so close I can hardly stand it. He reaches behind me for the zipper and my skirt drops to the floor. I put my arms up and he slips off my top. I'm standing in a thong and heels and every cell I own is glowing.

“Oh my God, Katie,” he whispers.“You
are
the most beautiful.” He pulls me gently toward him and we continue to sway back and forth. He kisses my neck and slowly runs his hand up and down my back. “I love you so much.” He sighs.

“I love you, too.” The feeling is so amazingly intense I can hardly stand up.

“Shall we?”

I nod.

“Are you sure, Katie?”

“I am so sure.”

He leads me over toward the bed and slowly takes off his clothes—all the while saying how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how much he's waited for this moment. I can hardly breathe. We lie down facing each, a foot or so apart. He kisses me, he touches me, we smile at each other. There's no hurry, no pressure.

This is exactly how a first time should be.

He traces the outline of my lips with his finger and travels down my neck to my chest. “You're perfect,” he whispers. His arms go around me and he draws me close. I feel his breath on my neck. He starts to move in rhythm, slowly, gently.

Suddenly I'm terrified. Scared to death.

I remind myself this is what
I
want to do.

It doesn't help; my fear's a volcano erupting.

I tell myself this is right, this is good, this is how people act when they love each other.

My body is turning to stone.

I am shutting down; no amount of needing to stay seems to help. David continues to stroke me and kiss me, whispering how much he loves me. I'm terrified. I want to be done with it.

I thought knowing what happened would make it go away.

I was very wrong.

Somehow I manage to keep still. His hands are all over me, but I can't tell what he's doing, because I literally cannot feel it. I don't know if my body is responding because I'm no longer in it.

He loves me—I love him—He loves me—I love him… .

It's my prayer so he won't realize I'm freaking out, a mantra to keep me calm so he can finish. Then maybe I'll be normal again and the next time
it will be all right
. I don't know how much time passes before he says my name—in passion?

I love him—He loves me… .

“Katie.” He says it again, louder.

My eyes open. He's pulled back away from me. His voice is flat and angry.“What's going on with you?”

I try to smile, but it doesn't work.“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, what's going on?” He has never sounded like this.

I search his eyes for our connection; I can't find it. I'm suddenly conscious of being naked.

“You're not even here.” He's disgusted, I can tell. “I'm holding a corpse.”

I try to respond, but since I can't think and I can't feel, I sure as hell can't talk. I'm a lump, null and void.

“You have to talk to me, Katie. Otherwise I don't know what to do.”

He waits; I watch him. I pray for words to explain, but my brain is a beehive and nothing is making sense. He's up now and starting to put on his clothes. His tone of voice makes me wish I could just disappear. “We didn't have to do this. I asked you. It would have been fine to just dance or do Micah's movie, or not even come here.” His face is completely blank. I pull the pillow in front of me. “I thought we were, that you and I … Oh shit, I don't know what I thought.” He's half dressed and he pauses to look at me. “You say you love me. You say you want to be with me, and then … you act like I'm hurting you or something. What is it? What am I doing wrong? Are you playing me? What?”

He throws his hands up, like I'm hopeless.

Which I am.

“Talk to me, Katie.” It's
a warning.

I want to. I want to tell him I love him, that right now I don't know what to do either, that I hope he'll forgive me.

But lumps don't talk.

Instead, I stare. I can't even shake my head.

“Okay. Whatever.” He picks up my skirt and top and tosses them at me. “I'll be back in a while.” He grabs his shirt and heads for the living room. A few seconds later I hear the door to the hallway open and close.

I don't move for a few minutes because nothing is processing. Finally I remember David said he's coming back and I need to be ready. I can manage that. I'm good at doing what I'm supposed to. I put on my clothes, fix my makeup, get my hair back up to a reasonable facsimile of before. I find my shoes and walk to the living room and sit down to wait.

When he comes back, I can't look at him, but I feel his stare.

“Okay, let's get you home.” His voice doesn't know me; he's speaking politely to a stranger.

