Scars (12 page)

I hear Mom walk quickly down the hall, like she can’t wait to get away from me. I can hardly believe that she admires something in
me
. She’s never said that before.

Her bedroom door squeaks, and I know she’s gone to lie down, worn out by our conversation. Or maybe by all the emotion she tries to lock inside of her. I hear her shoes hit the floor, hear her sigh. I try not to let guilt swallow me up.

I stare out my window. There are shadows in the backyard that the moon doesn’t light up—shadows that move and flit through the night the way they flit through my mind. They’re probably just raccoons, rooting through our garbage, but I can’t help thinking about the footsteps following me home.
I wish it was Monday already. Wish I was in Carolyn’s office. I have so much to tell her.

I run my hand through my hair.
No, I wish it was Saturday and I was with Meghan, not stuck here in my room.

The side door slams. “I’m home!” There’s the creak of the bed as Mom gets up, the shuffle of her slippers going
down the hall, and then her voice, thin and high. Dad’s voice rumbles back.

I dive into bed, switch out my light, and pull the pillow over my head.

Their voices rise and fall, then there’s quiet. Footsteps thump down the hall.

“Kendra?” Dad says softly.

Maybe if I pretend I’m asleep, he’ll go away. I keep my eyes closed, make my breathing slow and steady.

“Kendra, I know you’re awake.”

Shit.
I lift the pillow off my head and turn over. Dad’s in my doorway, hands shoved into his pockets the way he does when he’s nervous.

“Your mother and I are worried about you. I know you’ve been having a rough time lately—”

Not another talk. I can’t stand it.
“I’m fine, Dad. I already told Mom that.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I am. Why can’t you both just stop worrying about me?”

“It’s part of our job.” Dad clears his throat. “Do you think this lesbian thing could have anything to do with, you know, the sexual abuse?”

“God, not you, too! Can’t you leave it alone? It’s not the problem you guys think it is.”

“It’s not that simple, Kendra. Saying there’s no problem doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

“Why is it a problem? Because if I like girls, I’ll be different from you?”

“No. Because if you choose to be lesbian, you choose
a hard road. People are afraid of what’s different. They’re afraid of what they don’t know. And people can get pretty mean when they’re afraid.”

I’m not sure it’s a choice. The way I was drawn to Sarah, the way I feel about Meghan—it’s so strong.
“Is that what got Mom all twisted up? She’s afraid of me being different?”

Dad jingles the change in his pockets. “I guess so. She’s afraid of how other people will treat you. She’s afraid you’re making things harder for yourself. She’s worried that on top of everything you’ve been through, this will be too much.”

“Too much for me or for her?”

“Good question.”

He’s really listening to me, taking me seriously.
Why can’t Mom and I talk like this? Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know me, not really.

Dad’s still jingling the change in his pockets. I’ve never seen him so nervous.

I rub my eyes. “Is there something else you wanted to talk about?”

“Yes.” Dad clears his throat again. “This knife Terry saw. Um, I mean, Mr. Blair. You’re returning it to school on Monday, right? That’s the last we’ll see of it?”

“Absolutely. You’ll never see it again.”
I’ll make sure of that.

“Good, good. Well, sleep well, Kendra.” Dad hesitates, walks in, then kisses my forehead. “I love you, kitten. We’ll get through this. Just hang in there.”

“Yeah. Night, Dad.”

Dad turns and walks down the hall, his footsteps heavy and slow. I hear the creak of the bed again, and then their voices murmuring.

I want to tell them to stop worrying, but I can only say it so many times and they don’t seem to listen, anyway.

I stare up at the ceiling, thinking I won’t be able to sleep. But I close my eyes, and I do.

I avoid Mom and Dad all morning, and wait for Meghan to call. I clean my desk, roll up the painting I did of Meghan and slide it into a cardboard tube, and check my cell. I look at my homework, put the books back down again, make a few doodles, and stare out the window until the phone rings.

Seconds after we hang up, I’m out of there with the tube in my hand. “I’m going to meet a friend. Back later!”

