Empty. Part 10

He can't be that much of an a.s.shole.

He complimented my grand slam, and he was sincere.

He led me upstairs with his grins and his flirting.

He raped me.

I have to tell the truth.

I can't tell the truth.

This is all wrong.

He raped me.

But who would believe me? Who would believe that he came on to me, that it was his idea to go upstairs, that he held me down and had s.e.x with me? I couldn't handle watching people wince with doubt. The eye rolls. The probing questions. Continuously having to validate the truth. That would feel as invasive and humiliating as the rape itself.

I've wrecked my friends.h.i.+p with Cara by not telling her right after it happened. Cara will never trust me again. She will hate me.

"I don'ta"" My teeth chatter in my mouth. I've suddenly turned cold. "I can'ta""

"G.o.d, Dell, what are you saying?" Cara says. "Is this true?"

The JV cheerleading team jogs past the auditorium, laughing noisily. I don't answer Cara. I want silence. I want to hide.

Brandon's little sister stops in front of us, and I watch Cara's face light up. She's insta-happy.

Cara says, "Hi, Kim!" Cara knows her first name?

Kim blows her a kiss. "Bye, Cara, gotta go," she says in her best cheer voice. Kim's black ponytail bobs as she jogs to catch up with the rest of her team.

Cara turns back to me. Gone are the bright eyes and blinding smile. She's back to grimace-face. "We just broke in! How could you do that? Taryn is a b.i.t.c.h. You do know she'll ruin you, right?"

Why isn't she asking me what really happened?

I am stunned by Cara's ability to turn her popular-girl greeting on and off so quickly.

Cara yanks my arm. "Everything's ruined now."

I break her grip and run.

A d.a.m.n Mess.

I RUN ALL THE WAY HOME, WHICH IS A MIRACLE, considering how much I hate running. After composing myself in the bathroom, I creep to the kitchen as quietly as I can. My mother is locked in her bedroom again. I sit at the table with the very un-diet and very empty "family size" bag of cheese puffs. I'm staring at the dent I made in the wall, when my phone buzzes again. I have a bunch of missed calls from Cara and four texts in a row that each say: SORRY!.

I don't answer. The phone vibrates and I know she's left a message. I listen: Dell, I suck. I'm sorry I reacted that way. We need to talk!

That is the deepest Cara's ever been with me in our seven-year friends.h.i.+p.

She should be sorry.

My mother shuffles into the kitchen. "Hey." She eyes the empty bag.

I wish I'd thrown it away after I'd finished eating, but it's too late now. "Hey." I sit up a little bit. Maybe the empty bag won't matter. Maybe she wants to apologize for how she reacted when I gave her the money.

She walks to the sink and starts was.h.i.+ng dirty dishes. "I can't afford your appet.i.te, Adele. Look, I'm in a bad way. You have to understand where I'm coming from."

Some apology. She acts like I purposefully eat to make things harder on her. Doesn't she know that we're both messed up? She pops pills and I eat cheese puffs. She acts like I wasn't affected when Dad left. My world sucked too, but she acts like I don't understand anything.

s.h.i.+t, I wonder if she found out about my father getting remarried. I can't believe I have to deal with all of this. Anger begins to bubble up from inside. I do not want to explode again. I grasp the sides of my chair and swallow my resentment. I just let her keep talking.

"You eat too much, and you're unhealthy. There, I said it." She exhales loudly.

I want to say, "No s.h.i.+t, Sherlock, and you're the pill-popping walking dead." I stare at the empty cheese-puff bag instead. There are orange crumbs all over the table. It's a mess.

I'm a mess.

She's a mess.

My whole life is a d.a.m.n mess.

All I want to do is lick the salty cheese off the inside of the bag.

Mom wipes her hands on her FoodMart s.h.i.+rt. "I can't believe he's marrying her. I don't know why I wasn't good enough for him. We had a life."

So she does know. He must have told her. I stay quiet and let my mother have this moment of introspection. I can't imagine losing everything simply because my husband stopped loving me.

I squint.

