Lark (3 page)
Authors: Tracey Porter
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Sexual Abuse, #Death & Dying, #Girls & Women
The air was brittle and cold. My teeth chattered. I ran across the asphalt into the woods. The sky broke open and snowflakes fell around me like dying moths.
I didn’t get far. Each step sent shockwaves of pain to my knee. I slipped and fell facedown in the snow. I got up, but I couldn’t get enough traction to get any speed. The man was right behind me. He grabbed me around the waist and flung me to the ground. He crawled over me and slugged the side of my face with his fist. He took something out of his pocket and flicked it open.
“You made me do this,” he said, pushing a knife between my ribs. Its point cut through my jacket and touched my skin. He started to cry. “I didn’t want to do this, but you made me.”
At first it felt like a pencil point. Then it stung. Then it felt like fire, and the pain stopped my breath. I was afraid to move because I thought the knife would go into my heart.
I’m sleeping when Lark rattles the window and lets herself in. Moonlight fills my room with silvery light. She wears the flowing white dress she was buried in. She could be a sylph in a ballet, except for the bloodstains.
“So . . . , ” she says. “They think you’re crazy.”
I rub my eyes and yawn. “Well, I am acting rather oddly.”
“How?”
“Talking to a dead girl. Not sleeping. Not going to school.”
Lark rolls her eyes. “School!” she says with disgust. “I worried way too much about school.”
She’s restless. She taps her foot angrily.
“I won’t tell them how I have to see the cut,” I say.
“If you do, they’ll try to talk you out of it.”
“I know.”
She flops in my armchair and props up her head with a fist.
“I hate it out there,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
“No, you don’t. Believe me. You don’t.”
Her eyes fill with tears, the kind of tears you get when you’re angry and sad. She rocks back and forth, softly crying. Then she shakes herself out of it and jumps up to move. She practices one of her floor routines, the one with the back flips that won her a medal. She’s got that twitchy energy back. She’s alive again, thinking with her body, the way dancers and athletes do. Even though her movements are small and contained, you can tell how good she was. She uses her hands for the big tricks, like the round off to a twisting back flip. She marks the big leaps, fitting them in between the furniture and the walls.
I watch Lark remember how she used to cartwheel and flip. She tosses her head and laughs to herself. She arches her back and finishes, her hands high above her head. It’s scary to know a girl as fast and strong as Lark can get taken away and killed.
Days pass. Speculation about who killed Lark and why subsides, and the girls in World Civ are back to texting and playing Tetris. One morning out of the blue, our first-period teacher tells us we’re having a special assembly. The entire school piles into the gym to see Principal Akers at a podium, surrounded by a small army of strangers carrying clipboards and briefcases. He tells us the deans have set up special tables with art supplies in the library where we can make cards and drawings and write poems.
“Honor roll student, dedicated athlete, Lark Austin was one of the students who make us proud to be a part of Thomas Jefferson High.”
A freshman girl starts shaking and crying. The old government teacher who always wears a bow tie and has been around so long he’s taught some of our parents wipes his eyes. A row down from me, a couple leans together. The boy puts his arm around the girl, and I wonder why I can’t cry or feel something like sadness. After all, we grew up together. She used to be my best friend.
Principal Akers goes on.
“The people you see with me are grief counselors, professionally trained therapists that our wonderful PTA has brought here to help us process our feelings about the terrible tragedy that befell Lark.”
He says they’ll be visiting health classes, and that he and the deans are here for us at this difficult time.
“Did you see the young one?” asks Boston, edging through the crowd to be near Alyssa. “I like his fauxhawk.”
“Yeah,” answers Beth. “I hope he comes to our class.” But he doesn’t. Instead, Ms. Sims introduces Kate Battle, a licensed social worker who specializes in grief work with young people.
“I’m a retired policewoman, too,” adds Kate, “and I’m here to help you to grieve and to give you some tips about how to keep safe. We’re going to be talking and sharing, so the first thing I want you to do is make yourselves comfortable.”
Girls stretch out on the floor or prop up their heads on their desks. Boston takes her place in the front next to Beth and Alyssa. I sit down cross-legged in the corner of the room. I’m angry, but I don’t know why. I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing cypress trees and clouds.
Kate Battle uses her hands when she talks. “The most important thing you can learn from me today,” she says, “is how to stay safe. So before we talk about the terrible thing that happened to your classmate, let’s go over a list of tips I’ve prepared for you.”
She asks for a volunteer to distribute the handouts, and Boston jumps up. Kate Battle goes on. “Read silently, please, as I go over the list. . . .”
I place the handout on my sketchbook and look it over.
Avoid being alone.
Men who are predators will first try to gain your trust.
If they think you’re easily pushed around, they’ll move in.
