I’d promised her nothing that went down was her fault, which it absolutely wasn’t. It would have been stupid for me bring up Josh’s name at all, so I’d been vague on the topic. Trying to keep the letter light, I’d told her more about being here. To ease her guilt, I’d made up a funny story about Ian and Ricky. It was complete bullshit, but I pictured the smile on her beautiful face as she read about it.
I’d given her nothing but encouragement when it came to her dancing with the crew after her other cast was off. As much as I’d always detested that douchebag Jared, I knew he, Taye and the rest of the guys would watch out for her. It killed me to think of her out there alone, feeling unsafe. They’d also distract her from the dark thoughts she’d hinted at in her letter.
My pulse had raced as I’d sworn to never break up with her. My decision would always be her in my arms. I’d explained how nothing had changed for me and when I got home we could return to the way we were.
Feeling inadequate, I’d written some of the phrases from the psychology books I’d read about victims of sexual violence. Phrases which were supposed to make her feel less shameful and help her not dwell on what had occurred. At my last session, I’d discussed Gianna’s situation with Dr. Adler and she’d given me ample advice on the subject.
Not wanting to end the letter on a sad note, I’d reminded Gianna of good memories during our short time together. Hopefully she’d laughed when she read those parts. Trying my best, I’d attempted to be romantic. Not easy for a guy like me, but I hoped I’d said what she needed to hear.
Gianna was my world and I’d been sure to let her know it in my letter.
As soon as the envelope was licked and addressed, I’d punched the nearest wall, tearing up my knuckles. I’d been panicked at the thought of my words not being enough to hold on to her. Locked up, I was helpless to do anything about it if she broke up with me.
My first phone call to her new cell number was made that same day a month ago. The time allotted to me for phone privileges was at a time she was in school, so I’d been bummed to only leave a message after not hearing her voice for so long. I’d rambled on as long as I could on her voicemail, using the small amount of time to the fullest. Every day for the rest of the week, I’d left a new message.
Saturday finally came and my throat had gone tight at the sound of Gianna’s, “Hello?”
For that brief moment, my world was set to right.
I’d had the chance to talk to her now for the past several Saturdays. It sucked she was in class during my phone time during the weekdays, but I didn’t want her to cut class in order to take my calls. I wished peace for her and getting in trouble for missing class would be stressful.
Those few phone conversations had done little to alleviate the frustration I’d felt about our relationship. While I tried to pretend nothing had changed, it was obvious Gianna was distancing herself emotionally. Gritting my teeth, I sometimes barely kept myself from lashing out at her on the phone or in letters. It wasn’t that she didn’t say I love you back, because she did. It was her acting more like a friend over the phone than my girlfriend. And I wanted my girlfriend back.
She’d promised to visit me soon, once she was cleared to drive again. I didn’t mention she could always get a ride from a friend. Possibly her dad would bring her here if she asked. The guy was likely still giving her whatever she wanted after what happened to her. If I were him, I’d feel all sorts of misplaced guilt.
I made sure to remind her at the end of each call how many days until we’d be together again. I lived for that countdown. My brain updated that number when I woke up each morning.
After obsessing in solitary for what seemed like hours about things I had no control over, I finally fell asleep.
*****
We were escorted straight to the warden after breakfast the following morning. The seven of us remained mute as the warden lectured us and threatened that the incident would be on our permanent records.
In class, I threw myself into my schoolwork. Later, I’d make sure to use my phone time to call my mom and leave a message on Gianna’s voicemail. Those messages ensured she’d be thinking of me as I constantly thought of her.
When I spoke with her on Saturdays, I tried my best not to be angry with her. I realized she couldn’t help being messed up after what Josh did to her. Hell, maybe the time apart was exactly what she needed. Selflessness wasn’t a natural trait of mine, but I attempted it for her sake.
If I were able to be with her, I’d be as protective and understanding of her as possible, but I’d eventually enact a little tough love. I was sure I could think of something to force her out of her despondency.
In art class, I started a new painting. This one was going to be of Gianna laughing. If I couldn’t make the real Gianna laugh anymore, at least I could capture on canvas the memory of it. There wasn’t enough time to complete it today. I’d finished the sketching and played with color choices.
Ms. Singh had gotten the administration’s agreement to letting me come in for a few hours on the weekends to work on my paintings. She’d argued it was better than me doing brainless activities like watching television or playing basketball. Sometimes Ian got permission to sit in the art room with me. When he wasn’t bragging about all the chicks he planned to bang after he was released, he was sculpting inappropriate things out of clay.
Once my brushes were cleaned and I’d stored my unfinished piece, I said goodbye to Ms. Singh.
As payback for getting us in trouble yesterday, I tripped Ian while passing him in the hallway. The guards weren’t paying attention at the moment, so he retaliated by kicking me hard in the back of my thigh. I’d get back at him for that.
During my phone time, on impulse, I called Hailey. Being a bad girl, she’d apparently skipped school and answered after I was forced to listen to the angsty chick rock song she used as her ringback tone. Five seconds of my life I’d never get back.
Obviously not recognizing the number, Hailey answered my call with a wary, “Hello?”
