Because of You (14 page)

I want to tell her I’m serious. That he was a gentleman in every way, but I’m more concerned about her.

“What didn’t happen with you last night?” I ask gently.

Her anger seems to have abated.

“Well,” she begins, sitting gingerly. Her eyes are unblinking. “I
didn’t
end up going back to Stuart’s room with him and another guy. We
didn’t
have sex. I didn’t…” She trails off and blinks back tears.

I’m in shock. She did it with two guys. One of which was Stuart. The guy gave me the creeps—the way he looked at her, put his hand on me.

“I didn’t. I—” She stops, breaking down, putting her head in my lap. “Shit.” Sobs rack her body.

I’m frozen. Unsure what to do. How can I comfort her? Clearly whatever happened, she didn’t want it to. My blood boils. If I ever see Stuart again, I’m going to scratch his eyes out. She snuggles her head against my knee, and I stroke her crazy hair.

“I’m so sorry, Gina. So sorry.”

She sniffles.

“What can I do? Tell me. If you want me to go over to Stuart’s and kick his ass, I’ll do it. Right this second,” I say, furious.

Evil thoughts cross my mind. Like drenching him in gasoline and tossing a match. Running over him with a car. Beating him with a baseball bat. And I stop. Abigail would say I’m channeling my anger at Chief Hadley on the wrong person. Stuart may be a complete and total asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to die.

Gina wipes her nose on her comforter. “Thanks, Maddie.” With effort, as though she’s in pain, she sits back up. “I drink too much. I like to party. Sometimes I forget guys will take advantage of that. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.” She shrugs. “Nothing that won’t happen again.” She picks at a string on her comforter, pulling and pulling and pulling until finally it breaks off.

I’m baffled. She’s brushing off what sounds like rape. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but she isn’t crying tears of joy, that’s for damn sure.

“If they hurt you, shouldn’t you report it?”

She laughs, a harsh dismal laugh. “And tell them what? That I came on to those guys? I asked for it. I wanted it. And then it hurt, so I asked them to stop. They didn’t.” She shrugs again, closes her eyes, and more tears fall.

I grab her another tissue feeling like a total idiot, a complete moron, an awful friend.

Gina grabs the tissue from my outstretched hand. “They’ll tell me to stop drinking, stop hanging around assholes. But they won’t be able to do more than that.”

I shudder to realize that could’ve been me. If Kyle hadn’t shown up, if someone else found me. “I’m sorry, Gina,” I whisper. “I won’t let this happen again. I’ll be a better friend. I won’t leave you alone at a party again.”

She falls back, her head smacking the pillow. “Don’t get all Mother Theresa on me. What happened isn’t your fault.” She throws her arm over her eyes and sniffles.

I press my head against her pillow, so our heads are touching. “Still, if I’d been there, maybe I could’ve stopped them, or—” I smack my hand against the bed. “The next time I see Stuart I’m going to kill him, I swear.”

“Thanks, Maddie. Really. You’re a good friend.” Her voice is quiet, and I look over at her. “I’m going to sleep. Talk to you later.”

I climb off the bed, pull on a pair of jeans, ballet flats, and Kyle’s sweatshirt. Then think better of it and throw it on the floor. Pick up one of my sweatshirts and claw it on.

It isn’t as soft as Kyle’s. It doesn’t smell like him. Frustrated, I grab some gum and my music. The piano rooms open at five. I should get there in time.

And I need to play. Play until my fingers are raw. Until I can’t see Gina’s devastated face, or Stuart, and the way he looked at her. I need to play until I can’t see the blood, so much blood, and the way my parents were laying still, so still on the carpet. I have to play until I can’t see the smug smile on Chief Hadley’s face when he walked into the interrogation room. I need to play until the pain stops, until all I feel is the music and the keys. The
staccato
and
legato
. Until it all disappears, and there’s only the melody.

Maddie

hen teachers prepare you for college, they never mention the dark underbelly. They talk about the classes, finding a major, living on your own, socializing with peers your own age, and getting a degree. They don’t say anything about the parties, the drinking, and the drugs. They leave out the boys, and the way our bodies thrum for more than books, studying, and tests. They don’t tell us what happens at night, when classes end and real life begins.

That’s where the authentic learning takes place. The difficult decisions that affect the rest of our lives. The real teacher—when the sun no longer hangs in the sky and the moon glistens against a blanket of darkness.

“There’s another party tonight,” Gina says, half-heartedly.

She’s lying on her stomach, her Psychology book propped open. I’m not sure if she’s reading it or perusing through the pictures. Psychology is her major.

“Want to go? I know how much you love the booze.”

