Scars (15 page)

“You two together?” the man asks, tapping his forefingers together and grinning.

“Just leave us alone, okay?” I say.

“And go screw yourself!” Meghan yells, giving him the bird.

The man holds his hands up mockingly in surrender, then staggers off.

I shiver. “I don’t feel like hanging around here any more. You want to go to my place?”

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

When Meghan and I walk in together, Mom sucks in her lips so far they almost disappear. Then she straightens up, puts on her politician smile, and reaches out to shake Meghan’s hand. Meghan awkwardly responds.

I don’t think I can hold it together much longer; I feel like shit. Taking Meghan’s arm, I point her toward the hall. “We’re going to my room,” I say.

“To do some studying,” Meghan adds. Funny girl.

We walk down the hall together, Meghan supporting me without making it look like that’s what she’s doing, and I close the door behind us.

Meghan looks around slowly. I can see her taking it all in—the organized jumble of paints and brushes, pastels and charcoal on my desk, half covered by rags; the clothes hanging over the back of my chair; the crooked pottery on my windowsill. She doesn’t comment on the framed Escher drawings on my walls; the rows and rows of books and CDs on my shelves; my laptop sitting open on the floor; or the tangled sheets on my bed, with my childhood stuffed bunny poking out beneath the covers.

“Sorry about the mess,” I say, flinging the sheets over the top of the bunny.

“You kiddin’? This is neat, compared to my room.” She keeps looking around, as if my room fascinates her.

My legs start to tremble again, and I sink down onto my bed.

Meghan turns to me, as if she can sense how I’m feeling. “I’m not leaving you alone with this. You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m all right.”

Meghan sits down next to me and puts her hand on my thigh. “No, you’re not.” She blows out her breath. “Damn it!”

“What?”

“I’m just so angry at what he did to you—at what he’s still doing to you—”

“He’s not hurting me any more!”

Meghan’s eyes fill with tears. “Yes, he is. You know he is. Through what he taught you. And it’s driving me crazy to see you hurting this bad. I like you a lot—but I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this.”

I draw back. “Sarah wasn’t.”

“I used to see the two of you together all the time. You were so wrapped up in each other, there wasn’t room for anyone else.”

“She was my first girlfriend.”

Meghan waggles her eyebrows up and down. “So the rumors are true.”

“I don’t know. It depends on what you heard.”

Meghan reaches for my hand, strokes my skin. “That
you and Sarah were an item. That someone caught the two of you kissing … ”

“Right so far.”

Meghan hesitates. She lowers her voice. “And then she turned on you, completely flipped out. She told everybody you’d forced her to kiss you, that you’d come on to her.”

I close my eyes against the words, then open them again. A few weeks ago, I would have been crying by now. But things have changed. A lot has. “Right again.”

“And then she transferred out of school.”

“And cut off all contact with me. Refused to answer my calls, texts, or e-mails. Said she’d get a restraining order if I kept harassing her.”

“What a bitch!”

I shake my head. “She was just scared. I was, too. I mean, our school’s full of homophobia. And she did try to stick it out. Maybe if people hadn’t put up posters of us all over the halls or if they hadn’t trashed her locker, things might’ve been different.”

“Kendra, you are way too kind to her, after the way she treated you.”

I shrug.
I don’t know why I’m not more upset. Maybe it’s because Meghan is here with me and I know that she likes me. Or maybe it’s because I’m so full of pain that I can’t feel any more.
“It took me a while, but I think I’m over her. I started being over her the day I met you.”

Meghan smiles. “I noticed you the first year of high school. I wanted to get to know you better. Wanted to—” She licks her lips. “Get to know you
much
better. But I figured you weren’t a free woman.”

She noticed me! My heart flutters.

Meghan’s eyes darken. Her hand tightens on mine. “I won’t ever do what Sarah did to you; I promise. I don’t care what people say.”

“I know.” I try to smile.

“You’re still feeling rotten, aren’t you? Because of what that bastard did to you. I can see it in your eyes.”

