Out again?
Yup. Sick.
Want me to get your homework for you?
Nope. Under control.
Think you’ll be in tomorrow?
Why? Miss me that much?
Miss you too, Precious.
Just got in trouble with Lincoln because your lab report is exactly the same as mine. How did that happen?
I heard a rumor about you.
U ok?
—Cell phone records, courtesy of the Duchess Police Department
I knew what your stepdad was doing to you, Andrew. I’ve always known.
You didn’t fault me for not trying to stop it. I think you loved me more because I stayed out of it, because I turned a blind eye to the cigarette burns on your neck and pretended not to hear when he called you a little faggot. You didn’t want anyone to know how pathetic your stepdad thought you were. You liked music, not hunting, beer, and porn. His anger is because you are gentle and soft-spoken and nothing like him. He saw that as weakness, but here’s what I should have told you a long time ago: There was never anything wrong with you, Andrew. None of this was your fault.
It was mine.
Friday night, you were upset. Having to wake up at four the next morning would do that to anyone. Deer season was starting. That meant spending two hours driving in your stepdad’s pickup to his favorite hunting spot, then another two hours on the drive back, listening the whole time to the twangy country music you detested. You said he’d gotten a new bow for his birthday and couldn’t wait to try it out. I think you joked that you wanted me, wanted anyone, to shoot you with it.
I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying better attention. A few minutes before I met you at our spot, I’d been rifling through my purse for my Juicy Fruit and was surprised to find a message from Z.
Want to do something tomorrow?
I checked the time on the text. He’d sent it right after school, before dinner. I wondered if he’d sent it to the wrong person. Maybe his phone had autocorrected his message and he’d really meant to say something else. He didn’t really want to hang out with me, did he?
I was so lost in my head that I nearly tripped over my own two feet crossing the lawn to our place at the fence. You were focused on your stepdad, wondering if he would permanently excuse you from hunting excursions if you accidentally shot an arrow through your foot. You laughed about it, but I know you were scared. Every time you came back from a trip with him, you always looked a little smaller, a little more wounded.
I tittered along with you, all the while thinking of how to respond to Z.
Sure, sounds good.
Let me check my schedule and get back to you.
Are you serious?
I’m sorry, did you mean to send that to me?
Then you said, “Are you still there?” which broke me out of my reverie.
“Um, yeah.”
“Thought I lost you for a second.” I looked over my shoulder and could see the porch light reflected in your eyes as you peered at me through the slats in the fence. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Tired, I guess.”
“School was OK?”
“Yeah. Same old thing.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow?”
Up until Z’s text, I didn’t have any. I liked not doing anything on weekends but lazing around and watching television. My parents preferred that because it made keeping tabs on me easier. Tomorrow, they’d be prepping the gymnasium at St. Ann’s for a spaghetti dinner to raise funds for a new church organ. “Same old thing,” I said again. Right then, it was the truth.
You started to speak, and I wish I could take back what I did right then. I scratched my shoulder against the fence and wiggled to a standing position. “I’d better go. I’m getting destroyed by mosquitoes.”
It was early. We usually stayed out together longer. Your voice was a little hoarse when you replied, “Oh. OK. See you, Vic.” You stood up and made a lame attempt at cracking a joke, “See you…if I survive tomorrow.”
I’m not even sure I said anything back. Before I knew it, I was inside. All my surroundings melted away except that one little sentence on my phone display. I took a few deep breaths and typed in: Like what?
Then I began counting the seconds, waiting for Z’s response. My mother and father were in the kitchen, busily counting boxes of spaghetti and loaves of garlic bread and doing their best to pretend they hadn’t just been spying on me in the backyard. Why do they always have to spy? I don’t know if they think you and I are having dirty, nasty sex in the rosebushes or what. It’s not like you or I have ever done anything even remotely depraved. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were seven. Your family had moved in, and you showed up on my back porch with a red ball and asked me if I wanted to play. We ended up pretending to be royalty, and the bushes were our fortress. We’d hide out there for hours every afternoon, and guess what? Shockingly, we’d both managed to keep hold of our virginities.
When my phone dinged, my parents turned and stared as if it had announced that the house was on fire. “What’s that, Victoria?” my father asked.
“It’s a device for communicating with people,” I snapped, heading to my room as I checked the display. I slammed the door behind me before my parents could ask the inevitable follow-ups.
Torture animals?
I should have known he’d joke around. I responded quickly with Ew and spent the next few moments wondering if that made me seem like I was three. I expected him to say that he just wanted to go over our trig homework together. That was the kind of invitation I was used to. I was an “early afternoon girl.” Parker, now, she was a Saturday night girl. She probably hadn’t had a free Saturday since fifth grade, considering that her line of ex-boyfriends stretched across the state. And I knew from the way she’d been showing him her goodies in chem lab that all Z had to do was ask her out. So why was he texting me, if not to ask for math help? But a few minutes later, the response came back:
Like
???
Do people do movies around here?
I swallowed. He wanted to do fun things with me?
When?
One?
OK, so I was still an early afternoon girl. He probably had some big party or date set up for later. But still, it was my first social engagement that didn’t involve you, Andrew. Of course, the second I thought about you, I felt guilty. But we were just going to hang out. Early afternoon hanging out. Surely, other people would be there. Guys and girls could hang out together in a group without it meaning anything. All of this reasoning played in my head as I typed.
OK.
The second I did, my heart started thudding in my chest. I was going to hang out with Z for fun. I was going to hang out with Z for fun! And other people too, but this was an invitation to a new world. One I knew you’d want me to accept. Right, Andrew? I mean, you ached along with me whenever I told you how alone I was at school, and above all, you wanted me to be happy. I was both thrilled and terrified as Z wrote back with: Pick you up at your place? Where?
He was going to drive me. Like a date. But not a real date. Just hanging out. With other people. I thumbed in the address carefully, realizing that since you didn’t drive, this was the first time I’d be in a guy’s car, ever.
I mentally dissected my closet, wondering what I should wear. Z had only seen me in my uniform. You pride yourself upon being a fashion victim (yes, I’m thinking of those jeans that are two sizes too small and that lumberjack shirt, Andrew), so I never had to “dress to impress” with you. And because I didn’t have any social life other than spending time with you, my wardrobe was limited. I started rifling through my drawers and found one pair of jeans and a nice blouse. But I thought the blouse might be trying too hard, so I found that pink T-shirt you bought me from the Renaissance Faire. It was enormous then, but now it fit me fine. I went back and forth… Blouse? T-shirt? Blouse? T-shirt? I finally settled on the T-shirt. I laid them on my bed and found my flip-flops, then realized I had to paint my toenails, so I gave myself a quick pedicure.
I hadn’t slept at all, so when you left at four in the morning, I was awake to see you leave. Stiff and yawning, I tilted the blinds and watched you load the cooler into the back of the pickup. You hefted your blue backpack on your bony shoulder and looked up at my window—as if you were hoping I’d jump out of it and save you—then climbed listlessly into the cab.
If I’d been a better person, maybe I would’ve come out and saved you. If I could go back and do any one thing different, anything, Andrew…please know I would have tried.