Damaged (8 page)

CHAPTER
11

Millie is twirling down the hallway when we get back to the dorm. She spins in a circle with her arms out, laughing at the ceiling. Her hair flies out in a circle. She’s smitten. “That was so much fun!” Millie whirls into a girl walking out of a dorm room, nearly knocking her over. Millie makes an
oof
sound and then steadies the two of them, apologizing. I try not to laugh. The girl storms away irritated. It’s late.

“And you!”
Millie says, catching up to me. I didn’t stop during the ambush. “I had no idea you could dance like that! You’ve been holding out on me.”

I
glance at her. “No, I haven’t.”

“Don’t give me that,
Little Miss Goodie Two-Shoes. You’re always all pure and wholesome, and then you go and dance like
that
.”

I stop and turn to her. “What are you talking about? Dance like what?”

Millie shimmies her chest and says, “All sexy, rubbing up against the hot teacher.” She laughs hysterically, not knowing that I nearly slept with him.

I roll my eyes and keep walking. We round the corner and I pull out the key to our door. “I was not.”
Twisting the key, we head in and I drop my stuff on my bed. I don’t know why I’m protesting. Peter is hot and the dancing makes me smile if I think about it too long, which means I can’t let myself think about it at all.

Fricki
n’ Millie and her observations. I glance at her. She points at me with a flick of her wrist. “You straddled the guy. Your thighs were around his hips.”

She walks over to her bed, not paying attention to me.
“You can’t tell me that wasn’t hot, because it was totally hot. Besides, he seemed to like it.” I chuck a pillow at her. It hits Millie in the side of the head. She turns toward me. “Well, he did!” She throws it back.

The pillow hits the wall and falls on
my head, knocking down a picture frame on my nightstand. I reach out and grab it before the frame bounces off the bed, and hits the floor. Setting it on the ledge next to me, I say, “You’re impossible. Next time, I just won’t come.”

“You know you want to. And
, I think that I’ll ask you guys to show us more of that throw—in slow motion.” She winks at me with her mouth open. It’s all innuendo.

Stupid Millie.
I’m close to laughing because her mouth hasn’t shut yet and she keeps winking at me, waiting for me to giggle. I fold my arms over my chest. “Go ahead. I won’t be there anyway.”

“Yeah, right.
You know you won’t let me down.” Millie shifts in her bed and sits on her knees. She looks at me funny for a moment.

“What?”

Her pretty face is all scrunched up. Millie holds a pillow to her chest and gives me a serious look. “You never let me down. I mean, you always try to do what I want.” She picks at the corner of the pillow, not looking up at me.

Something doesn’t feel
right. It doesn’t sound like praise, like
oh Sidney, you’re the bestest friend I ever had!
It sounds as though she’s worried or something. It makes me nervous. I have no idea where this conversation is going. “So?”

“
So, I have a question for you.” She takes a deep breath and jumps in. “Why do you go on dates with me if you have no intention of dating? I mean, we’ve been roommates since freshman year and you haven’t hooked up with a guy once, but you always come out with us when I ask you.” Her voice is too serious.

Worry pinches my throat, making it hard to swallow. My mouth goes dry.
I wonder if she knows what happened. My ex wasn’t stupid enough to post what he did to me on Facebook, but there were pictures. They were the type of pictures that look wrong.

I feel her gaze on my face. I don’t look up.

Millie finally asks, “Sidney, do you have a crush on me?”

Shock shoot
s across my face. I glance up at her and blink. “What?”

There’s
a half smirk on Millie’s lips. Her eyebrows are doing this weird thing where one is up and the other is down. She looks right at me and adds, “I mean, if you’re into girls, that’s okay. I mean, I’m not—not that I don’t like you—well, not like that. I was just—”

My eyes are too big for my head
.  She’s rambling. Oh my God, this is so not what I thought she was going to say. My jaw drops open. I listen to her eat her foot and finally blurt out, “I’m not a lesbian.”

Millie counters,
“But it’d be okay if you were.”

“
But I’m not!”

Mille presses her lips together and considers me for a moment. It’s
as if she can’t figure me out. Damn, have I become so dysfunctional that she can’t tell I’m into guys?

She finally asks,
“Then, what’s up with you? Did your parents send you down here with a chastity belt or something?” She leans back against the wall and pulls her knees to her chest. “You don’t date, unless I drag you with me—and honestly, straddling teacher-guy was the most action you’ve gotten since we met.”

My face flames red.
“This conversation passed the acceptable limit before it started.” I laugh nervously and stand. I walk over to my closet and fish through it, looking for PJs.