At the thought of alcohol my heart lurches, craving the numbness. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Forcing my face into a mask, I glance up from the Sudoku puzzle I’m working on. Gina’s smirking, as though she realizes what’s going on inside my head. That my body is screaming “yes” and my mind is saying “no.”

Without giving anything away, I say, “I have that paper due in English. I was gonna work on it in a little bit. Plus, I need to do laundry. I should probably—”

She holds up a hand. “Yeah, me either,” she says, snickering.

I let my mask falter and release a giant sigh. “Good.”

Gina looks better. Seems a little better, too. She’s showered. Wearing cutoffs and a white tank.

“Want to do laundry together?” I ask, false hope in my voice.

Neither of us has been to the basement laundry room since our Resident Assistant gave us the tour.

She puts her forefinger to her lip and looks at the ceiling, as though she’s trying to answer the mysteries of the universe. Finally she says, “Hmm, it’s an exciting prospect. But no. I’ll have to pass. Have fun though.”

I laugh. “I will.”

She flips on her music but keeps it down, and I go back to working on my puzzle. Out of the blue, she asks, “So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos?”

“Huh?” I raise my head, feigning innocence, though there’s no point. Of course I should’ve known she saw them. Gina doesn’t seem like she would miss anything.

“Don’t play coy. I saw two when I came in this morning. I never would’ve guessed you were the tattoo type.” Her face is lifted, waiting for me to answer, but I’m caught off guard. I’ve thought about telling her, but the timing’s been off.

And now? She’s dealing with so much. How can I further weigh her down with my problems?

Gina closes her book and stands. “Let’s see them.”

My heart starts to race and I press my arms to my sides. She’s standing in front of me, moving her hands, and directing me to raise my shirt.

I shake my head. “I’d rather not right now.”

She spins around and throws herself back on her bed. “I spilled my guts to you this morning. Told you stuff I’ve never told anyone, and you can’t even show me your tattoos? Lame.” She flips open her book, whipping the pages so hard I think she’ll rip them.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you about them. I do. They mean something. They aren’t random or silly. They’re important.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’re a tragic soul. Your life is hard. Blah. Blah. Blah. And boo-hoo.” Gina stops flipping pages and glares. “You’re nothing special, you know. Whatever problems you think you have, someone always has worse.” She slams her book shut, slides on a pair of black combat boots. “I’m out of here.” She flings open the door.

There’s a guy standing at the opening, his hand raised to knock.

“Hey.” He waves nervously.

“What do you want?” Gina asks in a huff.

“Is—” he pauses and looks at the card. “Maddie Martin here?”

I notice he’s holding something in his hands. Like a present. I climb off the bed.

“I’m Maddie,” I say, curious.

“Of course it’s for you. The virgin tattoo girl.” She pushes past the guy, knocking him out of the way.

I step closer. “Who’s it from?” I’m thinking maybe my aunt and uncle sent me a present. They seem to sense when I need a pick-me-up.

The friendly smile he wore moments ago vanishes. “Look, Maddie, I have no clue. Do you want this or not?” He holds out the bag like it contains poison.

“Yeah, okay.” I take the card and the pink gift bag.

The guy walks away, shaking his head.

“Thanks,” I holler after him.

He raises a hand, but keeps walking.

I close the door and sit on my bed. The card had my name on the outside. Inside are two words:
Call me.
With a phone number underneath. Nervous butterflies flutter in my belly. I set the card on the bed, push aside the tissue, and look inside the bag.

It’s a cell phone. I pick up the card again. If my aunt and uncle were the givers they would’ve signed their names, or at least had the delivery guy put their names on the card. But all that’s inside the card are the two words and a phone number.

I pull the phone out. It’s one of those prepaid ones. Opening the instructions, I figure out how to turn it on and then find out how many minutes I have. It says 5000, and that they can be used for texting.

A rush of excitement shivers down my spine. I’ve always wanted a cell phone. I’ve always wanted to text. But who sent it?

I study the card, searching for nonexistent clues. The phone pings in my hand, and I jump. A message pops on the screen.

Freckles, call me!

I stare at the words on the screen. It has to be from Kyle. He remembers me. My heartbeat picks up speed as I ponder the revelation. He called me Freckles when we were kids. No one else did that.

But of course he knows who you are now
,
you told him your name
, I think. I try not to get excited, but I can’t help it. I stare at the message wondering how to respond. Should I call or play dumb?

Who is this?
I text back, pushing the gift bag off my lap and leaning against my pillows. Several seconds pass and I start to wonder if he’s going to respond. I try to relax and focus on my Sudoku, but the numbers on the page are a blur.