Never be afraid to be rude. Do not worry about hurting a stranger’s feelings if you are uncomfortable.
If a man who is bothering you doesn’t go away, say “Get away from me NOW!” in a loud voice.
Try not to smile or laugh out of nervousness. Try not to act “cute.”
If you must walk or wait alone, never wear headphones. Many victims are abducted or attacked because they don’t hear the man sneaking up on them.
Carry your keys so they stick out between your knuckles and can be used as a weapon.
Kate Battle demonstrates how to rake someone’s face with her own keys. But I only have one key since I don’t drive yet. Not much of a weapon. Besides, how can you really tell if a guy is all right or a sex offender? And aren’t girls supposed to be nice? Aren’t we supposed to let the guy make the first move?
Ms. Sims asks if anyone would like to ask our guest speaker a question or share some feelings. One girl says how she didn’t know Lark personally, but she thinks that what happened to her is really, really sad. Another girl says something like it happened to her cousin’s best friend in Pennsylvania. Boston tells the story of a girl at her sister’s old high school who was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from the prom. But since it doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Lark, Alyssa and Beth burst out laughing.
“You are
so
random!” laughs Alyssa.
It takes a while before Ms. Sims can restore order. She tells them they either have to stop laughing or leave.
“We’re okay, we’re okay . . . ,” Alyssa protests. “Please, don’t kick us out. This is a really good class. We don’t want to leave.”
“Well, then act like it,” orders Ms. Sims.
The girls calm down and pretend to be serious. I go back to my drawing, half listening to stories about girls who’ve been abducted or assaulted. Surprisingly, no one mentions Daphne, the girl who left school. Last winter she passed out drunk at a party. Her friends walked her into one of the bedrooms, and a little while later a couple of guys went in and raped her. Her parents pressed charges and sued the host’s parents for letting underage kids drink at their house. But most people blamed Daphne for what happened because she wore too much makeup and was always getting wasted. Apparently none of her friends stood up for her. She got depressed and her parents dropped the suit. So I guess Daphne broke the rules by being alone in the bedroom, but maybe her friends broke them by leaving her alone when she couldn’t take care of herself. Or maybe she acted cute when those guys came in, which is something Kate Battle says you should never, ever do if you have even the tiniest thought that a guy could be a predator. Maybe Daphne laughed or did something that made the guys think she wanted to have sex with them. In the end, she lost all her friends and dropped out to get homeschooled. The guys weren’t even suspended. They said it was consensual.
In my corner, I’m drawing a swirling cypress tree. Branches curl and lift as I sift through the details. Some things fall between categories, like what happened to me with the assistant swim coach when I was twelve. Boston raises her hand.
“Was Lark raped?” she asks.
“Detectives aren’t saying,” says Kate Battle.
“Why not?” says Alyssa.
“Sometimes police keep evidence secret until it’s been verified by a lab so it can be used in questioning the suspect.”
“Why?” asks Jess.
“Usually when there’s a murder, the only living witness is the murderer. If we tell the press we’ve found scraps of fabric or lint on the victim or at the scene of the crime, the killer might read it. Then, if we pick him up for questioning, he will have had the chance to get rid of something that might link him to the crime.”
“And then, of course, there’s sperm,” announces Alyssa. “You can tell a guy’s blood type from sperm.”
Girls groan in disgust, me included. Boston shows Beth something she’s written on her hand and they both giggle.
“And there’s something else,” says the grief counselor, “that all of you in this room should know. It’s about how you dress and how you move and how you walk. You’re young women now, and how you conduct yourself gives off signals, whether you like it or not.”
Alyssa jerks up her head and rolls her eyes at Kate. “Yeah, right,” she says. “As if Lark wore a tank top to gymnastics because she wanted to be killed.”
For once I agree with Alyssa. I put down my pen and listen to Kate Battle’s response.
“No, of course not,” counters Kate, “but at the same time, it’s important to be aware that you are not just powerless victims. There are things you can do to prevent things like this.”
I don’t know about that. I’m starting to believe in luck as the ruling power.
Outside, the world goes on in its usual way. From where I’m sitting, I can look out the window onto the street. A bus goes by, then a truck carrying huge spools of wire. People run to a store or get coffee or take a package to the post office. Kate Battle urges us to keep talking and processing. Then she asks Boston to help her pass out a flyer for the girls-only self-defense class she teaches on Saturdays.
Suddenly, I realize why I’ve been angry all period. None of this is about Lark. People have stopped thinking about her. They’re taking the lessons they need and moving on. And the grief counselor, who came to help us process our feelings, is trying to drum up a little business for herself.
“No, thank you,” I tell Boston when she offers me the flyer.
Boston smiles at me and snaps her gum.
