The way he parked down the street from my house, so we could make out after our third date without my mother seeing it.
Maybe even the way he slapped me that first time, not hard enough to leave a bruise.
After that evening in January, like I said, I thought maybe it wouldn’t happen again. And it didn’t—at least, not like that—until the slap last Saturday. He went back to the other, smaller hurts: the pushes and pulls, the grip that was just a little too tight. Those hurts were gray, instead of black and white.
For a while, I was able to ignore (or pretend to ignore) those smaller hurts. But after Valentine’s Day, it became impossible to pretend they weren’t on purpose.
Mike does everything on purpose.
Of course, we spent Valentine’s Day together. It was the very first time I’d had a real date on Valentine’s Day, and I was so excited. I borrowed a red tank top from my best friend, but I had to wear a sweater over it because there were three bruises on my left upper arm, fingerprints from where Mike had grabbed me.
I told myself it didn’t matter because it was cold outside. I would’ve worn a sweater anyway.
Later, when Mike undressed me, I figured he’d ignore the bruises. But instead, he kissed them methodically, one at a time, pressing his lips so hard against my skin the way another boy might kiss a tattoo you’d gotten, his name etched into your flesh.
“I love you.” He went on kissing me. He even kissed carefully, as though he’d read a manual about where girls like to be kissed: beneath their earlobes, in the hollow of their throats, their eyelids.
“I love you too,” I answered, and it was true. I loved the way it felt when he kissed me and when he held my hand. I loved how it felt to walk down the street with him, how it looked when I got into his car. I loved the way he drove: one hand on the wheel, one hand on my knee.
I’m supposed to hate him. I’m supposed to hate him because he hurt me. The problem is, I can hate him for hurting me and still love him for the way things were when he didn’t hurt me.
It was nothing like it was in books or in the movies: the boyfriend who lost control in a fit of passion. He never asked me not to tell, never begged me to keep his dark secret.
I can’t decide whether that would have been more or less frightening.
The thing is, I wasn’t scared of him. Is that stupid? I didn’t think he’d ever hurt me badly enough to do any real damage. He was too careful for that.
So methodical, so careful: Does that mean he intended to leave a bruise when he hit me on Saturday? Of course, he couldn’t have been sure exactly how hard a slap would need to be, that depends on me, on whether or not I bruised easily (like a peach), on how much iron I’d eaten in the prior few days, on how much water I’d had to drink.
Not everything was in his control.
Maybe another girl would’ve hit him back. Maybe another girl would’ve told right away—after that very first hit, the day he rolled his ankle on the track. Maybe another girl would’ve told even sooner than that, would’ve recognized the tugs and pinches and pulls for what they really were, instead of excusing them as passionate affection. That girl wouldn’t have fallen in love with Mike. Or at least, she would’ve fallen out of love with him months ago. But this girl—me—I let it go on for months.
According to the rumor mill, a group of students is planning to call for Mike’s expulsion before Sunday’s track meet. He could lose his chance at a scholarship. He might never run competitively again.
Was that what I was hoping for when I went to Principal Scott on Monday?
Maybe I should have waited until after the season was over. Until after his scholarship had been awarded.
After all, I’d waited this long. Why couldn’t I have waited a little bit longer?
But I wasn’t thinking about any of that when I walked into Principal Scott’s office.
I was only thinking one thing:
I wanted it to stop.
Fifteen
The Burnout
I walk straight past the table where the popular kids sit. I keep my gaze focused on Hiram’s car at the far end of the lot, concentrating on the relief that lies waiting inside.
I’ve never smoked anywhere but inside his car. I guess that might look like it’s a power thing, that he controls my access. But in fact, that’s my way of controlling my access. I’m pretty sure Hiram would give me whatever I asked for. But I’ve chosen not to ask.
I walk as fast as I can without actually running. Everyone would look at me if I ran, and I need to blend into the crowd so no one will see where I’m headed. I feel like a little kid playing tag: It is right behind me and I have to hurry to make it to the safe zone where it can’t get me.
I look at my feet, at the brand-new pair of sneakers I ordered on Monday night. I paid extra for two-day delivery even though that’s the sort of thing my dad calls a waste of money.
But I needed the new shoes, and when they turned out to be a little too big, I wore them anyway. I’d already thrown my old sneakers away.
I feel his gaze on my back. No, that’s ridiculous. A person can’t feel another person’s gaze. That’s the sort of thing people say in romance novels and bad movies. But still, I can tell he’s there, somewhere behind me. I look up—across the parking lot—and see Hiram getting out of his car. I can’t remember the last time I saw him outside of his car, and he looks shorter than I remembered. Maybe only a few inches taller than I am.
There’s a crowd, but I’m not blending into it. I’m at the center of it. I start to run. They’re already looking at me, so what difference does it make?
Up ahead, Hiram opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Or really, I’m too far away to hear him. Instead, I hear another voice, this one coming from behind me. I hear his footsteps hurrying to catch up with me: his enormous feet, his long strides, his fast pace. I stop running.
I could never outrun him.
There would be no point in trying.
Sixteen
The Burnout
The Bulimic
The Popular Girl
The Girlfriend
“Maya,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice. He knows I can hear him.
I turn around.
Part Two
The Girls
Monday, April 10
One
The Anxious Girl
She’s going to end it.
I’m sure of it.
I can tell.