The Space Between Us (30 page)

“Amelia.”

“Hi.”

“Something going on in the hall?” she asked, frowning.

Apparently I’d come in too quickly. “No, Dr. Ashton is just talking with the UPS guy and I . . . didn’t want to get in her way.” Actually, she’d been feeling the biceps of the UPS guy while twirling her necklace, and I was grateful for the diversion. She’d taken my lunch twice this week already.

“UPS guy,” Ms. Lee said, and punctured the skin of her orange with her thumbnail.

The smell of citrus hit me like a splash of cold water. I wondered if Dad’s trees were actually growing fruit this year.

“The young one?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sit down.”

I did, taking in her desk. She had the remnants of her meal—an empty soup bowl, crumbs on a plate, a Diet Coke can (
Coke-Diéte
facing me)—plus a boring-looking novel with a withering flower on the cover, and the cactuses. Or was it cacti? My terra-cotta pot still sat at the end of the perfect line, looking ridiculous.

“So did you want to talk to me about something?”

“Yeah.”

She finished peeling her orange and offered me a section.

I took it. “My dad has a few citrus trees in our backyard. Oranges and limes mostly. A few tangerines.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

A snottier Amelia would have asked if people often told her lies about citrus. “Yeah.”

“You know, I’ve never actually seen an orange on a tree,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve seen pictures. And the Minute Maid carton probably isn’t lying to me, so I believe that’s how they grow. That must sound crazy to you.”

“About as crazy as never having seen snow would sound to you.”

She grinned and I understood why Charly could talk to her. She was the perfect blend of quiet and open.

“Charly told me,” I blurted out.

She put her orange down. Apparently she wasn’t a multitasker.

“Good.” Her pause was long enough for me to consider leaving. “And how are you feeling about it?”

“I . . . ” I had no words.

Ms. Lee nodded and waited for more.

“Why couldn’t she tell me?”

“She did tell you.”

“I mean right after it happened. Or when she found out she was pregnant. Or anytime before now.”

“Did you ask her that?”

“Yeah, and she said a bunch of things that made no sense. Like she didn’t want me to see her differently, and she felt guilty, and I was so mad, and she was worried I wouldn’t believe her. I can’t . . . I can’t . . . ”

I put my palm to my forehead and held it there, hoping I didn’t look as pitiful as I felt.

“I can’t believe she thought I wouldn’t believe her. We’re talking about rape. We’re talking about my sister. How could she think that?”

Ms. Lee looked out her window and then back to me. “You may not understand her reaction to what happened, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine. She’s not you. She’s going to react to things differently than you would, and there are things about being a victim of sexual assault that you just don’t understand.”

“Like feeling guilty.”

“Exactly. It’s irrational. I know that, she knows that, you know that. But sometimes understanding logically that something isn’t your fault isn’t the same thing as feeling it. It takes time and hard work.”

I sat perfectly still. I couldn’t tell if she was talking about Charly or about me.

“Amelia, what do you want?”

I stared at her. Was she kicking me out?

“What do you want most right now?” she clarified.

That had to be the stupidest question I’d ever been asked. “I want this never to have happened.”

She shook her head. “No time travel. What do you want
now
?”

I didn’t hesitate this time. “I want her to forgive me. And I want to be a better sister.”

Ms. Lee gave me a sad half smile. “You aren’t a bad sister. From what Charly has told me, I think you’re mostly a really good sister. Everybody does things they regret. I am getting the sense though, that you have a hard time accepting less than perfect. From yourself and the world, I mean. Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“That takes time too,” she said. “Learning to see shades of grey instead of just black and white. Which reminds me, we need to talk about next year.”

Next year. I was having a hard time thinking forward to next week.

“There are plenty of universities here and in Florida that are still accepting applications for fall, but you’re running out of time and I get the sense—”

“I can’t think about that right now. Don’t worry, I’ll get it together and apply to some second-rate school, but I’m clearly dealing with some stuff right now.”

