Naked (9 page)

I see my mother alone, doing the dishes.

“Is that offer still up for the apple pie?”

She looks up. I almost gasp. Her face is red, like she’s exhausted from crying, but she smiles when she sees me.

I walk up and sit at the counter. It’s a small one, with two stools that barely ever get used. But it allows to me to watch as my mom pulls out the half-eaten pie from the fridge. She cuts a slice and puts it in the microwave. She looks at me, as though considering something, then pulls out the vanilla ice cream.

If I were in New York, ice cream on top would cost extra. I don’t know what this gesture costs her, but I can’t help but be grateful for anything I can get.

She cuts out a piece of pie, carves out two perfect circles of ice cream, and places them all on the plate.

She hands me the plate, then goes back to her dishes. She scrubs and rinses each dish by hand. They have an expensive dishwasher; I don’t know why she doesn’t use it. Guess she likes the work or something.

She doesn’t say anything, and she’s doing the same thing I did when she brought dinner to my bedroom. She’s hiding her face. Is it just me or is that a smirk I see on her face?

I take one bite—

And the taste hits me hard. It’s so good there are no words. I haven’t had real apple pie in so long.

It’s perfect, exactly what I need. So satisfying that the question’s out of me before I can stop it.

“Why did you bring me back here, really?”

She drops whatever dish she was working on into the murky water, but she doesn’t look up. Maybe now’s a bad time. She really does seem exhausted.

“A lot of reasons, Anna.” She still doesn’t look up. She’s staring down into the water like she’ll find something she’s been looking for there. Or maybe so she doesn’t find what she dreads, something she’ll see if she looks at me.

Will she see the daughter she lost? Or worse, will she see a whore where the daughter she always wanted is supposed to stand?

I could leave the room before she answers. But I hesitate, and that gives her enough time to respond.

“Because you’re our baby,” she says. “You’re supposed to be here.” Now she looks me in the eyes. Only a moment, but long enough for me to see that her eyes are full with tears. Then she turns around and leans on the counter. “Because we want to help you.”

“Don’t you mean fix me?”

Now she turns back. “Not fix you. Just help you be better.”

Those are the words I was afraid of. “Because I’m not good enough like I am?”

Her eyes go wide. “No. No, that’s not…” She takes a deep breath. “I just want to help. That’s all.”

I shrug. Maybe I do need help. I’m just not sure yet what that means.

“Good night, Mom.”

I stand up to leave but pause and actually consider reaching out to touch her. My hand twitches, but I pull it back. I’m not sure what I want, or what to do. I don’t know how to be a good daughter.

Finally, I give up and turn away from my mom, hoping she can see that I don’t hate her. Hoping that maybe things might be getting better, after all.

When I open my bedroom door, the dog lifts her head, on alert. Then she sees me and her tail twitches, almost a wag. Does she like me?

I sit beside her and stare at the door. She stretches over, almost taking up the whole bed now, and licks my hand.

Maybe she does like me.

Or maybe she tastes the apple pie and ice cream.

I pet her again, then get undressed, flick off the light, and slip under the covers. She curls up next to me, and before long I’m almost hanging off the bed. I need a bigger one with her here. But at least I’m not alone.

Chapter Fifteen

I
put Zara back outside at the ass crack of dawn, before my parents even get out of bed. They’d be pissed if they knew she’d slept with me, but it felt good to have her there. It’s so simple with her. No confusion about what she wants, what she has to give. She wants to be petted and fed. She wants me. When I let her go outside, I’m already thinking about tonight and if I’ll be able to get her back into my room again.

I get dressed quickly and head out the door to school, a little less scared than I was yesterday—but not by much.

If you asked me a few days ago what I thought about school, I’d have given you a clear answer. I hated it. But now? In some ways, it’s everything I was afraid it would be. The cool kids punishing everyone else. People like Jen and Jackson have every right to enjoy their suburban life, but people like Marissa and her stupid boyfriend have to make it horrible for them.

