Текст книги "Naked"

Автор книги: Stacey Trombley

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Chapter Fifteen

I put Zara back outside at the ass crack of dawn, before my parents even get out of bed. They’d be pissed if they knew she’d slept with me, but it felt good to have her there. It’s so simple with her. No confusion about what she wants, what she has to give. She wants to be petted and fed. She wants me. When I let her go outside, I’m already thinking about tonight and if I’ll be able to get her back into my room again.

I get dressed quickly and head out the door to school, a little less scared than I was yesterday—but not by much.

If you asked me a few days ago what I thought about school, I’d have given you a clear answer. I hated it. But now? In some ways, it’s everything I was afraid it would be. The cool kids punishing everyone else. People like Jen and Jackson have every right to enjoy their suburban life, but people like Marissa and her stupid boyfriend have to make it horrible for them.

Jackson deserves better. He stood up for me in front of his friends, even if they were more right than he knows.

I’ve never met someone like him. He has some pain in his past. Being cheated on and made fun of for it, losing his mom, that all had to be terrifying. But he doesn’t show it. Ever.

So when he sits next to me on the ride to school, I give him a smile. I don’t look at him, and he doesn’t speak, but I’m glad he’s sitting next to me.

When we stop in front of the school, he waits to make sure I’m not zoned out again. I nod at him to let him know I’m okay.

He files out into the crowd. I follow him inside and go to my locker instead of joining him at the staircase where he likes to sit before classes.

It’s not that I don’t want to sit with him. Eventually something will go wrong. It always does. I’ll just try to enjoy this while it lasts. And the longer I space out how often I see him, the longer I can keep this warm feeling.

There’s one thing I know for sure: Jackson is way too good for me.

Once I finally get my locker open, I take out my history book and drop off my backpack. I’m about to shut it when I notice a piece of paper sitting on the shelf…the same place as the last time.

I pick it up and I close my eyes for a moment before unfolding the wrinkly paper. My stomach sinks as I read the same sloppy writing as the last note. A note I was sure was some kind of joke. Except this time, it can’t be a joke. It hits way too close to home.

Dear Exquisite,

I know who you really are and I’m going to tell everyone.

My stomach drops. Exquisite. My street name. No one should know that name, not here. Is this a coincidence? My hands shake as I study the writing, trying to find some kind of logical explanation.

The only thing I come up with is an image. No, not just one image, a thousand. Faces. Men. Too many men.

I squeeze my hands into fists and try to push down the urge to throw up.

Someone walks up to the locker next to mine and I jump. My stomach roils again. I fling the note back into the locker and run to the nearest bathroom until classes start.

I hide in one of the stalls like the biggest geek who ever lived. After a few minutes, the bell rings, letting me know I’m late for class, but I don’t move. I stay in the stall for several minutes. At first I worry someone will realize I’m hiding out in here instead of going to history, but after ten minutes, then fifteen, no one is slamming on the bathroom door and I figure I’m safe. Alone and safe.

Still, memories I’d rather forget plague me.

“Hey there, Exquisite,” a man who smelled like cigarettes would ask. All johns are gross, all johns are nasty… This one was the worst of them all.

He never left me alone, always following me around when I was on the street. It got to the point that I had to change my usual tracks to avoid him. He was the violent one, the one…the one I want to forget forever.

Yet it’s his memory that follows me the most.

Even here, he won’t leave me alone.

I force myself back to reality. I’m in school, not in New York. He can’t find me here.

Instead I think of the possible explanations for the note. It’s filled to the brim with possibilities. Whoever left it, if they do know more, why would they tell me first? Why not just shout it out to everyone who would listen?

Maybe they don’t have proof. And without proof, no one would believe them, right?

So instead, they want me to freak out about it and expose myself.

I won’t let that happen. If I could keep myself together while strangers climbed on top of me, a note in my locker won’t get anything out of me.

Eventually the bell rings again, and I realize I was in here for the entire first class. I’m just about ready to pull myself together and get to my next class when a group of girls enter, talking in hushed, panicked tones. The room is filled with the sound of a girl sniffling and huffing. Guess I’m not the only one having a bad day already. I quiet my breathing and hold myself as still as possible. I’ll wait this out.

“Seriously,” one girl says. “Why is Brandon such a jerk all the time?”

