“Sex hurts,” I say to Bodee. “I hated it. Hated it even more that it meant nothing. Nothing. And I . . . cried.”
“Did he not even look at you?” Bodee asks, and I know my pain is mirrored on his face.
“No. He’s crying too, saying he’s sorry and that I’m beautiful. And I don’t know if it’s for him . . . or because of her. But his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t stop pushing or . . .” The noises he makes can’t rival the ones I keep inside me. The outraged consonants and guttural screams, like dueling lions clawing and clashing in my throat.
“Lex, you can let it out. Let it go.” Bodee buries my face in his chest. “Say the words,” he says.
“It hurts.”
“Not those words. Tell me what he did to you.”
“He hurt me,” I say again.
Bodee holds me tighter, his breastbone firm against my jaw. “What did he do to you, Lex?”
These words are a peep of a peep. “He raped me.”
“What?”
“He raped me.” These words are less peep, more whisper.
“What? Say it, Lex. Stop blaming yourself. Blame him. SAY it.”
“HE RAPED ME!” I scream. And scream and scream. Bodee muffles my cries into the plaid of his shirt; and lets me sob and clench my fists. And he holds me as I hit and hit until my muscles ache; until I am quiet and limp and out of tears.
And the dueling lions are silent.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
chapter 21
THE plaid of Bodee’s shirt is wet, but softer because of it.
He doesn’t shush me or say I’m okay. He knows I’m not. There’s none of the pacifying I feared. Bodee is all arms and heartbeat. All unflustered feelings and fail-safe strength. A kiss breezes the top of my head, but he’s so gentle. As if no part of him would steal my security. Ever.
“You’re safe now. You’re safe,” he murmurs, stroking my face.
I sag and curl up, and my cheek rests on the rough texture of the tent floor. Bodee lays a hand on my hair and remains upright.
“Will you hold me?” I ask.
Bodee moves to his knees and reaches across me. A flashlight blazes orange as he cups it in his palm. Slowly, he lets the light grow until our eyes adjust. Then he says, “Lex, look at me.”
He palms my face, a bare touch of hands. His eyes wait for mine to meet his, and then he asks, “Who am I?”
“Bodee,” I answer.
“Okay, then. Remember who I am. I’m going to hold you now,” he warns.
And he does. The sleeping bag cuddles us closer when he pulls it up around us. My back rests against his chest, and he is careful to position his arm around me in such a way that I can feel his warmth but am not threatened.
Tonight, there’s no oyster; he is all pearl.
We stay this way, awake and quiet and warm and relaxed, until dawn cracks the horizon and filters through the tent in a light blue.
“Guess you’d better head back before they do,” Bodee whispers.
“They aren’t up yet,” I say with certainty.
Carefully, I roll over and face him. We are burritoed in the sleeping bag, me against the zipper and Bodee against the seam. I know my breath is rank, and my mouth tastes like day-old pepperoni pizza. His mouth is closed, so maybe he’s thinking about what he had to eat last night too.
This close, every line of his face is mine to peruse. The blond facial hair that’s a little bristly and barely shows on his strong jaw. Curly eyelashes and red-tinted hair. His roots are visible, and I can see little-kid-at-the-beach-blond at his temples. Vibrant eyes, chocolate brown, kind.
The mosaic of Bodee Lennox.
But in this early light filtering through the aqua tent, what does he see in me? Boring light-brown hair, wild and messy at this hour. Raccoon circles beneath my eyes, worsened by running mascara. Cracked lips.
A night of tears and emotional baggage visible in my face.
I am just the broken girl Bodee held through the night. In the tent that used to be his bedroom. The rape has devastated places in me that even Bodee’s magic can’t fix. If he were to put his heart in my hand, he might never find it again. And I’m not cruel enough to let him break while he tries to heal the impossible.
“Where’s your mind?” he asks.
But I can’t tell him that. “I guess, Captain Lyric. I want to know who he is.”