His hands clawed at my clothes, pulling them off with the hooks of his fingers. He pinned my arms with his knees and took off his pants. I begged him to stop. I told him I was a virgin, but he didn’t care.
He forced himself into me, and that’s when I stopped feeling what was happening. I willed myself far away so it was almost like sleeping.
He couldn’t stay hard, so he slapped me and called me a slut and said that he should have known what I was. Not a girl he could love but a slut like the others. Then he tried again but he couldn’t stay inside, so he yelled at me again, then he came on my leg.
He lay on top of me for a long time before he pushed himself off.
“Get up,” he said, but I couldn’t move. I lay there with the snow falling on my face, looking up to the sky.
“Get up!” he yelled. He saw the blood on his hands and started to cry. “You made me do this. I never wanted to hurt you! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
He kept saying he was so sorry, that he could tell I was a good girl after all and that he would help me. He said he’d come right back, but that he couldn’t trust me, so he dragged me to a tree and tied my arms behind my back with plastic ties. They cut into my wrists. I was too weak to stand. When I fell, the bark scraped my skin. My bad knee twisted and I heard the ligament tear. It sounded like fabric when you rip it in half.
I heard him run through the snow and his car start. Wind whooshed through the trees but couldn’t lift my hair because it was starting to freeze. Each breath seemed to open the wound in my side a little bit more. I was so cold, I decided to die. It was easy. Like stepping out of your clothes when they fall to the floor.
I hovered over my body, watching the snow fall on my neck, studying the horrible bend in my knee.
Then the dead girls spoke to me.
Don’t look,
said one.
Turn away,
said another.
Come over here,
said the third.
Their bodies were trapped in their trees. I saw faces under the bark.
It’s almost over
. . . , said the one keeping watch.
Now.
She closed her eyes and began to cry. Snow turned to sleet and covered the branches in ice.
Off in the distance I died.
My therapist, Dr. Blake, has an office filled with toys that are way too young for me. She wears glasses and a gypsy skirt and a huge sweater that must belong to her husband. I think she’s been a hippie most of her life. I’m supposed to call her April, not Dr. Blake.
“
Can you tell me about your friend who died?” asks April. She adjusts her glasses and smiles.
I’m fiddling with the clay she gave me, pushing it into a pot, then flattening it out and starting over again. I don’t really like talking about Lark, but she keeps trying to force me.
“How did you know her?” she tries again.
“She lived down the street,” I say.
“What was she like?” she asks.
She’s persistent; I’ll say that for her. She’s not about to stop asking me questions. My mom says I’ve got to try to say what I’m feeling, only I’m not feeling anything, except sort of jumpy at night when I think Lark might be coming.
“She used to babysit me. After my father left. But then she stopped and then she died.”
I’ve formed the clay into a perfect little pinch pot. If I had a bird, I’d put the bowl in its cage for water.
“Tell me about your father,” she says.
“My father doesn’t live with us anymore,” I answer. “He lives with Hallie.”
It’s much easier to talk about my father than Lark, so I tell April the whole story—how Hallie used to work for my dad at the museum, how they fell in love, how my dad left my mom and moved in with Hallie and her sons. Their names are Anders and Zeke. They’re twins. Age eight. Noisy. Sometimes I run into my dad and the twins when I’m out with my mom. They play football in the park and buy rockets at the hobby store. Zeke’s hair is so curly, it bounces.
“And how does it make you feel?” asks April. “Seeing your dad playing with the boys? Knowing he left to go live with another family?”
I smash the bowl with my fingers.
“Well . . . ,” I start. I decide to speak with long pauses between all the important words, which is what some grown-ups do when they’re angry. April leans forward to encourage me. Her big hippie skirt has spread to a half circle on the floor.
“I used . . . to feel . . . sad. But now . . . I don’t . . . care.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s better if people are happy. If Hallie makes my dad happy, then he should be with her. Then he will be a better father for me.”
“That sounds like a thought, not a feeling.”
“I like thoughts. They’re better than feelings.”
This ends up being a stupid thing to admit. April takes a few notes on her yellow pad, which is a sign that she’s about to zero in on something.
She puts her pencil down. “All right then. Thoughts it is. I want to get back to Lark before we have to go. Where do you think she is?”
“She’s not really anywhere,” I answer. “She’s dead.”
“Your mom tells me you talk to her sometimes.”
I’m peering down at my clay, studying how it captures my fingerprints. I’m going to let this one pass.
“Do you believe in an afterlife?” April asks.
I believe in trees
, I think. But I would never say this out loud. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell April about trees unless she specifically asks, which she never will. How many people know about dead girls and trees?
I decide not to talk for the rest of the session. Instead I play with the clay.
The clock ticks. Dr. Blake watches me but doesn’t ask any more questions.
“All right then,” she says finally. “See you next week.”
