CHARLIE’S FINGERS TIGHTEN AROUND MINE, her eyes dark with worry. But she doesn’t say a word. She just waits, stays close while I tell her everything.
It has nothing to do with bravery or strength. It has to do with nothing left to lose. No matter how much I’ve tried to make it all work, I don’t have Charlie. I don’t have my brother. I don’t even have myself anymore. Now that day with Mr. Knoll tumbles out of me in a messy rush, tears and snot, trembling and embarrassment and shame. It explodes into the light, carnivorous and determined, and I let it have its way.
“Oh my god, Mara,” Charlie breathes out when I’m finished.
“That’s why I could never . . . when we were together, why I didn’t let you . . . didn’t touch you . . .” A sob gets stuck in my throat and all I can do is wave my hand between the two of us, hoping she gets what I’m saying.
“No, no, no,” she says. “Shhh, don’t even think about that. It’s okay. You know that was always okay with me.”
“I wanted to,” I say, my voice broken wide open, light spilling into all of the cracks. “I really did want to.”
Then I’m in her arms and she’s holding me so close that I can feel her heart beating an erratic rhythm, feel her softly shaking, register the hot splash of tears that aren’t mine against my cheek. I cling to her, feeling hollowed-out and full all at once, hunger replaced with nourishment.
“That’s why you seemed so sad when I first met you,” she says.
“I did?” I ask.
She pulls back so she can see me and nods. “I wanted to make you smile so damn bad.”
“You did make me smile. Every day.”
Tears race down her cheeks, matching mine, and she swipes them away. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she says.
I don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what to say to anything. I just want to stay here, where Charlie knows my secret and I don’t have to think about anything other than the spicy scent of the boy deodorant she uses and the press of her fingertips on my back.
We stay like that for a while, close breaths and light caresses. I feel that hungry something retreat and I sigh in relief. I feel it start to lie down. I feel it getting drowsy, satiated by my confession.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asks softly, and everything wakes up again. The something leaps to its feet and prowls.
I untangle myself from her.
“Didn’t you have proof that you didn’t cheat?” she asks. “Did he name the person who said you did? When he had to file the paperwork about you failing?”
I blink at her, stupid little bitch echoing in my head.
“He . . . I don’t know,” I say. “Administration called in my parents a few days later, told them what happened.”
“And your parents never questioned it?”
I swallow. “I . . . I don’t . . .” But I can’t get it out. I can’t say I never gave them a reason to, even though it’s true. In Empower, Charlie has seen me speak out for so many issues, so many girls and queer kids. But never myself. Not directly, at least. I’ve lumped myself in with my labels—girl, bi, queer—but I still can’t seem to really apply any of it to the person I see in the mirror every day. That girl is still voiceless, still scared.
“Mara, you have to tell them now,” she says.
“What? No.”
“Why not? You need . . . god, Mara, you need to tell them. They need to know, get that asshole fired and locked up.”
“I—”
“Oh my god, does he still work there? Does he still teach?”
I press both hands to my forehead, trying to calm my thoughts.
“Does he?” Charlie asks, and all I hear is stupid stupid stupid. The fact is, I know he still works at Butler. He teaches prealgebra and coaches the boys’ basketball team, and I caught a glimpse of him through the velvet curtains last spring when all the middle schools in the county were bused over to watch Pebblebrook’s production of Guys and Dolls. He looked exactly the same and was talking with a smiling female student as they filed into the auditorium. During the show, I lost him in the crowd and lights, and I’d never been so glad to be denied a principal role in the musical as I was that day.
Now all I can think about is that smiling girl. His student. I’m sure she trusted him, liked him, thought he was cute. She had wavy brown-red hair. It was long, coiling more than halfway down her back. Just like mine.
I wonder if she was in summer school this past June and July.
“Mara.”
I wonder if she was scared.
“Mara, look at me.”
I wonder if she fought back.
“Mara, you have to—”
“Charlie, shut up!”
She blanches, her mouth falling open. A mom and her young son walk by the tent, shooting us alarmed glances, their arms piled with stuffed animals and buttery bags of popcorn.