“I’m serious, Sidney. It’s like you don’t think you should be happy or something. There’s always this massive weight on your shoulders. I used to think it was because you’re from New Jersey and ever
yone there must be super pissed-off all the time, but that’s not it. Is it? You lit up when you were dancing tonight. I saw another version of you that I haven’t really seen before. It’s as if there’s another Sidney locked away somewhere.”

I stare at her. This isn’t something I talk about. It’s not something I share. Not after what happened last time I told someone. Part of me wants to say it. I want to know if she thinks that it was my fault, but I couldn’t bear that. Not again. Shaking my head, I look away. “I just like dancing. It makes me forget to scowl all the time.”

“One day, you’ll tell me. And when you do, I’ll be a good friend. You’ve been a good friend to me. You deserve to have someone to tell your secrets to, no matter what they are.” She smiles sadly at me.

I can’t. I feel the words lodged in my throat. I feel the bear
at my back, but it doesn’t matter—I can’t say it. I can’t tell her what happened to me, what he did to me. There’s a span of silence. Neither of us moves.

Finally,
Millie’s gaze drops to her bedspread. “I think he might be the one.”

Shocked by the abrupt conversation change, I don’t follow at first.
“Who? Brent?”

She nods.
“Yeah. We get along really well—better than anyone else. I really love him.”

“Have you guys said that to each other
, yet?”

Shaking her head, she says, “Not yet. I nearly said it tonight. I’m thinking about it. It’s hard, you kno
w. Being the first one to say
I love you
is rough. I mean, he might not say it back.”

“He’ll say it back.” There’s certainty in my voice.
I smile at her and she looks less fragile.

“How do you know?”

“It’s all over his face, Millie. He adores you, even if he can’t say the L-bomb, yet.”

She smiles.
Hard. It lights up her face. Millie leans back into her pillows. I change and then grab my books and try to get some reading out of the way, but my mind is elsewhere. I wonder how long it will be until Millie figures out what happened to me. Maybe I should just tell her and get it over with. When I realize that I’m no longer reading, I shut the light off and climb into bed.

This time when I close my eyes, I’m granted a reprieve. Instead of reliving the same nightmare
over again, I see Peter’s easy smile. I fall asleep thinking about my body twirling and his strong hands guiding me.

CHAPTER
12

A few weeks roll by and the last of the winter weather is gone. Spring is here. Trees are budding and there are flowers everywhere. The campus is covered in bright, beautiful, colors. It seems to make everyone extra smitten. Couples walk around totally love-struck, not paying attention to anything but each other.

Working for Peter has gotten better, less uncomfortable. I hate to admit it, but I like him. He’s a good teacher and
laid-back most of the time. It works out well since I’m usually as tense as a totem pole. Being around him soothes me. I don’t feel as on edge as I usually do. I wonder if he notices things like that. Sometimes I think Peter doesn’t notice much, but I think that’s what he wants me think. 

It’s nearly dinner time. I’m on my way to my night class, b
ut stop to check my mail first. I wave at a few people as I walk into the campus center and find my mail box. I turn the little lockbox dial, pull open the door, and yank out the mail. I slap the door shut and walk over to the table to sort it and toss junk mail.

Dusty sees me. He walks over and stands at the table opposite me.
“Hey, Sidney.”

We haven’t spoken since our
ill-fated date, which has been hard to pull off since he’s in one of my classes. “Hey.”

“I need to a
pologize. I screwed up the night we met. I shouldn’t have—”

I so don’t want to talk about this. I wave my hands, motioning for him to stop. “
No, it was my fault. I—”

“It was not your fault. Come on. Let me say this. I’ve been trying to say it to you for way too long.” I look at him and nod even though I want to bolt. “I was an ass. I shouldn’t have assumed anything, but I did. I’m sorry, Sidney.”

I glance at the mail in my hands as he speaks. Dusty’s words are familiar. I’ve heard them before from another set of lips, from someone equally sweet. Appearances can be deceiving. I look up at him and nod. “Okay. Do me a favor though and let’s just start over?” I don’t want to start over, but he’s been following me around, trying to apologize for too long to blow him off.

Dusty
smiles. “Sounds good.” He looks at the mail in my hands and then back up at my face. “You headed to class?” I nod. “Me too. I’ll walk over with you.”

Great
. “Uh, okay. Sure.” As I wait for Dusty to check his mail, I look at the letters in my hands. I toss a bunch of junk mail and then freeze on the last envelope. I recognize the handwriting. I stare at it, unblinking. A wave of shock nearly knocks me over.
He found me
.

“Ready?” Dusty asks.

I stuff the letter into my book, and nod. As we walk to class, I don’t say much. Dusty talks and I listen, or try to….but that letter. Oh my god. It’s been over four years. Why would he send a letter? Why now? I’m nervous, so tense that I don’t realize that we’ve entered the classroom and that Peter is talking to me.