I lean forward to look through the crack of my stall, thankful for the distraction, even one as lame as high school girl drama.

“He’s just…” the sniffing girl says between a sob. “He’s horrible!” she says much more adamantly, like it’s the first time she’d admitted it out loud.

“Why don’t you dump him?” I see a redhead rubbing the back of the crying girl.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

No kidding. I’ve been there. Really, who would listen?

The bell rings then, and I realize I’m late again. I can’t hide out in here anymore. Missing one class was dangerous enough, but I can’t have anyone come looking for me.

The girls continue their conversation in whispers, clearly not worried about being late themselves.

I unclick the lock to my stall and take a slow, awkward step toward the sink, hoping they don’t notice my own red eyes and blotchy cheeks. There are three girls surrounding the crying girl, whom I recognize much too quickly.

Marissa. The girl whose boyfriend slept with Jen even though Jen didn’t want to. The popular girl who makes the “uncool” kids’ lives miserable. For one second I think she deserves whatever happened that brought her crying in the bathroom. But then I figure I don’t know her, and I really have no right to judge.

No one deserves to be treated like trash. Boy cheats on her and she’s still with him? Treats her like trash and she’s still with him?

She “can’t” dump him…

There’s definitely more to the story here.

If I were the kind of person to talk to strangers, I’d tell her to hang in there. Eventually, it won’t hurt as much.

It’s none of my business, though, and based on the way the girls stare at me, some shocked I overheard them, one girl horrified, and Marissa…oh, Marissa looks like she’s ready to set my hair on fire.

Yeah, guessing she’s not exactly my biggest fan. I’m probably not in a good position to help her, even if I knew how.

I walk past them without a word and head down the empty hall toward art class, knowing that somehow the note isn’t the only thing that’s going to bite me in the ass.

Chapter Sixteen

I interrupt Mr. Harkins’s lecture and apologize, then find a seat at my empty table in the back. Jackson sits at the front with another group of kids. He watches as I pass him. I’d like to give him that smile that lets him know I’m okay. But I’m not sure I actually am okay, and I don’t want him to see my face like this.

Mr. Harkins gives me a look and waits until I sit before continuing.

“I expect you’ve all turned in your first-quarter projects,” he says. “If you haven’t, you’re late. See me after class.” He searches the class until his eyes meet mine. “You, Anna, are excused, of course. We have a new project starting today. If you need extra help, just see me any time before or after class.”

He has a few people present their projects, but not everyone. I thought at first it was just the projects with the best technique, but it only takes a few for me to see what’s really going on. Even the ones that aren’t as good are interesting. Different.

Out of the box, as Mr. Harkins often says.

Wow. So they just put some creativity into it and it’s good enough? What must that be like for the students presenting, knowing what they do doesn’t have to be perfect?

Then Mr. Harkins flips on a slide show and teaches a more typical lesson. As the clock ticks closer and closer to the end of the day, I’m disappointed to realize that I won’t get to draw today. I’ll just learn about art history or something. Lame.

He shows us some famous artists who painted some depressing paintings in all blue. Some of them are kind of neat, some just plain old ridiculous. I zone out a few times, but I figure out he wants us to do a project using our emotions. Sad, angry, scared, happy. Pssh, who’s actually happy? And who would want to see it plastered on a canvas?

I bet that’s what everyone in here does to express their emotions and their lives. Pink flowers and clouds and butterflies. I’ll draw a ditch in the inner city, full of trash and used needles. Yeah, that sounds fitting.

Then he starts calling on people and writing down pairs of names.

“Anna, who would you like to work with?”

“With?” I ask, and I can feel my eyes growing wide and my face getting red.

“Yes, this is a group project.”

“I don’t know anyone,” I say quickly.

“I’ll work with her,” I hear someone say. I don’t know who; my mind is kind of fuzzy. As stupid as this is, it’s freaking me out.

Mr. Harkins nods and writes down two names. “Anna” and “Jackson.”

Oh boy.

What the hell am I going to do with Jackson? Not that I don’t want to work with him, but I don’t see how we’re supposed to make something that shows how both of us feel. I’m dark, he’s happy. We have nothing in common.

The bell rings, and I start out of the room before Jackson can talk to me. Maybe I can buy some time.

But he calls to me before I get out of the room.

“It’s you and me, partner,” he says.

