September Rain

  Part of the problem was I had been clinging to Angel-aiming to make myself whole by sticking to my friend. That's what they're for, right? I often wished for a way to fold Angel up and stuff her inside my chest, sure her fluffy soul could pad my bared walls and alleviate the throbbing.

  Angels' presence was a lively, contagious thing that held the ones she loved upon a pedestal. A high place where I enjoyed sitting, looking down at the emptiness that could not touch me. A place where I could relax. But I was hardly there anymore-on her pedestal. It seemed that Jake was the only one allowed up there.

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  One night, we went to the hilltop overlooking the schools stadium. It had a decent view and there was no one around for miles. It was kind of our thing. But that night, the one place Angel and I could always go and relax felt like the sharp lip of an abyss. I had a feeling that my feet would slip at any moment, send me plummeting. More aptly, the hilltop was the point of a knife. One wrong move could thrust it into my belly.

  When I was with Angel and we were full of liquor, standing on the hill, I could forget everything. But not that day, because of what I did at the clinic. I kept that secret to myself because I knew she would never understand. Especially about stupid-ass Troy.

  So, I stood on the hilltop, pretending everything was fine, staring out at the schools' stadium that would be packed with the junior varsity team in less than twenty-four hours. The stands would be filled. Then, when the seniors played on Friday night the occupancy would double. The whole town would shut down for that game.

  What would it be like to be one of them-the Troy's of the world-the ones everyone came to see? I wondered if it would be as satisfying as it sounded.

  For nearly a week, Angel had been upset with Jake. Of course he had no idea because he was an idiot who thought when a girl said she was fine, she meant it. I understood her insecurity better than anyone, but also knew Angel stressed too much, in general, and even more so over all things Jake. She had nothing to worry about there. Angel had nearly a years' worth of a solid relationship over a girl who wasn't even an official band member. I told my girl not to worry, that if it actually came down to that chick being in Jakes' band, all she had to do was talk to her and lay down the boundaries.

  It had been days since that conversation, and there we were: Angel perched on a small patch of dried grass, curling her knees into her chest, staring at her hands. I watched from the corner of my eye as she crushed her bent knees in, tighter and tighter. Almost like she was trying to shrink.

  "How's Jake?" There was not a doubt in my mind that he was the issue.

  Angel shrugged. "I'm surprised you remember." She'd been a little short with me the past few days and I could hardly blame her.

  "It's on my list. And I remember everything."

  If I thought hard enough I could probably remember my own conception or a past life if I wanted to. I didn't, though, because the life I was living was more than enough.

  Most days I wished to forget.

  My earliest memories were vivid. Not that I told Doctor Williams any of them. It was none of her damned business. Besides, those memories were hard to articulate. There was no color or sound, only strong feelings and bodies without faces, but I was short and spent most of my early years staring at the ground.

  What I remembered most were long legs covered in denim and a pair of big hands that used to grab my waist. They held on so tight, I could never get away. It seemed to happen a lot in those first years, whenever my mother was away-at least I assumed, because no one ever came when I called out.

  Every time I went to the bathroom denim clad legs would appear in the doorway. I'd see those big hands . . . And then, the room blurred. I was never sure if it was the lighting or my eyes, but when the room would come back into focus, I always felt like a gutted fish. I could never remember my face or my own hands, or even my clothes when the hands touched me, so I couldn't say how old I was when it happened or long it went on, or even who did it. But looking back, it seems like it happened all the time.

  I was too small. Fighting was useless. Crying for help did nothing. So I figured I had to guard myself; I stopped drinking to avoid using the bathroom, where it always happened.

  I used to get stomach aches whenever I looked at a glass of water. It didn't matter how thirsty I was-if I drank, I'd have to go and I would have gladly died rather than went willingly into a bathroom. No matter if I felt sick, if the sides of my throat were stuck together, I would pass it by.

  Maybe I was in second grade, because I remember being in music class at my elementary school. All us kids were sitting on the big blue carpet. It was a special place the teacher reserved for group singing. The whole class was in a circle, chirping the words to it bitsy spider or something equally lame while the teacher demonstrated the hand motions to the song. Suddenly, the room tilted.

  I woke in the nurses' office. And I don't know what it was-maybe the lady's kind, round eyes or maybe it was that she simply asked, "What's wrong, honey? Why won't you drink anything?"

  There was water, apple juice, grape juice, and even lemon-lime soda. All of them had been offered to me. But the voice that came with those denim legs and mean hands had been very clear with me. The blank face promised that telling anyone would make things worse, that no one would believe me anyways, and I would be punished. But he didn't know how much I hated what he did to me.

  I stared at the four cups set beside me. I was so thirsty. I decided that I was going to tell and then guzzle everything they had. And if the nurse would not help, then I would run away.

  To my amazement, the kind school nurse listened. She never said I was making things up. Her face was frozen through the whole confession, though. A look I later realized was shock, but at the time she just seemed very quiet. Then, she promised that I would never have to live with the mean man ever again. She wrapped me in a blanket before leaving the small room to make a phone call. While she was gone, I drank down all four cups. When she came back, I asked for more.

  And it never happened again-in that house, anyways. We moved away. My mom never asked about it and I never told said a word. Something in me knew that she wouldn't believe me. She just kept working like she always did, and soon another pair of hands came to grab me when no one was looking. I was so stupid; I thought all I had to do was tell. I didn't realize that day in the nurses' office, I'd been lucky.

  People think that because someone is small they have no value. Yet, fat people are a common topic of conversation in news and magazines. A person could get on TV just for being fat. Not smart or pretty, or talented. Just huge.

  People like big things just as much as they like scary things. Big monsters, especially. Godzilla, King Kong, Jaws-they were all huge and got movies made about them. That marshmallow monster from that Ghostbusters movie was everywhere for a while, but everybody ignored the kids he crushed in the streets.

  Years after being eaten alive by my very own monster, I still remembered everything. I was still digesting. The feeling would never leave me. Like an elephant, I would never forget what my mother said when I told her. "You're lying! Why do you always ruin everything?"

  I know the spiel: none of it was my fault. It was them. Not me. I didn't need to feel like the pariah, the reject, the mistake. I didn't have to lie in bed at night with my ears covered, I knew it. But knowing would not make the feelings stop. Nothing could do that.

  ". . . Avery, you're my best friend."

  Angels' voice broke my trance and I looked back to catch her eye. "Prove it. Talk to me." I pointed at her tight pose. "You curl up like that when you're upset and since Jake told you about that chick, you're curled up all the time."

  I really disliked the way Angel thought she needed Jake to survive. She was stronger than she knew, but she would never learn unless she freed herself from that dependency. Independence was a muscle and it needed to be worked in order to grow. Not that I could knock my friends' taste. Jake was hot. Supe
r-hot, in every way, even the way he seemed to reciprocate Angels' feelings. But it didn't mean it was good for either of them.

  I was glad Jake and the guys were heading out to California. Angel needed time to get to know herself again. Since she met Jake, everything had been about him and I missed the days when it was about me, too.

  Angel set a hand over her forehead. "I drank too much."

  The line sounded very much like one of Analog's early songs, which made Angel smile, so I jumped on it and started singing, "Too much, too much drinking! Better call a cab or we'll never make it home!"

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