Pieces of Us (20 page)

Julie

I
hang up the phone. Is Katie still sleeping? I knock on her door, but she doesn’t answer.

I knock harder and harder and harder. “Just go away,” she finally says.

I want to scream at her and ask her why she did it. Then I want to scream and ask her why she didn’t tell me. If she had just told me what she was afraid of—if she had just told me
this
might be out there—I would have run out of that school and kept on running. I would have told no one about Marissa.

This is out because of me. And I hate that. And it’s out because she was too scared to tell me. To own up that she wasn’t so perfect.

For that, I hate her more.

Katie

T
he weekend passes, and the video is still there. Not the video I erased. That’s gone. This one is worse. This is of that afternoon. The afternoon I thought I was ending it all. The afternoon I did everything they wanted while smiling like I loved it. I’m everywhere now. Not on Facebook anymore because the higher-ups removed it, but copies exist. On people’s phones, in their hard drives, on that private Internet site. Lots of people comment. I don’t read what they say, just check if more come in.

The principal, Mr. Jenkins, paid us a house call minutes ago, saying he personally is taking measures to make sure the video doesn’t circulate further. They’re working on taking it off the Internet, but these things take time. He tells my parents he’s certain, since we’re all minors, that appropriate authorities will be involved. I can tell he doesn’t really know what the charges will be. “Of course,” he says, “the boys will be punished.” Until they undergo psychological counseling, “to begin immediately,” he says, Chris and Ethan are suspended from the remaining baseball games, summer football practice, and football season.

I laugh. My mother’s head snaps in my direction. “I hardly think this is a laughing matter, young lady.”

“But it is. They’ll be done with counseling by the time football starts. And baseball has, what, four games left?”

Mr. Jenkins shifts uncomfortably. “If more counseling is required, they will receive it. They will learn their lesson.”

My father’s face is red. “And of course those summer practices are so necessary. Wouldn’t want the ‘boys’ to miss them.” His voice oozes sarcasm and I laugh again. And again. And again.

“Control yourself,” my mother hisses.

My father grasps my hand. He squeezes hard until I calm down, until my laughter is replaced by sobbing. Sobbing not loud enough to drown out the voices around me.

“What if we want to press charges?” he says.

My mother gasps in horror. “We will not be pressing charges.”

“What if we want to press charges?” my father asks, louder.

My mother smiles so wide, she looks like the Joker. “Jerry,” she says in her placating voice.

My father begins again, in a voice so booming I jump. “What—”

“The police can talk to you about those options,” says Mr. Jenkins. “But I do advise you to think long and hard about that. The boys feel terrible. It’s their senior year next year. There are scouts already eyeing them. Do we really want to ruin their futures for one mistake?”

“No,” says my mother. “We do not. There will be no charges.”

“Anna!”

I watch them argue back and forth, watch Mr. Jenkins shift this way and that, a cross between boredom and impatience. I forget who they are talking about. I forget that I’m involved in this at all. Who are these awful boys? Who is this girl my mother is calling “not such a victim,” this girl who “didn’t even say no,” “didn’t fight back,” who “said she liked it, for heaven’s sake.” Mr. Jenkins tells my parents that at least “the boys are cooperating.” That at least they’re talking. Katie is not talking. She refuses to answer questions. “From the video … ” Mr. Jenkins clears his throat, turns red, clears his throat again. “From the video, it appears she was a willing participant.”

My phone vibrates. A text from Alex. The first since this happened. I block out their voices and check the text.

FUCKING LYING WHORE.

It’s all I need to see.

“There will be no charges,” I whisper, and leave the room.

Julie

C
hloe gets permission to ditch her classes and go to mine instead. Same teachers, different periods, so not that hard. She stays close to me, arm around my shoulder, just daring anyone to say something. They do, of course. But it’s easier with her there.

What’s not easy is seeing Katie walk like a zombie through the halls. Guys push her against lockers. Someone snaps at the waistband of her pants, and she keeps walking. No fight at all, like she doesn’t give a crap.

Someone spray-painted
WHORE
on her locker. The janitors have given up trying to scrub it off. I told her to spray-paint over it. To ask for a locker change. To do
something
. She looked at me, then at her locker like the words were new to her. She ran her finger over them. Then walked away.