Wait a second. That's not true. I can imagine it, because that same man stopped loving me, and I lost everything too. Even my ident.i.ty. I've eaten the girl I was before, swallowed her down with cookies and ice cream and cheese puffs.

My mother and I lock eyes.

"I guess I freaked out about the money because you and Meggie are all I've got left, and I want you to make smart decisions."

I guess we're off the topic of my overeating. I go with it. "Are you saying that giving you two hundred seventy-nine dollars to help pay the rent was a bad decision?"

"No." She stares into the living room introspectively. "I don't know what I'm saying. My whole d.a.m.n life has been turned upside down."

I want to ask my mom what pills she stole from the drugstore. I want to ask her to dump every bottle in the toilet and flush it all away. Did she look into rehab yet so we can all start over? "So you don't want the money?"

"No, Ia""

I cut her off and yell, "I can't believe you!" Then I bring it down a bit. "I can't believe you aren't thanking me and telling me that I am the best daughter in the world. What the h.e.l.l, Mom?"

She presses her lips together. "You didn't let me finish. I will take the money. Thank you."

That seemed hard for her to say. Is it pride?

I shrug.

Then mom says quietly, "Were you going to tell me about softball?"

How did she find out? Did Coach call her? Why would Coach do that? Or maybe it was my stupid father.

I don't want to fight with my mother, so I stay silent. She starts chewing her nail. Her hand is shaking. I've never seen her bite her nails before.

"Don't give me the silent treatment."

This startles me, and my knee hits the table leg, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers. The salt rolls off the table and across the floor, stopping at my mother's feet. She bends over and grabs it in a flash. She looks like she's going to throw it at me. I cover my face for protection.

"I'm not going to throw it at you," she says, her voice expressionless.

I bring my arms back to my sides. I'm tired of talking. I want to go to my room.

"I need you to pick up Meggie," my mother says. "I have the night s.h.i.+ft. I've gotta be out of here in twenty."

I wish my mother was a hugger. A hug right now would help a lot. A hug would fill me up, make me feel as if I exist, and maybe even douse the anger. Instead I get a shoulder squeeze as my mom heads back to her room. A shoulder squeeze can in no way be compared to a hug. They're like the difference between a size twenty-four and a size two. The squeeze is so inadequate, and the hug just the right thing.

I want perfect and I get insufficient.

a a a.

Meggie pounds on her high-chair tray because she wants more macaroni and cheese. I stare down at my raw carrots, push my plate away, and start to cry. I'm starving. I'm fat. The carrots were my third attempt at dietinga"after the bag of cheese puffsa"and I'm sick of dieting. It's been exactly one hour, and I'm a failure.

I am a phony, rapist failure.

I give my sister more mac and cheese, then grab a spoon to eat it straight out of the pot. Each bite of gooey, cheesy noodles explodes in my mouth with flavor. My heart stops racing, and I feel a distinct sense of pleasure each time I swallow. Those carrots can suck it. So can everyone at school.

I'm mortified by what Taryn and Chase said on Facebook. The way they bantered back and forth, all "ha-ha, she's a fat rapist, ha-ha," was evil. How can I possibly face them in school? They've probably told the entire world by now.

Sydney is a b.i.t.c.h. She doesn't even know the truth. She fabricated and a.s.sumed and blabbed her stupid mouth and now everything's even worse.

To calm myself down, I make a fresh batch of mac and cheese and eat every noodle. The b.u.t.tery cheese clouds my head, helping me to forget the hideous Facebook comments. As I'm sc.r.a.ping out the last bits of orange from the pot, I pause. You promised yourself you would stick with the diet. How will I ever look normal if I eat two boxes of macaroni and cheese for dinner? The answer comes quickly, like a smack to the forehead: I won't.

Taunts and insults continue to torture me as I get the dishes cleaned upa"even as I bathe Meggie and tuck her into her crib. In spite of the mental torment, I manage to tackle my math homework and a box of cherry frosted Pop-Tarts. Pink frosted crumbs fall on my notebook and into the spine of my textbook. I slam both books shut and rehash everything again.

And I gag.

