Before You (9 page)

J
ason has called seven times in three days. He is a big ugly lie that I can't ignore, a wreck I shouldn't gawk at but can't turn away from. I should feel bad. I should listen to his explanation. At the very least, I should answer one call. I'm being unfair, especially considering all the times I've lied to him. It's unlike me to avoid him at school, to eat in the library instead of with him.

With Jason.

Everyone knows that's where I belong.

Speaking of the library, Diego has been avoiding me, treating me like a disease he doesn't care to catch. I offered to explain the book fair process to him, tell him what we needed help with, but he said he'd rather talk to Melissa.

I'm thrown for a loop. And I find it strange that I've been thinking more about Diego than I have about my boyfriend.

“What do you want?” I answer my phone, irritated.

It takes Jason a moment to reply. I'm not sure if it's because he expected me to ignore the call, or because he can't believe I just spoke to him that way.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I reply sharply. “What do you want?”

“Come on, Faith. Tell me why you're mad.”

“You know exactly why I'm mad.”

Jason sighs. “It's about Diego, isn't it?”

Silence, my lips sutured shut.

“Faith, babe,” Jason says. “I just wanted to make sure he stopped harassing you.”

The seams burst.

“How do you even know he's harassing me?” I shoot back. “You weren't there for any of my conversations with him. Be honest; you're angry about what I said at the restaurant.”

“Yeah, I'm angry,” Jason says, a little too harshly. “When my girlfriend of nearly three years announces to the world that she thinks some tattooed thug is hot? Yeah, I get pissed!”

“What are you worried about?” I ask. “So what if he's hot! You think other girls are hot. I've seen you look at them. I'm not trying to beat people up over it.”

I'm furious. My anger is a bubbling vat of acid.

“Who cares about that loser? Are you really going to let him come between us?” Jason asks.

He doesn't get it. “It's not him that I'm worried about. It's you, Jason. You're being insecure.”

There. I said it.

Jason's silence speaks volumes. I've hit a nerve.

“I want a boyfriend who doesn't get bent out of shape like that. You could've gone about it differently. You could've smiled in his face, knowing I'm with you. You didn't have to corner him three-on-one like a bully.”

What I really want to say is this:
Jason, you could've been a man.

“What are you saying?” Jason asks.

“I'm saying that you acted like a fool. I'm saying that you should know already that no matter what you do, my choices are mine and mine alone. If I want to leave you, there's nothing you can do to make me stay, so the least you can do is have some damn dignity!”

Even as the words leave my mouth, I can't believe I said them. I don't know that I've ever been this truthful with Jason. I'm suddenly nervous, anxiety pinching my stomach.

How will he react? Will he apologize for being out of line? Will he get upset with me but hold it inside? Will he act like nothing happened, the way we always do?

I'm sick of pretending.

“Are you there?” I ask.

“I think we need a break,” Jason says.

Great. He's going to act like nothing happened—just like always, what he always says, what he always does.
Let's take a break somewhere to cool off. It's Friday night. Let's go to the park, or the beach, or the pier, just you and me.
And everyone will expect me to be a link on his arm, his shadow, there but ignored.

“I don't think we should ignore this,” I say. “That's what we always do. Why don't we talk, really talk for once?”

I take a deep breath. Here goes.

“There are things you don't know about me, Jason.”

Pause. Breathe.

“I'm not everything you think I am. Nights I should have been studying, I went out partying with Melissa. I did bad things. Tried stuff I shouldn't have. And then there's my mom . . .”

I choke up. Try to right my voice.

“When I said I never drank or tried drugs, Jason, I lied.”

I'm opening up.

Do you see my insides displayed for you?

I've never exposed myself to Jason. I've never invited him into my world. My
real
world. But if we're going to be together—the image of his mother talking about marriage flashes through my mind, making my stomach knot even more—then I need to start showing him bits of the real me, the deep me, the treacherous me. I don't know how much longer I can be someone I'm not.

“So,” I continue. “If you want to go somewhere, take a ‘break', that's fine. But it should be spent talking about this.”

