Firsts (23 page)

“God, I just had the worst quiz in English class. Mr. Bell has such a narrow mind. He could not get on board with my theory about Ophelia.” I plunk down beside Angela.

“Don’t say that,” Angela says, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Bell does have an exceedingly narrow mind.”

“No, don’t say God like that.” She gives me her best “admonishing” look, which isn’t very admonishing at all. Angela isn’t a disciplinary type, which is one of the many reasons I love her so much. She’s just too honest to be anything but herself. Her mouth twitches into a smile. I focus on that smile.

“What was your theory about Ophelia?” Charlie says.

His voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I can feel goose bumps form on my forearms. Angela is happily nibbling her sandwich, oblivious to the sinister tone in his voice that I can’t help but notice. I force myself to look at him and force myself not to rip deeper into the red marks on his cheek and watch them bleed. I wonder how he explained that to Angela.

“My theory about Ophelia was that she wasn’t crazy at all. Some people are just better liars than others.” I bite into my apple and make myself swallow, even though the motion feels like choking on glass.

“Whatever,” Charlie says. He picks Angela’s hand up off the table and kisses it. “I got to get to the library to study,” he says. “But I have a feeling I’m going to ace this test. For some reason, I slept great.” He hops out of his chair and blows a kiss to Angela. She doesn’t notice when he turns around the second time, but I do. That look was reserved for me, a look that says
I am watching you
,
so don’t step out of line
.

“What happened to Charlie’s face?” I ask when he’s gone.

“Oh. He got into a fight with his cat, and the cat won.”

I nod. What a pathetic excuse. Apparently I’m the cat now. Except I don’t feel like I won.

“Listen, Angela, can we meet after school? I was hoping we could do something.” I figure “do something” sounds more legitimate than “we have to talk,” which would only scare her.

She tears bits of crust from her sandwich and drops them onto the Saran wrap. “I would, but I have a dinner thing with Charlie.”

I pick at my cuticle skin under the table. It’s a nervous habit, one I always revert back to when some area of my life is out of control. Angela knows this, so I don’t let her see me do it.

“Tomorrow, then? You could come over and we could piss Kim off by ordering greasy takeout and watching movies on her big screen.”

Angela shrugs. “That sounds fun. But tomorrow is out, too. Charlie wants me to go to his little brother’s soccer game with him.”

Charlie has really covered his bases. He knows I won’t cause a scene in the cafeteria, because Angela hates nothing more than a public scene that draws attention to her. So he made sure to take up all of her free time, just in case I got any ideas.

Except I don’t know how I can go two days without telling Angela. I have to see her before whatever Charlie has planned goes down. What I’m most worried about is Charlie moving up the date, deciding he can’t take the chance of waiting until the weekend. I have to work harder.

I rip a broken nail off under the table. A sharp flash of pain, followed by slippery warmth, confirms that my finger is bleeding. “How about we do breakfast before school?” I say. “That could be fun.”

Angela looks at me like I’m deranged. “Since when is getting up even earlier fun? Besides, we have prayer group in the morning.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to try something new.”

Angela looks up from her now-crustless peanut butter sandwich. Her eyes are wide and concerned. “What’s up, Mercy? You’re hiding something.”

I sigh. It’s supposed to be just that—a sigh, something nonchalant. Except it gets stuck in my throat and turns into a trembling breath that threatens to bring tears out with it.

Angela stretches her hand across the table. “I know you’re picking your fingers under there. Something’s up. You know you can talk to me about whatever it is.”

I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye because I know if I do, I’ll cry. And the most embarrassing thing you can do at Milton High—a thousand times worse than getting drunk at the school dance—is cry in the cafeteria.

“Fine, let’s do breakfast tomorrow,” she says. “Pick me up at seven?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be there at six thirty.”

When we go our separate ways—me to French class to conjugate verbs, Angela to English to deal with the close-minded Mr. Bell—I make a detour in the bathroom, where I lock myself in a stall and throw up. What comes up is a vile yellow color, the texture of which I almost choke on. I try to swallow after I flush the toilet, but my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with a mixture of cotton balls and razor blades. Afterward I sit on the floor beside the toilet. I feel dizzy and sick, almost like a hangover, except so much worse.

