Maybe I Will Read online

  I had promised to call Cassie. If I didn’t call her, she’d know something was really wrong. If I call her now, I can just tell her I got sick last night. I’m still not feeling well today. I’ll see her tomorrow at school. Short. Sweet. Just enough to get by. Texting would be even easier. I got my phone and sent the message.

  Only Cassie didn’t text me back. She called me. Immediately. If I didn’t answer, she’d know I was blowing her off. So I answered. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Are you okay?”

  “I threw up last night, but I feel better today. I just want to sleep.”

  “You threw up?” I could almost hear her mind calculating how much I drank from the bottle of schnapps she handed me—which wasn’t much compared to the bottle I drained at home.

  “It wasn’t that,” I said hoping to reassure her.

  “I know,” she said.

  I felt myself panicking. “What do you mean you know?”

  “I mean Aaron told me what happened.”

  No. No way. No words came.

  “And Aaron wanted me to tell you he’s sorry.”

  Aaron’s sorry? Just like that? He sexually assaults me and tells his girl-friend who’s supposed to be one of my best friends in the world, and he’s sorry and what? I’m supposed to say it’s okay, no problem, let’s just all be friends? This isn’t making any sense.

  “Sandy? Are you there?”

  I think I liked it better when we were pretending nothing happened. “I’m here.”

  “It was all a big mistake. When the two of you were wrestling on the floor, Aaron said he all of a sudden thought you were coming on to him and it freaked him out, so he just pinned you, really hard and really fast.”

  I struggled to find my voice first and then to form the words: “He thought I was coming on to him?”

  “I told him that was crazy—you’re not like that. Anyway, he’s sorry if he hurt you or scared you. He didn’t mean it.”

  I came on to him. My fault. His mistake. He’s sorry. He didn’t mean it. I tried to wrap my mind around what she was saying, what Aaron had told her. What I was supposed to say? There was nothing I could say.

  “Sandy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say something.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Anger spontaneously combusted in every cell of my being.

  “Look, I know you and Troy don’t like Aaron. I’m not asking you to like him. Just don’t be mad, okay?”

  “Don’t be mad?” I knew I’d better choose my words carefully. “He … assaults me, and you want me to say I’m not mad?”

  “He didn’t assault you!” Cassie’s frustration was becoming evident. “Maybe he insulted you. But at least he didn’t mean to, and he said he’s sorry. What more do you want? A personal, written apology?”

  “I don’t know what I want,” I said finally. There was a long pause. I wanted to tell her what really happened and what a snake Aaron was, but somehow I knew she wasn’t going to believe me. Her words were still ringing in my ears: He didn’t assault you!

  “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  I felt myself losing Cassie. Not just in this conversation, but really losing her. “Just let me go back to sleep.”

  “Fine. You go back to sleep.”

  “Bye.”

  I could hear her saying, “I hope you feel better . . . ” as I hung up the phone.

  I did not feel better. In fact, I felt decidedly worse with no hope of ever feeling better again. So much for pretending nothing happened. My whole life was suddenly swirling around in the toilet bowl. All that was left was the glug, glug, glug of being washed down the drain and into the sewer forever.

  Aaron might as well have cut out my tongue and cut off my hands. Shakespeare. I pulled out Shakespeare: The Complete Works and started reading The Rape of Lucrece. I was thinking it was a play, but it was a poem, based on a Roman legend. I skimmed through the 22-page poem looking for the part where the rapist cut out his victim’s tongue and cut off her hands so that she could never tell or even write about what had happened to her. It wasn’t there. Instead, Lucrece tells her husband General Collatine what happened, makes his armies promise to avenge her honor, and then stabs herself in the heart.

  I flipped back to the beginning and read the poem all the way through. The rapist was Tarquin. He was the son of the Roman king and a good friend of Collatine’s. It’s all about Tarquin’s lust and Lucrece’s beauty and honor. In the end, though, there’s no real revenge. Lucrece is dead, Tarquin is only banished, and Collatine seems more upset by the loss of his rapist friend than the violation, torture and death of his wife.

  That wasn’t what I was expecting. I felt so confused by everything. One thing for sure: This was definitely a bad omen. Cassie would choose Aaron over me. She already had. Troy hated Aaron, but in the end, he would choose Cassie over me. There was a sense of finality in the realization. It’s a done deal. No matter what I do, I’m bound to lose. I closed the book.

  One line from the poem stayed with me, though, haunting me—taunting me: “Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?” Where is the truth? Can I even trust myself?

  I lay back down on the bed. Never in my life had I felt so lost and all alone. I wasn’t just empty. It felt like I’d swallowed a black hole that was gradually sucking me into its cold, dark nothingness.

  As I lay there, the only thing I could think about was having another drink. Not peppermint schnapps and not as much as I’d had last night, but just the right amount. A comfortable amount— somewhere between relaxed and numb, but nowhere near the head-spinning, gut-wrenching drunkenness. I needed to learn to pace myself better.

  I started thinking about all of the bottles in my parents’ liquor cabinet. Which ones were oldest, which ones were farthest toward the back, which ones were clear like water. Two came to mind. One was a bottle of rum that was at least as old as that bottle of schnapps had been. The other was peppered vodka that my dad had bought for Bloody Mary’s that neither one of them particularly liked.

