some girls are

I’m sitting behind shelves of poster board with my back against the wall. It’s been an hour. Maybe two. Every time I hear the slightest noise, I tense, preparing to be found. It never happens. I pick at my jeans, waiting. I have to go to the bathroom. I think I’m edging up on hour three when the door finally opens. I scramble to my feet, but the ensuing grunting and scuffling sounds hold me back and keep me from revealing myself.

“Fuck off! Get the—”

“Get his cell phone.”

“Get the fuck off me!”

“Easy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Fuck off!”

I peer around the shelves. Bruce gives Donnie a hard shove, sending him to the floor. He eats ground and his eyes are on my feet. I don’t know if he’s seeing me. I can make out Josh in the doorway. Henry.

“Got his cell phone?” Bruce asks.

Josh holds it up.

“Okay, let’s go.”

No. Josh and Henry leave. No. Donnie tries to grope his way to his feet, but Bruce gives him a sharp kick in the ribs and he stays down. They don’t know I’m here. They can’t know I’m here. That would be too fucked up, even for us.

I stumble out from behind the shelf.

Bruce isn’t surprised to see me.

“Oh, good,” he says.

Oh my God. My heart sputters and dies. “Don’t—Bruce—”

“Have fun, kids.”

I lunge for him and trip over Donnie in the process. I sprawl across the floor, my feet all tangled up in him. He swears at me and pushes at my legs, groaning. I get to my feet and crawl to the door just as it closes. Not this. Not this. I press my palms against the door, trying to catch my breath—I can’t breathe—while Donnie gets to his feet.

Not this.

Bruce, Josh, and Henry laugh themselves down the hall. I curl my fingers against the door. His hand up my skirt. Mouth on my neck. Not happening. Not happening.

Not happening not happening not happening.

“Are you ever going to turn around, Afton?”

I need to run. I need to get up. Get up. Get up. I grab the doorknob and pull myself to my feet. I need out.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

“Who would hear you?”

I turn. Donnie hovers at the edge of the light. A shadow falls across his face, adding a disturbing quality to his already grim exterior. Anna must love how badly he wears being an outcast. Or maybe he just looks this bad because he’s sober.

I hope.

He moves in my direction. I shudder, feel my throat hitch. His hand up my skirt. He was on me. Kara knew what he did to me, she knew. I go back to the door, pounding it with my fists until they hurt. A voice inside my head tells me to scream, scream, scream now, scream loud, louder, and I keep thinking I am I’m trying I’m screaming.

But nothing is coming out of my mouth.

His hand is on my arms. He’s behind me. Close. I jerk away and I do it too easily, which means he let me do it. He let me. He’s fucking with me.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” I say, backing away. I put a shelf between us. His footsteps are terrible and light, and I count them getting closer.

One. Two. Three.

“You never thought I was good enough,” he says. Four. Five. Five footsteps. “And you couldn’t just let me have Anna. You loved to tell her I wasn’t good enough for her either, all the time. Every single day.”

I take five steps back, around the same shelf, past the useless locked door. I look around the room for something I can use. Paper. Poster board. I need something heavy.

Something.

“Everyone hates me because of you,” he says, quickening his pace. One-two-three. I step back one-two-three. “I’m not on the basketball team because of you. I get my ass kicked and locked in closets because of you—”

I grab a stack of paper. He bursts out laughing when he sees it and takes a quick step forward and back, faking me out. I stumble back, clutching the paper, and then he lunges at me for real and I throw it. Paper blizzard. It distracts him long enough for me to get to the other side of the shelf. All I have to do is keep this shelf between us for as long as we’re in here, and we can’t be in here together that much longer because these things don’t happen twice—where you need help and no one comes.

“Why the fuck would you tell Kara?” Donnie kicks at the paper. I flinch and he answers his own question. “Oh, right—it’s because you’re a fucking bitch, that’s why.”

He shoves his hands between the free spaces in the shelves, reaching for me.

“Stop,” I beg. “Please—”

“Why?” He rounds the shelf, grinning. “What have I got to lose?”

I back into the shelf, and its hard metal edge against my spine startles me forward. It’s a split-second advantage and it’s all Donnie needs. He grabs at me, just missing my arms. His fingers curl around my shirt. I hear the material give, tearing at the seam, up the side. My legs give.

He bends down and breathes on my neck.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“Don’t,” he repeats in my ear. He puts his hand on my shoulder. I cover my mouth. He slips his hand past the collar of my shirt. I choke back a sob and try to crawl away from him, but he pulls me back. Hands on me. Touching me.

I throw up.

“Jesus,” Donnie hisses, scrambling back. I scramble around the puddle of vomit, get myself up, and stumble toward the door. Open. Open. Open open open.

It opens.

Liz Cooper.