Jackson deserves better. He stood up for me in front of his friends, even if they were more right than he knows.

I’ve never met someone like him. He has some pain in his past. Being cheated on and made fun of for it, losing his mom, that all had to be terrifying. But he doesn’t show it. Ever.

So when he sits next to me on the ride to school, I give him a smile. I don’t look at him, and he doesn’t speak, but I’m glad he’s sitting next to me.

When we stop in front of the school, he waits to make sure I’m not zoned out again. I nod at him to let him know I’m okay.

He files out into the crowd. I follow him inside and go to my locker instead of joining him at the staircase where he likes to sit before classes.

It’s not that I don’t want to sit with him. Eventually something will go wrong. It always does. I’ll just try to enjoy this while it lasts. And the longer I space out how often I see him, the longer I can keep this warm feeling.

There’s one thing I know for sure: Jackson is way too good for me.

Once I finally get my locker open, I take out my history book and drop off my backpack. I’m about to shut it when I notice a piece of paper sitting on the shelf…the same place as the last time.

I pick it up and I close my eyes for a moment before unfolding the wrinkly paper. My stomach sinks as I read the same sloppy writing as the last note. A note I was sure was some kind of joke. Except this time, it can’t be a joke. It hits way too close to home.

Dear Exquisite,

I know who you really are and I’m going to tell everyone.

My stomach drops. Exquisite. My street name. No one should know that name, not here. Is this a coincidence? My hands shake as I study the writing, trying to find some kind of logical explanation.

The only thing I come up with is an image. No, not just one image, a thousand. Faces. Men. Too many men.

I squeeze my hands into fists and try to push down the urge to throw up.

Someone walks up to the locker next to mine and I jump. My stomach roils again. I fling the note back into the locker and run to the nearest bathroom until classes start.

I hide in one of the stalls like the biggest geek who ever lived. After a few minutes, the bell rings, letting me know I’m late for class, but I don’t move. I stay in the stall for several minutes. At first I worry someone will realize I’m hiding out in here instead of going to history, but after ten minutes, then fifteen, no one is slamming on the bathroom door and I figure I’m safe. Alone and safe.

Still, memories I’d rather forget plague me.

“Hey there, Exquisite,” a man who smelled like cigarettes would ask. All johns are gross, all johns are nasty… This one was the worst of them all.

He never left me alone, always following me around when I was on the street. It got to the point that I had to change my usual tracks to avoid him. He was the violent one, the one…the one I want to forget forever.

Yet it’s his memory that follows me the most.

Even here, he won’t leave me alone.

I force myself back to reality. I’m in school, not in New York. He can’t find me here.

Instead I think of the possible explanations for the note. It’s filled to the brim with possibilities. Whoever left it, if they do know more, why would they tell me first? Why not just shout it out to everyone who would listen?

Maybe they don’t have proof. And without proof, no one would believe them, right?

So instead, they want me to freak out about it and expose myself.

I won’t let that happen. If I could keep myself together while strangers climbed on top of me, a note in my locker won’t get anything out of me.

Eventually the bell rings again, and I realize I was in here for the entire first class. I’m just about ready to pull myself together and get to my next class when a group of girls enter, talking in hushed, panicked tones. The room is filled with the sound of a girl sniffling and huffing. Guess I’m not the only one having a bad day already. I quiet my breathing and hold myself as still as possible. I’ll wait this out.

“Seriously,” one girl says. “Why is Brandon such a jerk all the time?”

I lean forward to look through the crack of my stall, thankful for the distraction, even one as lame as high school girl drama.

“He’s just…” the sniffing girl says between a sob. “He’s horrible!” she says much more adamantly, like it’s the first time she’d admitted it out loud.

“Why don’t you dump him?” I see a redhead rubbing the back of the crying girl.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

No kidding. I’ve been there. Really, who would listen?

