First Time for Everything (31 page)

Alyssa had said it first, which made me feel safe telling her.

“Me too,” she said softly. “I kind of figured it out last year when I went out with Matt Warner. Kissing him wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t all exciting the way everyone says it should be. Sometimes I thought about kissing girls, and I liked the idea.”

She hesitated and gave me another cautious glance. “You’re the first person I’ve told. My counselor doesn’t even know. Right now she thinks I’m afraid of guys because of what happened.”

“You knew before it happened that you didn’t like guys.” I stood. My chest was tight, and the lump in my throat was growing. Before I hit full-blown anxiety mode, I had to take a break, and I figured Alyssa could probably use one too. “I’m getting something to drink. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Water.” Her voice came out kind of croaky, and she cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I went into the kitchen and breathed deeply a few times before taking two bottles of water out of the fridge. I hoped Alyssa wouldn’t go too far into what had happened to her. I’d already inferred it from what she’d said so far. Details would be too much to handle.

My hands shook a little bit, but the lump in my throat shrank some when I took a drink of water. I would be okay.

I went back to the living room and gave Alyssa her water. She took a long drink and gave me the first real smile I’d seen from her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said again.

“So.” She set the bottle on the floor beside the chair. “I don’t want to talk about what happened. No offense. It’s just hard.”

“I get it,” I said, relieved.

“I didn’t tell anyone.” She took a long breath. “He told me if I did, he would say I liked it and stuff. It went on for like a month, and then one morning I woke up bleeding.”

“That isn’t good.” I didn’t know what else to say, and I was too busy trying not to think about blood to come up with anything. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms to give myself something to focus on.

“Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to gross you out or anything.”

“It’s okay.” I forced a smile. After she left, I would call my therapist or write in my journal or something. As long as she didn’t tell me too many more details, I could probably handle it.

“It was a miscarriage.” She stared at her hands. “My parents took me to the emergency room. Dad tried to give me a lecture about having sex too young, and I just lost it. Totally lost it. Started crying and screaming. They had to sedate me.”

She glanced at me, and I gave her my best sympathetic look and didn’t say a word. I was afraid if I tried to speak, I would be the one screaming. What I’d guessed her brother’s friend had done was bad enough. What she’d just said made it so much worse.

“It took me a while, but I finally managed to tell,” she said softly. “They believed me. Even when he tried to tell them it was my idea, they believed me. But I get hate mail sometimes. He was arrested and left school, and I don’t hear from him, but some of his friends know how to find me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Those were important words, I knew. Even if someone didn’t believe it, hearing they hadn’t caused what had happened helped a little.

Sometimes now, I almost believed those words when I heard them. I hoped I sounded convincing when I said them to Alyssa.

“That’s what everyone tells me.” She shrugged. “If I’d told someone after the first time he did it, he wouldn’t have kept doing it. The first time, I should have fought him or something. He was bigger than me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated more firmly. “So the bandages?”

“I wanted to die,” she said again. “At first I thought I’d be okay, but then it started hitting me. Nightmares. Wondering about what if I hadn’t lost the baby. Feeling like people were judging me and hating me because he got arrested. So I started….”

She trailed off and touched the bandages. “I just made little cuts at first. I was practicing.”

“Oh.” I tensed.

“I tried last month.” She touched the bandages again. “I knew I’d have to go back to school, and everyone would know what happened and would hate me. So I had to be gone before school started. Dad found me. They put me in the hospital, and I stayed there for, like, three weeks. The cuts are healed now, but I keep the bandages on so I won’t open them again.”

“That’s why I wear these.” I held up my arms to show the bracelets. “I can give you some if you want. They’re prettier than bandages.”

“Yeah.” She studied the bracelets. “Rainbow?”

“I’m not out, but I don’t totally hide that I’m not straight.” I stood up again. “I have some extras in my room. Do you want them?”

“I’ll borrow them, if it’s okay. I’d like to buy some of my own.”