I wait for him. Wondering. Will he be okay with all I have to say?

“No,” Jason says. “I mean we need a break from
us
.”

My heart drops. My innards spill. Is Jason breaking up with me?

I finally, finally let him in and his response is to tell me we need a break—
that
kind of break?

This is why I keep my lips locked up, so my words don't fall out. No one besides Melissa can handle the real me. Jason just proved that.

“Fine,” I say and hang up the phone.

I'm trying not to cry. I refuse to cry. And I don't have time for this. I hear Melissa's horn.
Beep, beep,
pause,
beep.
It's time for school.

I rush out to my best friend's car. I don't bother to cover my emotions anymore.

“What's wrong?” Melissa asks, alarmed.

I practically fall into the passenger seat. “Will you call your sister?” I ask. “I want to go out tonight.”

Melissa raises an eyebrow and takes a drag of her cigarette. “You sure you're ready for that?”

I am. I'm over the past. It's time to prove that I can have a good time without going overboard. I cannot show the real Faith to anyone at our school, but I can be myself around Melissa.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I answer.

Melissa smiles, pulls out of my driveway. And with three words, I know she supports me.

“It's about time.”

W
hen I get to Javier's house Friday night, I'm still having a hard time understanding Faith's attitude. I'm trying not to think about her, but it's hard. Earlier at school, she seemed different. She hasn't been coming to lunch anymore, and she didn't say a single word in the two hours that we spent sorting books today. Instead of her silence being a reprieve, it was unnerving, as though I had misplaced something but couldn't quite figure out what.

Maybe because she's stolen it, pieces of me, my thoughts . . .

“Diego!” Javier greets me at the door.

We go out back where Eduardo and Pedro have made a small bonfire; it blazes bright against the dark sky, like sunshine in the dead of night. Sitting with them around the fire are four girls.
Gracias a Dios.
I'll finally have a chance to stop thinking about the girl I shouldn't be thinking about in the first place.

It's too hard. Faith. All of it. I don't let people get close anymore. After
mi madre,
after what happened . . . I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone in. With Faith, I can feel the boundaries slipping, blurring, my guard coming down. In the library I came close to kissing her, to wanting something real. I can't let that happen.

Javier introduces me to the girls, the last of whom is Anita. She has long legs and dark eyes. Her hair curls, tumbles down her back like black ribbon.

You are exactly what I need right now.

“Hey,” Anita says, “it's nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” I say. She has no idea.

“Want a beer?” she asks.

“You guys have beer?” I ask. “How did you pull that off with Aunt Ria here?”

Eduardo puts a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. “She's sleeping
.
Keep it down,” he answers.

“Was that a yes or a no?” Anita asks, then smiles.

“No,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

Some people might be surprised that I don't drink. This is how I see it: Drinking lowers inhibitions, and where I come from, that's not a good thing. I'm used to watching my back. I don't take the risk of being caught off guard. I like to know what's going on around me. Call it a control thing. Control is a remnant of my past life, one I want to maintain. It's the only way.

I take a seat next to Anita and listen as she tells me a little about herself. She's a sophomore at UCF. Met my cousins in one of her classes. She's two years older than me. In a subtle way, she makes it clear that she's just looking for fun, which is perfect. Fun, I can do. She mentions that she recently stopped seeing someone. By the way she says it, I think she probably really liked the guy. That's cool, because I have someone in the back of my mind that I need to forget about, too.

I stay outside for a while, enjoying the company. When the fire dies out, I move into a shadowed section of the lawn where the moonlight is blocked by a tree's lush, far-reaching foliage. Anita joins me. I can just barely see her features. I lean up against the wooden fence and put my arm around her. She relaxes into me.

I pull out a cigarette and offer her one. She takes it. As I go to light it, Anita grabs the lighter from me and smiles.

“Let me do it,” she offers.

I don't know how the girl makes lighting a cigarette look good, but she does.

“You know that's supposed to bring you luck, right?” she asks.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. I wonder if she means with her, tonight.