“This is one of those shades-of-grey situations,” she said. “You gambled on Columbia and you lost, but it
doesn’t have to be all or nothing. When I look at your transcripts, I see a young woman who has cared deeply about her academic future for
years
.”

I fiddled with my necklace and tried not to think about what she was saying.

“You’re going to look back and regret throwing it all away because you didn’t get exactly what you wanted.” She glanced at her clock. “I have an appointment right now, but I think you should come see me again.”

I didn’t answer.

“And I want you to take a look at this,” she said, pulling a book from her bookshelf.
Recovering from Rape.
The word screamed at me from the cover, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen it written since finding out.

“It might be tough to read, but it’ll help you understand what Charly’s going through.”

I slipped the book into my bag and stood to leave. “Can you answer one question for me?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think Charly should tell my dad and my grandma?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“But that’s not what I’m asking. I just want your opinion. She needs my help, but I don’t know what to tell her to do.”

Ms. Lee shook her head firmly. “That’s the problem,
though. You can’t tell her what to do—it’s not your decision or my decision. It’s Charly’s decision. Let her make it.”

“But . . . ” I heard my voice getting higher and tighter, inching me closer to crying. I hated this feeling, the losing control of my own body, feeling like someone’s fingers were tightening around my throat. “But you told her to tell me, right? How is that any different? Why can’t I tell her who else to tell?” My ears ached from the whine of my own voice.

Her face softened as she reached out to touch my shoulder. Wow. Did I really sound pitiful enough to warrant teacher-student touching? I didn’t back away.

“I didn’t order her to tell you. I told her talking to people would help the healing process. She chose you, Amelia.”

That should’ve made me happy, but it didn’t. It’d still been six months too late.

Ms. Lee opened the door and waited for me to shuffle out. The hall was empty. No sign of the UPS guy, and Ashton’s door was closed for the first time this week.

Miss Lee gave my shoulder one last squeeze. “Think about what I said. About next year.” Then she left me standing alone.

• • •

I needed, more than anything in the freezing world, to run into Ezra. No, actually, I needed more. An accidental
encounter wouldn’t be good enough. I needed him to come intercept my walk home like he used to do, or drop by Bree’s again. It’d been a week.

“Are we going in?” Charly asked.

We were standing on the corner of Beaver Street and Caribou Road, staring at the snow-caked library sign. White on grey.

“No.”

“Are
you
going in?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It’s so much easier to make out with a guy when you’re in the same room.”

“I don’t want to make out with Ezra.”

“Liar. And did I say make out? I meant make up.”

“We didn’t fight.”

She gave me the exasperated eye roll. “I spent an hour watching an episode of
The Bachelor
that
I’d already seen
so that you could be alone with him. If you didn’t make out and you didn’t fight, it was a total waste of an hour. For both of us.”

The light turned green again and we stared at the flashing walking man.

“Let’s go home,” I said. I turned and started trudging back.

“Seriously?”

I kept trudging. I shouldn’t have let Charly drag me
over here in the first place. If he’d wanted to work things out, he would’ve come by, or at least called, but he hadn’t. More than that, the balance between us had been off from the beginning. I was always the vulnerable one, revealing more, feeling more, leaving myself perfectly poised for injury. I had to stop doing that.

“What are you so afraid of?” she called after me.

I didn’t answer. It was hard to tell.

• • •

“Are you awake?”

I groaned.

“Sorry. I thought you were awake.”

“Because I had my eyes shut or because I wasn’t moving?”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep. Unless you really are awake.”

“I am now,” I muttered.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Probably because you’re hissing in my ear.”

And then I remembered.

Would it always be like this—the forgetting and then remembering all at once? No. It’d been the same way when I’d first found out she was pregnant. It’d only taken a few weeks of relearning the horror every morning before I’d been able to wake up already hating her for getting herself knocked up.

But going in reverse wasn’t any easier. My default
mode with Charly had been set to pissed off for too long. I’d already snapped at her more than once before remembering everything wrong in the universe wasn’t her fault.

“Why can’t you sleep?” I asked.

