Page 18 of Forty

I knew he’d come. He was an opportunist.

I’d kept my clothes on, and I’d piled a whole bunch of shit in front of my door. Not the dresser or desk. Nothing that could wake my mother. ‘Cause the absolute worst thing would be if someone saw, right?

But I heaped up enough so that there’d be an obstacle. Advance warning if I happened to fall asleep.

A full laundry basket. The trash can. A pile of shoes.

After I left for Pyle, someone tucked the trash can back under the desk. Someone emptied the laundry basket. I took the shoes with me when I left.

He’d muscled right through my sad little blockade. He said he wanted to talk. He was worried about me.

Here’s the thing that people don’t understand. Hell, it’s the thing thatIdidn’t understand until I was twenty-five or twenty-six. When these things happen, you have a choice.

People who don’t understand sayI’d never let that happen to me! I’d fight. I’d tell someone. I’d scream. I’d kick him in the balls!

But the choice isn’t between telling and not telling. Fighting or not fighting. It’s between making it real or keeping it a bad dream.

If I made it real, I’d lose another father. Like when I was six, and my real dad disappeared, and I had nightmares for months about being chased by a monster while all the people around me turned to wax statues. My mom would be broken again like she was before she met Ed Ellis. She’d hide in bed all day, chain smoke, and she wouldn’t take her blood pressure meds or go to the grocery store.

If I made it real, Lou would lose his father, too. Just like me.

And I wastough. I handled it when my dad left. I kept Mom alive. Hid the bottles. Flushed pills. But Lou’s not me; he doesn’t have my dumb resilience. If I told, what would happen to Lou, my brave brother fighting so hard to be okay with himself and the world? If I told, would Lou love me anymore?

And I wouldnevertell Forty. Not if you tortured me. He’d look at me different. He’d be disgusted. He’d want to love me, but he wouldn’t be able to anymore.

I know I’m hard to love. Teachers barely tolerated me. Other kids got irritated with me right quick. I could never keep a best friend more than a week or so. Forty, Lou, and my mom. They were it.

And what was it really? A few minutes every so often. A few grunts. Hands I could ignore. A mess on my sheets I could wash the next day. I could stare at a wall while he did it. Hold my breath. It never lasted that long.

I’m a tough girl, right?

One night, my mom caught Ed coming out of my room. She started looking at me funny. She drank more, and all she had to say to me was clean your room. Unload the dishwasher. Don’t you think it’s time you got an afterschool job? See? No one can love you if they know. It’s too gross.

I was down to Forty and Lou.

Then Forty left for basic. Then the look in Ed Ellis’ eye changed.

The walls were closing in, and Lou was all I had left. Make it real or keep it a bad dream. You get to make the choice over and over again. Every morning when you wake up.

In the guidance counselor’s office while she’s checking a box and meeting with you about your four-year plan. On the bus ride home from school when Miss Amy asks you if something’s wrong. At the dinner table when your stepdad tells you that you can do better than the grease monkey you’re dating.

A thousand choices a day, a choice every second you’re alone with nothing to distract yourself. Your mind rolls on a loop, and every time you decide to eat it, the choices pile up in your belly like rocks.

And here’s the worst of it. The reason I never said a thing. If I made it real, then it really happened. To me. And somehow, I’d have to live with that, and at sixteen, I didn’t know how. So I decided it was a bad dream.

And when Ed Ellis looked around, saw I had no one left, and he tried to make itreallyreal? I beat him with a chair, and I got out of this house, this town.

I did come back for his funeral. He passed from pancreatic cancer. He went quickly. Mom begged me to come see him. He was asking for me. I refused, and she’s never talked to me since.

I’d half-thought maybe I’d see Forty at the funeral, but he’d been gone a few years at that point. He’d never come back from the Army.

I was sitting in a corner of the funeral parlor, playing on my phone, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Shirlene Robard, this old lady from the Steel Bones MC who kind of adopted me for a while. She’s a hardcore, old-school biker chick. She came to the viewing in a fadedAppetite for DestructionT-shirt, skintight black jeans, and snakeskin cowgirl boots.

Back when I was with Forty, I’d help her out around the clubhouse. Ran errands and such. She was a nurse, so she was always fussing over the older guys. We’d been tight, and when I left town, she still called me every so often. I’d entertain her with stories about the big city. She’d reminisce about Twitch and bitch about how the old dudes wouldn’t take care of themselves.

Shirlene paid her respects to Lou and my mom, and then we’d stepped outside—mostly to avoid my mom’s disapproving stares—and she slipped me a half pint of whiskey. We passed the bottle, taking baby sips, and she listened while I told someone for the first time why I wasn’t sorry Ed Ellis was dead.

She listened for what felt like hours. Then she’d patted my knee and said, “Too bad we can’t kill him. You’re a tough cookie, Nevaeh.”

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