Anita lights her own cigarette. I exhale and watch as she blows rings around my smoke, like clouds around a jet stream.

“Want to go somewhere?” I ask her.

“Sure,” she says. “I can try to sneak you into my dorm, if you want.”

My thoughts exactly.

As we leave, Eduardo approaches. “Want to go to the club?” he asks.

I shoot him a look. My intentions are clear.

One of the girls runs up to Anita. “You have to come!” she says.

I learned earlier that Anita and this girl have been forever friends. Joined at the hip.

“All right,” Anita agrees. “Want to come?” she asks me.

Eduardo gives me a look to say that he had nothing to do with it. Any dorm room plans are put on hold.

“Okay,” I say.

That way if it doesn't work out with Anita, maybe I can find someone else. As long as I'm not thinking about Faith.

We end up taking two cars. From the outside, the eighteen-and-up club doesn't look like much. The inside is a different story. Multicolored lights flash everywhere, their luminance bouncing off shiny surfaces in the dark. The DJ plays dope music. There's not much room to move. The place is packed. The best part is the dance floor.

“Want to dance?” I yell to Anita over the music.

“For sure,” she answers.

We make our way to the dance floor. As soon as Anita sways her hips, I know she's a good dancer.

Perfecto.

For once, with Anita's body pressed against mine, I don't think of Faith.

T
he hardest part about tonight will be telling Dad the truth.

It's probably easier to lie, to wedge falsehood into his mind like wood under a door, propping it open for my manipulation.

But.

Something has to give soon. Like a ticking time bomb, I feel ready to explode.

“Dad,” I say, “I have something to tell you.”

Cowardice is a nasty bug burrowing itself into my system, waging war within.

Dad is sitting in the living room with Susan, watching television. Grace is in bed. Sleep, a sweet reprieve. One day, maybe, she'll grow up. See the depth of my lies, understand that I'm damaged. On the inside.

“Hey, honey,” Dad says, and glances at my clothes. He looks as though he's trying to swallow a boulder lodged in his throat. “Why are you dressed like that?”

I'm wearing black heels and a fitted dress the color of rubies. It falls to my knees and plunges down my back. For makeup I went with blush, gloss, and a smoky eye.

To hide the circles. To hide the evidence of tears.

I was hoping Dad wouldn't freak out about my clothes, but judging by his look, I'd say there's a good chance that he'll make me change. My clothes are merely different color frames that I slip in and out of. The picture stays the same. I never try another pose. I wouldn't dare.

Until tonight.

“Wow,” Susan says. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” My cheeks instantly warm.

“I thought you were hanging out with Melissa,” Dad says. “You're a little overdressed, don't you think?”

“That's the thing,” I say, and take a deep breath. I falter. Try again. “We're going dancing, if that's okay with you.”

“Dancing?” Dad repeats.

I feel the sudden urge to run. I don't care that I'm wearing heels. I pinch the soft inside of my arm hard enough to make my eyes water. Hard enough to bruise. Anything to anchor me in place.

“Yes. I've been back four months now and I think it's time I do something fun,” I say, locking my knees, commanding my feet to stay still.

Dad pops his knuckles.
Crack, crack, crack.
I hold my breath.
Crack.
He's bound to say no.
Crack.
I shouldn't have asked.
Crack.
What was I thinking?
Cra
—

“Are you sure you're ready?” Dad asks.

His words send a pang to my heart, a pierce from a shiv of ice. I feel terrible about what I've put Dad through. But I can't take back the past. All I can do is make better decisions in the future.

“I'm sure,” I answer. “I know it must be hard for you to trust me”—I swallow—“ but I'm okay now. And I know I could've lied to you, but I want to be truthful.”

“I appreciate that,” Dad says. A few hairs fall across his eyes. He doesn't bother to swipe them away. He turns to Susan, a silent plea for support. Dad is wavering. Susan's vote will probably sway him in the direction of his final answer.

That can't be good. I've never done anything to deserve her support.

