The Way I Used to Be (11 page)

I slide toward him slowly. He leans in. I close my eyes. It's too intense, too frightening to watch. I feel his lips press against mine. He's kissing me. I try to let him, try not to think of the last time a boy's mouth was on my mouth. I try to kiss back like this isn't my first kiss. Because I have never been kissed, not really.

I force myself to kiss him back, kiss him back with everything I have in me. Because I can. I can. I can do this. Before I even know how he does it, he's somehow managed to lower me down onto the bed and I'm on my back. He drapes his leg over mine, nimbly shifting his weight; his body slides in right next to mine. But just when I start to feel like this might really be okay, like this might actually have the potential to feel something other than terrifying, I feel his fingers trail down my neck. My stomach clenches because I can't forget the fact of the matter, that the last time a boy had his hands on my neck he was choking me.

Normal, be normal
, I tell myself.
This is different.

But his hand on my thigh—I go rigid. Can't get the thing out of my mind because he could—so what if he has chocolate eyes or an aquiline nose or a magnetic smile—technically, he could do it, could do anything he wanted, and I wouldn't be strong enough to stop him and no one would even know because we're here all alone and how the hell did I get here again? What was I thinking? His hand moves farther up my thigh; my dress slides up even more. I want to push him off me, I want to run. My heart is just pounding, banging, slamming behind my ribs. He pulls his mouth away and looks at my face. I try not to look scared. But I freeze.

“What's wrong?” he asks quietly. “You want me to stop?”

I can't say yes, but I can't say no, either. I close my eyes, trying to find the words. But the instant I do, I'm back there. With Kevin. Kevin holding my arms down against the bed. And his hands, his fingers like dull knives slowly carving their way down to the bone. The more I tried to get away, the more he had me. I couldn't believe how strong he was. How weak I was.

I open my eyes. I'm barely breathing. Too much time has passed. It's something worse than silence, this quiet. I know I need to say something, but I don't know what. So I just look up at the ceiling and breathe the words, “I have to go,” too quietly for him to even hear.

“What?”

“I don't know,” I whisper. Because I
don't
know—I don't know anything right now.

“No—I—I know,” he breathes. But as I raise my head to look at his face, he doesn't look like he knows or understands—he looks as confused as I am. His fingers move through my hair as he leans in to kiss me again.

“I really, um—” I start to say, pushing my hands against his chest. “I have to go.” But my hands do nothing. They can't move him. They can't even budge him an inch. “I have to go!” I shout this time. His eyes widen as he shifts his weight off me. I sit up fast and move to the edge of the bed.

He catches my arm and pulls me back. “Wait—”

“What—” My voice is too sharp, but I can't help it. My instincts tell me that I should start screaming, start hitting him. That I should saw-cut-gnaw the arm he's holding off my own body if it means getting away. But then again, my instincts are kind of fucked up now, so I adjust my tone and try again, more calmly. “What?”

“Nothing, just—what's going on, why do you have to go?” I look down at his hand, still holding on to my arm, and he lets go. “I thought we were going to—”

“Thought we were going to
what?
” I interrupt, feeling my eyes widen.

“Nothing—not that!” he says quickly. “I thought we were going to go out—go do something. I just thought we had time. I'm just confused. One second you're into it, the next you're leaving? I mean, did I do something?” he asks, talking fast.

I watch him closely. I don't even know how to answer him.
Did
he do something? Or is this just normal? Is this just what people do? My thoughts are spinning. I don't know what I feel, or think, or want.

“You're the one who wanted to come here,” he says, but not in an unkind way, like he's truly reminding me of that fact.

“I changed my mind, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, like it really is okay.

We both sit there next to each other at the end of his bed. I straighten out my dress. He adjusts his shirt. And then it's that horrible silence again. I look out his bedroom window. The sun is beginning to set. “I think I should go.”

“Right here's good,” I tell him as we approach the corner of my street. He stops the car and looks around, confused.

“Where's your house?”

“Just over there. This is fine.”

He pulls in close to the curb and turns the headlights off. “So, are we cool?” he asks.

“Yeah. I think so.”

He nods. “Okay. Well, even though I don't really consider this an actual date, since we didn't technically go anywhere . . . can I still kiss you good night?” he asks with that smile.

I look around quickly to make sure there's no one around. When I turn my head back, he's already there, leaning in. He kisses me, just once, softly.

“Tomorrow night,” he begins, “you know, we have that big away game. But after, there's gonna be this party. Do you wanna go?”

“I don't think so.” I can imagine all his friends pointing and whispering, those pretty girls from the bathroom laughing. Josh, a witness. Or worse, a participant.

“Why not?” he asks, offended. This is, after all, a highly coveted invitation; I am being given a chance to rub elbows with kings and queens of proms and homecomings past and future. And I, just a lowly mortal peasant, have the gall to turn him down.

“Because I don't”—how to say it, though—“I don't want to be your girlfriend.”

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, stifles a laugh.

