The Love Story (The Things We Can't Change Book 4) (23 page)

I feel a flash of panic, wondering what those
things
might be, when Evie looks squarely up at me, taking a deep breath.

“I talked to Clarissa last night,” she offers.

“Yeah? About what? The dog? I can only imagine how she reacted to
that
.” I stand on tiptoe and crane my neck over people’s heads, wondering what the holdup is. I’m getting a bad feeling that I know where this talk is headed and I really don’t want to get into it all right now.

“Well, yeah, Lola kind of sparked it, but I also, um, kind of knocked the wine glass out of her hand.”

That catches my attention and I turn to look Evie in the eye, shocked. “You… knocked it out of her hand? Like, went at her and knocked it out of her hand? In a violent manner?”

She nods, looking just a little sheepish and smiles a bit. “Yeah. I hit it so hard it shattered against the wall, actually. I told her that she had a week to stop drinking or get out of my house.”

“Wow.” It’s all I can think to say, even as I try and picture Evie doing that. Somehow I just can’t picture it at all.

“Afterward I also, um, called Dr. Gottlieb,” Evie continues hesitantly.

I force myself to look at her again, even though I really don’t want to. Her eyes are wide and completely unguarded. She’s looking at me with an expectant, pleading look and I know this is going exactly where I don’t want it to. She wants me to open the bridge to talk about it and when I don’t, she continues to hedge toward the issues, even as we get trays and food.

“I made an appointment for next week. I realized that it would probably be a good idea to talk to her about everything. And I’m realizing that the… road to recovery doesn’t happen overnight. Or over one summer. And that Tony isn’t exactly my only issue.”

“That’s good,” I hear myself say as we pay for our food. I wish Evie could read my mind like always, read it and see that I
really
don’t want to talk about this right now. At all.

My skin is prickling, the familiar flood of emotions drowning me, taking away my inhibitions and defenses. We need to stop, stop before it all turns into yesterday and I hurt her.

Again.

“Zeke.”

The soft whisper makes me face her despite myself. She’s stopped walking, nearly to our table. She’s looking at me with wide, confused eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.” I bite it out, hoping she’ll take the hint and drop it, at least for the time being.

But instead, she stays on me as we reach the table and sits down across from me, frowning. I try and give her a warning look but she ignores it.

“Clearly, something is,” she persists. “I’m… I’m trying to tell you about some progress I’ve made. Progress that you wanted and you’re acting like you don’t even care.”

“Maybe I don’t.” The words slip out before I can catch them, all this talk making me throw up defenses that are old and weak from disuse and constant attack.

I don’t want to talk about feelings right now!
Why can’t she see that? Why won’t she stop
pushing
?

Jenny, Koby and Dominic—all closest to our end of the table—look over at me in shock. I glare at them until they turn and pretend not to be eavesdropping, though it’s poorly done. Evie’s face is surprised, then hurt, and then a blank expression falls over her face.

“That’s not true,” she says flatly. “So why are you acting like this?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I ask. I’m helpless to stop the defensiveness, the usual method of avoidance that I always fall into when someone wants to talk about emotions. It’s as if I have no control over my own mouth. “Since when do you get to tell me what to say or how to think?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do and you know it,” Evie says exasperatedly. “I want to know why you’re acting like an ass to me lately and always so defensive about your feelings. Again.”

The whole table seems to suck in a breath as Evie and I glare at each other.

“Evie,” I growl in my most dangerous voice. “Not. Right. Now.”

“But-”

“Evie! Stop!”
I actually shout the words, so loudly the entire lunchroom falls silent and stares at our table.

I bite back a curse and look at Evie. She blinks once, twice, and I can see the sheen of tears in her eyes before she forces them away. Then her lips tighten and she stands up, so forcibly that her chair skitters backward several feet. She grabs her bag and books and walks quickly out of the cafeteria without a backward glance.

Evangeline

107

I’m still focused on Zeke’s words as I walk to Speech and take my seat, very aware of Zeke just two chairs behind me. And the somewhat pitying looks that Koby, Dominic, and Jenny keep sending my way. I want to lash out, to spin in my seat and give back just as good as I got. But I can’t. I don’t even know what to say because there’s one problem still unresolved; I still allow Tiffany and everyone at the club to treat me like garbage.

I have a vision next of lashing out at
them
. Saying or doing something that shocks them, gives them one iota of truth about all that has really happened—that their precious Tony beat me, raped me, tried to kill me and all Zeke did was rescue me. But I don’t know how.

Again. I feel a sudden pounding fury at all of them. At Tiffany and all her friends for how they treat me. At Tony for all he did to me. Even at Zeke for all the grief he’s put me through since school has started. And really, he
has
put me through a lot. What he did was necessary. I agreed with him when he did it. But for some reason, instead of cheering me on and growing closer as I slowly overcame my problems, he’s been drifting further and further away and I’m helpless to stop it.

I don’t even pay attention as Dominic gives his speech, only clench and unclench my fists on my desk. Yet even as I stare at the back of Tiffany’s head, hating her in this moment more than ever, hating everyone around me, my anger shifts. Just as it did yesterday. A deep, all-consuming anger that becomes directed at one other person, the person who is really to blame.

Myself.

It’s not actually their fault. Not Tiffany’s, not Tony’s, not even Zeke’s. How can I get mad at them for doing only what I’ve allowed them to do? Belittle me, shove me to the side. I’ve been a doormat, punted from being one person’s punching bag to another’s. Just like Lola did yesterday, I only curled myself into a ball and gave big, sad eyes to whoever was laying into me, hoping that would be enough to make them stop.

