Page 81 of This I Know
I take a deep breath. Okay. So I’m pretty sure counseling won’t bethatbad. But now, sitting here and thinking about actually having to go through with re-facing my demons, next to some stranger, in some cramped room full of cheesy inspirational quotes and earthy essential oils, my palms begin to sweat. I’m imagining some overly-sympathetic professional who knows nothing about me, but thinks that they do because they’ve read the latest hundred or so pages of my case file, all the while shaking their head and chattering about what they think I’ve been through. And then wondering to themselveshow the hell am I going to get her out of this one?
“I think it’ll be good for us.” My mom flexibly stretches her leg out in front of her.
I watch in envy. I can’t do that one.
“Good foryou,really,” she goes on. “But good for both of us.” She looks me over, studying me as though she knows me so well – because in all of her mysterious, motherly ways, she does. And it makes me want to cower.
“Look,” she begins again. “You go to this thing tomorrow and do it right. Talk to the counselor, get some of these things sorted out.” She wags her finger at me. “Don’t leave anything out. Make it count.”
I do nothing but watch her in obedience. What else can I do? I don’t want to go, but when it comes to her, I’m still a child. And I guess I should be thankful that she hasn’t come right out withyou’re never to see that boy again.
“I’ll try,” I say with honesty. And I mean it. I’ll try. I can’t guarantee, though, that I’ll be physically able to do it.
I mean, what if the counselor brings up the night of the attack? What if they want me to talk about it, as though I’ve already moved on like nothing ever happened?
And what if, despite how much better my leg feels, I can’t do that?
The thought of breaking down causes tears to well in my eyes. I stand up and try to hide my face.
My mom says nothing else. She watches me leave, her sympathetic eyes creating painful holes in my back as I walk away. I disappear quietly into the stairway, heading toward my room. Just as I reach the top step, my leg locks up.
I stumble.
I reach for the banister and grab it just before I land face-first against the sharp protrusion of one of the stairs. I pull myself up with the strength of my arms, reeling in the weight of what could have just happened. The last thing I need right now is to go back to school tomorrow with a returned limpanda bloodied nose.
I pause, listening for any sign that my mom heard that little mishap.
It’s silent downstairs, but that’s not saying much. She managed to fool me last night, so there’s no telling with that woman; for all I know, she could be at the bottom of the stairs, right around the corner, mentally registering this fall so she can report it to my doctor before my appointment on Wednesday.
I guess I’m not doing as well as I thought.
Ethan
You’ve got to tell her.
I see her from across the cafeteria. It’s lunch hour, and she’s sitting in the same spot she always does, near enough to her friends but close to the edge of the table. I wonder if she does that on purpose, as though she needs to keep a way out available to her as a quick escape should she sense another threat. You know, just in case.
Truth be told, even I feel that way. Sometimes I’ll be sitting at my own lunch table and if I’m there for too long, my mind will start to race and my leg will start to bounce because I know that I’m trapped. There’s a person on either side of me, and if shit should go down, I’m not in the best of positions.
I guess we are both victims of the same criminal, after all, at least in some way. I’m not about to put myself on some kind of pedestal and equate my suffering to hers, because God knows I couldn’t do that. In no way is it the same. And yeah, there are different degrees of suffering. But my point is we were both impacted, and I’m here, struggling, trying to live with it, too.
I wish I could tell her all this. I start to walk up to her. Her hair’s done up the same way it was last night, before she let it down – carefree and with miscellaneous, highlighted chunks hanging down around her face. I love it; such carelessness is like the breaking free of her soul. Her luscious, genuine smile peeks through when she turns her head to laugh, and I want nothing more than to be able to tell her who I really am. I clench my fist at my side.You can’t, Ethan. Don’t you dare. You can never tell her. She’ll hate you forever, and then you’ll lose her. You’ll lose the one most beautiful, important thing to ever come into your life.
I doubt anything I say to her could explain my actions last night. I wouldn’t expect her to understand without a full-on story from me, one that I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear, and one that may very well result in a slap across a face.Myface, of course.
As I close in on the air between us, I still feel what it felt like to be close to her last night. We were so close that the smell of her body invaded me in all the right ways, and all the right places. I can still picture her, the look of her clothes hanging off her body so perfectly; the smell of her clean skin floating through the air. I’m tempted to close my eyes, if only I wouldn’t more than likely trip and land flat on my face on the way over to her.
Both Avery and Mara are facing away from me. I don’t know the blonde girl sitting across from them; I’ve never seen her before. But she’s seen me, apparently. She’s eyeing me as I walk up behind Avery. I extend my arm, ready to touch her shoulder to get her attention.
“Hey.” A sultry Julia sidesteps in front of me, blocking my path before I can reach Avery.
I look around. Where did she even come from? She could have emerged from anywhere out of this mass of students. She’s small. I bet she crept through the crowd without so much as a hint of being noticed by anyone around her.
“Julia–”
“Hey,” she says again. Then, before I can answer, she adds, “stranger,” and nudges me on the shoulder.
Luckily for me, Avery hasn’t caught wind of any of this. And the cafeteria is too loud for her to hear our conversation; I just hope she doesn’t pick up my voice behind her.
