Scars (2 page)

“I won’t tell. I promise I won’t.”

He releases my wrist.

My breath returns, and along with it come color and sound. I feel air rush into my lungs. See Carolyn’s worried eyes. Feel her hand clasping mine.

“What happened?” she says. “What did you see?”

“I saw … nothing.”

I don’t think she believes me. But I can’t tell her how close I came to seeing his face. Can’t tell her how easy it would be to see it with her beside me, keeping me safe. Because I wouldn’t be safe for long. Not when he’s after me. Not if he found out what I’d remembered.

Panic rises inside me, flattening my lungs, and I want to cut myself until the fear is gone. I can almost feel the utility knife in my hand: its narrow plastic handle; its ridges on the edge; the button to push the blade up. I can almost smell the bitter odor of metal and blood.

I turn my face away from Carolyn and try to keep my breathing steady. If I had my knife right now, I’d go into the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and cut my arm until I could breathe again, until all the ugly pictures were gone.
But I don’t have my knife with me. And even if I did, I couldn’t run out like that. Because I can’t let Carolyn know. I can’t let
anyone
know.

I’ve managed to hide the cutting for six months, ever since the memories started. Six whole months, and I can hide it for six more—or however long it takes to get through this. Because I know people wouldn’t understand. They’d try to take it from me. And I need it. I need it to keep going.

Carolyn leans closer, and I know she’s trying to see my face. “How are you feeling, Kendra?”

I blink.
Got to be careful. Got to keep her away from my arm
. I turn to face her and lick my lips. “Scared, I guess.”

“That’s probably how you felt when he hurt you, isn’t it? Scared. But it’s rare for a pedophile to go after his victim. They prefer to use coercion and threats to keep their victims quiet.”

Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. Besides, I don’t think this guy fits the profile. He’s already risked exposing himself by following me and by putting the note in my bag. How much harder would it be for him to hurt me?

I want to cut so badly, I ache with the need for release. I turn away from Carolyn and pump my fist hard, feeling the scabs tear apart, feeling the dull, aching pain—but it’s not enough. Not anywhere near enough.

His hands, squeezing my throat. Blackness edging into my eyes.

It’s hard to keep sitting here, to keep from running out of the room. I want to slice open my flesh, feel the panic
drain away with my blood, but I can’t—not in front of Carolyn. Not in front of anyone.

“What can we do to help you right now?” Carolyn asks. “Can you imagine your fear as an object or a color and take a step back from it?”

I listen to her soothing voice and feel the shadows pull back. I feel myself relax. My need to cut lessens, and I breathe slower. And then the session is over.

I’m not ready to go yet. It’s days and days till I see her again.

I wish I could see her more often. I wish she was my mother.

I push the thought away. I’ve got a mother. But Carolyn—she gets me on a level no one else does. And she gives me more comfort and caring in one session than my mother ever has in my whole life, even if I added it all together.

Pain tinges the comfort I was starting to feel. I pick things up off the floor slowly and shove them back in my bag.

Carolyn walks over to the windowsill and comes back with her basket of shells and stones—ridged shells with traces of pink and orange and brown at their tips and polished gemstones with swirls of color running through them. “Would you like to take one of these with you? To remind you that I’m here and that I’m thinking about you?”

I swear she can read my mind. I smile a little and root through the stones, picking one that feels heavy and right in my hand, a stone with brown and gold streaks, like her hair. “Thank you.”

“You take care, now.”

The magenta note is there on her desk, like a square of bloody paper. Screams start up inside me again. I turn, then escape down the stairs and out onto the street, the cool morning air brushing against my face.

My back prickles, like someone’s watching me. I whirl around. All I see are people on their way to work, kids on their way to school—no one who’s paying attention to me.

Maybe I really am making it all up.

No. That note was real. He left me that note.

I run the rest of the way to school.

I walk down the crowded hall to my locker.
I wish I didn’t have to be here. What does biology or algebra or sonnets have to do with anything I’m going through?

I turn the combination on my lock and wrench the door open. I’m shaking inside, a trembling that won’t stop. I wish I’d brought my utility knife with me, but I didn’t think I’d need to cut. Not at school.

The constant noise makes me want to scream—people slamming their lockers shut, girls giggling with each other, sneakers squeaking down the hall, boys burping as loud as they can—but I know I’m only feeling like this because of the note.

And I can’t let myself think about that.

My arm is hot and stiff, every jostle sending pain through me. But it’s not the bright, hard pain that makes everything go away. It’s an annoying, irritating pain that makes me grit my teeth. I wish I could tear my nails through my flesh like blades. I don’t know if I can go through the whole day without finding a way to cut.

I ram my books into my backpack and slam my locker shut. Sarah’s locker, beside mine, is still empty. My throat tightens, and I have to turn away. I miss her like an ache inside me, even though it’s been five months, even though I should have gotten over her by now. I want to kick her locker in, smash it until it’s flat, but that won’t bring her back.

Everyone seems to have a group they belong to or at least someone they hang out with. When Sarah was here, we would walk the halls together, two of the smart kids that nobody hassled—mostly because Sarah could talk to anyone and make them feel special. Now I stand out like a giant pimple on a chin.

I notice there’s a strange lull in the noise. I look up to see Danny and Kirk heading down the hall—two big, solid lugs who like pushing people around.

I look away, but Danny’s caught my gaze and is steering toward me.

“Got a problem?” he asks loudly.

No problem, except having you in my face
.

Danny hooks his thumbs into his belt as he steps closer. I can’t look away. I know I should move, but it’s like I’m caught in a time warp.
I’m six again, and he’s coming toward me, his belt undone. His breath is on my cheek
.

No. It’s Danny’s breath. He grips my face in his hand.

