THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up ravenous. My stomach feels empty, but there’s a different sort of hunger and it feels as though it’s clawing out my insides. I can’t decide if it’s a good feeling or not. After Charlie dropped me off last night, I spent all night trying to sleep, all night failing, my head burning with too many thoughts, songs, words long buried.
After I shower, trying to wash off the energy seeping to the surface of my skin, I sit on the edge of my bed and towel-dry my hair. My feet bounce on the carpet, my chest filled with that sort of carbonated feeling I get before school concerts and the day an Empower issue comes out. The same feeling I had last night while Charlie played. I can’t shake this need to do something, anything.
I focus on smoothing leave-in conditioner through my hair, dabbing on a little mascara and lip-gloss, feeling the press of my fingers against the cold bathroom counter. All the little ways I order my world, the ways I make sure I don’t disappear. Lately, all of those ways have been slipping away.
I push myself to my feet and over to my closet, distracting myself from this restlessness with menial decisions. Shirts, pants, shoes, hair up or down. I’m pulling an oversize sweater off one of the built-in shelves when my gaze catches on a pleated black skirt on a hanger. I run my fingers over the smooth cotton.
It’s years old and too short for me now. I’d thought about it as an option for my dress code plan and tried it on a few weeks ago, but considering the fact that when I sat down, I felt the cold press of my desk chair on half of my bare butt, it doesn’t exactly toe the line between acceptable and a violation.
On my nightstand, my phone buzzes. I let the skirt fall back into place among my clothes and slide my finger over my phone’s surface to read the text.
It’s from Hannah.
, I text back immediately.
I stare at the screen as how much I mean those words soaks into my bones. My stomach clenches, wondering what Hannah’s going to have to deal with when she sets foot in those halls. Halls loud with laughing boys and giggling girls, side-eyes and whispers. Halls filled with Owen McHale.
Walking back to my closet, I yank the skirt off the hanger.
Alex’s expression is almost comical when he sees me. After I got dressed, I’d texted him and asked him to pick me up. I didn’t really want anyone else to see me, Owen and Charlie included, until I was already at school. I hid in my room, ignoring my mother’s calls for breakfast, until I saw a flash of yellow turning up the driveway. I ran down the stairs, yelled a goodbye with my bag already slung over my shoulder, and flew out the door before my parents could catch a glimpse.
As I jog down the stairs, trying not to pull at my skirt, Alex gets out of the car. He blinks at me as I approach, his mouth slack.
“Hi . . . what . . . um . . . hi.”
I laugh. “Good morning to you too.”
His eyes trail down my body, lust and shock warring in his eyes. With the black skirt, I’ve slid on a dark-green Pebblebrook High School T-shirt from my freshman year that hugs my hips and boobs just right. My tall black combat boots finish the ensemble.
Alex is still speechless, and it’s so tempting to press myself against him, look up at him through my lashes. I even sort of want to purr at him while I do it. These clothes make me feel sexy, make me want to touch and be touched, make me feel in control. But there’s still that weird something between Alex and me, a gap I can’t seem to cross, so for now I just smile at him and shrug innocently.
“What are you . . . why are you dressed like that?” he asks.
I shrug again and offer him a half-truth. “Just something for Empower.”
“I mean . . . not that you don’t . . . er . . . look nice, but you’re going to get sent home.”
“I know.”
He tilts his head toward me. “Scheming?”
“Maybe a little.” I laugh to cover up this mess of anticipation and anxiety and elation and fear I can’t shake since getting dressed.
Alex’s eyes darken on mine, the concern in them unmistakable, but before I can say or do anything else, the front door bursts open behind me.
“Hey, man,” Owen calls. I don’t turn around, but I hear his feet pound down the steps. “Did I text you for a ride in my sleep or something?”
“Uh . . . hey,” Alex says. “No, Mara asked for a ride.”
I turn around then. Owen’s digging in his bag, attention on the contents. “Mara?” he says, pulling out his dark blue beanie hat. “Why—”
He sees me then. Really sees me, and his eyes expand, wider and wider until I’m sure his lids will split from the tension.
“What the . . . ?” His mouth stretches open as he takes in my outfit. “Um, no. Just no.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Seriously? There’s no way I’m letting my sister go to school like that.”
“I’m sorry—let me?”
“Yeah, let you. You think I want everyone staring at your . . . at your . . .” He waves his hand toward my legs. “Who are you supposed to be, slutty schoolgirl?”
My heart nearly stops at the disdain in his voice, at how quickly I can become someone else, a certain kind of girl to him, just because of what I’m wearing. Owen has always had a problem keeping his mouth shut when he’s upset. When we were eight, the remnant of a hurricane covered our whole state in thunderstorms for days, canceling our swimming pool birthday party. He was so mad when Mom told him, he used every swear in the book and got sent to his room without cake. Our years are filled with these little moments, f-bombs dropped behind teachers’ backs and in front of our grandparents, clipped tones and strained voices before auditions and finals.
But this is more than a snarky comment. This is me and he should know better. He should know better about a lot of things and I’m not going to be the one to calm him down this time.
I lean toward him, gritting my teeth to keep myself from screaming. “That’s exactly who I’m supposed to be.”
“Mar, come on,” he says, rubbing at his forehead. “Alex, tell her this is a dumb idea.”
Next to me, Alex radiates tension. He’s never been very good with conflict. When Owen and I would fight over the Wii controller in middle school, he’d try to get us to play some boring game like Sorry! or something, just so we’d stop arguing.
“Please go change,” Owen says, his eyes pleading.
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell Mom. You think she’s going to let you go to school like that?”
“Again, there’s that word let.”
“She’s our parent, Mar. She gets to let and not let.”
Rage rushes through my veins, hot and quick. I’m delirious, furious with this guy in front of me using words like let and slutty. Dizzy, I turn away from him, yanking open the passenger door.
A hand on my arm. “Mara.”
I jerk back. “What’s the big deal, Owen? Afraid someone’s going to rape me?”
Immediately, I regret saying it. Not because he isn’t wrong, but because the word slipped out of my mouth and it feels like a sharp knife lashed over my skin.
Alex sucks in a loud breath and Owen recoils as if I slapped him. We stare at each other and I can’t decide if he’s hurt or angry. I can’t decide which one I want him to be.
“Seriously, Mara?” he finally says, but it’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear him. “What the hell?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead I turn away and fold myself into the front seat of Alex’s car, eyes on the windshield. Outside, the boys talk and Owen’s voice crescendoes, but whatever Alex says seems to mollify him. I don’t look directly at him, but I see Owen walk away, hear fuck it on his lips as he heads toward our car. After a few seconds, Alex rounds TLB and gets in.
“He’s pretty pissed,” he says, pushing the ignition button.
“Good,” I say, but it comes out in a whisper, the threat of tears strangling my voice.