I force myself to swallow the Pop-Tart that's in my mouth. I don't feel like cleaning up puke right now. I drop my head into my hands. My reality a.s.saults me. That whole group thinks I held Brandon down at the party and raped him, like a disgusting pig. I don't even know what Cara believes, and that hurts.

It all hurts, and I'm so tired of feeling alone.

a a a.

I can't sleep. My brain runs through a thousand scenarios about how I could get out of school. Permanently. Then, around three thirty in the morning, I decide that I will do what I always do: fake it. But instead of making people like me because I make them laugh, I will drop my eyes and act like I don't exist. I won't listen to what they say. I'll ignore them, and hopefully, they will ignore me.

I just don't want to deal with the stares, mean comments, and whispers. I want someone else to do something stupid, so everyone can move on to the next bulls.h.i.+t drama. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to move on. I feel stained, like, ruined.

At least Taryn's comment was in a private message group and not out there for all of Facebook to see. I think I will die if any of this leaks out to my teachers or counselors. Discussing those evil commentsa"or what actually happened that nighta"with an adult would be as awful as being naked onstage. And in the meantime, I will be praying on my knees that some mutant parasite embeds itself into the b.a.l.l.s of Brandon Levitt, eating him alive from the inside out.

That would help me through this day.

I break into a light sweat as I cross the back field. Cara's up ahead, sitting on the wall. She's alone. Thank G.o.d.

"Hey," I say to Cara. She's zoned out with her headphones in, so I wave my hand in front of her face to get her attention. She jumps.

She pulls out her earbuds. "Hey."

I scrunch my nose. "I got your texts and your voice mail."

"I tried to get Taryn to delete those comments, but . . . " Her voice trails off.

I know Cara can't control other people and what they put on the Internet. There are probably even more comments now. "Thanks." I can't tell if she believes me or Taryn, and I'm afraid to ask. I'm worried she'll think Brandon's side of the story is true. I can't be friends with Cara if she thinks I raped him, and she's all I've got. I have to tell her the truth.

"Cara, I should'vea""

Cara's face tightens, and I stop. Taryn's laugh comes from behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. I wish I could run home and lock myself in my bedroom with a trunk of food and water and never come out.

I turn, half expecting Taryn to be right behind me with a samurai sword or some other glamorous weapon, poised to dismember me right there on the sidewalk. She's with that gaggle of freshman cheerleaders I saw at the movies. Taryn's face lights up as they all flit around her like bugs to the zapper. It's clear she loves the attention.

Popularity is a strange thing. I mean, Taryn wouldn't acknowledge the existence of those girls, let alone speak to them, if they were ugly or overweight. But since they're "popular" and all have matching ponytails and cute little bodies, she's over there holding court. I watch as she fixes one girl's ribbon and puts lip gloss on Brandon's sister. Such sweet gestures.

Taryn says something, and the whole group whips around to stare at me. They detonate into fits of laughter. Kim's not laughing, though; she's shaking her head back and forth, over and over again.

My ears fill with static, like someone shoved live wires in there. I turn my back on them. The white noise gets louder and louder. I swear my head might begin to spark and smoke. I need to sit down. I reach for the wall and somehow get all of me on it. I lean forward on my thighs and concentrate on not fainting. Where did Cara go?

Taryn's voice is very close now. "Brandon's sister, Kim, said he should press charges against you, Dell."

I open my eyes and lift my head to face Taryn. Her crew is set up behind her like bowling pins, with her as lead pin. If only I could roll a boulder into them, scattering their bodies all over the sidewalk. I stick to my plan and ignore Taryn's remark.

"Brandon told me he feels sorry for you, but I don't. Girls like you are dangerous when they're hungry."

Emma and Melissa snicker. Sydney plays with a loose strap on her backpack.

A burning sensation starts in my stomach. I see Cara now, but she's standing with her head down, and I swear it looks like she's one of the bowling pins. I look down at the sidewalk so I can think.

"Stop, Taryn."

They all turn to stare at Cara. "Just leave her alone," she whispers.

I want to scoop her into a bear hug.