“Is this 1-800-YOU-SLUT?” I asked in a gruff voice.
“No, it’s 1-800-KICK-ASS,” she replied before screaming into the phone, “Oh my god, Caleb! I can’t believe you’re calling me. I heard they locked your ass up. Good riddance was my first thought.”
“Still mad at me?” I teased.
“Yes. Are still mad at me, too?”
“Yes. You acted like a crazy bitch.”
It didn’t matter that I’d changed from the days when Hailey and I would get drunk and screw around with each other or other people. I was bored out of my mind and she was sure to provide entertainment.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to. I know you have some good stories for me,” I told her.
By the time a guard tapped my shoulder telling me my time was up, I was laughing my head off at her antics. She’d better watch it or she’d end up in here with me and Ian.
CHAPTER THREE
“Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.”
-Lance Armstrong
FEBRUARY
GIANNA
I couldn’t breathe.
Ripping the comforter from my body, I stumbled over to my bedroom window. I flipped the lock open and pushed the heavy window up. Leaning my face against the screen, I shivered as cold winter air hit me. It wasn’t snowing like last night, but the temperature was below freezing nonetheless.
Not that I cared. I was always cold inside nowadays. Taking in gulps of the crisp air, my heart rate began to slow down. The nightmares always did this to me. I’d wake up in a full blown panic attack. It didn’t matter that Josh had been locked up at a facility for dangerous teen criminals.
He was still here with me, in my thoughts and dreams. Sometimes, it seemed I’d never be rid of him.
The nightmares weren’t always the same. Some were variations of the attack and others involved fears like Josh getting out of juvie and coming after me. After so many nightmares, my mind was trigger
ed to wake up before their conclusion.
My therapist promised it’d get better, that the nightmares would come less and less frequently before stopping altogether. It had been four months since the attack and the dreams were still a nightly occurrence.
Mixed in were sweet dreams. The kind which involved hazel eyes gazing at me in adoration. Those dreams almost made it worth closing my eyes at night.
Turning to glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand, it was after five in the morning. I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep so I grabbed my robe and a towel and went into the bathroom.
Under the hot spray, I leaned my head against the tile. If I didn’t get these feelings under control, my psychiatrist told my dad she’d prescribe an antidepressant for anxiety. I couldn’t help replaying the awful night in my head over and over again.
Even worse were thoughts of it happening again. Every strange male was a potential attacker. A guy who ended up on the same aisles at the grocery store could be waiting for me to go out to my car. Another guy driving behind me too long could be counting on me going home to an empty house. I never left the house at night unless it was with my dad.
Shampooing my hair was still a bit of an alien experience with the shorter strands. Cut right at my shoulders, it still had some length, but nothing like what I was used to. I’d dyed it the dark brown color myself last month, but went to a salon for the cut. My blond roots were starting to show so I’d have to dye it again soon using the same box of dark chocolate brown.
My mom had hated my hair at first sight when we’d gone out to dinner as a family. Three Fridays ago, my dad had driven us to meet her and Chance at a restaurant downtown, an approximate halfway point between our new house and hers. Her eyes had narrowed in disapproval and she’d complained it was much too short and my natural color was perfect.
My dad had shut her down without making a scene in front of Chance and the entire restaurant, but I could practically hear the snap of her mouth closing and the grind of her teeth. Her unhappy perusal at my hair told me she wanted to say more and probably would at a future time.
We had Chance most weekends and I spent an hour or so with my mom when we picked him up or dropped him off. I loved my mom despite our many differences of opinion. She had her issues, but I’d learned recently everyone did. Not that I always enjoyed my time with her. She fluctuated between concern for my mental wellbeing and the desire to have her golden girl back.
Still, I didn’t blame her for what happened. I’m the one who’d chosen Josh and I’m the one who hadn’t handled the breakup in the best manner. Take me out of the equation and Josh wouldn’t have flipped out. Caleb and Ian wouldn’t be locked up.
School was hard. I hadn’t made any new friends yet despite a few overtures from girls in class. Friendship meant trust and it was difficult for me to believe a stranger had good intentions. Even in our short time as friends and later more, Caleb had become a security blanket. I’d been popular at my old school, but it hadn’t been of my own doing. I didn’t have a naturally outgoing personality and I wasn’t confident people genuinely liked me for myself.
I’d considered making the thirty minute drive everyday and transferring to Cece’s school for senior year. Maybe I’d just transfer now, mid-semester junior year. With her exuberance, having Cece as a friend was like an entire group of friends. Jared, Taye and a couple guys from the crew were also at the same school.
Instead of feeling like a freak, I’d probably feel secure. I was suspicious of any guy who tried to talk to me. Feeling panicked whenever a boy flirted or asked me about an assignment in class was embarrassing. The alarm had lessened a bit since first returning to school. Rationally, I knew a guy asking which page in the textbook the teacher was on wouldn’t lead to him hurting me, but I couldn’t convince my racing heart or churning stomach.