  Both looked enough like water that I could empty them into water bottles and stash them in my room. Then I could refill the real bottles with water for now. Just a couple of bottles, just to give me some time to sort everything out and find a way through this.

  10

  Oh, unseen shame! Invisible disgrace!

  Oh, unfelt sore! Crest-wounding, private scar!

  —The Rape of Lucrece, Lines 827-828

  “HEY, SANDY,” TROY said as I climbed into the car Monday morning. “What’s shakin’?”

  “Now is the winter of our discontent,” I replied, quoting the first line of Richard III. I positioned my backpack between my feet on the floor in front of my seat.

  “Yeah, well, only three more days ’til spring.” Troy pulled out of my drive and onto the street. “And only three more weeks until spring break!”

  I nodded. “Where’s Cassie?”

  “With Aaron, I guess,” said Troy.

  I nodded again. I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I just stared out the window.

  “Did you guys have a fight or something?” Troy was trying to look cool, but I could tell he was feeling pretty uncomfortable by the way he gripped the steering wheel and avoided looking my way.

  “No,” I replied. “When have the three of us ever fought?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just she’s acting all weird, and you’re all ‘winter’ and ‘discontent.’ I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  I tried to let out a normal, even sigh, but I could feel my insides trembling. I sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold and tried again to release it steadily. Then I said, “Well, if you figure it out, you let me know, okay?

  “Right.”

  He turned up the stereo, and we didn’t say anything else all the way to school. I had taken a shot of the vodka just before I left home and had some more in a water bottle in my backpack. I was really tempted to
take another swallow right there in the car with Troy just to calm my nerves, but I wasn’t sure whether he would be able to smell the pepper in it or even if I could take a swig and make it look like it was only water.

  Fire water. Guaranteed to burn the pain away. Disinfect me. Keep me sterile. Sterile? Not that kind of sterile . . . okay, maybe that kind of sterile, too.

  I admit that I did take a little “shot of courage” over the lunch hour to get me through the afternoon. Then I could stop being Sandy and start being Peter Pan.

  Shanika and I were supposed to be rehearsing together, working on the part where Peter Pan says if he ever gets in trouble, he’ll just send for Tiger Lily, and Tiger Lily says she’ll just send for Peter Pan. I started wondering if maybe Shanika might be willing to help me. She’s a senior and probably knew people over 21 who might buy alcohol for us if we paid them.

  So maybe I seemed more distracted than usual. Maybe I was fixating just a little about where to get some more alcohol because that bottle I brought with me this morning was disappearing too fast, and I couldn’t keep raiding my parents’ liquor cabinet or I’d get caught. But it’s not like I NEEDED the alcohol, not really. I wasn’t addicted or anything. It was just for security purposes. I’d feel better knowing it was there. Just in case. Just in case what?

  “Yo, Peter Pan!” Shanika snapped her fingers at me. “What is up with you today?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “I give up.” I threw my hands up in the air for dramatic effect. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Are you kidding?” She thumped one of the hand drums she was holding. “Pay attention or I’ll stop beating this drum and come beat your sorry little butt. You’re making me look bad.”

  I pushed everything out of my head except Peter Pan and let myself be totally present in Neverland.

  After rehearsal, instead of calling Dad right away to come pick me up, I walked out with Shanika. “I’m really sorry I was so out of it today.”

  “We all have good days and bad days. It’s just the first time I ever saw you have a bad day on stage, you know?” Shanika sat down on a bench in the hallway to change from shoes to flip-flops for taekwondo. “But you came around.” She laughed. “And I didn’t even have to beat your butt!”

  I nodded.

  “I will if I have to, and you better know it!” Shanika raised her eyebrows at me and threw in a little head bobbing for effect.

  I realized there was no way I was going to work up the courage to ask her to buy alcohol for me. Not today, anyway. “Maybe I ought to follow you to taekwondo just so I can learn a few tricks to defend myself.”

  “You can if you want. I’ll be teaching a white belt class, so you could try it out of you’re interested.”

  “Do you really think right in the middle of the spring musical is a good time for me to take up a new hobby?” I asked.

  Shanika laughed. “Up to you, Sandy. Taekwondo relaxes me. At the same time it keeps me feeling strong and focused.” She pulled out her car keys and stood up. “Are you going anywhere spring break?”

  I shook my head and followed her out of the building.

  “You could do the rank-advancement camp that week and go right from white belt to yellow belt just like that.” She snapped her fingers. She talked some more about the different belts and what they mean. When we got to her car, she asked, “So are you going with me, or what?”

  I wanted to. Actually, I just wanted to stand there in the parking lot talking to Shanika forever, but she had to go. And I wasn’t sure I could keep it together long enough to go with her that evening. I really wanted to go home, have a drink, and think this all through.

  “Not tonight,” I said. “But I’ll think about it. Especially the spring break thing.”

  “Up to you,” Shanika said again as she climbed in the driver’s side. She closed the door, rolled down the window and waved. “See you tomorrow!” she called as she drove away.