I smile. Maybe it’ll show him I’m okay. But really, I’m so nervous I’m shaking.

“I’ll see you later,” I tell him, and then I go into the hallway and escape into the crowd.

I’m running down the steps when someone reaches out their foot, and I trip and crash into three kids in front of me. I roll, not so gracefully, onto the landing between floors.

I wipe the hair from my face and look up to see Marissa, smiling at me with a glare in her eye. Yeah, she totally did that on purpose.

“It’s okay, you’re better off down there. Bitch.”

I blink. What?

I open my mouth to say something, adrenaline pumping. Girlfriend doesn’t know how pissed she just made me.

Someone runs past her and leans down to me. “You okay?” Jackson asks.

I tear my eyes from the nastiest girl I’ve ever seen (which is saying something) to look at the sincere worry in Jackson’s eyes. “I’m fine,” I say.

He stands. “Get a life,” he says to Marissa, and I smile. I don’t need his help, but it’s kind of nice to have it.

“I’d say he was just trying to get in your pants,” Marissa says. “But we all know that’s not true. He wouldn’t know what to do when he got there.”

Jackson’s face gets blood red, which makes me even more furious. It’s one thing to trash-talk me. But him?

I stand, having no idea what I’d say to the girl, but I’m pretty damn close to pulling out my earrings and taking the bitch down with me.

Except she’s already backing away, a smirk on her face, like she knows she’s gotten away with it.

“Coward,” I whisper.

I start after her, but Jackson touches my arm.

“Not worth it,” he says.

I watch as the girl disappears into the crowd, disappointed I’m not following. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t care, wouldn’t listen. But I guess respecting what Jackson wants is more important than making a point.

The crowd disperses, leaving just Jackson and me alone.

“You okay?” he asks me again.

“Fine,” I say. On top of what happened earlier, now what happened with Marissa, my face feels like it’s on fire. I can’t let him see me like this.

“Please talk to me,” he says.

“How can you let her get away with that?”

“Marissa?” He shakes his head. “Waste of time.”

I cross my arms and say nothing. Why do I care? Why do I want to go after her? It’s not like I haven’t been in his exact spot before and done nothing to defend myself. But maybe that’s why I have to be there for him. No one ever stood up for me, and I won’t just stand here and do nothing.

He’s actually proven a damn good friend. I’m just not sure I can handle having a friend like him. A real friend.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.

“Oh.” He pauses. “Does that mean you don’t want to do the art project with me?”

“No, it’s not—”

“Because we can go back and tell Mr. Harkins. I’m sure he’d reassign you.”

My stomach drops, but I don’t want him to see my disappointment. He’s taking this the wrong way. It’s not him, it’s me. “Then who would I work with? I don’t know anyone.”

“So then can you forget about Marissa and friends and whatever else is bothering you, and work with me on this? I think it might be fun.” He looks me in the eyes, a hopeful gleam in his.

“Fun?” I roll my eyes, but my stomach gives a new kind of twist, one I kind of like. “Fine, I’ll give it a shot. What do we do?”

“Come to my house after school,” he says. Just like that. As though he’s a normal boy and I’m a normal girl, and there’s nothing more to this.

I try to imagine this boy in New York City. Confident. Self-assured. But too willing to take a chance on people he barely knows. He wouldn’t last a minute.

“We can talk about how we want to do the project,” he says. “We’re so different, so we’ll need to makes some decisions.”

He’s right about that.

“I can’t,” I say, and I think about Marissa saying that about her boyfriend.

“Oh,” he says, and I’m afraid he thinks I’m just blowing him off.

“It’s just… Jen tutors me after school. My last few years…haven’t left me very well off in the school area.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, what about after that?”

I shrug. “She leaves at four.”

He smiles, big and bright, and I almost—almost—smile back.

“’Kay,” he says. “I’ll come to your house, then.”

I nod and do everything in my power to hide that I’m actually excited about it.

Chapter Seventeen

I sit with Alex and Jen at lunch again, and this time, I invite Jackson to join us.

Alex and Jackson make up basically all the conversation. Jen and I just listen and laugh as they argue over some of the strangest things.

“Luigi is so much better than Mario,” Jackson says.

“Are you kidding me?” Alex says, a look so full of shock I have to hold back a laugh.