“Well, Faith, can you promise us that you will not, under any circumstances, do drugs or drink alcohol?”

“Yes,” I say. “You have my word.”

I cross my fingers, uncross them, fidget.

“And if you feel overwhelmed at all, you'll call us?” Susan asks.

“Of course,” I say.

She sighs. “Listen, Faith, I was a teenager once. I know the game. The music, the boys, the atmosphere. Just don't get carried away, okay? Remember who you are.”

Her support weighs me down and lifts me up, both.

“All right,” Susan says, and nods to my dad. “I think she deserves another chance, Carl.”

In that moment, for the first time, I see that my stepmom is on my side. I smile. It feels forced. “Thank you,” I say.

I give Dad a hug and run out the door as he's telling me to be home at one. Generous
.

Melissa picks me up in the driveway. When she sees me, she drops a lit cigarette in her lap, curses, grabs it quickly. The loose embers float toward me like fireflies.

“Good gracious!” Melissa looks shocked. “I must be imagining things, 'cause for a second, I thought I saw Faith in a tight red number with
skin
showing.”

Melissa is beautiful tonight in a dress that looks as though someone painted her with gold.

I laugh and crawl into the back. Melissa's older sister, Monica, is in the passenger seat. “Hey, Monica,” I say.

“Hey, beautiful,” she replies, turning to face me. She has wavy blond hair and blue eyes as big as the sky. “Long time, no see.”

I haven't gone out much, that's why. Nearly ruined myself. Another pang.

“Thanks for doing this for us,” I say.

“No problem. Anytime.”

When Melissa found out about my split with Jason, she called Monica. Monica arranged a night out.

I buckle my seat belt. Melissa is staring at me. She laughs.

“I cannot believe your father let you leave the house looking like that,” she says.

“My outfit's not bad,” I say defensively.

“You're right,” Melissa agrees. “But for you, it's a huge jump.”

I smack my best friend playfully on the arm. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

When we get to the club, it's packed. Really packed. The line is out the door, a million bodies trying to scramble inside.

“We're never going to get in,” I groan.

I need this. I need to breathe. I need to live, if only for one night.

“No worries,” Monica says. “I know the doorman.”

Monica walks to the front of the line. I follow her as though I belong, evil stares like arrows piercing my back. Some of the people look like they've been waiting for a while; they've taken seats on the ground and propped themselves against the wall. They make me think of a string of puppets.

Monica smiles at the doorman and gives him a hug. She motions behind her to Melissa and me. The guy opens the door, waves us in.

The inside of the club is busier than the outside. Lights flash everywhere to the beat of the music. Plush white love seats and chairs line the back wall like marshmallows. The alcoholic bar sits at the front of the club, but you need a special wristband to access that area. A nonalcoholic bar waits parallel to it. On the second floor are more tables and chairs and couches. The DJ's booth is stuck above the dance floor.

For a moment, I zone in to the DJ. I watch as his hands move bullet-fast, spinning the records. Headphones cover one of his ears.

“Come on,” Melissa yells.

It's hard to move. I'm sandwiched between sweating, gyrating bodies. Must be near capacity.

Melissa grabs one of my hands and Monica grabs the other so we don't separate. My best friend pushes through the crowd. It takes longer than it should to get to the dance floor, but when we do, it feels amazing.

Dancing is my thing, my release of life's frustrations. When I dance, the world fades until nothing is left but the music and me. I don't have to remember who I am, or who I try to be, or who I'm supposed to be. It's just me. And in that moment, when the world stops, I'm free.

At that moment, I'm ready to destroy the fake me, to tear her down until nothing but broken pieces remain. Later, when the night ends, I'll pick them up and rebuild.

Monica immediately finds a guy to dance with. I give my best friend a look, since it's too hard to hear over the music, and mouth “it's on” to her.

I'm not worried about running into anyone from school. Even though it's an eighteen-and-up club, it's nearly impossible for under-twenty-ones to get in without a connection. And honestly, I can't see many people from our school having connections to this place. If they did, they wouldn't recognize me, anyway.