The bell rings then, and I realize I’m late again. I can’t hide out in here anymore. Missing one class was dangerous enough, but I can’t have anyone come looking for me.

The girls continue their conversation in whispers, clearly not worried about being late themselves.

I unclick the lock to my stall and take a slow, awkward step toward the sink, hoping they don’t notice my own red eyes and blotchy cheeks. There are three girls surrounding the crying girl, whom I recognize much too quickly.

Marissa. The girl whose boyfriend slept with Jen even though Jen didn’t want to. The popular girl who makes the “uncool” kids’ lives miserable. For one second I think she deserves whatever happened that brought her crying in the bathroom. But then I figure I don’t know her, and I really have no right to judge.

No one deserves to be treated like trash. Boy cheats on her and she’s still with him? Treats her like trash and she’s still with him?

She “can’t” dump him…

There’s definitely more to the story here.

If I were the kind of person to talk to strangers, I’d tell her to hang in there. Eventually, it won’t hurt as much.

It’s none of my business, though, and based on the way the girls stare at me, some shocked I overheard them, one girl horrified, and Marissa…oh, Marissa looks like she’s ready to set my hair on fire.

Yeah, guessing she’s not exactly my biggest fan. I’m probably not in a good position to help her, even if I knew how.

I walk past them without a word and head down the empty hall toward art class, knowing that somehow the note isn’t the only thing that’s going to bite me in the ass.

Chapter Sixteen

I
interrupt Mr. Harkins’s lecture and apologize, then find a seat at my empty table in the back. Jackson sits at the front with another group of kids. He watches as I pass him. I’d like to give him that smile that lets him know I’m okay. But I’m not sure I actually am okay, and I don’t want him to see my face like this.

Mr. Harkins gives me a look and waits until I sit before continuing.

“I expect you’ve all turned in your first-quarter projects,” he says. “If you haven’t, you’re late. See me after class.” He searches the class until his eyes meet mine. “You, Anna, are excused, of course. We have a new project starting today. If you need extra help, just see me any time before or after class.”

He has a few people present their projects, but not everyone. I thought at first it was just the projects with the best technique, but it only takes a few for me to see what’s really going on. Even the ones that aren’t as good are interesting. Different.

Out of the box, as Mr. Harkins often says.

Wow. So they just put some creativity into it and it’s good enough? What must that be like for the students presenting, knowing what they do doesn’t have to be perfect?

Then Mr. Harkins flips on a slide show and teaches a more typical lesson. As the clock ticks closer and closer to the end of the day, I’m disappointed to realize that I won’t get to draw today. I’ll just learn about art history or something. Lame.

He shows us some famous artists who painted some depressing paintings in all blue. Some of them are kind of neat, some just plain old ridiculous. I zone out a few times, but I figure out he wants us to do a project using our emotions. Sad, angry, scared, happy. Pssh, who’s actually happy? And who would want to see it plastered on a canvas?

I bet that’s what everyone in here does to express their emotions and their lives. Pink flowers and clouds and butterflies. I’ll draw a ditch in the inner city, full of trash and used needles. Yeah, that sounds fitting.

Then he starts calling on people and writing down pairs of names.

“Anna, who would you like to work with?”

“With?” I ask, and I can feel my eyes growing wide and my face getting red.

“Yes, this is a group project.”

“I don’t know anyone,” I say quickly.

“I’ll work with her,” I hear someone say. I don’t know who; my mind is kind of fuzzy. As stupid as this is, it’s freaking me out.

Mr. Harkins nods and writes down two names. “Anna” and “Jackson.”

Oh boy.

What the hell am I going to do with Jackson? Not that I don’t want to work with him, but I don’t see how we’re supposed to make something that shows how both of us feel. I’m dark, he’s happy. We have nothing in common.

The bell rings, and I start out of the room before Jackson can talk to me. Maybe I can buy some time.

But he calls to me before I get out of the room.

“It’s you and me, partner,” he says.

