Believe in Us (Jett #2) (12 page)

The walk home is a lonely one. It’s just after eleven and although we spent the last couple of hours watching TV and laughing at all the funny parts, there was definitely something off in the way things felt. I know Keanna is probably upset with me for stopping her advances, but I just couldn’t. The thought of her getting sexual with me kept bringing me back to what Ashley told me in class. Flashbacks of getting wasted at parties, flirting with girls—it’s all too much. I can’t seem to get into being with Keanna when the guilt of my past is killing me slowly.

I’d all but convinced myself to tell her about my past of being a serial dater—to
really
tell her, in detail—but then on Friday after my talk with my parents, I got to her house and saw her angelic face, her kind eyes—and I just couldn’t do it.

I can’t let her know what type of person I used to be. I mean, I know she has an
idea
but I need her to know the truth, to hear her either forgive me and accept me or kick me to the curb. She deserves better than me. I swallow the lump in my throat as I step up onto the deck by my back door. It’s dark tonight, with only a sliver of the moon glowing in the sky. I know deep down that Keanna deserves to know who she’s dating, and she deserves to make the choice to keep dating me or not. But god, would I love to ignore it all and just live in the moment with her, allowing myself to have the greatest girlfriend on earth, burying away all the guilt I feel.

The pool glows from the single light that’s on near the diving board. That light is always on, and the rest of the pool’s lights have to be turned on manually. But it’s just enough glow to beckon to me in the darkness. It’s close to midnight, but it’s not like I have school in the morning. I kick off my shoes, pull off my shirt, put my cell phone on the patio table and dive in.

The water is warm on the surface and cooler the deeper I sink. I dive down until my fingertips graze along the bottom of the pool at the deepest end. Then I lift my head toward the sky and let my body slowly float back up.

I can’t stop thinking about finding that guy choking Keanna in the stairwell. The image of it haunts me, mostly late at night. It surfaces in my mind now.

There was actually a split second where I didn’t know who he was assaulting. A tiny fraction of time where I saw a guy choking someone else, and I dove forward to stop it. In the very next instant I caught a glimpse of her face, saw that this innocent victim wasn’t just any student, but Keanna, and I’ve never felt so much rage in my life.

It also feels like fate had a hand in it. I don’t normally walk that direction and we don’t meet there between classes. It was a fluke that I’d happened to be the first person out of my class and therefore I was in the hallways quicker than usual. I took a different route just to avoid seeing Ashley, and it led me to Keanna. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?

Even in the warm pool water, my body gets the chills. I wish I’d had five more minutes with that guy—more time to bash his head in before I was pulled away. I almost wish the whole thing had gone viral—that for once some dipshit with their phone had caught the whole thing on film and posted it for the world to see. I want everyone to know that you can’t mess with Keanna and get away with it.

But we were the only ones in the hallway until someone heard the yelling and called a teacher. There are no videos, and I’m suspended for a week. By the time I come back, it’ll probably be old news.

At least I hope it will. Violence isn’t the option, I know. But high school shouldn’t be this hard. It’d taken everything I had to convince Keanna to come to school this year and be with me, hoping we’d be normal high school students with normal high school lives.

Three days in, and that’s all gone to shit.

I swim a few laps to get my anger out, and once I’m exhausted, I climb out of the pool and take a hot shower.

I text Keanna that I miss her, knowing she won’t be able to write back since she’s asleep, and then I try to fall asleep, ignoring the guilt that plagues at me every second of the day.

It’s one thing to be haunted by the fact that my past is full of a couple dozen girls who all wanted to be “the one”, that’s a shitty fact of my life that I just have to deal with. It’s not like I slept with all of them—most of them were just casual drunken make outs. I could get over it. I could shove it to the back of my mind and forget it ever happened—call it my old days of being crazy before I settled down.

But it’s not that simple.

My past has resurfaced and hurt my girlfriend. She has bruises around her neck to prove it. So even if I
could
forget it all and pretend it never happened, could Keanna?

Would she care about me the same way if she knew how shady I was? How many girls I let text me without ever getting a reply? How many lips have touched mine when I was partying too hard to think clearly?

Would she still love me if she knew this?

Does she even love me now?

My car smells like the homemade blueberry muffin Becca handed me on my way out of the door this morning. I nibble on it while I drive to school, careful not to spill any crumbs in the interior of my gorgeous car. I haven’t driven it much since Jett usually takes me to school. I glance down at the odometer: 326 miles.

The small number makes me remember when I was little, when Dawn was bragging that her piece of crap car had just broken two hundred and fifty thousand miles and was still running. She’d gotten the car by trading it for a guitar she’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend, so in all, it was a pretty good deal. I don’t think she’s had a new car in her entire life, and here I am driving one at the age of seventeen. Funny how that works.

I pull into Jett’s parking spot and cut the engine. Holding my hand under the muffin to catch any crumbs, I eat it all and then wish I’d brought a coffee or orange juice with me. Now I’m dying of thirst.

With a heavy heart, I shoulder my backpack and make my way toward the school.
Head down, blank expression.
That’s the only way I’ll get through this humiliation. Thank God, my bruises are a lot better, and I’d used concealer and a carefully-placed fluffy scarf to hide my neck. It’s summer and hot as hell, but Becca had assured me that skinny jeans, a tank top, and this flowy scarf would be in fashion. The fact that they even sell scarfs at all in Texas is a testament to them being worn merely as fashion accessories.

I stop at the café kiosk and get an apple juice, then I make my way to first period, sliding into my usual desk before anyone else is in here, including Mr. Ellis.

I read an eBook on my phone and eventually everyone files into class and the bell rings. Mr. Ellis passes out our test reviews, the ten-page assignment from hell that is meant to prepare us for our first benchmark test, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see a big red 97 on the top of mine. Not bad at all.

