Faking Normal (22 page)

“But you’re still upset,” Liz says. “Collie’s not exactly small.”

“I’m fine. But Heather’s not. You should check on her,” I say.

The working of Liz’s brain is so visible, it’s as if I can clearly see the gears grind into understanding: Something happened. Not what we think. But Alexi can’t talk about it now.

“I’ll explain it to her; don’t worry, Lex. Why don’t you let Bodee take you home?” she suggests.

“You still want to stay out here?” I ask. “By yourself?”

Liz hands Bodee his sleeping bag. “Yeah. I think she’ll need to talk about all this. Don’t worry,” she says again.

Bodee nods for both of us, and Liz climbs back up the ladder.

“Follow me,” he says.

And I do. The path he takes does not lead to my house.

There is the heat of Bodee’s body and his fingers curling around my icy ones. I don’t remember taking his hand or him taking mine, only that it feels good and safe and right. He knows where we’re going, and each step is deliberate. My numbness ekes away. The ice that’s been packed around my heart since July starts to melt as Bodee’s warmth cauterizes the wounds.

“It was . . . one of them,” I say.

“I know.”

I’m thankful he doesn’t ask which one, because those words are stuck in my throat. By the time he stops, my eyes have adjusted to the dark well enough to see the dome shape of his tent.

His fort on the ground.

Bodee unzips the flap and guides me inside. “You’re cold,” he says, tucking the sleeping bag around my shoulders. “Now tell me what he did to you.”

He just waits for me to speak. And I can.

“It was a couple of weeks before school started, and everybody got together at my house after the has-beens game, as Craig called it. It was just a normal, fun, summer night; a moment between sophomore and junior year where you really feel you’re different and grown-up. Closer to becoming a senior. Closer to feeling like real life is happening. You know?”

Bodee nods.

“God, it was hot; and the pool felt amazing, and we were
all laughing and yelling. Of course, some of the guys had alcohol, but little enough that my parents couldn’t see the difference between crazy, hyped-up teenagers and intoxicated ones.”

“I remember how hot it was that night.” Bodee touches the wall of the tent. “I didn’t even set this up. Just slept outside. Go on,” he says softly.

“All the guys were diving. We hadn’t heard yet that Ray’s injury during the game was bad enough to keep him out the whole season. I remember Liz sat watching her phone instead of swimming, waiting to hear. We were listening to some dance music, and the guys lowered the water in the pool by a foot doing cannonballs. I thought everyone was having a good time.”

“Sounds fun,” Bodee says.

“It was. Except over in the glider, Heather and Collie started arguing. And then Kayla got miffed at Craig, because he was spending time with the guys after the game instead of her. I didn’t know their lives were falling apart; I was just thinking that Dane had been awfully flirty with me and wondering what that meant.”

“You liked Dane?” Bodee asks.

“I liked the idea of him. At the time,” I say.

“Then almost at the same time, Heather slaps Collie, and there’s this huge scene. And then
Kayla
starts yelling at Craig, and she drives off in a huff to some girl’s house for the night. Craig is pissed, super pissed, that Kayla broke up with him in front of his guys, and Heather tells everyone she
never wants to speak to Collie again. Selfish
asshole,
she calls him; and
she
leaves. That kills the party. Kills it. And then before I know it . . .”

“You’re alone with a rapi—,” Bodee says, after I can’t finish the sentence.

“Yes.” I cut him off before he can finish the
R
word. “Mom and Dad had gone on to bed because Kayla and Craig were there.” Bodee can’t see my eyes, or the tears that don’t fall, but he puts an arm around my shoulders.

“But we’d been alone tons of times. He was hurting, and I hated to see him hurt like that. So I pulled up a chair next to his. We talked about the game, and girls, and why girls are so complicated and guys are so simple. And I said she’d forgive him.”

“Did you believe it?”

“She always had before,” I say. “But
he
didn’t think so. ‘This is the end. The real end,’ he said over and over. And he was so upset. I couldn’t convince him.”

As I talk and remember his words and his rawness, the gap between the story I’m telling and the story I lived narrows. “He stands up behind me, and I hear the metal legs of the chair scrape on the concrete, and then he’s gripping my shoulders, massaging them. The music is still on. “

“Did that worry you?” Bodee asks.

