Damaged: A Violated Trust (Secrets) (13 page)

I slip down the hallway to the kitchen and pour myself a tall glass of orange juice, which I take back to my room and slowly drink. I can tell by Dad’s keys on the table by the front door that he’s home. Probably sleeping in. I want to take another long, hot shower but don’t want to disturb Dad. Instead, I go down to the pool and swim laps.

The chilly water is shocking at first, but then it’s soothing, and the coolness on my head makes the throbbing inside lighten up some. I swim and swim, trying to block out everything except the feeling of my arms and legs moving freely through the water, the sound of the water splashing, the smell of chlorine, and the rhythm of my breathing. Finally I’m so tired that my arms and legs feel like there are weights attached, and I drag myself out of the water and wrap up in my towel and just sit there in the morning sun. But it’s not as warm out here as it looks and soon I’m shivering.

I go back inside where it’s still quiet, and I take another steaming hot shower, scrubbing my skin so vigorously that I look like a boiled lobster when I finally step out. Like last night, the bathroom is so steamed up I can barely see. I dry off and go back to my room, climb into my bed, and fall asleep.

It’s past noon when I wake up. The first thing I do is check my phone. Harris is still silent. I consider texting him but have no idea what to say. A part of me wants to lash out at him, call him names, demand to know why he did that. But another part of me wants to crawl back to him, say I’m sorry for making such a fuss, and ask him if he’s picking me up for school tomorrow. Of course, I despise that part of me — that wimpy, pathetic girl who would lower herself to that place just to please a guy. What have I become?

Just the same, I resist the urge to send a message of any kind. My treatment for Harris will be silence. Let him wonder. Maybe he’ll think about what he did and feel guilty. Maybe he’ll apologize to me. Maybe he’ll send me flowers.

When I leave my room, the house is quiet, and I can tell that Dad’s been up and made coffee. Then I notice a note on the fridge, saying he’s gone to meet Estelle for breakfast and to call him if I want to do anything with them today. Naturally, I don’t call. I really don’t want to see anyone today. I just want to hide out and hope things will get better. But how can they?

I wish, I wish, I wish … that I had someone to talk to. Someone to make sense of this mess I’ve made of my life, someone who could tell me what to do, how to clean this thing up. But I can think of no one. Mom would scorn me and say, “I told you so.” My “best friend” from my other school (a friend from church) would be so disappointed in me that she’d probably sound just like my mom. My brother … well, he can’t even sort out his own life. I wonder if Dad would understand, but I just cannot imagine telling him about what happened. He’d probably feel worried and guilty and confused, he’d wonder what had become of our “let’s be grown-ups” pact, and he might even want to send me home to Mom.

Although when I consider going back home to Mom, I’m not nearly as opposed to it as I was before. In a way it would be a relief. Except for the way she would treat me. I don’t think I could endure that. It’s bad enough that I hate myself for what happened (and Harris, too) but to endure my mom’s judgment, sermons, and restrictions on top of everything else … well, I don’t think I can handle that much hatred.

As the afternoon wears on, I get extremely worried about facing Dad. What if he looks at me and knows? Every time I see myself in the mirror, it feels like everything that happened last night is written across my face. Besides the swollen bruised lip, I can see it in my eyes, in the strained expression. How can I possibly hide all this pain? I make up a story about how I hurt my lip. While swimming laps this morning, I ran into the edge of the pool. I actually did that once and I think I can make it believable. As for the rest of me, I’ll have to figure it out as I go.

I continue checking my phone off and on all day. Harris has not made a peep. I try to imagine what he’s doing right now. Is he thinking about me? Does he have regret? Guilt? Fear? Would he be worried that I told my dad? What if my dad did something totally insane like calling the police? I’ve heard of cases like that. Although I honestly don’t know what the police could do. After all, I invited Harris up here. I willingly engaged in underage drinking. I let him kiss me. I must’ve let him lead me to my room since I do not remember balking.

In all reality, I’m sure I would end up looking just as responsible for last night as Harris. Besides, how humiliating would it be to have to tell a stranger about everything, to answer personal questions … and then what if the whole thing became public? I would never want to show my face again. Even now, I’m not sure I can go to school tomorrow. Maybe I should just call my mom, confess everything, and take the punishment that will go with it.

When my phone rings midafternoon, I leap from where I’ve been vegging in front of the TV to get it. But it’s not Harris.It’s Dad.

“Estelle and I plan to catch a matinee. You want to come? We can swing by and get you.”

“No thanks,” I say brightly. “I’ve got homework.”

“Okay. But remember what they say about all work and no play.”

I force a laugh. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m not turning into a workaholic.”

We make a little more small talk, but finally and to my relief, Dad says he better go. I let out a long sigh as I close my phone. Step one in tricking Dad into believing I’m perfectly fine. I pick up the remote and flip through the TV channels, searching for something — anything — to block out my thoughts … and the gnawing pain inside.

Finally I settle on a glitzy old movie from the sixties called
That Touch of Mink
that’s just beginning. It stars Doris Day and Cary Grant, and in the beginning it seems like a sweet, simple story about a woman who falls in love with a very rich man. But as I watch, I realize it’s really about a whole lot more, and as it progresses I can’t believe it — Cary Grant’s character expects Doris Day to have sex with him just because he bought her a bunch of stuff and took her on a trip. But she, like me, has been saving herself for marriage. It’s touch and go there for a while, and sometimes I almost laugh, but eventually it ends happily when Cary Grant marries her.

I turn off the TV. What disturbs me most about this frothy movie was that Doris Day had a best friend. Throughout all her troubles, Doris had a roommate who watched out for her, warned her about men, listened to her, and tried to help.