“And if he’s Hayden?” Bodee asks in guard-dog mode.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of stupid in me. Maybe I should give him another chance.” This is a “signal” sentence. The type of sentence a girl says to a boy in order to create distance between them; a way to send the message about where she thinks the relationship is going. We have to be the couple who shared a sleeping bag, but not a kiss.
The side of Bodee’s mouth twitches, and beneath the down fabric, I hear his knuckles crack.
“I have to know. Hayden’s not him, is he?”
My rapist, he means. “No, it’s not Hayden.”
Relief dawns, but he closes his eyes, as he follows up. “And he wasn’t hurting you the night of the dance, was he?”
“No. But I hurt me by not telling him to stop.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“That’s the thing. It was like the pool all over again, like a flashback. I wanted Hayden to stop, but I couldn’t say the words.”
Bodee puts a finger over my lips as more explanations tumble out. “You don’t have to say more; I only need to know it wasn’t him.”
“Heather sort of likes you,” I say, changing the subject.
Bodee withdraws his hand and says dismissively, “That’s nice.”
“She’ll take Collie back, so . . . be careful.”
“Thanks, Lex, but my sights aren’t on Heather.”
“You have sights?”
“Every guy with a heartbeat has sights,” he says.
“Who’s in yours?” My heartbeat betrays my calm voice, and this close, I know Bodee can feel it spike.
“Well, now”—he flashes me the coy grin that I love and rarely see—“you have your secrets, and I have mine.”
I figure since we’re sharing the same sleeping bag, we’re close enough for me to press him for information. “Do I know her?”
“Not yet,” he says.
Biting back a sour taste, I say, “Will I ever?”
“I think so,” he says.
It’s six fifteen, I realize, as I check my watch, squirming and fidgeting to have something else to look at besides him. Now I know he likes someone. “I better go,” I tell him.
“Let me unzip us,” he says. “Scoot toward me.”
I wiggle closer, and he toggles the zipper behind me. It slides down and cool air hits my back. Inches from his heart, from his mouth. I feel his breath near my ear.
“Uh, Lex, forgive me if . . . I shouldn’t ask, but may I . . .” He hesitates, then says, “May I kiss you? Before you go off chasing the Captain,” he adds.
Now my heart’s at jackhammer speed.
“Before Heather starts chasing you?” I ask, and nod. Saying yes. Because he’s Bodee enough to give me the chance to decide.
And because there are few things I’d rather do more than kiss Bodee Lennox right now. To find out if what I feel when he kisses me is the same as how I feel when his hand is in mine. I can put the distance back between us, I tell myself, just as soon as we’re out of the tent.
“Um, I’ve never kissed anyone before,” he says.
“Well, just so you know, girls don’t usually taste like day-old pizza,” I say.
“Oh, and guys don’t always taste like bologna sandwiches.”
We both laugh a little, then tilt our chins until our lips meet. I lead, he follows. Which has never happened before. It doesn’t last long. And it’s definitely his first kiss.
But not man
y first kisses can be this sweet.
“We . . . we can’t do that again,” I say when we break apart.
“Of course not,” he says, and for the first time, I think Bodee is lying to me.
There is a pause as we stare at each other.
“See you at the house,” I say, and back out of the sleeping bag and crawl from the tent. I zip up the flap, leaving Bodee in his paradise.
Even though I’m familiar with the woods, I am not sure what direction the fort is from the tent until I reach the creek. Following along the bank, I cry a little and tell myself it’s just one kiss and I can’t be sorry. I won’t be sorry.
But the facts are simple.
I am broken and Bodee knows, because I haven’t hidden it from him.
I’m not sorry he knows.
I want him, but I can’t have him. Not because he’s not right for me, but because I can’t expose him to any more of my baggage. He deserves so much more.
And, anyway, he says there’s some other girl in his sights.
I will pursue the Captain and move on. And Bodee will too.