Charlie leans in closer, lowering her voice. “I’m just trying to—”
“To help. I know. To do the right thing. I know that too. But it’s not that easy—it’s not black and white.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . Mara, I’m worried about you. This is huge and you’ve been dealing with it alone for three years. And yes, it is black and white. He’s a scumbag and a child molester.”
“I know he is. And I know he’s the asshole here. What he did is black and white, yeah, but dealing with it isn’t. Did you know he was awarded Teacher of the Year that spring? Teacher of the fucking Year. It never even entered my parents’ minds that he might be lying about my cheating. Because why the hell would the teacher of the year lie about a stupid little girl’s tests? No one would believe me. They wouldn’t have then. They sure as hell won’t now.”
“I believe you. And I believe Hannah. Belief does happen.”
I know she’s right. But no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, my own belief is so mixed up with my brother, I can’t see the situation clearly. Can’t see what to do about it. Can’t help Hannah, can’t hate Owen, can’t say anything that matters. Anywhere I turn, I’m betraying my own—my friend, my brother, myself. Belief isn’t easy, it isn’t black and white.
“I just want to move on,” I say. I shove my hands through my hair, fingers tangling in my curls. “I just want to let it go. I can move on.”
“Not like this. I’m sorry, Mara, but I don’t think you can.”
“Why not? I told Hannah. She gets it. She can help me. I can help her. I told you. That’s all I need. You two are all I need—it’s enough.”
Charlie’s lower lip trembles. “I get that, but that doesn’t change the fact that your parents have no idea that this happened. That he’s still out there, working with kids. You can’t get any closure because of that.”
“So Hannah can’t either?” I shoot back, and Charlie pales. “Owen’s going to walk away from all this like it’s nothing but a bad breakup story. She doesn’t get to move on?”
“That’s different. She tried. She told the truth. And she’s going to start seeing a therapist—she’s trying to work through it.”
“So I’m a piece of shit because I just want to forget it and move on?”
Charlie’s eyes widen. “No. Of course not. I didn’t mean that at all.”
Tears run down my face, desperation in every single drop. Desperation and anger and exhaustion. So much exhaustion.
“Just tell the truth,” Charlie says softly. Too softly and it pisses me off. “That’s all you have to do, and I’ll help you.”
“Oh, because you’re so damn good at truth telling—just ask your parents.”
The words are out before I can stop them. She visibly flinches. “I—”
“They’ve got a perfect daughter, don’t they? Their daughter would never go play on some Nashville stage behind their backs. Their daughter would never feel like a fucking stranger in her own body sometimes, would she?”
“Holy shit, Mara.”
I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t stop, can’t seem to shut up. “Have your parents ever even asked why all your friends call you Charlie? Oh wait. I forgot. Of course they have. But you lie with loving care.”
She gapes at me, and one thick tear plummets down her cheek. She brushes it away before I can decide if it was really there or not.
“That’s not the same thing,” she whispers. “They already know I like girls. And I can come out to my parents about my own fucking body when I’m ready. I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Neither am I.”
“You’re hurting yourself. And who knows if that asshole—”
“I need some time,” I say without looking at her. I can’t stand to see the disappointment in her eyes, the anger, and I hate her a little for that, for taking away my safe place. For taking away this moment where I thought the confession would be enough. “Can you just leave me here?”
“Mara—”
“Please.”
“Shit. I know you’re upset and I don’t mean to pressure you. I just—”
“Fucking go!” A few festival-goers passing by startle at my scream, wide-eyed and whispering.
Charlie rears back as though I slapped her. The space between us grows thick with this need to do something, be something, change something. But eventually, Charlie does what I ask, leaving me on the stool with nothing but the too-gentle press of the evening breeze to calm me down.
Eventually, I stand up and find my way into the parking lot, half blind from silent tears. Our car is nowhere to be found, but I barely register its absence. I start walking, the movement distracting and welcome. But it feels as if the miles between here and wherever I end up will never be enough to silence the voice in my head.
Because there is no way to really move on. No song or empathetic friend or all the love I have for my brother will ever change that, and I was stupid stupid stupid to think that I could. There is no going back.