I shake my head as Jackson gives his way-too-thought-out explanation as to why Luigi is better than Mario. “Seriously, Mario is just typical. And boring!” he says, leaning in, his face red like this is one serious debate.

“But Luigi is a wuss!”

“No! I mean, okay, a little,” Jackson says, and I laugh, awarding Alex a debate point. “But that’s part of what makes him awesome. He has so much more to overcome. He’s insecure, but he’s always there for his brother. Besides…” He holds his hands out and moves them up and down like a scale. “Green”—he lifts one hand high—“versus red.” The other hand dips below the table.

Alex shakes her head, and I can’t help but agree with her. Jackson’s weirder than I ever thought, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t kind of like it. He’s the cutest geek I’ve ever met.

“You’re impossible,” Alex says.

I don’t even notice the stink-eye the “cool” kids are giving us the whole time until I notice Jen staring absently at them.

What can I do about it? Not like I expected to be beloved here. I’m just happy to actually have some friends.

Jackson turns to me. “Star Crunch or Fudge Round?”

I blink. “What?”

“Which do you like better?”

“I don’t know what either of those things are.”

He opens his mouth in exaggerated shock. “Wait a second.”

He runs, seriously runs, up to the lunch line and then comes back with two chocolate treats. One looks like a Rice Krispies Treat covered in chocolate, and the other is a thin sandwich kind of thing with frosting in the middle.

I try both and find that the crispy treat has caramel on the inside, and it definitely earns my vote. “That one,” I say, then lick my fingers.

“Ha!” Alex says, pointing at Jackson, who puts his head in his hands.

I guess he lost the bet on which one I’d choose, but he doesn’t seem too broken up about it. In fact, he shares a laugh with Alex as I take another bite of the Star Crunch.

Never in my life have I felt so completely normal.

Today, I don’t feel like a hooker.

I walk through my front door to see Zara wagging her tail at me. I look in the kitchen. No sign of my mother.

I figure I should move Zara to the backyard before Jen comes over this time. Don’t need to freak the poor girl out again.

I unclip Zara and call her to the back door.

She follows me out. I don’t really want to just clip her in and go, so I look around for a second. She sits, her chest puffed out all proud, and watches me. I find a stick, pick it up, and wave it in front of her. She wags her tail and follows the stick with her eyes. Then she jumps at it, but I pull it away at the last second.

She barks at me, not mean, more like she’s saying, “Throw it already!”

So I do. I throw it and she runs after it, but she gets surprised when I run after it, too. She’s a lot faster, so she gets to it first and then runs around me, taunting.

I laugh and chase after her. She runs around the tree and then stops. I wait, then she sneaks her head over a little to look at me. I run at her suddenly, stomping my feet. She drops the stick and runs away, then stops and crouches. Her mouth’s open, her tongue’s out. If a dog can look happy, this one does.

“Haha!” I say as I lean over to pick up the stick.

She crouches lower, but I throw it before she jumps on me to get it.

I hear the sliding glass door open. “What are you doing?” my mother asks.

Both Zara and I stop and look up.

“Playing,” I say.

She puts her hands on her hips.

“Come inside, please.”

I give Zara a look and a shrug. I clip her back onto her chain, and then I slowly walk up to my mother, leaving Zara standing there watching us.

My mom closes the door behind us slowly.

“That dog is not safe.”

“She’s only not safe because you treat her like she’s not.” She doesn’t get it. She never has.

But now she’s looking at me with what seems genuine curiosity. “What does that mean?”

Fine. If she wants to know, I’ll tell her. “It means she’s lonely. If her only interaction with people is hitting and yelling, what do you expect her to do?”

“So running around in the backyard with a dangerous dog is going to make the dog not dangerous?”

“How else is she supposed to learn to trust people?”

She glances at the dog, then back at me. “What if it’s too late for her to learn how to trust people? What if she needs a…”

“A what?” I can feel my voice shaking, but there’s no stopping it. “A firm hand?”

Her eyes go wide, and something flickers across her face. I’m not sure what it was, but I think it’s fear.

“No,” she says. “But after everything that’s happened, I need to know you won’t do anything that could get you hurt. I want you to be safe.” Her eyes seem to get sad. “I want to be able to trust that you’ll make the right decisions.”

I turn away from her, my mind flashing through all the wrong decisions I’ve made. I hate that she’s actually right. But more, I hate that she still just doesn’t get it. My heart pounds wildly as I turn back to her, slowly.

