B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

Wanda: “That’s great, Luce.”

Sara: “How are we getting to your house?”

Morgan: “Benny was heartbroken?”

I calmed them down and answered their questions and concerns one at time, press conference style.

“Because I’m not an animal; thanks, Wanda; your parents or your Huffys, and yes.”

Daphne looked disappointed, Wanda pleased, Sara unhappy, and Morgan besotted. We launched into more detailed plans almost immediately. Daphne had a new hat she wanted to give a spin, and Sara had a brand new dress. It looked like me and Wanda were just going to have to mix and match something from the collection. Granted, that meant Wanda was going to have to mix and match something from my collection, because her clothes, in general, were sad. They made me sad.

Morgan sat through our excitement as best as she could. I wanted to shut up, watching her smile and nod gracefully. Her grounding had been finalized because of the attempted sneak out—when I asked her about her prison sentence, she had laughed and considered it more likely that she’d be crushed by a spaceship than set free. Her mother had explained, in no uncertain terms, that she better get used to the couch, the fridge, and the vast lands between.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” Morgan said, the smile she flashed me was devoid of amusement. “I think that’s the point.”

I groaned, slipped my chin into my hands, and lost myself in the Daphne/Sara chatter. Wanda, strangely quiet, twirled her hair, listening to me and Morgan verbally spar. I did battle with Morgan’s self-pity—but no matter what I said, every attempt ended the same way:

“Morgan,” I’d say. “Your parents won’t ground you forever,” or

“Morgan, your mom is just freaked out,” or

“Maybe you can talk to her and change her mind.”

It didn’t matter. She had her stock response, and she wasn’t diverting.

“I’m screwed, Lucy. I’m screwed.”

Eventually I gave up and lapsed into furtive silence, punctuated only by little comments to Sara and Daphne about their hair-do plans or their worries about the party.

I was looking forward to Spanish, namely the Spanish-time with Zack, but it just wasn’t going to happen. When I walked into class one of Ms. Crane’s messengers was already in my class. It looked like Seńor Halloway was giving the messenger guff about my frequent absences. It made me smile, to be honest—Halloway may have harassed me and Zack daily, but he was a good teacher, and a nice guy.

When he looked up, his face crinkled. He gestured the messenger in my general direction and sat down with a loud huff behind his desk. I smiled and mouthed “ thank you, ” to him, but he just seemed confused. The messenger handed me my obligatory note, and I went to see Ms. Crane.

As usual, she was in her black leather chair, her right side facing the window, her eyes to the wall across from her, her hands tangled across her expansive lap. It would have been a nervous posture, save the look on her face—stony. Almost cold, but in a comforting, hard to explain way.

I sat down in my usual chair, trying to relax, preparing for questions about my first dog or my favorite teacher. She spoke in her fluid but all-business tone.

“Were you raped last week, Lucy?”

I didn’t even sit up. My muscles hardened, locking me in a lazy slouch—a slacker statue. Rodin’s Daydreamer . My jaw clicked as my mouth moved, but nothing resembling words squeaked out. I’d been asked the question, more or less, but not in those words. I struggled to find an answer.

“Don’t rush,” Ms. Crane said, still not looking at me. She looked the part of the daydreamer as well. “I just have a feeling no one has put that question to you so…nakedly.”

I shook my head. Apparently my muscle control was returning.

“I’ve been asked, yeah…”

Crane’s eyebrows arched slightly.

“By who?”

I cleared my throat, “Officer Sykes.”

Crane nodded again, and it came with a smug smile. As if I’d provided the answer she’d been looking for. After a moment, she turned toward me.

“So just a police officer…and your guidance counselor?”

I stiffened, and this time it wasn’t surprise. I felt a jet of anger—my fingers curled around the armrests of my chair. She noticed it all right, but she didn’t look particularly stunned. I knew her accusation already.

“My parents are—”

She cut me off. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” I said. I could feel the raw nerves making my voice shake—I wasn’t used to blowing up on adults, much less an adult/semi-teacher. “ You don’t. My parents are good parents. My friends are great. Just because they don’t—”

“Wait,” she said, her face still a mask of calm. “Wait. That’s not what I’m saying.”

My breath came in gasps. Leaning forward in the chair, with my lips parted, I could taste her. I could smell her perfume, something light but flowery, but more importantly I could feel her. A dull warmth baking off her. I caught a glimpse of something—a young man, clean-shaven, handsome, his face edged in the dark orange glow of firelight. I took another deep breath, and the image became clearer. I saw what she must have seen—the blurry shape of a hand moving too fast, then a shock of white light.

I closed my lips and leaned back in horror. I tried to purge the stolen thoughts, tried to vomit them out. They wouldn’t go. I was her in the image, I realized. Being violated in first-person perspective. My skin crawled, and I felt the very real urge to lose my lunch.

She took the look of horror on my face the wrong way, I realized. Her face softened, and she leaned forward to put a hand on my wrist. I allowed it, only because I was too shocked to think.

“I’m just saying that you need to share, Ms. Day,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “You have to talk about it to get past it. To overcome it.”

I shook my head—my emotions were a tangled mess. She’d been attacked, sometime in college, I think. Her sense of panic, of stark terror and helplessness…I could think of nothing but the sickly yellow glow of the parking lot. The guys backing me into an alley, cornering me. Laughing. Making fun of me. I thought of the little bald one with his gun, so self-satisfied and yet nervous. A newborn monster, excited and scared and hungry all at once.

I stood up and yanked my hand away.

“Please…I…” I said, skirting towards the door. “I have to go.”

Her face changed—went from sympathetic to…what? Angry? It was a hard look to read. Almost offensive. She ran a hand over her cheek and finally nodded with a tired look.

“All right, Ms. Day,” she said. “But we’ll be here on Monday, you understand?”

I didn’t care. I just had to go. I grabbed the door handle like it was a life-preserver in a hurricane and yanked. Ms. Crane said one last thing, but I didn’t hear it before I slammed the door behind me. I tucked my arms tight to my body and almost ran through the counseling center. Outside, I sprinted for the parking lot at full speed.

I made it just to the gate near the gym when I heard footsteps pounding the grass behind me. Terror spiked my belly, and I picked up speed. The person was faster than me. Stronger too. My pursuer caught me in moments and scooped me up in powerful arms.

I kicked and struggled, but he turned me around like I didn’t weigh a thing. I looked into cool blue eyes. Zack looked down at me, his face a map of confusion and worry. I struggled to break out of his grip, but there was no use. I wasn’t small or short, but Zack was still positively huge in comparison.

He couldn’t see me like this, but he wouldn’t let me go.