Peter’s
hand lands on my shoulder and I jump. My feet literally trip back and I gasp. Peter steps back and lifts his hands, showing me his palms. “Easy, Sidney. Are you all right?” He looks concerned.

The class is watching us. I feel eyes on me. Too many people are looking. I find my plastic smile and put it on. I nod and laugh about being spaced-out. Dusty laughs with me, but Peter doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t tell me
, in fact, he says the opposite. Peter even smiles, but I can read him. He’ll ask me about it later, after everyone leaves.

It feels like I’m wearing a turtleneck made of thorns. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe.
Every time I touch my textbook, I feel the letter through the pages, burning a hole in my hand. I shouldn’t read it. I shouldn’t.

But what if it’s important? What if—?

Don’t read it. It’s not worth it.

The internal debate continues in my mind. I stare blankly. The lesson continues around me, but I don’t notice. Students talk. Someone laughs. A girl’s voice rings in my ears a few moments later, but I have no idea what she said or what Peter said. The letter consumes me.

My palm is pressed to the pages. My fingers twitch. Halfway through class, Peter calls on me. I don’t hear him. My gaze is on the floor and totally vacant. I don’t realize he’s standing in front of me until I see his shoes. I look up. “Sorry. What was that?”

He smiles at me and points to my textbook, which is open to the wrong page. Peter gives me a look, but doesn’t say anything.
“We’re talking about poems. Dusty said they’re emotional crap used to lure in women, that no guy in his right mind would ever write a poem on his own without an incentive.”

I blink.
“An incentive?”

Dusty is sitting two rows behind me. “He’s saying it nicely. What I said was that no guy would write a poem for no reason. The poet in this case obviously wanted to get laid.”

“Very eloquent,” Peter says, and shakes his head. Folding his arms across his chest, Peter looks down at me. “And what do you say, Sidney?”

I make a face and look back at Dusty.
“Not that.” I turn back to Peter. “A poem is an expression of emotions. It’s condensed language. At its core…” My vision goes black at the edges. I wrote poems. I vividly remember what happened the day I wrote the last poem. The choking sensation doesn’t stop. I can still feel his hands on me. I swallow my gasp and ignore the cold sweat on my back. Clearing my throat, I add, “At the core of poetry is purity—pure emotion, pure desire, pure elation, pure—”

Dusty speaks out, “So a
poem can’t be filled with lies? What if the guy just wants to nail you? What if it’s all pretty words? You really think that ancient guys didn’t write this stuff to get a little action? Come on, Sidney, you’re smarter than that.”

Dusty’s
words echo in my mind, wakening memories long buried. I clutch the side of my face and sputter, “Oh, come on, yourself. Not every guy is a bastard, Dusty. Isn’t it possible that some poems were written because they were cathartic and had nothing to do with panties?”

He says something back.
A few guys chuckle. I close my eyes hard, but the classroom tilts to the side. It doesn’t stop. Dusty’s words ring in my ear, as a buzzing sound grows louder. What the hell is the matter with me? It’s just a letter. Dusty’s just a dick. I already know that. Nothing is going to hurt me, but I feel so threatened. I chase away the panic that’s consuming me and finally hear Dusty again. “…they did it then and they do it now. Guys don’t write poems for themselves. They do it to get laid. If they need an emotional outlet, they punch shit.”

For some reason, this conversation
dredges up everything. Before I know what’s happening, I’m gasping, clutching my desk so hard that my fingers turn white. Peter is watching me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t silence Dusty. I stare at Peter’s shoe and try to take long steady breaths. I’m going to have an anxiety attack and freak out in class. My heart is pounding, beating way too fast. A bead of sweat drips next to my ear and rolls down my jaw.

Peter cuts off the conversation. “So all the men
in this room feel that way?” I hear movement, but don’t look up. “Very well. For the rest of this class period you are to go to the library and write a poem. It cannot be for a woman and it has to be an expression of emotion. It’s due on my desk at the end of the period. Bring it back here. Got it?” There’s a lot of groaning, and then the sound of chairs moving.

I try to push back and stand, but I barely move before Peter says, “Sidney, I
need to speak with you. Stay put for a moment.”

Peter
follows the class out of the room, and answers a few questions, telling them to return at 9:20pm with the poem. He tells them if they put in the effort, they get credit. No, length doesn’t matter. A few guys snigger about the size not mattering. Peter responds by telling them that they have to turn in two poems. I hear curses and then silence.

No one is in the room. At some point, I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes.

“Sidney?” Peter’s voice is gentle. When I open my eyes, he’s kneeling in front of my desk. His eyes sweep over my face, worried. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Are you all right?”