“You know, bulimia doesn’t look good on you,” I hear a voice say. I recognize the shoes under the stall beside me. They’re pointy toed, with little spikes around the heels.

They belong to Faye.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re avoiding me? Or are you going to make me guess?” I hear her pull her pants down and start to pee.

“I’m sick,” I say flatly. An excuse that’s corroborated by the fact that I’m puking in the ladies’ room.

“Too sick to say hi to your friend? And you blew Zach off last night. He’s really upset.” She stands up, flushes the toilet.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I felt terrible. I went to bed really early.”

“Alone?”

My stomach lurches again, but this time I keep the vomit from coming back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her voice drops. “Look. Zach told me he saw Charlie leave your house. I won’t judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just tell me what’s going on. I’m your friend. And friends worry.”

I can just imagine her standing in the next stall, leaning against the toilet paper dispenser, maybe scrolling through her text messages or investigating her manicure. I can’t see her right now because I’m terrified of what she will see on my face. She’s going to see a liar, somebody who doesn’t want anyone to know what happened last night. I don’t want to be that liar.

So I do the only thing I know how to. I chase her away.

“I can’t deal with your interrogation right now. I’m sick. I just want to be by myself.” Even I’m surprised by the meanness in my voice. I didn’t intend for the words to come out that way, but I don’t want to talk to Faye about what happened. Not now, in separate bathroom stalls, and not ever.

But if she is offended, she doesn’t show it. “Fine, suit yourself. But I’m around. You know, if you
don’t
want to be by yourself.” Her heels clack on the floor as she leaves.

When I’m alone, I wipe the corners of my mouth with toilet paper and flush the toilet again for good measure before leaving the stall. When I’m at the sink, the bathroom door swings open, and I start to duck into the stall. It must be Faye coming back. She wants answers. But she won’t get the ones she’s looking for. She’ll see everything on my face, the guilt and the lies.

“Mercedes.”

It’s not Faye. It’s someone I want to see even less. Jillian Landry.

“Hi, Jillian,” I say weakly. My stomach makes a loud growling sound, like there’s a wild animal stuck in there, trying to get out.

“The test went well,” Jillian says. “I have a good feeling about it. Especially the section on…”

She keeps talking, but I’m not hearing her. She’s trying to make eye contact, and I can’t do that. I picture Charlie’s hands on my shoulders, how his fingers could have done anything to me. Choked me. Ripped my clothes off. I think about how I couldn’t seem to breathe, the way my body defeated me by not fighting back hard. I can’t care about Jillian’s test right now. The good I did for her means nothing.

“That’s great,” I say. “Really great.” I grab the sink, hoping I won’t throw up into it, and wait for her to retreat into a stall before darting out of the bathroom. I don’t have to look at her to know that her face is full of concern. Concern for me. I don’t deserve it.

Before I’m even in the hallway I decide I can’t handle the rest of my classes today. I’m gripped by dread at the idea of venturing into the hallway at all, for fear that I’ll run into one of the people I have slept with. I don’t want to be seen by anybody who has any sort of intimate knowledge of me. I feel fragile, like if somebody looked at me the wrong way I might shatter into a million pieces and never be whole again.

I wait for the bell to ring, signaling the end of lunch hour, when I know I’ll have a clear getaway. I don’t even bother stopping at my locker for my coat and books. My vision is blurry with tears, and all I want to do is make it to the double doors without crying or seeing anybody I know.

But I see him anyway, coming out of the library.
Don’t turn around
, I will him.
Please don’t turn around.

Zach turns toward me. It’s enough to make the first tears fall from my eyes. There’s no malice in his face, no rage. He’s not angry. I wish he were. I could figure out a way to handle angry.

He’s not even sad, either.

He turns around like he hasn’t seen me at all.

I want to chase after him and fix it, but it’s too late. He turns a corner and he’s gone and I don’t even know what he was in the library studying for because that’s something a friend would know and I’m not a good friend.