Melissa and I dance. Within a few songs, I can no longer feel anything but the music thrumming in my veins. I'm in the zone. My body moves to the beat, pulsing, breathing the rhythm. Melissa is a good dancer; that's why I like to dance with her. There is nothing worse than being in the zone and having someone approach you who looks spastic. Melissa and I stay close, so that we can rescue each other if the need arises, a flotation device in a tempest of bodies.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy watching me. He has a killer body, dark eyes, and dark hair. He looks like he's around our age, maybe a year or two older. He's dancing with a girl, not paying her much attention. When he sees me looking, he smiles.

Melissa yells in my ear. “You should dance with him!”

“I don't know,” I say, unsure. I look away.

“He's good!” she says.

I glance at him again. Maybe this is what I need to forget Jason. Diego, too.

The guy approaches me, squeezing through the throbbing mass. He dips his head to my ear.

“Want to dance?” he asks. His voice rolls into my ear, inviting.

I should tell him no, but when I glance to Melissa for support, she attaches herself to another guy, dancing away.

“All right,” I answer.

We dance. The guy is better than I first thought. I like that he isn't trying to talk to me the whole time. I know by the way his eyes close occasionally, by the way his body moves in harmony with the beat, that he enjoys the music.

“You're a great dancer,” he says when the song ends.

“Thanks. You, too,” I reply.

He smiles. “Another?”

I nod. It feels strange because I think maybe I should be upset that Jason dumped me. The loss of a boyfriend would be enough to make most girls ache. I don't ache. I don't feel bad. Which is crazy, right? I don't know what any of it means at this point. All I know is that I want to have fun, and this guy is fun.

A new song starts and we dance again, the music sucking me down in its undertow. I don't think about Jason anymore. I only feel the rhythm, thumping to the beat of my heart.

We dance for a long time. Sweat pearls glisten against my skin. I don't know how much time has passed. Hours, maybe.

“Want to grab a drink?” I yell to the guy.

“Sure,” he says.

We make our way off the dance floor to the nonalcoholic bar. I order water. So does my dance partner. I take one of the ice cubes out of the drink and run it along my forehead and down my neck. When I look up, the guy's staring. I realize how I must look to him, and my cheeks redden.

“What's your name?” I ask, grateful that the ice cube has melted.

“Brad. Yours?”

“Faith.” I realize once my name has left my lips that I didn't fake-name him. Melissa and I are notorious for fake-naming people. We make up random names to give to guys—that way they won't know the real us.

Very few people know the real me.

One day, if I try hard enough, maybe I'll erase her completely.

It's quieter in this part of the club, though I still have to raise my voice to be heard. The guy doesn't prod me for information, and that makes me want to know more about him.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” he answers. A drop of sweat falls from his left sideburn.

“Did you come here alone?” I ask.

Do you plan to leave alone?

“No. I came with one of my buddies.”

I take several big sips from my glass. Water never tasted so good.

“I saw you with your friends,” Brad says. “Looked exciting. Big occasion?”

You mean, like the fact that my boyfriend paused our relationship and I finally feel a little free?

“Nope,” I say. “Just happy to dance. It's been a while since I've been to the club. I'm feeling rusty.”

“Couldn't tell,” Brad says. “You're a natural.”

“Thanks,” I reply.

There is something refreshing about dancing in the club. It's different from the team. Less organized. More from the heart.

Brad leans in to say something else just as one of my favorite songs starts up.

“We have to dance!” I set the glass back on the bar and grab his hand. I don't think about what I'm doing. I'm just enjoying being me, for once.

We hit the floor. Brad moves behind me, close, testing the waters.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

I nod, thinking it's perfect, like taking a warm bath in musical notes. I'm covered, drenched in the beat.

We're on a different part of the dance floor now. I have a better view of the crowd. With an eagle eye, I take inventory. I see a guy who looks like someone I know. Familiar. Too familiar.

And suddenly the atmosphere around me turns cold. Freezing.

I am paralyzed.

By fear.