When someone asks me if I think she knew she was being taped, I don’t have an answer. When someone asks why she did it, I don’t know either. She didn’t fight back then, she’s not fighting back now. She could have wanted it. Maybe that’s why she’s keeping the locker as is. It’s payback.

“Ignore them,” Chloe says. “Just think of Kyle.”

Yep, I’ve
been
thinking of him. Of his newest text:
Hang in there.
Talk about warm and fuzzy. I don’t tell Chloe that; I just let her gush about how awesome he is and how super-duper lucky I am to have him.

“Ignore him, too,” says Chloe in my ear, pointing at Derek and his posse of asses. I would not have even noticed him if she hadn’t pointed him out.

They’re laughing and high-fiving him and they’re all making disgusting gestures with their hands and mouth. I don’t have to hear them to know they’re talking about Katie. And then Derek points at me and he whispers something to his buddies and they all crack up again.

Then he calls out to me. He hasn’t spoken to me since he called it quits, and he’s yelling for me now. Motioning for me to come over. I stick my middle finger up at him.

“Oooh, tough girl. You trying to say you miss me?”

“Just keep walking,” Chloe says. She knows if I stop, it won’t end well. She knows how I can get.

“Yeah, you walk away,” yells Derek. “But when you’re ready to have a little more of this”—he grabs his crotch—“you know where to find me.”

His group of idiots laughs. My face is red. He made me care about him, screwed me over, and now has the balls to say
that
. No.

“Walk, Julie, walk.”

But I don’t. I open my mouth to say something bad. Something hurtful. But the words come too quickly. “No, asshole. I think you’re confusing me with my sister.”

Katie

The school counselor

gives me:

pamphlets

a pep talk

her number

other extracurriculars to explore now that I’m not Pyramid Girl

“I’m here if you need me. You need someone.”

Maybe I don’t

Julie

has stopped:

asking me to fight back

coming into my room

wanting to hear my side

“People are thinking you wanted this.
ARE like this.”

Maybe I am

Alex

calls:

me words that have lost all meaning

to cry

to say he doesn’t know why I lied to him

to tell me he could have done it rough

“Is that what you wanted?”

Maybe I did

Mama

tells me:

she warned me

who’s going to want me now

I can forget about being prom queen

Heck, I can forget about going to prom at all

“I don’t understand you. I thought you wanted
all that.

Those princess dresses.

A fine princess you’ll be now! We’ll fix it.”

Maybe I don’t want her to fix it

Daddy

says:

This changes nothing

I’m beautiful

Men are pigs

“Don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry.”

Kyle

texts:

your eyes looked empty

are U OK?

They all say:

“Say something, Katie.”

“Goddamnit, Katie.”

“Fucking say something!”

“Are you there?”

“Are you there?”

“Are you there?”

No.

Maybe I never was.

Julie

T
hree weeks left of school, and Mama tells me Katie is starting her summer early. “Don’t be angry, Julie. I know it’s not fair, but you’ll be at the lake house soon enough.”

Angry? No way. It’s like I’ve been granted my wish. She’s been slowly disappearing anyway. Not speaking, clothes using her body as merely a hanger. It’s like she’s been a ghost, but not quite. A walking dead girl. A constant reminder that gets the rumors and taunts going. A constant source of arguing for my parents. Like a tornado that wreaks havoc but keeps going, oblivious to the damage it left behind.

People get bored quickly in my school, especially if there’s no one to hear them. I hug my mother out of relief, and she stumbles back, surprised. Then, “I don’t think I tell you enough what a good girl you are.”

Enough
? Try at all.

“How’s Kyle doing?” Her tone actually sounds interested.

“Great,” I say, which is a lie, but this conversation is going well.

Truth is, things are tense with Kyle. I can’t even say Katie’s name without getting bombarded by a verbal diarrhea of concern. For
her
. When I tell him the things people say to me, I know, even when he doesn’t say it, that he’s thinking poor Katie has it worse, poor Katie has to experience all of this. All of what? Do we even know if she’s upset because it happened, or just because the footage got out? Nope. She hasn’t talked. And, if she just lay there and let shit happen to her without fighting back, without trying to clear her own name, why should the rest of us waste our energy feeling sorry for her and defending her?

“You know what we should do? Go to the mall and get you some new summer clothes to wow him. Whatever you want. How’s that sound? Show that boy just how lucky he really is.”

I pinch myself, and it hurts. This is real. If Mama and I can work, surely Kyle and I can, too.