“Okay.” We're silent as we walk down the hall. He kids with Micah and crew filming in the hallway, as if I'm not even there. We ride down in the elevator and trek across the hotel lobby and out to the front. The sky's still dark. He beckons to the first yellow cab parked in the turnaround. He holds the back door for me, then goes around and gets in the other side.

“It's all right,” I manage to blurt. “I can—”

“I'm not letting you ride home by yourself.”

He tells the driver where I live; we lapse back to silence. He walks me to the front door and before I can get the key out, mumbles, “Good night,” and heads back to the cab.

THIRTY-ONE

He doesn't call Sunday. He does send an e-mail Sunday night saying he's going in late Monday morning and can't drive me to school. Michael takes me. He asks about Prom and I say it was fine. He pretends to believe me.

I look for David all morning. I don't see him. I don't know how one hour manages to pass into the next. I pretend to be a girl getting ready for finals. I pretend to listen to teachers, take copious notes, and engage in improvs in acting class; I even pretend to have a long conversation with Layla, who's going to Brown next year and wants to tell anyone who'll stand still long enough. She doesn't notice I'm pretending. No one does. Or maybe they do, and don't really care.

David finally appears, at lunchtime. He's across the alley, with Micah and Christina; they're all talking at once and laughing like crazy. I wonder if he's telling them about me. I wave. Either he doesn't see me, or he doesn't want to. He keeps laughing and talking. I duck into the greenroom for the rest of lunch. I don't see him after school. I have to call Michael to come pick me up.

Nightmares are supposed to fade when you wake up, but this one loops endlessly, threading itself through nighttime dreams and daylight hours. It has nothing to do with Monster fathers and their children; it's a close-up replay of the end of Prom night. Michael takes me to school all that week. David has a study group he's meeting with first period. We talk, briefly, or he does—at snack, but only to say we'll have to “really talk” after finals are over. I don't believe him.

Those whiny oldies I always laughed at now seem to make a great deal of sense. Hearts
do
break, or something does—otherwise I wouldn't hurt this bad. I start hiding out in the greenroom every day at lunch, hoping that not seeing him at all will make it easier. It doesn't.

Tess doesn't question me until Thursday. “Okay, baby,” she calls from her office.“What's going on?”

“Nothing, just studying,” I call from the couch. I toy with the idea of escaping to the alley, but Tess appears in the doorway.

“Where's David these days?”

“I don't know.”

“Uh-oh. You guys break up?”

“I guess.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shrug. It's my new thing. I've finally managed to stop smiling. Shrugging shows intelligence
and
indifference.

She plops on the other end of the couch and crosses her legs. “What happened?”

I look into those young-old eyes, and the story trickles out, backward. I tell her about Prom night, and then San Francisco, and suddenly, I'm explaining the nightmares and the weird hallucinations—everything, from the ninth grade on. I can't seem to stop myself. She listens carefully and doesn't interrupt. About the time I get to the part about my dad, the bell rings and lunch is over. I reach for my backpack, but Tess beckons me into her office.

“No, no. Stay a bit; I'll write you a note,” she says, closing the door behind us.“Now go on, please.” She sits down behind her desk.

I'm beginning to have second thoughts anyway, and when I remember what happened with Stacey, I panic.

“If I tell you about someone hurting me, will you have to, you know, report it?”

“Is it going on now?” she asks.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was a very long time ago.”

“Then I do not.”

And so I explain what I suspect about my dad. She moves from behind the desk and sits on the floor opposite me. She gathers her thoughts the way she does before she critiques a scene in class.

“Katie, have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” she asks.

“What soldiers get?”

“Yes. And abused children.”

“Oh.”

“It could be what's happening to you.”

“But I don't know for sure—”

“Well, let's think about it. It seems to me your nightmares and the way you end up feeling with David have a lot in common.”

“I guess.”

“So, maybe your mind is having trouble with this, but your body remembers, and so when David—”

The conversation has now gone too far.“You know what?” I interrupt. “I better go to class.”