“No. We were comfortable with each other. Honestly, I didn’t think much about it.”

Not at first.

I remember his strong, tense hands gripping my shoulders, and the memory pulls me back into the smell and feel of July. He’s kneading my muscles and dipping lower. Lower than is comfortable for me, but he’s not thinking of me. He’s just distracted from the pain of losing her, and I don’t tell him it hurts a little.

But then his hands aren’t just on my shoulders.

“He started touching me. Lower. Not my shoulders. And then he pulled me out of my chair,” I say. Beside me, Bodee twitches, and I’m conscious of his tension.

That night I feel
his
tension. Shock holds me in place, and I don’t move away. I’m still wet from my last dip in the pool; my hair sprays droplets of water, my feet leave wet footprints as he spins me around to face him.

“‘You look alike,’ he tells me. I tell him my hair’s longer than hers. That she’s prettier.”

“Can’t be,” Bodee says.

“It’s all so weird, so impossible, I can’t speak when he touches me. We’ve always been friends. Always.” Past and present blur as I say, “But tonight he can’t wait to be okay; he kisses me. My neck. My cheeks. My mouth. I struggle a little and try to say she’ll come back, but I can’t.”

“She didn’t come back,” Bodee says.

“Not that night,” I say.

Not when he guides me to the back corner of the deck. Not when he slips my one-piece down and lays me back.

And I let him. Allowed him. We weren’t drunk, and I didn’t
want him. So why? That question won’t go away.

Bodee squeezes my hand and lets me know I can finish. And I want to. This telling—every word of it—is like tearing a strip of duct tape from my skin. “When I hear him rip the plastic of the condom wrapper, that’s when I’m aware, that’s when I really understand what he wants.” The tears I’ve tried so hard to hold back flood my cheeks. “I’m not that girl, but I can’t tell him no. The why of it doesn’t make sense now, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t stop him. And I hate that I didn’t. Bodee, I let him.”

“Lex, this is not your fault. He took advantage of you, of your vulnerability.”

“I appreciate you . . . defending me, but . . . I was there.”

And I’m there again. This is the reality of my world: the scent, the tearing cellophane, the snap as the condom stretches into 3-D protection. Not bought for me; not
meant
for me, but at that moment it doesn’t matter to him. His eyes are closed, his breath is in my face, his arms strain to hold his weight, and he forces himself inside me.

And he doesn’t fit. Even after he moves, he doesn’t fit.

“Sex hurts,” I say to Bodee. “I hated it. Hated it even more that it meant nothing.
Nothing.
And I . . . cried.”

“Did he not even
look
at you?” Bodee asks, and I know my pain is mirrored on his face.

“No. He’s crying too, saying he’s sorry and that I’m beautiful. And I don’t know if it’s for him . . . or because of her. But his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t stop pushing or . . .”
The noises
he
makes can’t rival the ones I keep inside me. The outraged consonants and guttural screams, like dueling lions clawing and clashing in my throat.

“Lex, you can let it out. Let it go.” Bodee buries my face in his chest. “Say the words,” he says.

“It hurts.”

“Not those words. Tell me what he did to you.”

“He hurt me,” I say again.

Bodee holds me tighter, his breastbone firm against my jaw. “What did he do to you, Lex?”

These words are a peep of a peep. “He raped me.”

“What?”

“He raped me.” These words are less peep, more whisper.

“What? Say it, Lex. Stop blaming yourself. Blame
him.
SAY
it.”

“
HE RAPED ME
!” I scream. And scream and scream. Bodee muffles my cries into the plaid of his shirt; and lets me sob and clench my fists. And he holds me as I hit and hit until my muscles ache; until I am quiet and limp and out of tears.

And the dueling lions are silent.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

chapter 21

THE
plaid of Bodee’s shirt is wet, but softer because of it.

He doesn’t shush me or say I’m okay. He knows I’m not. There’s none of the pacifying I feared. Bodee is all arms and heartbeat. All unflustered feelings and fail-safe strength. A kiss breezes the top of my head, but he’s so gentle. As if no part of him would steal my security. Ever.

“You’re safe now. You’re safe,” he murmurs, stroking my face.

