Exposed (6 page)

Priorities

I should be sound asleep,
dreaming of Brian
sailing me away to Tahiti.

Instead, I’m staring at the ceiling
imagining my parents at the police station—
warped scenes from
Law & Order
playing out in my head—
worrying about my brother,
hating Kate for pressing charges,
and missing my forever-best friend.

Almost Morning

They speak in hushed tones.
They think I’m sleeping.
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” he says.

Bedsprings creak, and I picture my mother
propping her back up against the headboard.
“Why would she say such things?”
“Shhh,” says Dad, “lower your voice.”

But my mother,
the lady with a kind word for everyone,
Kate’s second-biggest fan,
doesn’t lower her voice one bit
when she calls Kate a bitch.

Bad Dream, Bad Girl

I’m screaming at Mike.
Why did you go there?
Why did you go there?

He squints at me
as if I’m asking
the dumbest question on earth,
and tells me he went there
because I told him to.

My eyes shoot open
and I remember the last words
I spoke to him before he took off:
Try telling that to Kate
.

Unspoken Concern

What was it like
to spend the night in jail?
Was it dirty?
Did you sleep?
Were you scared?

I can’t bring myself
to ask these questions
as he comes through the door.

But I wonder.

Wants

Brian hurries to wipe grease from his hands
as soon as he sees me walk
into the diner.

I don’t know what I look like
but my look
has him concerned enough
to tell his dad he needs to take his break
now
at the height of Sunday brunch.

He tries to usher me
into a booth
but I shake my head and walk outside.
He follows.

“Mike spent the night in jail.
Kate pressed charges.”

“Holy shit!”
His hands fly up to hold the sides of his head
and I can see dried ketchup stuck to his elbow.

“I can’t believe this,” I say.

“Neither can I,” he says,
looking at his dad peering out
the glass door of the diner, tapping his watch.
“I don’t think I can get off right now.”

“It’s okay,” I say,
wanting to be by myself—
wanting him
to not let me be alone.

Something to Cling To

Nothing is steady
except for the feeling
of my camera in my hand.

Then and Now

I spent the first semester last year
trying to figure out
how to adjust the camera settings
to get the right exposure,
how to make a test strip,
a contact sheet,
how to develop and enlarge a print.
I never thought it would make sense
and debated dropping out of class.

But now my fingers move
over the controls
and my brain knows—
because of the amount of light,
the film speed, the type of picture I want to take—
exactly what I need to do.

Working with
my manual camera
has become
automatic.

No Escape

Every spot I find to take photos
is a memory.

The park
across from Shoreview Heights Beach
where Mike played ball—
me and Kate watching the games
from nearby swings.

The beach
where Kate and I sunned and swam.
She, a graceful dolphin.
Me, splashing around like someone
in need of a lifeguard.

I force myself to focus on the smaller picture—
the diamond pattern
in the rusting chain-link backstop
behind home plate—
the stones of the jetty,
snails clinging,
to avoid being sucked out to sea.

Ouch

I’m laying on my bed, lights out,
facing the wall
when Mom comes in and sits beside me.
I feel her warm hand on my back.

“Sweetie, I know this is hard for you.
I don’t like the idea of Mike having sex with Kate
but that’s what happened.
Mike would never force her.
Guilt can do ugly things to people
and it’s done ugly things to Kate.”
My back stiffens, but I don’t turn to face her.
“I don’t think you should talk to Kate anymore,
but if you do”—
and she says it like I should—
“tell her that it’s not too late to take it all back.
It’s not too late to make it go away.”
She kisses the back of my head before she leaves.

My mother has pinned
all her hopes on me.
And I can’t pull out
the pins.

Monday Morning

Instead of being back at Millbrook
in faded jeans and sneakers,
Mike’s got on his navy blazer.

Dad’s wearing a dark gray suit
and Mom’s in lavender linen,
their faces tightly pressed,
as they head to the courthouse
where my brother will be charged.

I watch them go
from my bedroom window,
in my wrinkled cotton pj’s,
skipping school because I feel like crap.

Physical or psychological?
Who gives a shit.

I’m staying right here.

Knowing

Brian calls at noon and tells me
it’s a good thing I stayed home.
“They’re talking about it, babe.”

I hang up the phone and cry,
because knowing they would
doesn’t make
knowing they are
any easier.

Gotcha

I imagine
being downstairs that night
in my secret space,
door ajar just enough
for me to lean out
slightly to the left
and catch a glimpse
of what’s happening
on the pullout couch
camera raised
shot taken
indisputable handheld truth.

Feet

I’m back in bed an hour later
looking at a photo
of the soles of Kate’s feet.
I took it last spring
for an assignment:
Take a picture that represents Work
.

Kate agreed
only after I promised
not to tell anyone the feet belonged
to her.

There’s work in these feet.
Old work: a rough callus
on the ball of her left foot.
New work: a blister,
shiny and exposed
on the tip of her right pinky toe.

Soft blur of the background
highlighting the hard work
of strong, solid feet.

If I can convince Kate
to let me take pictures of her sweating,
to let me take pictures of her feet,
I can convince Kate
to do
anything.

Monday Afternoon at the Dance Express

I’m in the parking lot
imagining her
trying to lose herself
in the sway of the music,
in the movement of her limbs.

I wait a bit for the dancers to clear.
Some say, “Hi, Liz,”
thinking, I’m sure,
that I’m here, as usual,
to meet up with my best friend.