The door opens and an office aide hands Mr. Ellis a green slip of paper. You know those weird moments of clarity, where you instantly know something is about to happen? Well, it happens to me now. I don’t know why or how, but I know that note is for me.

Mr. Ellis looks up, eyebrows raised. “Keanna? Ah, there you are,” he says, walking toward me. He smiles and hands over the paper. It’s an office memo telling me to report to the counselor immediately.

Mr. Ellis turns to the board and begins talking about the problems that most people got wrong. Now that Aubrey’s desk is empty, there are no more threatening or insulting gazes thrown at me, and that’s nice. Everyone else in this class seems pretty chill. I pack up my things and duck out of the classroom.

This is probably just some getting-to-know-you new student orientation thing. At least I hope it is. During our principal meeting last Friday, I wasn’t in trouble. Jett was, but not me. Plus, this is a visit with the guidance counselor, so I’m not exactly worried.

The office is big and decorated like some kind of fancy home accents store threw up in here. There’s a wax melter on every little end table, burning some kind of autumn scent that smells like orange and cloves. The receptionist looks up when I enter and her gaze goes to the green paper in my hand.

“Counselor?” I ask.

She points to the right and I follow the hallway until I reach the right office. Mrs. Albright is a short, chubby woman with blond hair and an even stronger wax melter scent in her own office. This one smells like linen, I guess, and it has me wishing for the orange and cloves scent again.

“Hi, um,” I say, holding up the paper slip. “I was called here?”

“Keanna Park?” she says, standing to shake my hand. I nod, still not used to hearing my new last name.

“New student orientation?” I say, only it comes out sounding kind of sarcastic. Whoops. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be called out of math class,” I add with a laugh.

Mrs. Albright’s smile flattens. She motions for me to sit in the chair across from her desk and she sits, too.

“This isn’t an orientation, Keanna. I’ve actually called you here to talk about what happened last week, among other things.”

I frown. “I feel like I’ve already talked a lot about what happened. It’s over now.”

She nods. Her cell phone goes off, her ring tone sounding like birds chirping. She grabs the phone and shuts it off. “Well, then we can only talk about that really quickly, if you’d prefer. I wanted you to know that Aubrey has not only been suspended, but she’s decided to transfer to another school.”

She leans forward, lacing her fingers together. “You no longer need to fear being bullied by her, Keanna.”

The way she keeps saying my name is kind of annoying, and I wonder if it’s some therapist type of rule to make a student like you or feel at home, or whatever.

“Okay, thanks. That’s cool I guess.”

She studies me for a moment. This isn’t my first time seeing a school counselor, so I should be used to it by now. And the good thing is that now I am a new person—now I don’t have to talk about being homeless, or the endless parade of men in my house, or my mother—my
old
mother.

Mrs. Albright draws in a deep breath. “So I had a talk with your mother this morning—Mrs. Park.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Okay?” Becca already knows about the Aubrey thing—why are we still bringing it up?

Mrs. Albright reaches for a pen and turns to a new sheet of paper in the legal pad in front of her. “Your mom shed some light on your situation with me, and I’d like to spend some time discussing it with you.”

My arms fold in front of my chest. “What situation?”

“Tell me about your childhood, Keanna. Let’s talk about your biological mother and your recent adoption.” Her eyes light up like she gets some sick satisfaction in talking about people’s screwed up lives.

I sigh and look around her office. There’s a ton of family photos filling the shelf behind her desk. One of the girls looks to be about my age and she’s often dressed in a Hornets cheerleading uniform like Maya’s.

“Tell me about you, Keanna.” She leans back in her chair, pen and notebook poised like she’s ready to settle back and listen to a long story.

“Do I have to?” It’s the first thing I think of, and I don’t really care if it’s not polite.

“I thought you were happy to get out of math class?” she says, lifting an eyebrow.

I sigh. “Okay sure. What do you want to know?”

*

By the time Mrs. Albright is done with me, I’ve lost track of how many times the bell has rung. She’s like some kind of psycho, needing to know my whole life from its messed up beginnings of my mother not wanting me and choosing to remind me every chance she got, to my newest development of getting new parents who actually care about me. She takes a ton of notes and I am
so
freaking bored. She probably hopes I’ll have some kind of cathartic experience by telling her my whole ordeal, but it doesn’t do anything. I am just bored and ready for it to be over.

“This was wonderful,” Mrs. Albright says after another bell goes off. The sounds of students filling the hallways can be heard even from deep inside her office. “I’d like to continue these sessions weekly.”

“
What?
” I practically fly out of my chair. “What else do you possibly need from me?”

“Keanna, it’s not what
I
need from you. It’s what
you
need from me. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve had quite the hard life. These sessions will help you heal.”

“I’m already healed,” I say, throwing my backpack on my shoulder. “My life wasn’t that bad.”

“The fact that you think that tells me we need more sessions.” She stands and puts her hand on my arm, giving me this pitying look that’s probably also in the school therapist handbook. “This will help you transition into the young adult that you are. You’ll be able to work out your issues and be confident going forward and graduating.”

She smiles. “I have a feeling this is going to be really eye-opening for you.”

As much as I want to say something sarcastic or rude, or both, I hold back. I fasten on a smile and thank her for her time. I have to pretend that I’m okay with this or else she’ll force me to come back even more often. Maybe next session I’ll start crying and pretend I’ve had a massive breakthrough. I’ll get out of this as soon as possible.

When she finally dismisses me, saying she’ll send for me next Monday, I power walk into the hallway, looking for a clock to see how much time I’ve missed. It’s lunch time. Holy crap, I’ve spent four class periods talking about my stupid past with a stranger.

So much for having a normal school day.