And the reason I find this so upsetting is that I have no one like that in my life. No one! And it feels so unfair that I have to carry this burden on my own. I have never felt so totally alone in my entire life.

...[CHAPTER 12].................

B
y Sunday night, I have assured Dad that nothing is wrong with me. I wouldn’t have needed to do this except he asked me about last night’s date and I almost started to cry.

“It’s just that Harris and I had a little fight.” And this wasn’t entirely untrue. “You know how it goes sometimes. It’s really no big deal.”

“He seemed like such a nice guy.” Dad looked disappointed. “Maybe you can patch things up.”

“I … uh … I don’t think so.” I glanced away, not wanting to make eye contact. “I actually think we might break up. It might be for the best.”

Again, this is probably not far from the truth. Especially considering that Harris has not texted or called or anything. I can think of no good excuse for his bad behavior except that he is over me. I just wish I were over him too.

The truth is, I still have feelings for him, and the more time passes, the more I start wondering about ways to smooth this whole thing over. I imagine myself going to him, saying that I’m sorry, that he caught me off guard, and that if he’ll be a little more patient in the future, I will try to get with the program. I also consider pretending that my biggest concern is about birth control and that I have no intention of being sixteen and pregnant, but for all I know Harris might’ve used protection. I honestly can’t remember anything past a certain point — besides pain, that is.

Of course, this sends me down a whole new road —
what if I am pregnant?
Why didn’t I pay more attention to this stuff in health class last year? Probably because I mistakenly believed that my pledge of abstinence made me immune to such worries. So before going to bed, I go online and do some quick research, but by the time I finish reading several sites, I’m even more confused.

It’s nearly midnight by the time I’m in bed. How would Harris feel if I was indeed pregnant — how would he deal with
that?
But I really don’t want to think about this mess anymore. And I don’t want to think about Harris. All I want to do is sleep this thing away. I may even attempt to play sick tomorrow and stay home from school. Maybe I’ll be ill for an entire week. The comfort of thinking I could pull this off soothes me enough to fall asleep.

But tomorrow comes and I realize I can’t afford to miss that much school. Also, call me crazy, but I’m hoping that Harris regrets his behavior Saturday night. Right now he might be rehearsing an apology for me. And after I dress, very carefully, I wait where I can see the parking lot and watch to see if his car is coming. Finally, it’s just five minutes before school and I realize I need to walk … and that I’ll be late.

I feel nervous as I go into the school building and past security. I am definitely late, which means I have to check in at the office and get a tardy slip to get into class. But it’s a relief not seeing anyone I know in the halls — especially Harris. This gives me a chance to compose myself, and because I’m still considered a new student, the office assistant is fairly nice about the tardy slip.

As I go into my class, I keep my eyes downward, hand the teacher the note, and slip into a seat in back. It’s impossible to focus on math and, fortunately, everyone is working quietly at their desks and I attempt to do likewise. At least I pretend that I am. But the figures look blurry and my brain doesn’t seem to be working properly. Eventually the bell rings and, waiting for the others to leave, I take my time to close my book and notebook, gather my things, and exit the room.

I’m trying to fly under the radar. I’m not even sure why; it just seems like the right thing to do. I suppose I don’t want to bump into Harris, not that there’s any chance of that since I don’t see him anywhere. I actually start to wonder if Harris might be feeling so bad that he stayed home from school. Is it possible?

It’s not until I’m on my way to biology, third period, that I realize some people (friends of Harris and Emery) seem to be glancing at me. And unless it’s my imagination, they are acting differently. Then, in fourth period, Saundra actually whispers something to Deidre, and the two of them look at me and giggle before they look away. I have no idea what’s going on with them, but I do feel worried.

One thing I know for sure, I will not be eating at Harris’s table for lunch today. Whether or not he is at school, I do not plan to risk certain humiliation by assuming I’m still welcome there. In fact, as I’m leaving economics class, I decide to just skip lunch altogether. I’ll grab a soda from the machine and hide out in the library until fifth period. But as I’m waiting for the stupid machine to drop a can of Coke, Buck comes up and gives me a curious look.

“What’s the problem?” I ask him as nonchalantly as possible.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

The can finally rolls out, and as I’m reaching for it, Buck comes closer to me, leaning over almost like he’s about to tell me a secret.

“Huh?” I look at him in surprise.

“I was just thinking that if I knew what you were really like, I might’ve gone for you myself, Haley.”

“What?”

He chuckles in a nasty way, then turns and saunters off. I’m pretty sure I know what he meant, but I have no idea how he knows about it. For that matter I have no idea what he knows about it. Part of me wants to chase after him and demand that he explain himself. But most of me feels tired … and afraid.

I pretend to read a book in the library and actually doze off until I hear the bell ringing. It’s time for fifth period. At least none of Harris’s friends are in my art class. That’s a relief. I arrive early in the art room, gather what I need to continue my watercolor painting, which I will never give to Harris now, take a seat at the usual table, and get to work. It’s hard to focus, and after I make a couple of mistakes, which I try to clean up with a tissue and some water, the other kids start trickling in.

“I heard you and Harris broke up,” Poppie says flippantly as she dumps her stuff on the table next to me.

I just nod without looking up.

“You’re not sad about it, are you?”

I shrug, still keeping my eyes on my painting.

“You knew it would happen, didn’t you?”

I look up at her with narrowed eyes. “Maybe you should get your own life to talk about, okay?”

She looks surprised. “Excuse me.” She takes off her jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair. “Just trying to be social.”

“Well, save yourself the breath.” I gather up my things so quickly that my jar of water slops onto the table. I swipe it with a sleeve, then head to the back of the room, where I settle at an empty table.

Of course, now I can’t focus at all. How is it that everyone knows about Harris and me? And just how much do they know?

“How’s your painting coming?” Ms. Flores asks me from behind.