If this was anybody else, I’d be out the door by now. But I’m so drawn to her; I want to be with her, even as I want to run. “I know I’m not good company right now, but would you stay for a while? Would you … hold me?”

Meghan wraps her arms around me. I breathe in her scent, relax against her. Her hand moves slowly across my back.

“Are you doing this because you want to?” I ask.

Meghan jerks away from me, her face flushed. “Goddamn it! I was trying to comfort you—”

“Because you feel sorry for me?”

“No! Because I think I love you! And I thought I could make you feel better, and then I just wanted to touch you.”

I pull her back to me, press her close. This is the first time someone has touched me that I haven’t felt
his
hands on me instead. The first time it’s actually felt beautiful. Maybe he’s finally lost his power over me.

The side door slams. “I’m home!” Dad calls.

Meghan and I jerk apart. For a second, her eyes are wide and startled, and then she grins and says, “When can I see you again?”

I laugh. “Tomorrow,” I say.

I miss her already, and it’s only been a half hour. I keep reliving our time together, savoring it. I try not to think about the package he sent. Every time I do, I want to cut again. It’s crazy.

Dad’s heavy footsteps start down the hall toward me. I rush to straighten the covers on my bed. Dad stands in my doorway, looking at me. “You weren’t around much, today,” he says.

“No….”

“Your mom says you were out with a new friend. And you brought her home afterward.”

Don’t they have anything to do but talk about me?
“Yeah. Meghan.”

“Meghan.” Dad hesitates, starts jingling the change in his pocket.

I want to laugh. “It’s okay, Dad. Yes, I like her, and yes, she’s my girlfriend.”

Red creeps up Dad’s neck and into his cheeks. “Good. That’s all we want, your mom and I. We want you to be happy.”

“
You
do. I’m not sure Mom does.”

“You don’t give her enough credit. She loves you, Kendra. She just doesn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Meghan’s not going to hurt me.”

“I didn’t say she would.” Dad sighs and sits down heavily on my bed. “I want to protect you from the world— from heartbreak, from people’s prejudices. That’s what
every parent wants. But I can’t always do that. And some things are worth the risk.” He looks at me. “Are you happy with this girl?”

“Yes, I think so,” I say.

“Then that’s what matters.” Dad kisses my forehead. “Sleep well, Kendra.” He walks back down the hall. I hear him go down the stairs, hear the TV turn on, the canned laughter pouring out. I rub my face. We don’t spend much time together any more, not like we used to. I think he misses it.

My cell phone rings—Carolyn’s ring tone. I flip open my cell. “Carolyn?” I get up to close my door.

“Kendra! I’m sorry I missed your call. I just heard your message, and you sounded really shaken. How are you doing?”

“Okay. Better now, I think. Way better than when I called you. But it was bad today. Really bad.”
The handkerchief falling to the floor. His hand, gripping my wrist.

“What happened?” she asks. “Do you want to talk about it?” The caring in her voice is so real, I want to tell her everything. But my arm throbs like a warning. “Kendra?” Carolyn says. “You said in your voicemail that he sent you another message?”

“Yeah, he—I—” I see the package again, the white handkerchief and the palette knife against the red tissue paper, like a sea of blood—

The desire to cut comes over me, gripping me fiercely. I close my eyes.

“Kendra? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No one will ever believe you.”

I’m crying suddenly, a deep, panicked sobbing that I can’t control. “Hang on,” I gasp and dash into the bathroom, locking the door. I turn the faucets on full blast.

“Can you still hear me?” I manage to get out between sobs.

“I hear you. Tell me what happened.”

“He—he was trying to silence me again. And it affected me so badly, Carolyn.”

“How?”

“I—” But I can’t tell her about the cutting. I can’t. Panic rips at my chest with sharp claws.

“Kendra?”

I wipe my eyes. “I just—I need to know that you’re not going anywhere. That you’re going to stick around, no matter what I tell you.”