I sit up and nod. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”

Peter’s gaze is filled with concern. He reads me perfectly. He knows that I’m lying. I see it in that sad crooked smile he gives me. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You’re still pale. Sit for a while.” Peter stands and walks over to his bag, and pulls out a Hershey bar. He walks back to me and holds it out. “Here, eat this.”

I take it and
sit up straighter. I’m hoping I can blame this on low blood sugar. “You carry around chocolate in your briefcase?”

He
smirks as I bite into it. “Maybe. Truth is, that was going to be my dinner.”

“Oh.” I go to hand it back to him.
There’s a big bite mark in it. I have a huge mouth. Peter’s hands brush against mine. Gently, he pushes the candy back to me.

“You finish it.” His hands are still on mine.
Peter looks into my face, trying to catch my gaze. “What set you off? It was as if you were somewhere else for a minute.”

I don’t look at him. Shoving the candy bar in my mouth, I bite down. The chocolate tastes like sand. I can’t think about it. I try to
push away the past, but I’m caught in a bear hug. The beast has left the leash. I’m speaking. I don’t know why, but I nod. “I was. I’m sorry. It reminded me of something.”

Peter squeezes my hands. I glance up at him and our eyes lock. My stomach flutters.
He holds my gaze and doesn’t look away. Peter breathes, and his voice is so soft. “Can I help you?” My gaze shifts back and forth between his blue eyes. I press my lips together and fight off the emotions he’s making me feel. I can’t feel them. Not now. Not ever. I shake my head so softly that I hardly move.

A sad smile moves across
Peter’s lips. “I wish I could.” I say nothing. I can’t speak. I have no voice. I just stare at his dark blue eyes. It feels as though I let the lifeboat sail away. I’m drowning in a sea of pain. He reached out, but I can’t take his hand. I can’t tell him what happened, and he can’t fix it. Even if Peter knows, no one can change the past.

A girl walks in behind him.
I barely notice her. “Dr. Granz?”

Peter startles and turns around. The girl doesn’t think his behavior is strange, but Peter is too nervous. I see it.
I see the way his shoulders tense, the way he slips his hands into his pockets, and the way he steps between us. She’s holding her text book, asking something about Iambic Pentameter and rhyme schemes. He tells her that neither is required for the assignment. The girl’s head nearly blows up.

Peter
answers her questions as I finish my candy bar. When I’m done, I go to stand up. Peter points at me and says, “I can’t let you leave. Sit. Finish the assignment in here.”

“I’m fine,” I prote
st, but my voice is wrong. It doesn’t come out when I try to speak at a normal volume.

The girl looks
back at me. “You look feverish. Do you need an aspirin or something? I have one in my purse.”

“No
, thanks, I’m okay.” Aspirin won’t fix what’s wrong with me.

The girl nods and walks
to the door. Before she leaves, she looks back. “Better do what he says or you’ll end up in the nurse’s office overnight. I’ve done that before and it sucks. The cots are horrible.”

I nod and watch her walk away. Glancing at Peter, I say, “I’m fine.
Really.”

“You’re a horrible liar. Just sit and write your poem. I won’t bother you.”

I want to say that he always bothers me. I want to say that he’s a huge distraction, but I don’t. I roll my eyes and pull out a sheet of paper. I start writing without thinking. It isn’t until I’m done that I realize what I’ve written.

I’m staring at the page when Peter looks up at me from his desk. “Done already?”

I laugh. “No. I’m going to rewrite it.” I crumple up the page and toss it. The paper sails through the air and bounces off the side of the trash can by the door, and falls on the floor. I jump out of my seat at the same time as Peter. We both head toward the paper, but Peter gets it first.

He
smoothes it out. “I’m sure it’s fine. It doesn’t have to be perfect. The purpose was to—”

My stomach is crawling up my throat
, and ice is dripping down my spine. I’m stupid. I’m so stupid. I could act like it’s nothing and maybe he won’t even read it. But I know if I fight with him, if I try to take the paper back, he’ll know how messed up I am—he’ll know the things on the paper are more than just a creative exercise. Why did I write that?

Peter’s smile fades as his eyes
fall to the page in his hands. He stills. His eyes don’t move. It doesn’t look like he’s reading, but I know he sees it. Peter lifts his gaze slowly. I’m holding one arm with my hand, digging my nails in so hard I’ll draw blood. “Sidney—”

“I
don’t… ” my mouth is open, but the rest of the words won’t come.
Deny it. Say that it doesn’t mean anything. Say it
. But I can’t. I can’t even look at him. I don’t say anything. I’m trembling even though I try not to move. It’s like a chill has swallowed me whole. I’m frozen. Every muscle in my body is locked. I can’t speak, I can’t move. This shouldn’t have happened. I can’t handle it.