Page 2 of Edge of Unbroken

As a high school teacher, my dad is privy to a lot of the “teenage drama,” as he calls it, and frequently shares stories with my mom.

“One of my AP students just gave birth,” my dad told us at dinner one evening. “Tenth grade. A sophomore! Fifteen years old,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you even believe that? Babies having babies. Talk about a decision that will haunt this poor girl for the rest of her life. She was a straight-A student. Really smart with a bright future ahead of her, and now… poof.” He shook his head. “Oh, and did you hear about that orgy that got broken up at a homecoming dance at some school in New Hanover County?” he asked with an exasperated expression. “Does nobody raise these kids anymore? Is there no more common sense?” He turned to me. “I hope you have more self-respect than that, Kitty.”

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest because I very obviously don’t.

My mom tried to deescalate the rising tension. “Jeez, Bobby, of course Kitty has respect for herself. What happened with Adam wasn’t her fault.”

My dad wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps not, but Cat also didn’t tell us about what he was doing to herfor weeks. This could have been nipped in the bud the moment he turned on her,” he said with a huff.

I knew my mom wanted to provide me with backup when she began playing devil’s advocate, when she made excuses for my failure to protect myself, but it only resulted in my dad leaving the dinner table early, unwilling to compromise.

So, yeah, the thought of my dad finding out that I’ve sent nudes to a boy terrifies me.

All my life I was the “good girl,” the girl who did exactly as her parents told her, never broke curfew, always let her parents know where she was and with whom. I never got into trouble except for one time when I gave in to Julie’s dare to ditch school during my freshman year. My dad taught math at the same school, so of course he found out. He gave me an exhaustive lecture about my future and how bad it looked to have his oldest daughter skip out on classes.

That feeling when he told me how disappointed he was in my judgment and my poor choices was awful. I grew up knowing, without a shadow of doubt, that I’d never be one of those “bad kids” my dad talks about—the ones who, according to him, make increasingly bad decisions until they’re forced to drop out of school to raise babies or to make money working minimum wage jobs to support drug habits or simply survive.

And I largely succeeded, until it all derailed.

The more often my dad talks about the Adam issue, the more ashamed I feel. I wish I could just ignore it away, could find some reprieve from the constant worry about what Adam might do with those photos and how devastating that would be for me and my family. I can vividly imagine the photos getting passed around my old high school—through the gym, every single classroom, and the teachers’ lounge. I feel nauseated at the thought of my dad seeing them. His baby girl lying on some bed, drunk and passed out, her breasts exposed. Or worse, the full-frontal selfies I took in front of my bedroom mirror.

And, obviously, I worry about Ronan’s reaction. I keep swinging between convincing myself that he’d break up with me the second he found out what I’ve done—especially while he and I were already dating—or that he’d be nothing but supportive and understand that I didn’t have a choice but to acquiesce to Adam’s demands. I have these pendulum swings several times a week, but the thing I’m completely certain of is that with everything Ronan has been through, he’s the last person on this planet who deserves a lying, cheating girlfriend.

I keep thinking about how Ronan beat the crap out of Adam, how Ronan protected me and kept me safe, how he called what Adam was doing to me “abuse.” Yet he had been enduring his own abuse—really pervasive, violent abuse, as I’ve slowly been learning since Ronan left.

Steve told me that Frank has been reviewing the security footage from the last year, stored on a server online. Honestly, I wasn’t even aware that Frank had surveillance inside and outside the house until Steve pointed out the tiny, strategically placed cameras. They’re seemingly everywhere except the bathrooms and bedrooms, although there are two upstairs, one of which provides a view into both Ronan’s and Steve’s rooms when their doors are open.

“Do you remember the day your ex showed up at Murphy’s?” Steve had asked me. The tension in his shoulders was noticeable.

“Of course,” I said, and looked at Steve expectantly. He had just shown me the cameras in the house.

“After Ran dropped you off at home, he came here to change into a fresh shirt, I guess.” Judging by Steve’s body language, I could tell he was about to lay something heavy on me. “He had a run-in with my mom as soon as he got home,” he said through gritted teeth, “and she dislocated his right shoulder.”

I gasped and clasped my hands in front of my mouth. Details like these tend to send me into a tailspin. I kept replaying the day in my mind, the black eye and bloody lip Adam gave Ronan; Ronan dropping me off, then heading home, then back to work, and picking me up after. He didn’t say anything at all, showed no signs of being hurt beyond the bruise under his eye and the split lip. He was so attentive to me that night. I remember him making sure I was alright, how he talked to me about Adam’s abuse not being my fault. And I remember him carrying me into that bedroom at Shane’s, caressing my skin, his lips on my body, how he made me forget everything for a little while. All while he kept so much suffering and pain locked away inside him.

“How much is there?” I asked Steve. “Did she hurt him a lot?”

Steve nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah, she did. It’s bad, Cat. Fucking horrible,” he groaned. “My dad’s going through his stuff one day at a time. I guess the cops downloaded everything and the D.A. gave my dad a heads-up that there’s a bunch of really good evidence. So, my dad started going through it himself. I’ve seen a few things, including what I just told you, but, honestly, it’s too hard.” Steve looked like he was weighed down by a thousand boulders. “It’s really affecting my dad. I keep telling him maybe he shouldn’t watch it, but he’s pretty insistent. I think he needs to do it for himself; he needs to know what happened to Ran. He said Ran shouldn’t have to shoulder it all alone. I just… I feel like shit that I didn’t know what was going on,” he said, working hard to keep his emotions in check.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” I urged him. “Did you ever see her hurt him?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, not since we were little. It looks like my mom only really laid a hand on Ran when I wasn’t home or when I was asleep, but… I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the damn signs,” Steve said, looking at me almost apologetically, as if he was seeking my forgiveness. But there’s nothing to forgive. Only one person did anything wrong, and that’s Ronan and Steve’s mother. Yet I understand Steve’s feelings well because we all struggle with similar emotions.

Shane deals with the guilt of knowing—at least to some extent—what was going on, and the rest of us have a hard time comprehending how we could’ve missed the signs, which, in retrospect, so obviously pointed to what was happening to Ronan.

Needless to say, the past few weeks—months, actually—have left their mark on those of us closest to Ronan. My friends—especially Steve and Shane—and I are deeply and obviously affected by what Ronan has endured and his ensuing physical and emotional struggles. We’re all just trying to take it day by day, much like I imagine Ronan’s only able to take it one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

***

Today’s the second day of December, and it’s positively freezing. The sidewalks are coated with a light layer of snow and the streets are wet when Vada drops me off this afternoon after school. We typically drive to school together. Vada picks me up every morning so I don’t have to walk in the frigid temperatures, and she always drops me off at home at the end of the day.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Kitty Cat,” Vada says as I clamber out of her car, trying not to slip on the icy sidewalk while swinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Sounds good. Tell Steve I said ‘hi.’” I wave at her and carefully walk up the stairs to the front door.

My mom pokes her head out from the kitchen when I walk into the house. “Hey Kitty, how was school?”

I drop my bag, then take off my sodden shoes. “Normal.”

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