“I promise I’ll be here for you as long as you need me,” Carolyn says. “Whatever it is, Kendra, I can hear it.”

Some of the panic recedes. I take a shaky breath, then another, the sobs fading away. I breathe out slowly, trying to keep myself calm.

I want to tell her so bad, it’s a fight to keep the words in. But I just can’t tell her about the cutting. His threat, yes. The memory—or parts of it. And Meghan; I can tell her about Meghan. But I can’t go into that now. I can’t let my parents see me like this. I wipe my cheeks. “I’ll tell you Monday, when I see you.”

“Are you going to be all right tonight and tomorrow? Until your appointment?”

“Yeah.” I shut off the running water. I feel calmer, now. Safer. Even my arm doesn’t hurt as much. It helps to know
Carolyn cares. And it helps to know that I won’t have to hold on to everything all by myself.

She’ll help me sort it out—whatever I tell her.

I’m dreaming of Meghan, and I feel so happy. Then her eyes widen, and I follow her gaze to see
him
watching us from the shadows
.

His hand grips my shoulder.
I’m screaming before I open my eyes, knocking his hand away, still half in the dream. My head is muddled.

“Kendra! It’s only me. Wake up, honey,” Dad is saying.

I shudder and sit up.
It’s Dad. Just Dad.
I struggle to breathe.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Dad says, his voice strained.

“It’s okay.” I rub my face, trying to collect myself. My arm throbs with pain, and I look down to see rust-colored stains on the sleeve of my nightshirt. I lean back on my arm to hide it, trying to look relaxed. “You wanted something?”

“I wondered if you wanted to go to Sunday school with me this morning. I’ve been telling the kids about you, about what a good artist you are, and they’d love to meet you.”

This again.
I grit my teeth. “Not today, Dad.”
Why can’t I tell him “Not ever”?

Dad looks closer at me. “You okay, kitten? You look really washed out.”

“I’m fine.” My arm hurts really badly now, but I can’t let him see it.

Dad hesitates. “You sure?”

“I’m sure!”
Just go away.

Dad straightens up. “All right. Maybe next week.”

I wait for a whole minute after he leaves, then I push my sleeve up, unwrap the bandage, and pull off the pads. My arm feels hot under my fingers; the skin around the new wounds is puffy and red. Some of the cuts are oozing yellow pus.

I swallow. I’ve never seen my arm like this before. I gingerly pull my sleeve back down and stumble to the bathroom.

“You up, Kendra?” Mom calls.

“In a minute!”

I rifle through the medicine cabinet. I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I see it—a brown plastic bottle labeled “Hydrogen Peroxide”. I have a vague memory of Mom pouring it on my skinned knees when I was little. I uncap the bottle and pour it liberally over my arm; it bubbles and foams up, then disappears down the drain.

“Kendra?” Mom’s footsteps click down the hall.

“Coming!” I dash into my room and yank another shirt over the stained one.

Mom comes in. “Your dad thinks you’re not feeling well.”

“I’m fine.”
How many times do I have to say that before they’ll leave me alone?

Mom’s all dressed up in her best clothes, wearing her makeup, jewelry, and perfume, so she can go to church and pretend that everything’s okay.

“Are you coming with us this morning?”

I clench my fists. “Why do you ask me every Sunday? You know I don’t go any more.”

“It hurts your dad. How do you think it looks, him being a Sunday school teacher and you not even showing up? It’s not his fault some man hurt you.”

“It’s not like I’d go to his class if I went. I’m not a kindergartner any more. Besides, where was God when I was being abused?”

Mom sighs. “I don’t have an answer for that—except I’m sure it hurt Him to watch.”

He, she, it—if God really exists. I don’t want to be having this discussion.
“You just want me there so you can look good. I’ll bet you haven’t told anyone about Dad’s job.”
Or about the sexual abuse.

“You’re right, Kendra, I haven’t. They’re not those kinds of friends. And I don’t believe in airing our dirty laundry in public.”