The girls are zipped in their bags—a pile of down in the middle of the fort. They don’t hear me climb the steps or pad across to the little table. Using gummy bears, I spell out I’m sorry on the floor by their overnight bags. If I hear from Heather before Monday morning, I’ll know Liz convinced her that what happened with Collie was a fluke. If Heather’s still in a pissy mood, which usually lasts several days, I’ll ask Mom for a ride.
By the end of the weekend, Liz has checked on me and Hayden’s left ten messages on my phone. Before he can send the eleventh, I text him a thank-you for the flowers. This starts a conversation and a loosening of the vice grip around my heart toward him. Better to be more open to him or I’ll end up wanting to kiss Bodee every night.
U forgive me? Hayden texts.
Will u stop partying?
I’ll try, he responds.
See u on Monday.
By the front door, he says.
I don’t text him back, and he doesn’t text me.
When I ask Mom to drop us at school, she pats my shoulder and says, “You and Heather have a tiff?”
“Something like that,” I answer.
Heather’s car horn is more the sound of school than the bell. I miss it on this rainy Monday, the way I’d miss the Kool-Aid if Bodee’s hair wasn’t blackberry today.
“Drama girls. Bodee, don’t you let them get to you,” Mom says as she gathers a stack of picture books, her glasses, and a bottle of water.
“No, ma’am.”
In the car, Mom quizzes me about the campout and the flowers, something she would have done Saturday night or Sunday lunch if she and Dad hadn’t gone on an overnight event with their church group. I leave out some details: the desk mystery, the guys’ arrival, Heather’s anger, the, er, sleeping arrangements.
“Craig said while y’all were camping out, his boys played a terrible game against Saint X.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Shame to break their streak. Thought they might have a perfect year.”
“Too late for that,” I say. I’m not talking about football.
The circle drive at school is congested, so Bodee and I climb out across the street and walk.
“She talks a lot,” Bodee says.
“You think?” I joke. Mom never met a stranger.
“I like it,” he says. “I like her.”
I know he’s remembering his mother. I want to take his hand, but Hayden appears. I have to remember Hayden, not Bodee. I’m not hurting Bodee.
“Walk you to homeroom?” Hayden asks.
“Um,” I say, hesitating. “Sure.” And decide not to go to my locker. No need to flaunt him in front of Bodee.
Heather is not in fourth period, and I’m sure she’s not spying on the Captain this time. No more need for that, according to her. The desk, blank, as it typically is on Monday, takes most of my worksheet time to complete. Even though Heather is convinced Hayden is Captain Lyric, I don’t have him in mind when I pencil in these words:
There’s a house in the trees
There’s a tent on the ground
These are the safe places
Where I lay myself down
Heather’s a no-show at lunch, and I wonder if she even made it to school today. Liz is sitting with a freshman from the Science Club, but she waves at me across the lunchroom.
Hayden is there, waiting to capitalize on the absence of my friends.
“Wanna eat outside? It’s not too cold today.” He points to a table outside the window, where a group of art students usually congregates.
“Sure.”
“You a fan of one-word answers?” he teases as he snags us both some pizza.
“Nah,” I reply, and get a laugh.
He chatters in a constant stream, mostly about football, until we walk to fifth period. Of course, he moves into Maggie’s seat behind me, and Maggie takes another desk across the room. She gives me a discreet thumbs-up.
Which only reminds me of Bodee.
After school, Hayden offers us both a ride home, but I turn him down and wait for Bodee by the planter.
“Eventful day?” he asks, and slings his pack onto his back.
“Not really. For you?”
Rumbling thunder interrupts his answer. We both look at the sky. Lightning. Rain, the gully-washing kind, is less than a mile away. We’re going to get a bath before we make it home.
“No. Just long,” he says as the first drop of rain plops on my head.
“Which class do you have with your girl?”
The sky opens up and he says, “Fourth.”
While I’m reading and writing lyrics, Bodee’s checking out some girl. It’s okay. It’s okay, I tell myself. We kissed once, but I resolve to be happy. For him to be happy.