I shove past her before she can get a good look at my face. It’s cold in the hall and I’m shaking and I wrap my arms around myself but I can’t stop. Shaking.

“What were you two doing in there?” she demands.

“What do you think?” Donnie asks.

Liar. Liar. But why bother saying it. No one believed me the first time. I keep moving. Away. I can’t see. I try to blink the school into focus, but I can’t. I try not to panic. I don’t need to see to get out of here. I press my hand against the wall and feel my way down the empty hall. I swallow air until I’m so full of it, I think I’ll explode.

I’ll explode and I’ll be over and I’ll be done and that will be okay.

I stop and try to guess where I’m supposed to be. I must have a class, but I don’t know what period it is. The bell rings. I find myself elbowed and shouldered down the hall with the type of zeal only reserved for the end of the day. It’s the end of the day.

Good. God.

I edge my way out of the herd, into a free space.

Right behind Kara.

Who is giggling with Jeanette.

“I’m going to kill you.”

The words fall off my lips, stunned and stupid sounding, but so true. I’ll kill her. At some point, I will kill her. All of this has to be leading up to a moment where I wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze.

She registers me slowly. “How did you get out?”

“You’re dead.”

I want it to sound strong coming out of my mouth. I want her to know it’s true; she’s dead. But Kara only stares and Jeanette stares and I feel like I’m going to throw up again, so I force myself back into the elbows and shoulders and hope they push me out of here, because I have to get out of here.

An arm yanks me back.

“Who the fuck let you out? Where’s Henderson?”

Bruce. I jerk my arm from his grasp and shove him, but his solid frame doesn’t budge. He just stares at me, amused, which makes me even angrier. Josh stands beside him, and I know I could shove him and he’d feel it, so I do. I press my palms into his chest and push the fuck out of my ex-boyfriend. He staggers back.

Bruce grabs me again. “What’s wrong with you, Afton?”

“Get off me.”

He grins. “Apologize.”

“Get the fuck off me!”

I shout it loudly enough for everyone to stop what they’re doing and look, but no one does anything because it’s only me and—Everyone. Hates. Me. Bruce doesn’t let me go. I start pushing at him, these small stupid sounds coming out of my mouth, but no words. I’m going to cry and I need to leave before that happens.

“What’s going on?”

Bruce drops my hand and focuses on someone behind me. Michael. I rub my wrist and start moving away because I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want to see him.

“Why do you care?” Bruce asks.

Michael ignores him. “Regina, are you okay?”

I never answer. I’m already past rows and rows of orange lockers, past familiar blond curls and a flash of red, until the front doors are in sight, and I think I hear my name again but it’s behind me and I am never going back.

I go home and no one’s there.

I suffocate on no one being there. I can still feel Donnie’s hands on me. I get vodka from my dad’s liquor cabinet, because the lock doesn’t mean anything if you really want it, and I want it, I want to drink until I can breathe, but it doesn’t really work, so I go to Michael’s house because it’s after school and he should be there and I don’t want to be alone.

I leave with the bottle half empty, and it’s empty when I get to his place, and no one’s there either, and I’m so wasted, I don’t think I can actually walk back home. The last time I got this drunk, I was at one of Josh’s parties. All of Josh’s parties. The night would always end with Anna holding my hair while I puked, and I liked it because after what happened with Liz, it was the only time Anna felt like she was my best friend.

I sneak down the narrow path to the backyard. I curl up on the chaise lounge by the pool and stare up at the sky, and the sky looks so stupid from here.

“—been out here?”

This moment started without me. I can’t feel my fingers. I’m static. I blink. I’m still outside, sitting upright on the chaise lounge. I don’t remember sitting up. Michael’s in front of me, hands on my shoulders. “Regina, how long have you been out here?”

I don’t know. Thinking it isn’t the same as saying it, though, and I don’t have the energy to speak. I close my eyes and push him away. He presses his palm to my cheek, and his hand is so warm, I shiver.

“Cold,” he says.

And then another voice. “Is she all right?”

Not that voice. I open my eyes. I force myself to my feet and manage three unsteady steps away from both of them before I fall off the face of the planet. Michael’s there, his arm around my waist. I stare up at him. “You told her?”

“She told me she found you,” he says, like that’s a reason. It’s not. I push away from him, but he holds fast until I push at him again. He eases me back down on the chaise. I bury my face in my hands because I don’t want Liz to see me like this, even though it’s already too late. I can feel her looking at me.

“I bet you love this,” I mutter.

“I’m not Anna,” she says.

Ouch. I can’t believe how bad hearing that feels. And then I have this thought: We probably could’ve been friends, all three of us—like, real friends. I hate that thought.