Don’t you know how to do
anything
?
I rage inwardly, not even clapping for Dominic when he finishes or listening as Jenny begins her own speech.
Anything useful at all?

No. Probably not. I can rescue a dog, put Clarissa in her place but I can’t defend myself against a bunch of seventeen-year-old bullies. I can’t get my boyfriend to actually want to be with me, to tell me he loves me even when I know he feels it. I can’t even walk through the halls of my high school without cringing if someone brushes my arm. I have the money to go anywhere, do anything, and I can’t figure out what the hell to do with my life.

All I know is that I’m tired of it. I’m sick and tired of it.

“Evangeline Parker.”

I jump when I hear my name and look up to see the rest of the class and Mr. Riordan looking at me expectantly. It’s my turn to give my speech.

“Sorry,” I mutter, collecting my notes and standing to the sound of titters and giggles.

I walk up to the podium and spread my notes out in careful order, then look out over the classroom. I scan it quickly without actually looking and then focus again on my notes.

“There are many different kinds of victims in the world,” I read, and then pause.

I look over the carefully worded notes and half-hearted speech I’ve written. Shallow, that’s what it is. Shallow and empty and completely unremarkable and not meaningful. Without impact.

I look out over the room, meeting eyes this time. Jenny and Koby are looking at me encouragingly, urging me onward. Tiffany’s entire gang is looking at me eagerly, waiting for me to choke. And Zeke… Zeke won’t even look at me. He’s staring down at his desk, not watching me.

I want to make an impact.

The thought comes to me in sudden clarity.
That’s
what I want to do with my life. I want to make a difference, make an impact, impact
people
.

I look down at the podium again, my fists clenching. I
hate
how he won’t look at me. I hate that the smallest mood swing or word from Zeke can lay my heart down on the ground and trample over it. I hate how much control I’ve allowed him and everyone else to have over me and my life.

How can I make an impact on others if I’m too busy letting them walk all over me and dictate my every move and mood?

I take a deep breath, the thought hitting me like a thunderbolt. Shaky, I look over at Mr. Riordan, sitting with his feet propped up on his desk. He gives me a nod of encouragement and now I’m convinced that I didn’t get this topic by accident.

I gather up my index cards and pile them together again, arranging them just so. Then, behind the cover of the slanted podium, I rip them savagely in half, one thought echoing solidly through me: I am
sick
and
tired
of being everyone’s punching bag.

I’ve allowed them all to beat on me, make me suffer, abuse me to cover their own shortcomings and insecurities. Clarissa because she was grieving and couldn’t handle it. Tiffany and her friends because I dared to defy their mold and be different, to ripple the waters. Tony because of his own trauma and perceived shortcomings. Even Zeke and his fear of emotions and attachments.

And I can’t do it any longer.

“A real victim, however, is only someone who allows another person to have control over them.” I say it loudly and articulately, over all the noise. The usual chatter and whispers that underlie all of my speeches dies completely away and they all stare at me. Even Zeke.

My voice is unusually strong and loud as I continue. “I have allowed myself to be a victim many times over in my life. I was one the entire course of my sophomore and junior years of high school. Under the thumb of Anthony Stull.”

A ripple goes through the room. Every eye is fixed unblinkingly on me.

“I gave him control over me completely. He told me how to act, what to wear, who to talk to, even what I was allowed to think. I was a victim eight months ago when I allowed him control over my body, was a victim in a way that no woman should ever have to suffer through.”

It takes a moment for the implications of my words to sink in and then eyes go wide. Whispers try to explode but Mr. Riordan puts a stop that immediately, slamming his feet onto the floor and shouting for them to be quiet. I glance over at him again and he has his elbows resting on his knees, watching me intently, nodding for me to go on.

I continue, the words flowing from a place hidden deep inside, someplace secret where I can’t stop them. “I was a victim six months ago when Tony tried to take my life in the bathroom of my country club and someone rescued me. A victim not because I was attacked, but because I failed to rescue myself.”

I look at Zeke for that one, wondering what his reaction will be. He only continues to look thunderstruck, more so with every word that comes out of my mouth.

“I was a victim all summer, victim of memories and beliefs that I allowed to trap me. I was a victim when school started, allowing myself to be bullied. Allowing all of you to call me names to belittle me, to spread false rumors about me. I have been a victim all my life.”

I look down at my hands, at the old notes I’ve shredded repeatedly as I talk. I take another breath and look at the room again.

“I used to think a victim was made by a situation. That the word ‘victim’ meant someone who was trapped or defenseless. I felt I had been a victim all my life, all through these situations. I used to think a victim was helpless. Now I realize that nothing could be further from the truth. I allowed myself to become a victim through fear, intimidation, anger, shyness, hope, even through love. In all these situations, I gave someone else the power to create a situation where I felt helpless. Where I let myself become a victim. I repeat: a victim is only someone who allows someone else to have power over them.”

I pause and take the time to meet the eyes of everyone in the room, saving Zeke’s for last as I say firmly, resolutely, “And I will never give anyone that power over me
ever
again.”

The bell rings and no one in the classroom moves. There’s a moment of total silence as they all stare at me. Finally, Mr. Riordan begins a slow, dramatic clap and the class haltingly follows and regains its movement.

“Right then! Clear out, all of you!” Mr. Riordan bellows. “And take note of a speech done with
emotion
! Well done, Evie!”