I break into a run in the parking lot and lock my doors when I get in the Jeep, even though I know nobody is around. I don’t even bother buckling my seat belt before speeding home. I don’t remember getting there, just the way the cars all blurred into one rainbow of color and sweat beaded in my hair and my thoughts raced a million miles an hour. Maybe this is how Kim felt the night she got her DUI. Scared, frustrated, and out of control.

When I’m in my bedroom, I lock the door firmly behind me. I don’t know what I plan on doing in here until it hits me, and my stomach lurches precipitously. What Charlie said yesterday.
If you don’t comply, I’ll show that video to everybody, and the whole school will know exactly what you’ve been doing with their boyfriends and writing in that little book of yours
. When he said it, I just focused on the threat, the nasty tone in his voice that let me know he meant it. But now all I hear is the second part.
Writing in that little book of yours.
Charlie must have the book, the one I wrote all their names in. And that’s the worst thing of all. There’s as much of me in those pages as there is of the guys. I think back to the notes I started writing, the fleshed-out entries. My thoughts. My insecurities. The ratings I gave. Everything.

I wrack my room in search of the book, rifling through drawers and rummaging under piles of clothes. Charlie took it. Charlie has it. I know that he has it, but I keep looking, grabbing other books off my bookshelves and watching them bounce off the carpet. Charlie took it, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping to see that pearly white cover peeking out. If I can find the book, I can destroy it myself. If I can find the book, I can convince myself that everything will be okay.

I keep searching until the sun sets outside my window, until little rivers of sweat and tears are running down my face. I won’t leave this room without finding the book. Even if that means I have to stay here forever.

The doorbell rings and I sink into a heap on the carpet. With any luck, whoever is down there will just go away.

But I’m starting to think nothing goes away, no matter how deep you try to bury it.

29

I won’t go to the door. I
won’t
go to the door. I have never been scared to go to my own door before. But I’m very aware that I’m alone in the house. Alone and vulnerable. And whoever is at the door won’t stop ringing the bell. It echoes through the foyer, loud and demanding, making its way into my room. Charlie is supposed to be with Angela tonight. But what if he planted that as a ruse to get me away from Angela? What if he wants to come back?

I shake my head. “No,” I say to nobody at all. Charlie wouldn’t make up fake plans. But after yesterday, I really don’t know Charlie at all.

I edge slowly down the stairs, my hands balled into fists so tight that my nails dig into my palms. My heart is pounding as I step into the foyer and up to the door. Just do it. Make whoever it is go away. If Charlie is ringing the bell, the door is locked. If the door is locked, I’m the only one who can let him in.

I suck in a deep breath and peek quickly from behind the curtains. I so expect to see Charlie there, wearing that smirk that was smeared across his face at lunch, that I have to blink to register the two bodies that are actually there.

Kim and my dad. The same dad I haven’t seen or heard from in over three years has materialized on this very doorstep. And I realize they didn’t ring the doorbell on purpose. They rang the doorbell by accident, because Kim’s back pressed against it when my dad pressed against her. My parents, making out on the doorstep. Now it all makes sense. This is why Kim brought him up at dinner and why she finally told me the truth about why he left. They’re getting back together, or she wants them to.

I tiptoe away from the door, even though they can’t hear me and they’re way too engrossed in each other to see me through the curtain. I can’t handle this right now. I can’t handle the uncertainty. I can’t take the chance that my dad might be here to see me. He can’t see me like this, his wild-eyed broken daughter. I won’t let that happen. So I steal out the back door. I’m not even sure where I’m going at first until it suddenly makes perfect sense.

I can’t wait until breakfast to tell Angela. I can’t stay here worrying that Charlie will make a move sooner, that he thinks I’m too much of a loose cannon to keep his disgusting secret.

And since Kim or my dad definitely can’t know I’m home, I take off on foot, in flip-flops and sweatpants, the grungy outfit I didn’t let myself wear to school. Angela’s house is only about five blocks away. I rehearse what I’m going to say in my head.
Your boyfriend is a creep. Your boyfriend isn’t who he pretends to be.