The door slams behind me. I start off down the street, pretending I can’t hear Mom calling after me. My feet hardly touch the sidewalk. The air smells of freshly mown grass and flowers. The sun is warm.
And Meghan is waiting for me!
I laugh out loud.

The closer I get, the tighter my stomach gets. I toss the tube from one hand to the other. I don’t know any more if the painting is such a good idea. Maybe she’ll get weirded out. Maybe it’ll look like I’m coming on too strong.

The back of my head prickles with that being-watched feeling. I whirl around—but there’s no one there who could be him. Just a woman walking a dog, a guy on roller blades, and two girls giggling together.

His hand, gripping my wrist. A handkerchief falling to the floor.

I pick up my pace until I’m almost running, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

A car passes me slowly, rolling by like there’s a shaky old driver behind the wheel.
Or someone who’s tailing me.
I run until I reach the Saturday-morning shopping crowd; then I slow down and try to blend in. The air smells like coffee, fresh bread, and car exhaust.

Meghan’s standing outside the Java Cup, looking like she’s drawn all the sunshine to her skin. I want to hug her, but I don’t know how to do it without looking stupid. So I hang back.

“Hey,” she says, grinning like she’s glad to see me.

“Hey, yourself.” I grin back at her, then peek over my shoulder at the crowd.

There are lots of men now—husbands with their wives, men carrying children on their shoulders, businessmen talking on phones, men reading their newspapers and sipping their cappuccinos. I don’t know where
he
is, if he’s here at all.
He
could be sitting right outside the Java Cup, and I’d never know it.

“Everything okay?” Meghan asks.

No. But I want it to be.
“You feel like taking a walk?”

“Sure.” Meghan shrugs. “I’m easy.”

We start off down the street. I love how Meghan can just go with things, how she doesn’t get rattled by a change in plans—the way I would.

“What’s in the tube?” she asks, reaching over and tapping it.

I breathe in the sweet smell of amber mixed with her sweat. “It’s for you.” I thrust the tube into her hands.

“For me?”

“Yeah.” A nervous giggle, like a hiccup, pops out of my mouth.

Meghan pulls the lid off the tube, slips the paper partway out. “Hey—is this one of your paintings?”

“Yeah.”

Meghan taps the painting back in, snaps the lid on. “Then I want to wait till we stop someplace. I wanna look at it proper.”

She’s treating my art like it’s something special.
I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans. Part of me wants her to just get it over with, and part of me really likes that she cares about my art enough to look at it slowly. That she cares about me.

Meghan bops me on the head with the tube. “Thank you,” she says. “You shouldn’t have.”

“You don’t even know what I painted.”

“I know it’s something good,” she says firmly.

“It is.”

I feel someone staring at me like they want to hurt me. I whirl around in a quick circle, but I can’t see anyone watching us.

Meghan squints at me. “What’s with you today? You act like someone’s after you.”

“Someone might be.”

“Seriously?” Meghan stops walking.

A bicyclist rings his bell angrily at her.

“You don’t like it, get off the sidewalk!” Meghan shouts, giving him the finger.

“Let’s keep going, okay?” I say, touching her arm. “At least to the park.”

I start walking, and Meghan joins me.

“But who’s after you? What’s going on?”

“
He’s
after me. My abuser. At least, I
think
he is.”

“You mean, the guy you don’t remember?”

“Yeah.” I try to laugh. “That MP3 player I gave you? That was from
him
. There was a note from him earlier, too. I’m sure
he’s
been following me, trying to scare me.” I look at her. “I know how this sounds, but I’m not making it up.”

“I know you’re not.” Meghan frowns. “He shouldn’t get away with this.”

“Well, I can’t exactly call the police. ‘Hey, officer, I think someone’s following me—but I don’t know what he looks like, except for his hands. And, oh yeah, I think he’s the guy who raped me when I was little.’ That’d go over really well, wouldn’t it?”

“Aw, cops. What do they do, anyway, except swagger around?” Meghan juts her chin out. “We can do better. He doesn’t want you to know who he is, right? I say we turn around and yell out what he did to you. Make everyone turn and look. With two of us, he wouldn’t dare try anything.”

I go cold. “No! He said he’d kill me if I ever told.”