Apparently, not that way.

He looks straight ahead for a few seconds, then turns to me in the passenger seat. “Ohh-kaay,” he says slowly, the way he did that day in the hall a year earlier, when I was still just invisible Mousegirl. “I didn't ask you to be my girlfriend; I just asked if you wanted to go to this party.”

“Well, I don't.” There's this authority in my voice I never knew I possessed.

“Fine.” He tries to act nonchalant. I keep my eyes on the dashboard. The clock changes from 6:51 to 6:52. “So, this is it then?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.” So cool. So calm. So collected. How am I doing it?

“I'm sorry, I don't—I don't get you. What exactly are we doing, then?” he asks, an edge of irritation in his voice.

“I don't know. Couldn't we just get together sometimes—just, you know, keep it casual?” I ask him, the words flowing from my mouth like they actually belong to me.

He looks skeptical as he takes a few moments to consider. “I think that's probably the strangest thing a girl has ever said to me. You really don't want to go to this thing with me tomorrow night?” he asks again, unable to understand. “It wouldn't have to mean anything.”

“Look, I'm not going to argue about it. If you don't want to see me again, that's fine, okay? But if you do, then this is the way it's going to be. The way it is, I mean.”

He inhales through his nose, exhales slowly through his mouth. I sigh loudly. Feign impatience, fingers tickling the handle, ready to open the door and bolt. “I don't know,” he finally says, hesitantly.

I leave without another word. I know he's watching me as I walk toward my house. I make sure I don't turn around until I hear the engine fade into the silence surrounding me. I look—nothing but two red taillights glowing in the distance.

BY MONDAY I START
to notice something about the way people are looking at me. Like the world has suddenly divided into two distinct camps. The first is the one I'm used to, the one where no one knows I'm alive. But then there's this other faction emerging, one that throws looks of every type my way: disgust, pity, intrigue. I'm not sure if it's because of the graffiti or if it's due to the public departure with Josh on Friday. Or both.

But not here in the library.

Here, I'm safe. With all the subjects and letters and numbers to keep things in order: philosophy, social sciences, languages, technology, literature, A-B-C-D, point one, point two, point one-two, point three. It all makes so much sense, there's no room for mistakes or misunderstandings.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly standing with me in the narrow aisle.

I jump, nearly dropping the book I'm holding. “You scared me!” I whisper.

“Again,” he says with a grin. “Sorry.” He stands really still, like he's afraid to come any closer. “Still mad at me?” he asks.

“You're the one who was mad, not me.” Though, that's not completely the truth either.

“I was never mad. Just confused.”

I want to tell him I was confused too. I want to tell him how happy I am to see him, how thankful I am he's not looking at me the way everyone else has been looking at me today. But I can't admit that. I have to be sure and strong and solid because there's something about him—I don't know what, exactly—that makes me want, so badly, to be vulnerable.

“Look, can we just start over?” he asks.

If anyone is going to be allowed to start over, it would be me, and I would start over at that night in my bedroom. But since that's not possible, I tell him, “No, not really.”

He looks down at his hands like he actually feels bad, or upset, or disappointed, or something. “Right,” he whispers, turning to leave.

“But we can just—” I touch his arm. He turns back. “Continue. Can't we?” I finish.

He takes a step toward me, this new light in his eyes. “Yeah, I think we can.”

I nod. And I smile to myself. Because I just fixed this—me.

“Does this mean we're on a phone number basis?” he asks.

“I guess so,” I say with a laugh.

He laughs too, as he takes his phone out. I recite my number to him, never wanting this moment—him standing close to me like this, smiling—to end.

Since we are now on a phone number basis, I decide it's time to lay down some ground rules when he calls me to invite me over later that night.

“Before I come over again, I just want to make sure you really understand that this isn't going to be like a boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear before.”

“I mean, we're not going to go out on dates or anything like that. I don't want to be introduced to your friends. I don't want to go parading down the halls holding hands or having you wait for me by my locker. I'm definitely not going to be the girl cheering you on from the sidelines at your basketball games.”

“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel real special, don't you?” he says, a trace of a laugh behind his voice.

“It's not about you,” I tell him, and I can't believe how utterly selfish I sound—how utterly selfish I
am
.

“Ooh-kaay. Anything else?”

“And I never, ever, ever want to meet your parents.”

“Well, that's one thing we can agree on.”

“Oh.” Wow, that stings. I guess that's a taste of how I must be making him feel.

“It's not about you,” he mimics, pointedly.

“Okay.”

There's a pause.

“Eden, how are old are you?”

“Why?”

“I don't know, just wondering. It's hard to tell. You seem—” He stops himself from finishing.

“I seem what?”

“You seem . . . I don't know. This all feels either really mature or completely the opposite.”

“Do you really think calling me immature is going to help you in any way?” I laugh. “I'm almost amused. Or completely offended—it's hard to tell.”

“No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying!” He backpedals. “I'm actually saying you seem mature.”