  I called Dad to come get me as I walked back up to the building. Then I went into the restroom, checked under all the stall doors and when I was absolutely certain there was no one else around, I pulled out the vodka I had left in my water bottle. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to drink it down smoothly like water. I got it down, okay, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from watering. I need more practice. Or maybe I’ll have to cry out the rest of these tears. Not here, though. Not now.

  I splashed cold water in my face and stood over the sink until the water stopped dripping. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Only it wasn’t me that I saw staring back with empty eyes. It was some walking zombie. I reached for a paper towel.

  I look in the mirror.

  Don’t like what I see.

  I don’t want to face this reflection of me.

  The frustration is there. All the loneliness, too.

  I can’t hide it from me.

  Can I hide it from you?

  Dad would be outside any minute. What would he see? What would I say? I pulled a stick of spearmint gum from my backpack and chewed it slowly as I walked out of the building.

  “Feeling better?” Dad asked when I slid into the car.

  I nodded. “I’m just tired.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  I shook my head. “Not very. I just want to take a hot shower and crash.”

  “Probably not a bad idea,” said Dad. “School okay today?”

  I nodded.

  “Rehearsal go okay?”

  I nodded again.

  “Let’s just get you home.”

  When we got home, Mom made sure I didn’t have a fever (I didn’t), and then fed me some white rice and ginger ale before sending me up to shower and go to bed.

  I lay awake until after I heard my parents go to bed. I picked up my phone. No texts from Troy or Cassie. I thought about texting them. I could call a Meeting of the Minds. Get this whole Aaron thing cleared up once and for all. But I couldn’t quite shake Cassie’s words. He didn’t assault you! She had a point. Where were my bruises? It all happened so fast. No blood, no foul. Get over it. Even if Cassie wouldn’t believe me, I could still tell Troy. He hated Aaron. He’d believe me. I could tell Troy.

  But not tonight. Maybe in the morning . . . on the way to school…if Cassie isn’t there. Or maybe not. Maybe if I take a drink first, for courage. I got up and pulled out the rum-filled water bottle. I opened the cap and tried to take a drink the way you would from a real water bottle. I felt my body jerk as I swallowed and kept my mouth shut tight to make sure the rum stayed down. When I finally breathed in, my nostrils were full of pungent, sweet fumes. I took one more swallow. I did much better on the second one.

  That’s enough. You have to pace yourself. It wasn’t until I lay back down in my bed that the tears filled my eyes. They rolled down the sides of my cheeks toward the middle of my ears, but then skirted down around my earlobes and onto my neck before dropping onto my pillow. My nose filled completely up until I had to open my mouth to breathe. I opened my mouth reluctantly, uncertain what sound might escape.

  It was the roar of the ocean—not like when you’re standing right there as the waves crash on the beach, but like when you’re somewhere far away and put a conch shell to your ear. I could cry all night long, but my tears would never drain the ocean dry. High tide. Low tide. High tide. The tears would come and go. Ebb and flow. No matter how hard I cried, they would never really be gone.

  11

  Diseases desperate grown

  By desperate appliance are relieved,

  Or not at all.

  —Hamlet, Act IV, Scene iii, Lines 9-11

  I NEVER INTENDED to steal anything. When I walked into the grocery store the next Saturday, I just wanted to see how much a bottle of vodka would cost. I needed to know so when I worked up the courage to ask someone to buy it for me, I’d know what to expect. There was no one watching. I reached out and picked it up. I walked away from the liquo
r aisle in search of a less conspicuous place to inspect the bottle more closely. But then I was afraid someone would see me carrying the bottle, so I slipped it into my backpack.

  I really was going to put it back. I walked around the store for several minutes looking for an opportunity, but it was just too risky. I went to the candy aisle and selected a multi-pack of gum. I held my breath as I paid for the gum and felt a surge of adrenaline when I walked out of the store. I just kept walking, never looking back. It was way too easy. So I tried another grocery store several days later. Then another. I didn’t like taking the bottles without paying for them. I wanted to pay for them so it wouldn’t be stealing, but that wasn’t an option. At least not until I found someone I could trust to buy a bottle for me.

  I always bought something while I was in the store. In fact, I started buying Nyquil because it had quite a bit of alcohol in it. But it was loaded with other stuff, too, so I wasn’t sure how much I could drink without accidently overdosing on it. Vodka felt so much safer and more effective.

  I totally avoided Cassie and Aaron. Aside from Troy and Shanika, nobody at school seemed to notice anything. My parents knew something was up, though. Mom checked my temperature daily, and Dad kept asking me if I was hungry. Finally, the week before spring break they sat me down in the living room and asked me what was going on.

  “We’re really worried about you, Sandy,” Mom said. “You just haven’t been yourself since you had that bout with the flu two weeks ago.”

  I felt my throat tighten as panic shot from my stomach out through my fingers and down to my toes. I shrugged my shoulders and swallowed hard. “I’m just feeling tired, that’s all.”

  “But you go to bed early every night,” Dad said. “And you’re sleeping in later, too.”

  “And you still don’t seem to have your appetite back,” Mom said. “I keep thinking you might have mono, but you haven’t had a fever at all.”