“I’m sorry,” I say stupidly, and then sorry is on a loop. I can’t keep it from coming out of my mouth. “I’m sorry, Liz, I’m sorry—Michael—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Michael says quickly. “Regina, it’s okay—”

I laugh. It’s the least funny thing in the world, but I laugh. “It’s not okay. It doesn’t mean anything. It’ll never . . .”

My stomach twists, awful, and I cover my mouth with my hand and lean forward, and there’s this horrible moment where I’m sure I’m going to puke, but it doesn’t happen. But I’m really tired. I try to curl back into the chair, to sleep, but Michael pulls me forward. “Hey, no, Regina, don’t do that—”

“You’ve got to get her inside,” Liz says.

“Yeah.”

He hooks my arm around his shoulder and gets me to my feet. I’m still mad at him about her, though, so I try to push him away again, but it doesn’t work again. He guides me toward the house, and my feet struggle with straight lines. It’s not a fun kind of drunk. He swears under his breath while Liz waits for us at the door.

“Why would you—?” He stops, and redirects me for the umpteenth time. I lean into him more than I want to. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“I was alone,” I say, like that’s a reason.

He gives me this look I can’t decode, like sad but something else. He tightens his grip on me and gets me through the door, telling me when to step up, be careful. We bypass his kitchen—I want to look, but only glimpse it—and head for the living room. He pours me onto the couch while Liz hovers behind.

She could’ve left by now. Should have.

Some small part of her has to love this.

“Get her some water,” she tells Michael. “Get the phone, too. She’s probably not going anywhere tonight. . . . Get her to leave a message on her answering machine for her parents while she can still sort of fake sober.”

That’s an Anna trick. We taught her that.

“Good thinking,” Michael says. He leaves. He leaves the room. He leaves me in the room alone with Liz. We stare at each other. I wish I could pass out so I could wake up so this nightmare would be over. Except it’s never really over.

“Your shirt’s torn. A little,” Liz says after a minute. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Michael. He already freaked when I told him how I found you.” She pauses and she looks concerned, like she wants to know—make sure I’m okay. But then she says, “I’m not going to ask you about it.”

I swallow. “You had perfect timing, Liz. . . .”

Silence.

“Good,” she finally replies, and she sounds like she means it, and it makes me feel so bad. A tear manages to escape me. I wipe it away quickly.

“When will you forgive me?” I blurt out. “I got what I deserved. I know I deserve it, everything, but I need to know if you forgive—”

“Like if you suffer enough I should forgive you?” she asks, totally unimpressed. I exhale shakily and stare at her feet. “That’s not how it works.”

“But I really, really—”

“Look, Regina, you’re really drunk right now,” she says, which is like Shut up. So I shut up and we wait for Michael to come back. I take in the room. It’s tidy but empty. The walls are bare and white, waiting for color. The furniture is sparse—a couch, a chair in the corner, a television. It’s like they never finished moving in. Like they started unpacking and stopped halfway and threw all the half-full boxes out.

Michael comes back with the water and the phone. Liz gives him my number. I can’t believe she still remembers it. He dials and holds the receiver up to my ear. I wait for the answering machine to pick up, and then I mumble something about being “. . . at Anna’s for the night see you tomorrow love you bye.”

I feel like such a loser.

“I’ll go,” Liz says because there’s nothing else here for her to see. She touches Michael’s shoulder. “I’ll see you.”

“Thanks,” he says.

Liz turns to me, and for a second I think she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t. She leaves. After a minute, the sound of the front door closing echoes through the house. I want to die.

Michael holds up the glass of water. He kneels down and presses it into my hands, and it’s not that I can’t hold it; it’s that I don’t want to. He anticipates this, cradling the glass in his palm. He sets it on the floor and looks at me.

“Do you forgive me?” I ask. Because Liz is right: I’m really drunk right now, so this is the only time I’ll get away with just asking him.

“What?” But he heard me.

“You don’t,” I say. “Liz doesn’t forgive me and you don’t—”

Before he can say anything—before I can even finish what I’m saying—I bring my hands to his face and clumsily lean forward. My lips graze his cheek, and he brings his hands to my side, to steady me or to keep me from touching him, I don’t know. I bring my mouth to his lips and kiss him because . . . because his lips are nice.

And I’m starved for nice things.

He kisses me back.

“No—” He pulls away and his hand hits the water. It tips, spilling onto the carpet, and some kind of dull embarrassment plants itself in the middle of my brain so I’ll feel stupid about this when I sober up. I reach for him, fumble with the buttons of his shirt, and I almost get one undone when he says that dumb word again: “No.”

I bring my hands to his face again. I can touch him into this. But he grabs my hands and says, “Regina,” and that stops me for the last time.

And then he lets go of my hands.

“I don’t feel well,” I tell him.

He clears his throat. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Right.

monday