“Get away from me!” I screech, pushing at his chest, but he’s like a wall, blocking off my world.

Then a body rams between us, a soft body that smells of musky amber and cigarettes, breaking Danny’s hold and pushing me back against the lockers. I breathe in deeply,
shudderingly as I flatten myself against the lockers. My rescuer is a girl I’ve seen around school—Meghan Ellis.

She’s wearing a short leather skirt that shows off her butt, a white lacy bra, and not much else. There’s a bright streak of blue in her long honey hair, and a flash of silver on her fingers. I recognize her because she’s always getting into trouble—for talking back, for sitting down for the national anthem, and for punching out kids who bug her. That, and she sleeps around a lot.

They’re circling each other like prizefighters, stopping in front of me.

“You don’t own this school, Danny,” Meghan says, tapping his chest with her finger, “so back off.”

“Yeah? What’s it to you?” Danny’s huge shoulders bunch up, the veins in his neck pulsing. “You sleeping with girls now?”

My body flushes cold, then hot, as the hallway rings with laughter.

Pow!
goes Meghan’s fist, moving so fast that I almost don’t see it jabbing Danny in the gut. And then he’s twisting her arm back so far, it looks like it’s going to snap.

Meghan grunts. I bite my lip hard enough to taste salty blood, and I inch backward. A combination lock’s digging into my back.

“Nobody talks to me like that,” Danny says. “Say you’re sorry.”

Meghan bares her teeth. “I just
did
talk to you like that, lover boy.”

Danny jerks her arm back harder. I wish I had Sarah’s ability to reason with people—or at least the courage to
fight—but I just stand there, praying something will happen.

“Say it,” Danny says.

Meghan shakes her head.

The pain is bad; I can see it in her face, in the way the skin around her eyes gets tight and her lips draw back in a hiss. I take a step sideways, then another; my hands sliding along the slick surface of the painted brick, searching for the fire alarm I know is there.
Come on!
Finally I feel the cold, protruding metal and grab the handle, pulling it down hard. Then I quickly jerk my hand away.

The fire alarm clangs madly. It’s all chaos now, students erupting from classrooms and pouring into the hall, and teachers herding everyone toward the exits. Danny lets Meghan go, and then he and Kirk are swallowed up by the crowd.

I move closer to Meghan, who looks like she’s trying hard not to cry. “Are you okay?”

She puts her hand on her hip. “’Course I am. Hey, you’re not the scared little rabbit I thought you were.” She blows the hair out of her eyes. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

“
You’re
the one who saved mine.”

“Whatever.” She grins. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to let Danny get away with this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Girls, get a move on,” Mr. Blair shouts from behind us. “This is a fire alarm, not a gab session.”

It
would
have to be him. I don’t see why I have to go to school where one of Dad’s friends works. He comes up behind me, practically breathing down my neck. I can smell
his sour coffee breath, sour like the man’s. I stiffen. Is it
him
? He’s known me long enough.

I leap away from him and rush through the doors and down the steps. When I look back, Mr. Blair is watching me, a grim expression on his face.

The fire alarm goes off again in second period—to great cheers from the students. I smell smoke even before I’m out of the classroom.

Everyone jostles each other, trying to get out first. I keep my body tight, away from the others. I can’t stand feeling trapped.

I burst out into the hall and see Danny standing at his locker, its door open, flames licking up toward the ceiling. Thick black smoke is pouring out from the bottom, catching in my lungs and making my eyes water. I slip out of the rush of people and duck back against the wall, coughing. Danny howls something about his gym shorts.

Between the stampeding students, I catch glimpses of Meghan leaning against the lockers, chomping on her gum and watching Danny. She sees me and nods.

“Move along, folks,” someone shouts.

I turn to see Mr. Blair striding towards us with a fire extinguisher.
Why couldn’t it be any other teacher? Anyone but him
.

Mr. Blair frowns when he sees me, then turns his attention
to Meghan. His gaze darts back and forth between her and Danny.

He knows; I’m sure of it. I dash through the crowd and grab Meghan’s arm. “Come on!”

“No way. This is too good to miss.”

I can hardly hear her over the insistent clanging of the fire alarm. I lean close. “Mr. Blair’s watching you. And I think he knows.”

Meghan shrugs. “So I miss school again. No biggie. But thanks for the tip.”

Behind us, I hear the whoosh of the fire extinguisher. Meghan’s smiling, but her eyes aren’t; they’re sad and old, the way I often feel. For a moment, it’s like there’s no distance between us. Then Meghan shakes her hair into her eyes and the connection breaks.

“If we leave now, he might forget about you,” I say.

Meghan shrugs, the sadness back in her eyes. “I don’t care. I’m trying to see how many times I can go to detention before my mom detaches her face from her beer can.”

“I’m sorry.” I touch her arm, but her face is closing up, her eyes masking over.

“Forget it. Just forget I said anything, okay?” She crosses her arms over her chest and turns to look at Mr. Blair. And I see her like a painting in my mind—a narrow, lonely figure leaning up against dented grey lockers, her face defiant yet vulnerable, the sadness trapped inside her.

But I wouldn’t paint it like that. I’d paint her bandaged and bleeding, stumbling alone over the rubble of the hall, sharp slabs of the floor poking up to block her way, with smoldering lockers lying across her path—and nothing visible at the end of the smoke-filled hall.

Meghan doesn’t look back at me. I know she wants me to leave. And some part of me understands; we both know how to hurt ourselves.

I turn and walk away.

After the bell rings again, signaling all clear, I’m one of the first to get back into the school. Danny’s locker is a sodden, blackened mess, and Meghan is nowhere to be seen. The art room is empty, with knapsacks and books scattered on the floor and tables, and art projects left undone.