Anyway, it was too late to take it back and do it differently.
Then Principal Scott said, “Have you thought about going to the police?”
My mouth went dry then, too dry to explain that going to the police seemed like too much, too big a step to take. Even just hearing the principal say the word police felt like too much. The sort of thing my mother would call a bridge too far, if I’d given her a chance to say anything at all.
Oh god, was the principal going to call the police? My heart beat even faster. She couldn’t do that, could she, not if I didn’t want her to? The only things I knew about the police came from TV shows, and I vaguely remembered some official-looking actress telling another, much less official-looking actress, that she had to the be the one to file a complaint with law enforcement. But if I told the principal I didn’t want to go to the police, would she think I was lying about what happened? I slid my hands beneath my legs. My palms were so sweaty I worried she’d be able to see it. Weren’t sweaty palms considered a sign of lying?
As though telling the truth is any less nerve racking.
“You understand, of course, that I’ll want to discuss this with your parents,” Principal Scott said. I had to hold my breath to keep from sighing with relief. Calling my parents didn’t exactly sound good, but it sounded better than if she’d said she was calling the cops. She continued, “And Mike’s parents.” Okay, that made sense. It was only fair, if she was going to talk to my parents. “And I’ll have to discuss this with Mike, of course.”
I nodded again. Isn’t that what I’d wanted? How else did I think she could stop it?
She added, “And the way rumors spread around here—I can only imagine your classmates will begin to hear about it too.”
She said it like she was sorry that she couldn’t keep it a secret. I pressed my palms into my jeans, trying to wipe away the sweat without letting the principal see that I was sweating in the first place.
Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my hair in a ponytail today. Maybe it looked like I was trying to draw attention to the bruise. I decided that as soon as I left the principal’s office, I would let my hair down, so I could tilt my head to hide the bruise behind a few strands. But then maybe Principal Scott would think I’d done that on purpose too: pulled my hair back for her, let it down for the kids in the halls.
I wanted to pull my legs up and rest my chin on my knees, making myself as little as possible. But I kept my feet on the floor. I even tried not to slouch. Could Principal Scott tell this was Mike’s sweater? I looked at my feet. I wondered when the floor had last been vacuumed and who decided the principal’s office would be carpeted, unlike the floors in the rest of the school, which are hard, cold linoleum. I was wearing a particularly beat-up pair of sneakers. Maybe I’d done that on purpose too, trying to look that much more like a victim: See, even my sneakers are beat up.
Or did it make me look that much more to blame: You can’t trust a word that girl says, even her sneakers are beat up. Clearly, she doesn’t know how to take care of herself. Clearly she can’t handle having nice things.
Mike was a Very Nice Thing. I fell in love with him the day he asked me out. I mean, literally, at that moment. Until then, I didn’t think he knew I was alive—no, that’s an exaggeration, and I should be careful about exaggerating, given the circumstances. Of course he knew I was alive; we’d been going to school together since kindergarten and had most of the same friends. We’d gone to the same birthday parties when we were little and the same blowouts as we got older. But—until he asked me out—I never would’ve guessed he thought of me that way, so I didn’t bother thinking of him that way either. I mean, I’m not blind; he’s the most handsome boy in school. (In my opinion. But believe me, I’m not the only one who thinks so.) Sandy brown hair, tall, tan, toned. I’m not even the prettiest girl among our group of friends. I’m not the funniest or the smartest, and I don’t have the best body. I’m average—I looked it up once and my height is literally the average height for a girl my age. My eyes and hair color (brown) are average too. Mike could’ve had anyone, so there would’ve been no point to thinking of him that way.
But then he asked me out—and no one ever asks anyone out like that. It’s always a group hanging out or a hookup or whatever, but Mike actually asked me out. I felt like I was in a movie from the 1980s and he was captain of the football team and I was head cheerleader. (Or would that be a movie from the fifties? Should I have realized then that he was old-fashioned? Should I have recognized it as a warning sign?)
Anyway, when he asked me out on an actual date, I fell. Just like that. Like this whole time I simply hadn’t noticed that I was madly, desperately, completely in love with him. He stood over me while he waited for my answer, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to face him and tell him that yes, of course I’d go out with him. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast that I was sure he could hear it. It didn’t even pound that hard in the principal’s office this morning, and that should have been so much more nerve racking than accepting a date, shouldn’t it? Maybe when all this is over, I’ll need to have my heart checked.
“Are you sure about this?” Principal Scott asked, crossing then uncrossing her legs. She isn’t one of those teachers who tries to act like one of the girls. She keeps her blond hair cut bluntly just below her shoulders and wears thick black headbands. She wears sensible flat shoes almost every day. On field day this year, she wore khakis that were pleated in the front and sneakers so clean, it looked like they’d never been worn before.
She didn’t sound unsupportive. More concerned.
After our first date, that was that. We’ve been together ever since—six months. I don’t remember exactly when Mike started saying that we’d be together forever. He said we’d go to the same college (wherever they recruited him to run track), that we’d live in the same dorm, that we’d end up working in the same city after graduation.
Doesn’t every girl dream that her boyfriend will love her like that?
Three
The Popular Girl
I wonder what the deal will be at lunch today. We—my best friend and I—sit with Mike and his guy friends pretty much every day. Maybe today it’ll break down gender lines—girls on one side and boys on the other. Or maybe everyone will act like nothing happened because of course, no one’s supposed to know that anything happened, because of course, this isn’t any of anyone else’s business. But (of course) by lunchtime everyone at school knows, as easily and quickly as if they’d announced it over the loudspeaker:
Sad Girl accuses Golden Boy of abuse.
Mom called this morning. We’re not supposed to talk on our phones in the halls, but I figured the teachers would make an exception today, considering everything that was going on. Mom was sympathetic and concerned, saying the things I guess a parent is supposed to say at a time like this—how are you, do you need anything, do you want to come home early, et cetera. But as the conversation went on, I couldn’t help thinking that she also sounded kind of relieved that at least it had happened to two people who were too young to have been married.