Wrapping myself in my robe and drying off my legs with the towel, I used the same towel to wipe the moisture off the mirror. My face looked pale with the dark hair and faint dark circles hanging under my eyes. I applied concealer and foundation so my dad wouldn’t worry. Maybe I’d take a Tylenol PM tonight so I could get more sleep. The minty smell of my lotion as I rubbed it into my skin was soothing and I made a mental note of stopping by Target for some candles after school.
In my closet, I scanned my choices, settling on black jeans and a hooded gray sweater. The sweater was thin, so I slipped on over it a black military-style jacket, reaching back to pull out the hood of my sweater. Tying up a pair of Dr. Martens, I was ready for school at five-fifty in the morning. Sunrise wouldn’t be for an hour.
I didn’t bother much with styling my hair anymore and wore minimal makeup, but with time to kill I decided to brush on some blush to hide my paleness and coat my eyelashes with mascara. There, now I appeared the healthy, happy teenager.
When I got downstairs just after six, my dad stood in front of the coffee pot, wearing a robe and pajama pants. Obviously just woken up, his wavy hair lay untamed. He gazed at me with a worried expression. “You need to dry your hair, Gianna. It’s cold outside.”
I dropped my backpack on the floor and hopped up onto a barstool. “By the time I leave for school it’ll be dry, Dr. Thorpe.”
He let out a sound reflecting something between amusement and annoyance. On his way out of the kitchen he walked past carrying a cup of coffee, pausing to kiss me on the forehead. My dad had never been a morning person and I suspected he drank coffee until noon most days.
I’d had little appetite in the weeks following leaving the hospital but I finally gained back the weight I’d lost. Taking my instant oatmeal into the living room, I picked up the remote to put it on a channel airing a music documentary. The program was about a band from the ‘90s which Caleb loved.
I started crying.
It was a good thing I hadn’t put on eyeliner. My unstable emotions often surprised me like this. Bringing my feet up onto the couch, I set my bowl onto an end table. My therapist advised me not to hold back tears, to let it all out. Sometimes I supremely disliked her.
The idea of being on antidepressants scared me. I’d already lost so much of myself and I was afraid of losing more. As horrible as I felt, I refused to let my emotions be controlled by drugs. I’d rather be strong enough to heal on my own. My dad remained undecided and my mom was horrified at the thought of her daughter being medicated for mental problems.
I understood that prescribed drugs were a godsend to some people, but I couldn’t help thinking it would be like giving up. As if Josh had defeated me more than just physically and I’d be waving a white flag of mental surrender.
The shower shut off upstairs in my dad’s bathroom. I turned off the TV and raced up the stairs to my room before he could notice my blotchy face. I closed my bedroom door and sat down at my desk, pulling Caleb’s last letter from the bottom drawer.
I’d read the letter four times since receiving it two days ago. It was written on binder paper in pencil. His handwriting had a slight forward slant and he must push down hard when writing because the pencil marks were thick and dark. My fingers ran over the word I liked most, love.
I missed him so much it was like a physical ache. I realized he sensed the distance I put between us now, but I couldn’t help it. It was as if a glass jar trapped the tender words and openness I used to share with him. The emotions were there inside the glass jar, clear to see and trying to flutter out, but unable to escape.
My love for him had only grown in our time apart. The problem was my belief that Caleb deserved to love someone more worthy. I’d ruined his life, got him sentenced to confinement. Loving me had only brought him trouble.
If Caleb got to know me as I existed now, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me. Being stuck in juvie, he didn’t understand how pathetic I’d become, afraid of my own shadow and on my way to being labeled the weird girl at school.
Returning his letter to the bottom drawer, I slammed it shut and logged onto my laptop. My email cont
ained another new message alert from Facebook. Impulsively, I clicked on the link, going onto Facebook for the first time in months. My inbox was full of messages from people at my old school, three alone from Seth. I was ashamed of them knowing what happened to me.
As I deleted the messages without reading them, I pretended I’d also erased their knowledge of the attack. Urgency coursing through me, I then moved on to my friends list, deleting almost everyone. Cece would notice and ask me what was going on. I’d probably lie to her again.
I reached Caleb Morrison on my friend list and tears formed again.
It was twisted how I could talk to him on the phone every Saturday, putting on a strong front, but totally lose it when I was alone in my room looking at his name on a computer screen. While speaking on the phone we verbally tiptoed around each other, making a conscious effort not to upset the other person. My I love yous were heartfelt but guilt ridden.
At times there existed a sense of numbness, a disconnection with reality that haunted me. I was stuck in a fog that I couldn’t see clear from. It was as if our relationship never happened, or we were broken up without saying the words.
While at school, I went through the motions in a haze of automatic motions and responses. Perhaps the same glass jar which trapped my feelings for Caleb also provided a protective barrier around me around me in public. Only to be broken when something set me off, causing me to enter real life and usually act like a spaz.
The first couple weeks back in school, even a new school, had been the worst. On my second day, I’d left chemistry class to use the restroom, walking down an empty hallway. Rounding a corner, I’d bumped into a guy wearing a navy blue shirt. I’d completely freaked out. It brought me right back to the attack. Josh had worn his navy football jersey that game night.