“You’ve got to fight back somehow.”

“But not like that.”

I turn off the sidewalk and into the park. Leafy trees whisper in the wind, and birds call to each other from the branches. Even the air smells fresher, less like car exhaust, even though the cars are just a street away. I flop down on the grass, lean my head back against my hands, and look up at the green leaves and patches of blue sky.

Meghan flops down next to me. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. You’re not in this alone.”

She’s looking at me so intensely, I want to lean over and kiss her. Instead, I snatch the tube back and bop her on the head. “Aren’t you going to open this?”

“Hey!” Meghan grabs the tube and bops me back.

I laugh, shielding my head.

She pulls the cap off and draws the painting out, unrolling it carefully. Then she sits there, staring at it.

I’m scared I’ve freaked her out, but when she looks at me, her eyes are shining.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, lets her lips rest against my skin for a moment. “Thank you.” Then she starts to cry.

I don’t know what to do. I rub her back. “What is it?”

Meghan gulps. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” She wipes her cheeks with her wrists. “It’s so … romantic.”

Romantic.
The word echoes between us.

I keep my gaze on the ground, watch an ant crawl up a blade of grass. She can’t mean it the way I think she does. There must be some other meaning for the word.

“Kendra?” Meghan reaches for my hand.

Our fingers touch, warmth exploding through me.

I jerk away. “But you—you like boys.” My cheeks burn.

Meghan hunches over the painting. Her hair falls over her face, blocking my view. “I sleep with boys. There’s a difference.”

“You have sex with them … but you don’t like them?”

Meghan looks up at me through the curtain of her hair. “Hey, I told you I was screwed up.”

“You’re not screwed up.”

“Whatever.” She looks away again and jabs the ground.

I want to touch her face, her hand; I want to reassure her.

She rips up a handful of grass, then throws it jerkily away. “I’ve always been turned on by girls. But I thought that if I slept with enough boys, I’d get it out of my system—start thinking like everyone else.”

“And you haven’t?” My voice is hoarse and deep. I almost don’t recognize it.

“Nah.” Meghan cups my face in her warm hands and kisses me.

Her lips are soft and wet against mine. I never knew it could feel so good. So beautiful.

Meghan pulls away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ears.

She shakes her head, still crying. I wrap my arms around her, and she leans into me, pressing her face against my neck. I can feel her tears against my skin.

I wish I could take her sadness away. I hold her tighter. Meghan cries and cries. I don’t know what to do, so I just keep holding her.

Meghan sniffs and laughs. “Sorry; I don’t normally do this.”

“It’s okay. It helps get it out.”

Meghan sits up, her shoulder still touching mine. She twists her leather bracelet around her wrist, the wood beads appearing, then disappearing. “Maybe I sleep with boys because I don’t feel close to them. There’s no way to get hurt.”

“But there’s no way to feel much love, either,” I say. “Not when you’re cut off like that.”

“I know.” Meghan shudders. “I could feel it—love, connection, something—with you. Kissing you was different. Don’t be mad, Kendra. But I don’t know if I’m ready to let someone in that much.”

“I’m not mad,” I say softly. “I can wait as long as it takes.”

And I can. I will.

Because I love her.

Meghan smiles, lips puffy and vulnerable. “Let’s just hold hands for a while.”

I reach for her hand. It feels soft and strong at the same time. It feels right. Not like
his
hands.

I wrench my gaze from hers. I’d forgotten about being followed. I take a quick look at the people scattered around the park: the shoppers strolling along the sidewalk, the people sitting at the café across the street. But I don’t see anyone watching us—watching me.

Meghan traces my hand with her fingers.

I shiver. Her fingers trail up to my wrist. I feel the ache in my arm and the heat from the wounds.
Can’t let her see.

I jerk away.

Meghan pulls me back, turning my arm over. “What’s this?”

A small corner of white bandage pokes out from beneath my sleeve. I jerk away again, yank my sleeve farther down. “Nothing; it’s nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing.”

My heart is beating too fast. I never thought this would
actually happen—someone finding out. I’ve been so careful. But Meghan sees me, and I don’t know whether to be scared or happy.