I nodded. “I have a couple I don’t wear, so you can keep those. The rest will be a loan.” I kind of understood her not wanting me to give her something. It would probably make her feel as if she owed me, and if she was anything like me, owing anyone was not good.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

I went into my room and grabbed nine or ten of my spare bracelets. Sometimes I wore them, sometimes not. I could definitely spare them to help Alyssa. When I’d had to wear bandages on my wrists, they’d only reminded me of what I’d done to myself and why. They’d made me feel ugly and weak. The bracelets were prettier and the messages on some of them made me feel stronger.

I brought the bracelets back to the living room. Alyssa was sitting in exactly the same position as when I’d left, but now tears were streaking down her face. Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t make any noise at all.

My heart broke, and my eyes watered. I swallowed hard and pretended I was fine.

I knelt in front of her and held up the bracelets. “It’s okay,” I said. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She took the bracelets and sniffled. “I hate thinking about it. I don’t talk about it to anyone except, you know, professionals. Not even my parents, because every time I bring it up to them, they get upset.”

“I know what you mean.” My mom still cried at any reminder of what had destroyed Alexandra, including my clothes and hair that proved I was someone else now. “It doesn’t matter if they’re upset. You have the right to talk to them. You’re the one who has to live with what happened.”

“I know, but it’s hard.”

“Yeah.” I took the hand she held the bracelets in.

That little touch was different from touching anyone else. Not that I touched people often anyway, and usually when I did, it was because I had to.

When I touched Alyssa, a little bubble rose in my chest, and I smiled.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “Most people don’t know what happened. The ones who do think I’m broken.”

“Broken things can be put back together.” It was something my therapist said a lot. “Can you take off the bandages? You can put the bracelets over them if you want.”

“I’d rather take them off.” Now she took her hand away. “They make me feel ugly, but they’re better than cuts and scars.”

“Scars aren’t ugly.” I pointed to my own. “They’re badges. Every one of these is a time I chose to live instead of dying. I had to do something that hurt, but I still stayed alive.”

“I never thought of it that way.” She pushed up her sleeves and tugged at the tape on her right wrist. “I wasn’t trying to stay alive.”

“But you did. You’re here.” I leaned back on my heels and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” She pulled off the bandage and set it on the arm of the chair.

Her scars were redder than mine because they were newer. One of them was long and wide and ran up her arm from her hand halfway to her elbow.

I couldn’t help shivering. I just hoped Alyssa hadn’t noticed.

She took off the bandage on her left arm. Those scars weren’t quite as bad.

“You’re the first person to see these,” she said, looking down at them. “I mean, besides doctors. They’re horrible. I wish I hadn’t done it, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“They aren’t ugly,” I said again. Giving into an impulse I didn’t take time to understand, I softly kissed each of her wrists. “They’re beautiful because they’re part of you.”

She let out a sob, dropped the bracelets, and quickly put her hands over her face. “No one else believes that.”

“Well, I do, and I hope you will.” I touched her knee. “I think you’re beautiful. And I hope we’ll be friends, at least.”

“At least.” She wiped her eyes with her hands and picked up the bracelets again. “You’re the first person who’s ever called me beautiful.”

“In your whole life?” I couldn’t believe it. She was one of the most beautiful people I’d seen.

“People say I’m pretty or cute. Not beautiful.” She hesitated. “And no one’s said the other things since it happened.”

“They should.”

“I guess.”

She put on the bracelets while I watched. “They don’t cover all the scars,” she said slowly. “I need more. Where do you get them?”

“Everywhere, pretty much.” I smiled. “Come to the mall with us tomorrow, and I’ll show you. I mean, if you think your parents will let you.”

“They probably will. They think I should go out more.” She smiled back. “You kissed my scars.”

“I told you. They’re beautiful, and so are you.”

“Yours too.” She held out her hand.