And each simple greeting
is like the scraping of a fingernail
against a fresh scab.

Convincing Kate

When Kate comes out
I beg her to talk to me,
beg her to drop the charges.
She shakes her head, tells me she can’t,
kicks a pebble with her sneaker.

When I ask her if she can’t or she won’t
she leans against the brick wall of the building,
bites her lower lip, and tells me I should go.

When I scream, “Mike says it was just sex!”
she throws her black nylon dance bag
onto the ground
and gets right up in my face.

“Just sex?” she says.
“Just
sex
?”

Those two words and
the dam
breaks.

She Says

She says she was sleeping on the couch
and woke up when he came in
and they talked for a while
and then he kissed her
and she didn’t mind
even though he had beer on his breath.

She says he said,
“Hey, you’re beautiful.”

She says he got on top of her
and she told him to get off
but he wouldn’t move
so she told him she’d yell
if he didn’t get off of her
now
and she was sure he would
but he didn’t and she says it again,
“But he didn’t.”

She says that instead he said,
“Shhh, Katie. You’re so beautiful.”

She says he took the throw pillow
with the pink and yellow flowers
from under her head and put it over her face.

She says he said,
“We’re just having fun.”

She says the pillow smelled musty and it was hard to breathe
and one arm was pressed between her body and the couch and
she hit him and tried to scratch him on the back with her
other hand but he grabbed it and pushed it under her body
and she thought her shoulder would pop and he rubbed his
hands all over her.

She says he said,
“Nice, Katie.”

She says she tried to scream again and he pressed the pillow
harder and grabbed at her sweatpants and her underwear
and got them down below her knees and he felt so heavy and she
couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe and then it hurt ithurtsobad
and then he was done.

And she’s looking at me
but she’s not here anymore.
And I open my mouth
to say something to bring her back
but she holds her palm out
as if she might wave good-bye,
and says he moved the pillow.

He moved the pillow and she could breathe and she was so
happy she could breathe
and he ran his fingers through her hair and she jumped up,
pulled her pants back on.

She says he said,
as she ran for the stairs,
“Hey, you’re something.”

a ≠ b

It’s mild out but I’m freezing.
There’s a pressure in my head
that doesn’t feel right.
And “It was just sex, Lizzie”
does not add up
to this.

I’m Sorry

I reach out for her
but she holds her arms
tight around her middle,
tears streaming,
and, for the first time ever,
she apologizes before I do.

“I’m sorry, Liz,
but I can’t be with you anymore.
Every time I’m with you,
I see him.”

I know I should say something soothing,
but I didn’t expect this.
I did not expect her
to be done
with me.

She’s crying hard now.
So am I.
“This isn’t my fault!” I say.
She says she knows.

“I thought we were friends!
Forever-best friends!”

“We were,” she whispers,
and I have to strain to hear,
watching her breath form a white cloud
as it hits the autumn air
and disappears.

Empty

I run,
not knowing where I’m going, but I run.
Around the building, down the street,
my sneakers smacking the pavement so hard,
shooting fire up my shins.

I run past twelve years of friendship,
matching clothes and birthday parties,
jumping on beds and catching crickets,
too-long phone calls and belly laughs,
passing notes and building dreams.

Mold

When I get home I run downstairs,
grab the pillow from the couch,
hold it close to my nose
and gag.

Flesh and Blood

Could someone I’ve lived with,
someone I love and trust,
do something so heinous?

Am I related to
this?
To someone capable of
this?

This and That

My eyes move back and forth
scanning the shelf in my room
until I find what I’m looking for.

I pull down an album of family photos
and flip through, faster and faster,
until all the memories
blur together
like those tiny books
he and I used to love,
with stick figures that seem to move
in one fluid motion
when you fan the pages quickly
with your thumb.

I stop at a snapshot,
Halloween.
I think I was six.

This boy, wrapped head to toe in gauze,
the only one able to lure a princess
in a pink gown, jeweled tiara,
and scuffed white sneakers
out of her castle by convincing her
that Frankenstein,
coming down the front walk

of the Cohens’ house,
was just a kid wearing a mask
to hide a monster zit.

This boy, who held her hand
that whole evening long,
even when his friends ran past
spraying shaving cream
and calling to him to ditch Cinderella.

This boy, who helped her conquer her fear
and collect her treats.

How can
this
boy be
that
guy?

Because of Him

Because of Mike,
I found Brian.
Because of Mike,
I lost Kate.

Monday Night Dinner

Mom spoons rice onto her plate,
passing the bowl to Dad,
as Mike
shoves food into his mouth like it’s his last meal.

“What happened in court?” I ask.
Mom’s back stiffens, then relaxes.
She asks if we can just have a normal dinner.
Normal?

Dad sets the rice bowl on the table
and tells me that Mike was charged,
a court date set.
Mom slams her fork down and glares at Dad.
“When is it?” I ask.

Mom says, “In about six months,”
and pleads, “Can we eat now?”
But she doesn’t eat.
She pushes her rice around a bit,
shakes her head,
and leaves the room.

Dad takes his napkin from his lap,
wipes each corner of his mouth,
and goes after her

as Mike and I stare at each other
from opposite sides of the table.

“I didn’t do it, Lizzie.
Do you really think I could do that?”

“Kate told me everything,” I say
as I bring my full plate to the sink.

Everything

“I told you everything!”

“Not the same everything!”

He slams his fists on the table.
“That’s because she’s lying!”

“So you didn’t hold a pillow over her face?”
That freezes him.