Leaving in a minute. To go nowhere. To sink in my own filth.
* * *
* * *
Back in my car. Outside Dev’s house. My hands are trembling. I call Suki because Donnie doesn’t answer.
“It’s possible that I made a huge mistake.”
“Wait—Blythe Jensen makes mistakes?” She makes dramatic gurgling noises. “Sorry, that was me passing out from shock. I had, like, liver failure.”
“Shut up, Suki.”
“What did you make a mistake about, B?”
“Everything. Everything was a mistake.”
“You mean about Sean?”
“Yes. That. That and everything else,” I say, the streetlight cackling over my car. My throat collapsing into what I’m about to say. I can hardly get it out. “Me and Dev. It’s over.”
36
ALI
I’ve been writing in my journal for days. Random ideas. Nothing that makes sense, but I hold on to it tight, and I thud down into Ms. Tapestry’s big couch.
“Everything sucks.”
“Can you be more specific?”
I think about all the things in my life that suck.
“I started writing like you told me. In a journal. And my father is asking me, like, a question every five seconds.”
“It sounds like he’s interested in your life—”
“Too interested.”
“Writing in a journal is working for you, though?”
I shrug. I’m sick of lying. Sick of answering questions. Sick of telling the truth. I stare out the window at the soccer field, the guys practicing. I can’t see faces, just red and white shirts blending in the grass. Running back and forth.
“Something out there that’s interesting?”
“There’s nothing interesting out there. Just assholes.” Then I think of Raj. “Well, except for one person.”
“Why are they assholes?”
I look away again at the field. He’s number 22. The twos curve over his shoulder blades. Sean Nessel is just everywhere I turn. I can’t get away from him.
Ms. Tapestry’s face is blank.
“What are you thinking when people are talking to you?” I say.
“I’m not really thinking anything right now. I’m just listening.”
“How can you not judge people? We all judge each other.”
“That’s not what a therapist does. A therapist is really more of a listener than a judger.”
“So if I tell you something, you’re not going to think weird things about me?”
“What would you tell me that you deem weird? Because I have a very, very high ‘weird’ tolerance. I’m pretty weird myself.”
I think of the worst thing I could say. Something that would send a major red flag.
“Like, if I slept with every guy in the school.”
She takes a deep breath and rests her notepad on her lap. I think I’ve pissed her off. I don’t know why I’m doing this to her. She’s a nice person. She’s sweet, like my dad. She wants to help.
“I’d probably ask you why.”
“Because I like to have sex. A lot of sex. I’m really, really comfortable having tons of sex.”
I sit on my hands because I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve never lied to an adult like this—or anyone like this—for no reason whatsoever.
“Oh, if you’re so comfortable, then why are you sitting on your hands?” she asks. “That’s usually a body language sign for feeling uncomfortable.”
I pull my hands out from under my thighs.
“See over there.” I point to the soccer field.
She looks up at the window and squints.
“There’s a guy on the field who I hate. More than anyone else I can think of.”
Because he’s a bad person. Because he did awful things to me. Because my mind can’t think straight now because of him.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I shake my head. Blackness. I’ve turned it into blackness.
“You’re having a pretty strong emotion,” she says. “Maybe you want to write about it in your journal? Or what about your collages that you told me about? Maybe you can make it into art?”
“I made a whole book of him.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I shredded it.”
* * *
* * *
That night, I write more in my journal. More words. Scribbles. Sentences. Even if I cross them out. Even if there are words I don’t want to see. No more pictures. Just words.
I have a voice. And I have a pen.
So I write. I write and write until the pen indents my thumb.
37
ALI
There are a million other places I can sit. Anywhere, really. But I’m a masochist, maybe, and I go to the field. Soccer practice. To wait for Raj. He’s giving me a ride home and why should I wait in a parking lot when I can sit under a tree on the bleachers? Just because of one person?
It had been one of my favorite places to sit. Now this field is a shit storm of post-traumatic stress because that asshole Sean Nessel is in plain view.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder and tighten my stomach, wishing I had listened to my father’s diatribe on meditation the other day. I’ve never been more nervous in my life, and the only thing that’s really getting me through it is knowing that my hair looks great because the air is dry as a bone. You cannot possibly sit on the sidelines flattening your ass on cold bleachers watching the guy who attacked you on a humid day. You need to be as confident as you can, and you cannot be confident if your hair is frizzy. I hold on to this. It keeps me strong. My hair.
All of a sudden, there he is.
Sean Nessel jogging over to me. Like it’s no big deal. Like we’re best friends.
“Hey,” he says, calling out to me. I’m up on the fourth row. Not close to him. He waves. “What’s going on?”
I look over at Raj, who is packing up his gear on the other side of the field. He doesn’t notice me at all, and he’s too far away for me to even try to get his attention.
“I’m leaving,” I say. I stand up and quickly put my stuff in my bag. “That’s what’s going on.” I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. Right here. Right where he is. I haven’t seen him this close since that night. Even at the dance, he seemed so far away. Now here he is.