I smile. Maybe it’ll show him I’m okay. But really, I’m so nervous I’m shaking.

“I’ll see you later,” I tell him, and then I go into the hallway and escape into the crowd.

I’m running down the steps when someone reaches out their foot, and I trip and crash into three kids in front of me. I roll, not so gracefully, onto the landing between floors.

I wipe the hair from my face and look up to see Marissa, smiling at me with a glare in her eye. Yeah, she totally did that on purpose.

“It’s okay, you’re better off down there. Bitch.”

I blink. What?

I open my mouth to say something, adrenaline pumping. Girlfriend doesn’t know how pissed she just made me.

Someone runs past her and leans down to me. “You okay?” Jackson asks.

I tear my eyes from the nastiest girl I’ve ever seen (which is saying something) to look at the sincere worry in Jackson’s eyes. “I’m fine,” I say.

He stands. “Get a life,” he says to Marissa, and I smile. I don’t need his help, but it’s kind of nice to have it.

“I’d say he was just trying to get in your pants,” Marissa says. “But we all know that’s not true. He wouldn’t know what to do when he got there.”

Jackson’s face gets blood red, which makes me even more furious. It’s one thing to trash-talk me. But him?

I stand, having no idea what I’d say to the girl, but I’m pretty damn close to pulling out my earrings and taking the bitch down with me.

Except she’s already backing away, a smirk on her face, like she knows she’s gotten away with it.

“Coward,” I whisper.

I start after her, but Jackson touches my arm.

“Not worth it,” he says.

I watch as the girl disappears into the crowd, disappointed I’m not following. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t care, wouldn’t listen. But I guess respecting what Jackson wants is more important than making a point.

The crowd disperses, leaving just Jackson and me alone.

“You okay?” he asks me again.

“Fine,” I say. On top of what happened earlier, now what happened with Marissa, my face feels like it’s on fire. I can’t let him see me like this.

“Please talk to me,” he says.

“How can you let her get away with that?”

“Marissa?” He shakes his head. “Waste of time.”

I cross my arms and say nothing. Why do I care? Why do I want to go after her? It’s not like I haven’t been in his exact spot before and done nothing to defend myself. But maybe that’s why I have to be there for him. No one ever stood up for me, and I won’t just stand here and do nothing.

He’s actually proven a damn good friend. I’m just not sure I can handle having a friend like him. A
real
friend.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.

“Oh.” He pauses. “Does that mean you don’t want to do the art project with me?”

“No, it’s not—”

“Because we can go back and tell Mr. Harkins. I’m sure he’d reassign you.”

My stomach drops, but I don’t want him to see my disappointment. He’s taking this the wrong way. It’s not him, it’s me. “Then who would I work with? I don’t know anyone.”

“So then can you forget about Marissa and friends and whatever else is bothering you, and work with me on this? I think it might be fun.” He looks me in the eyes, a hopeful gleam in his.

“Fun?” I roll my eyes, but my stomach gives a new kind of twist, one I kind of like. “Fine, I’ll give it a shot. What do we do?”

“Come to my house after school,” he says. Just like that. As though he’s a normal boy and I’m a normal girl, and there’s nothing more to this.

I try to imagine this boy in New York City. Confident. Self-assured. But too willing to take a chance on people he barely knows. He wouldn’t last a minute.

“We can talk about how we want to do the project,” he says. “We’re so different, so we’ll need to makes some decisions.”

He’s right about that.

“I can’t,” I say, and I think about Marissa saying that about her boyfriend.

“Oh,” he says, and I’m afraid he thinks I’m just blowing him off.

“It’s just… Jen tutors me after school. My last few years…haven’t left me very well off in the school area.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, what about after that?”

I shrug. “She leaves at four.”

He smiles, big and bright, and I almost—almost—smile back.

“’Kay,” he says. “I’ll come to your house, then.”

I nod and do everything in my power to hide that I’m actually excited about it.