It all came pouring out of me. All the anger and hurt and helplessness that had accumulated for years. I slammed the bat down for every one of her slaps and threats and scratches and insults.
I slammed the bat down on her for not loving me.
When I finally finished, I was breathing hard and sweating. I probably looked wild.
But I didn’t feel helpless any longer. I didn’t feel like a victim.
I dropped the bat and turned to face James.
He was staring at me like I’d given him the best gift possible—like I was the gift.
He whispered that he knew I had this inside me the first night he saw me, when I was glaring at Brittany like I wanted to claw her face off after the vote for captain. Then he pulled me against him and kissed me.
I had been kissed before, but never like that. I felt like I couldn’t get enough of him. I ran my hands through his hair as the kiss went on and on. At one point he pulled away briefly and looked down at me, then dropped his head to kiss me again, like he couldn’t bring himself to stop, either.
After a while, we wandered back outside, holding hands and stopping every few feet to kiss again. We sat on the bleachers, my legs draped over his, and drank a few Bud Lights and shared the chocolate-chip cannoli James had brought from Pizza Piazzo.
When it was time for me to go home, James followed me in his car. He waited until I got into my bedroom and flashed my light, our prearranged signal.
From that night on, James completely consumed me. I was addicted to him. We saw each other whenever we could, and if I wasn’t with him, I was thinking about him.
Every time I arrived at school and saw a new note tucked into my locker slats, or whenever I’d look up during Poms practice and see James sitting in the bleachers, it felt like I was glowing, heated from within. It didn’t even matter when Brittany left a diet brochure on top of my backpack, or when Coach put me in the back row of every routine, or when my blue-and-gold poms went missing and Coach made me pay for replacements. Nothing could bring me down.
Soon it wasn’t enough to only see each other in our free time. When James had to work weekend shifts, I sat in his section and sipped a Diet Coke and nibbled the cannoli he slipped me. I tried to do my homework but mostly just snuck looks at him.
He told me he suffered from insomnia and often went for drives when he couldn’t sleep.
One night, he told me he’d gone by Brittany’s house. The way he was smiling—it reminded me of how he’d looked when Mrs. Davis tried to chastise him at the restaurant and he turned the tables on her.
I imagined him letting the air out of Mrs. Davis’s tires, or smearing peanut butter into the keyhole of their door.
But when I asked what he’d done, James told me he’d taken their cat from their front yard.
I remembered the sweet little cat—Smokey—from the days when I’d been friends with Brittany. Smokey wore a silver bell on his collar. He liked to sit in your lap and knead his paws against your stomach and purr.
An icicle pierced my chest as I asked James what he’d done with Smokey.
James blinked at me, like he was surprised by the question. Then he said he’d gotten it a can of tuna and would keep it at his place for another day or so before bringing it back.
His words blew away the irrational flicker of fear I’d felt.
He asked me calmly if I thought he’d hurt an animal, and I shook my head. Of course James was only pulling a prank. Why had my mind raced to the assumption that he’d done something terrible to an innocent creature?
Still, I didn’t like the thought of Smokey being alone in a strange room, even just for a day or so.
But all of those thoughts evaporated from my mind when James leaned in closer and cupped my face in his warm hands and kissed me again. Then he told me that he also sometimes drove by my house late at night and parked by the curb and stared up at my window.
It felt like he was watching over me, keeping me safe.
I lost my virginity to James a week later, when he took me to a field in the middle of the woods behind my high school and spread out a blanket under a star-filled sky.
Afterward, he asked me what I was thinking.
I told him the truth. I thought I loved him.
When he whispered it back to me, I felt like I could float right up to the stars.
One of the things I’d written about in my Romeo and Juliet essay was a quote everyone knows: “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
I’d argued that the line just above it is more significant because it foreshadows the fate of the young couple: “Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.”
I got an A-minus on that essay, and I stuck the paper in my binder and promptly forgot about it.
Now, though, I find myself thinking about that line quite a lot.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CATHERINE
I flip through the book I ordered—Tell Me Your Life Story, Mom—realizing how few questions I can answer. I could write down that my mother loves anchovies and hates mustard unless it’s the stone-ground kind. She laughs uncontrollably whenever the Amy Schumer movie Trainwreck plays, even though she’s seen it a dozen times. If she could travel anywhere in the world, it would be to Italy.
But the whole first part of her life—the years that shaped her into the woman she is today—are a mystery to me.
I’ve never thought of my mother as sneaky or untruthful. Yet in the past two days I’ve learned how skilled she is at keeping secrets.
My mother led me to believe she had a small social life, that she occasionally dated or went to a bar. Melanie revealed that to be a fiction.
I also believed my mother wanted me to have a social life. Though I don’t have a lot of close friends, and it’s not like I have extra money to get mani-pedis with the girls or take weekend trips to New York, my mother always seemed happy when I met a classmate for a drink or went out on a date.
Except for this: My mom didn’t like Ethan, the only guy I’ve ever been serious about.
She never said so explicitly. But I sensed it. Ethan did, too.
I broke up with Ethan for a few reasons. The main one was because he drank too much. He worked as a bartender, and though he talked about becoming a photographer, he didn’t do anything to advance that career plan beyond buying an expensive camera.
Ethan was charismatic and funny and easygoing, the kind of guy who turned every night into a party. He had sleeve tattoos with red and purple flowers, skulls, a diamondback snake, and the queen of hearts. He wore a woven blue leather bracelet and a single gold hoop earring. He seemed composed of color. He infused it into my life.
The night we broke up—the night he broke my heart—was also our one-year anniversary. He told me to meet him at a French bistro as soon as I got off work. I thought maybe he was going to ask if I wanted to get our own place and live together. He’d been hinting about it. I hadn’t decided yet how to answer him.
I arrived a few minutes early and was seated at a table covered by a crisp white cloth. The waiters wore dark suits, and the tables were set with multiple forks and spoons. I ordered a glass of rosé and decided to try oysters for the first time in my life.
For the next thirty minutes, I slowly sipped my wine and discretely checked my cell phone to see if Ethan had replied to my texts and calls.
I’ve never taken a walk of shame the morning after a hookup, but I sure felt like I was taking one on that endless journey out of the restaurant when it was obvious to everyone around me I’d been stood up.