But the rain echoes my mood. A downpour of gray emotions. Bodee walks close to me, and I wish us back in the Malibu, to the time before I knew Bodee had his sights on someone else.
I don’t hear the truck slow down until it’s rolling along beside us at five miles an hour, kicking up a small puddle that sprays the sidewalk.
“Hey, hop in,” Craig yells across the front seat through the lowering window.
Bodee opens the truck door, which almost gets away from him in the wind, and I slide onto the bench next to Craig. We’re already dripping. My jeans are plastered to my legs, and my hair is slicked back from my face.
“Thanks,” I say, and dry my hands on the cloth bench.
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Tanner,” Bodee echoes.
“No problem. I need to talk to Alexi anyway.”
Bodee’s thumb presses my thigh where Craig can’t see. Does he think being alone with any guy but him makes me nervous? Probably, since I know he likes Craig. His thumb stays glued to me until we’re in the driveway, and Craig makes it clear he’s waiting for Bodee to exit the truck. And leave he does, but he goes only as far as the front porch.
I slide over against the passenger door. “Please don’t start with me about the boys,” I say, anticipating a discussion about the campout. “I didn’t know they were coming.”
Craig swivels the dial on the radio until the only thing we hear is the rain on the cab roof. I look toward the porch; my breath fogs a small square on the window that I dot the center of with my nose.
“It’s not about the boys. They celebrate and commiserate too much, but they’re pretty good kids.”
“Oh.” This makes me nervous. Craig and I haven’t talk-talked in a long time. It always makes Kayla jealous when anyone else besides her gets face-to-face time with her man. Even her little sister. Especially her little sister.
“This is about the wedding.”
“What about it?” I snap.
“Talk to Kayla. Please!”
“Look, Craig, I love Kayla, but I’m not playing her games anymore. I know you love her, but she needs to grow up.”
“Maybe
,” he concedes. “But Lex, she wants you to be in our wedding. That’s not really too much to ask, is it?”
Oh, yes. It definitely is.
“She better get over it,” I say. “Mom and Dad have already said they’ll honor my decision.”
“Please, Lex. Even if you won’t do it for her, will you do it for me?”
“What did you say?”
“Will you do it for me? For your best buddy’s sake? Come on, say you will, Lex.”
I can’t look at him. He’ll see the knowledge in my eyes.
This phrase. Will you do it for me? I’ve heard it before. Years ago. In the den. And the best buddy is what seals my memory. Swiping my hand across the fog cloud on the glass, I stall and try to decide what to do.
Craig’s hand finds the back of my head. He touches my hair. My eyes stare at the glove box. And see nothing.
Oh God. I am still. Completely.
Slowly, he parts the dark strands until my hair is divided on my shoulders. What is he thinking while his eyes bore through the back of my head?
“Lex, my God, what’s happened to your neck?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
chapter 22
SCRAMBLING away from Craig, I throw myself out of the cab and run. Rain thwacks at me, every drop an icy sting. As if God is playing paintball with crystal bullets.
But it’s remembering that sends me flying to Bodee.
Bodee meets me halfway to the porch. He umbrellas his shirt over me and doesn’t ask questions.
“I know why, Bodee. Why I didn’t stop him.” I gasp out the words.
“Fort,” he says.
I don’t have breath to say yes or no, but we race toward the woods like a pair of figure skaters who perform together so often that they move in perfect union. We have to slow down once we’re under the trees. The path is sloppy, and mud kicks up as we run slapdash toward the creek. Wet leaves stick to my shoes, and I slide. Bodee keeps us upright; not that his traction is better than mine, but because it’s what he does. He planks the creek with the board, and tests his weight and balance against the slickness of the wood. Always checking, always careful. And protective. If I’d befriended Bodee years ago, maybe I would have found my voice. Maybe I’d be with him now as his girl, instead of his patient. He holds my hand as we cross the narrow ribbon of raging creek, and he doesn’t release it until we reach the fort’s ladder.