I sag and curl up, and my cheek rests on the rough texture of the tent floor. Bodee lays a hand on my hair and remains upright.

“Will you hold me?” I ask.

Bodee moves to his knees and reaches across me. A flashlight blazes orange as he cups it in his palm. Slowly, he lets
the light grow until our eyes adjust. Then he says, “Lex, look at me.”

He palms my face, a bare touch of hands. His eyes wait for mine to meet his, and then he asks, “Who am I?”

“Bodee,” I answer.

“Okay, then. Remember who I am. I’m going to hold you now,” he warns.

And he does. The sleeping bag cuddles us closer when he pulls it up around us. My back rests against his chest, and he is careful to position his arm around me in such a way that I can feel his warmth but am not threatened.

Tonight, there’s no oyster; he is all pearl.

We stay this way, awake and quiet and warm and relaxed, until dawn cracks the horizon and filters through the tent in a light blue.

“Guess you’d better head back before they do,” Bodee whispers.

“They aren’t up yet,” I say with certainty.

Carefully, I roll over and face him. We are burritoed in the sleeping bag, me against the zipper and Bodee against the seam. I know my breath is rank, and my mouth tastes like day-old pepperoni pizza. His mouth is closed, so maybe he’s thinking about what he had to eat last night too.

This close, every line of his face is mine to peruse. The blond facial hair that’s a little bristly and barely shows on his strong jaw. Curly eyelashes and red-tinted hair. His roots are visible, and I can see little-kid-at-the-beach-blond at his temples.
Vibrant eyes, chocolate brown, kind.

The mosaic of Bodee Lennox.

But in this early light filtering through the aqua tent, what does he see in me? Boring light-brown hair, wild and messy at this hour. Raccoon circles beneath my eyes, worsened by running mascara. Cracked lips.

A night of tears and emotional baggage visible in my face.

I am just the broken girl Bodee held through the night. In the tent that used to be his bedroom. The rape has devastated places in me that even Bodee’s magic can’t fix. If he were to put his heart in my hand, he might never find it again. And I’m not cruel enough to let him break while he tries to heal the impossible.

“Where’s your mind?” he asks.

But I can’t tell him that. “I guess, Captain Lyric. I want to know who he is.”

“And if he’s Hayden?” Bodee asks in guard-dog mode.

“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of stupid in me. Maybe I should give him another chance.” This is a “signal” sentence. The type of sentence a girl says to a boy in order to create distance between them; a way to send the message about where she thinks the relationship is going. We have to be the couple who shared a sleeping bag, but not a kiss.

The side of Bodee’s mouth twitches, and beneath the down fabric, I hear his knuckles crack.

“I have to know. Hayden’s not
him,
is he?”

My rapist, he means. “No, it’s not Hayden.”

Relief dawns, but he closes his eyes, as he follows up. “And he wasn’t hurting you the night of the dance, was he?”

“No. But
I
hurt me by not telling him to stop.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“That’s the thing. It was like the pool all over again, like a flashback. I wanted Hayden to stop, but I couldn’t say the words.”

Bodee puts a finger over my lips as more explanations tumble out. “You don’t have to say more; I only need to know it wasn’t him.”

“Heather sort of likes you,” I say, changing the subject.

Bodee withdraws his hand and says dismissively, “That’s nice.”

“She’ll take Collie back, so . . . be careful.”

“Thanks, Lex, but my sights aren’t on Heather.”

“You have sights?”

“Every guy with a heartbeat has sights,” he says.

“Who’s in yours?” My heartbeat betrays my calm voice, and this close, I know Bodee can feel it spike.

“Well, now”—he flashes me the coy grin that I love and rarely see—“you have your secrets, and I have mine.”

I figure since we’re sharing the same sleeping bag, we’re close enough for me to press him for information. “Do I know her?”

“Not yet,” he says.

Biting back a sour taste, I say, “Will I ever?”

“I think so,” he says.

It’s six fifteen, I realize, as I check my watch, squirming and fidgeting to have something else to look at besides him. Now I know he likes someone. “I better go,” I tell him.

“Let me unzip us,” he says. “Scoot toward me.”

I wiggle closer, and he toggles the zipper behind me. It slides down and cool air hits my back. Inches from his heart, from his mouth. I feel his breath near my ear.