“I’m too itchy. I’m so freaking itchy I want to rip the skin off my stomach.”

“So put some lotion on.”

“I’ve got an entire jar of jojoba butter on my stomach right now and I still feel like I’m covered in mosquito bites.”

“Well, I’d stop scratching it unless you want some nasty stretch marks.” I had no idea if that was true, but the scratching was seriously hampering my sleep. “Hey, do you remember when we had chicken pox and Grandma made us that oatmeal bath?”

“Vaguely,” she said. “What was I, six?”

“Do you think that was actual oatmeal or some special oatmeal bath product?”

“No idea. I don’t remember anything from first grade except you beating the tar out of Nathan Barnes.”

“Little pissant deserved it for ripping the streamers off your handlebars. I wonder if Bree has oats. I’ll go down and check.”

I tiptoed down and rifled through the pantry.

“Any luck?” Charly asked when I returned. She’d pulled the covers off and had her tank top rolled up over
her glossy white belly. Apparently she hadn’t been kidding about the jojoba butter.

“No. Unless you think bathing in a packet of peaches ’n’ cream instant oatmeal would do something for you.”

She snorted and that rolled into giggling. “I could just make up a bowl and smear it on my stomach.”

“Strawberry Shortcake’s lesser-known friend, Knocked-up Peaches ’n’ Cream.”

She was laughing loudly now, so I plowed on.

“The doll every parent is clamoring to buy for their daughter. Comes complete with stretch-panel pants and a removable purity ring.”

That killed her. It wasn’t even that funny, but she was making those wheezing sounds she makes right before she starts crying. I had no choice but to push her over the edge.

“GED sold separately.”

By the time Charly could breathe again, Bree was pounding her way up the stairs.

“Are you okay?” she gasped, both hands clutching the railing like she’d pulled herself up with arm strength alone. Her eyes were golf ball–size and her platinum hair looked like a punk-rock halo.

Charly tried to stifle a hiccup, but snorted instead and then started laughing all over again.

I shrugged. “It really wasn’t that funny.”

Bree groaned and threw herself onto the foot of the bed. “I hate you both. Do you realize it’s three a.m.? Tomorrow I’m practicing IVs on you as punishment.”

“I’m sorry,” Charly managed, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“You’ll be sorrier tomorrow. I was like zero for five at finding veins today. What was so funny anyway? And why does it smell like Sephora exploded in here?”

“Jojoba butter. And Amelia was . . . ” Charly sighed. “I can’t even tell you or I’ll start laughing again.”

I shook my head. “Again, not that funny.”

Bree rolled over onto my legs. “Oww! You’re too boney. Seriously, my heart’s still racing. I thought we had a preterm labor situation up here.”

Charly answered with another snort, which became another round of hysterical laughter.

“Not unless laughing like a hyena can bring it on,” I said.

“I’m not a nurse yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s a no. Good night, you guys.” Bree pulled herself up and off the bed, then gave us a tired wave without looking back. “Wake me up again and you’re both getting catheters.”

“Speaking of,” I said to Charly, punching my pillow and burying my face in it. “I don’t care if you can’t stop laughing—if you pee the bed I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Good night to you too.”

• • •

It was another Saturday before Ezra came around. Not physically. Electronically.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Are you busy?

I read it several times, taking inventory of what was missing: a subject line, a greeting, pleasantries, an apology, an explanation, a closing. Oh, and maybe some reference to the fact that it’d been a full week since he’d walked out of here all pissed off because I dared to ask him questions about himself.

I checked the time the email was sent. Just a couple of minutes ago. I typed a response into the chat box.

A: I hate that question

I waited. Waited. Waited.

Ezra is typing . . .
appeared, and I exhaled.

E: Why?

A: Really?

E: Really

A: No means I have to say yes to whatever you’re about to ask me to do. It also means I don’t have a life. And yes means I can’t say yes to the follow-up without looking desperate. It also means having to come up with a good lie right now, because I’m watching field hockey drills on YouTube and you might not think that qualifies as busy. But it does to me.