I let her have my wrists, and she gave each of them a gentle kiss. Then I kissed her hand. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Her smile faltered a little, and her eyes watered, but this time she didn’t cry. “You’re the first one who hasn’t acted like I’m screwed up or damaged goods or something.”

“You aren’t,” I said firmly.

“Neither are you.”

I nodded. Others had told me the same thing. From Alyssa, I believed it.

She was the first one who completely understood how I felt and what I’d been through. I hated that she only got it because she’d gone through something similar—worse, really. But at least I wasn’t alone now. And neither was she. Not anymore.

J
O
R
AMSEY
is a former special education teacher who now writes full time. She firmly believes that everyone has it in them to be a hero, whether to others or in their own lives, and she tries to write books that encourage teens to be themselves and make a difference. Jo has been writing since age five and has been writing young adult fiction since she was a teen herself; her first YA book was published in 2010. She lives in Massachusetts with her two daughters, her husband, and two cats, one of whom likes to read over her shoulder.

Website: http://www.joramsey.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JoRamseyYA

Twitter: @JoRamseyYA

Tumblr: http://joramseyya.tumblr.com

C
HARLI
G
REEN

G
RADUATING
FROM
high school a year early seemed like a cool idea, until September. High school was back in session, so no Kyle to hang out with, and no classes at Portland Community College for three weeks.
Bo
-ring. One can only read so many books and take so many photographs of urban life before the boredom grinds at one’s soul. I came to the conclusion this is why people pair up: less time spent being bored. Living without a girlfriend had never felt like the monumental loss it did those three weeks when time seemed to be suspended, shimmering like heat waves above every street.

I spent a lot of time in Portland, exploring the neighborhoods and taking pictures of architectural features on the old buildings. The kind I wanted to use in my own designs—with a new and original twist. At lunchtime I went to my favorite place to eat, a small organic deli/grocery in the no-man’s-land between City Center and the Pearl, Food for a Small Neighborhood.

After almost four hours of taking pictures, I saw everything in terms of composition, focal point, contrast… so many interesting subjects. It was all I could do to keep from snapping pictures of everyone in the store. I knew what would happen if I gave in to my urges, though; someone would call the police about the skinny blond kid stalking people and taking their photographs. The day would be less boring, but I’d have a police record before I had a college record. When I caught myself lining up a shot of a man who must’ve been seventy, wearing a uniform he’d pieced together from two or three different wars, I headed straight for the bakery counter. A big slice of vegan chocolate three-layer cake would keep my hands busy for a while.

I took it to the dining area—much safer to people-watch there. I chose a small table in the corner, my back to the wall. A group of Indian engineers came in for lunch, arguing about something technical while they waited in line, their exotically familiar accents carrying easily across the room, a trio of soccer moms sat down and fed organic crackers to their cranky toddlers and gossiped about who spent the most on their Christmas party, and a quartet of guys walked out through the dining area wearing holey jeans and ratty canvas Converse All-Stars, a rainbow of neon colors in their short, spiked hair, each carrying a foot-long sub sandwich and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. They were all photographs, studies of one portion of society, or of their own creativity. But still slightly boring.

I almost left before she even came in, but for some reason I lingered over the crumbs of my cake and the dregs of my cappuccino. I hadn’t believed in fate any more than pairing up before then, but something kept me in that chair.

I saw her as I got up to leave, holding a bottle of berry-flavored tea in one many-ringed hand and chewing on her pinkie fingernail. She stood at the bakery counter, trying to decide between a cinnamon roll and a muffin. Eventually, she used the time-tested “eeny-meeny-miney-mo” method. At first I thought she might’ve been a boy, which still would’ve been cool but in a different way. Anyone wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt with that sign safety-pinned to the back over black jeans and heavy black boots had to be cool, but a girl… I had to know her. The sign was a square of black fabric with lettering in white Olde English script, each word capitalized with a flourish, like you’d expect the first letter of every chapter in a first-edition Dickens novel to look. The solitary sentence read:
It’s Not Our Fault Your Children Masturbate.