“You sure as hell never trusted me, that’s for sure. I was just a kid, but you treated me like I was evil,” I say, my face burning red, my voice getting high and louder than I mean it to. I wonder how much of that was my father, but I can’t excuse her. I can’t. She never said a word to refute my father’s words. “Automatically, everything I did was wrong, and you never, not once, stopped to listen to my story! It’s always my fault. I’m always wrong. Well, I can’t live like that, and neither can that dog. It’s not fair!”

I squeeze my eyes closed, unsure why I even bother. I knew she wouldn’t understand. She never does.

“Anna,” she says softly. “I didn’t know.” I catch a glimpse of that thing that might be fear crossing her face again. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

They’re the words I always wanted her to say, but they feel wrong. Utterly and completely wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I say before she can say anything else. My eyes sting with tears. “I’m sorry I’m the horrible daughter who could never do anything right. Who ruined everything when I ran away. I wish I could be the perfect daughter you both need me to be. But I can’t. And I’m sick of trying.”

I sit down at the table with a flop, like I’m too exhausted to stand anymore. I cover my mouth with my hand for a moment, trying to stop myself from crying.

She shakes her head. “I only ever wanted the best for you,” she whispers.

I don’t respond. I can’t. There’s nothing more to say.

“I just…want you to leave that dog alone,” she says.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” I stand suddenly. Why does she have to do this? It’s so stupid.

When I was younger, I let my father tell me whom I could be friends with. I let him steal my childhood from me because I didn’t know what else to do. And my mom never stopped him. She was like his silent partner. He took whatever he wanted, and she let him get away with it.

I won’t let them take anything else.

If I have to sneak around to be nice to a dog, then I will. But if I have to fight head-on, I’ll do that too.

I walk to my room without another word. When I slam the door behind me, I feel like a child again, like I’m eleven years old.

Jen comes over a few minutes later. Both my mother and I pretend like nothing happened. Like we didn’t fight at all. It’s a skill, one I clearly inherited.

Jen helps me with math and all my homework. She gives me an easy book to write my English paper on and says I should read it this weekend. Um, she seriously expects me to read it in two days?

About that.

It is small, though, so I guess I can at least start it and see how far I get.

I find myself watching the clock, eager for four o’clock to come. Not because I don’t like Jen, but because I’m…well, shit, I’m kind of excited to hang out with Jackson.

Jen leaves, and I head to my room to pretend I’m not waiting for something. Someone. Finally the doorbell rings and I fling open my bedroom door, but my mother answers the front door first.

I stand at the end of the hallway, watching awkwardly.

“Hi, Jackson. Is something wrong with that dog again?” she asks.

“No, ma’am. I’m actually here for Anna. We have a project to work on together.”

“Oh,” she says, her shoulders stiff. She turns to see me smiling innocently.

I run past her and out the door before she says anything else. “See ya, Mom.”

“Wait, Anna!” my mother calls.

I almost don’t stop. I don’t want another argument with her, and I’m afraid that’s all our relationship will ever be. But there’s something in her voice that stops me. It’s quiet, almost scared.

So I stop. I don’t turn around, but she doesn’t need me to.

“I just…” Her voice is quiet. “Want to make sure…you’re okay.” She pauses, and now I turn around to urge her to finish. “I mean, you’re coming home tonight, right?”

My mouth falls open. “You think I’m going partying or something?”

“No!” she says, her face suddenly turning red. “No, I just…” She swallows. “The last time you left…you didn’t come back.” She shifts her feet. “I never saw that coming, and after our argument today…”

I blink, all anger gone. “Oh,” I say, looking to the ground.

I want to say that I wouldn’t make that mistake again, but that would be admitting it was a mistake. I mean, it was, but that’s not something I want to admit to her, or to anyone. But I have to say something.

I step forward and do something I don’t remember ever doing before. I wrap my arms around her. For a moment she stiffens, like she’s in shock, but then she relaxes and hugs me back.

It’s a weird moment. I’m not sure when to let go, or what to say.

“I’m sorry,” I finally get out.

I hear her sniffle and wonder if she’s crying. When I finally let go, feeling a little embarrassed, I turn away before I can see her tears.

I turn back just as I’m walking out the door and say, “Sooner or later, you have to start trusting me.”

She nods and smiles sadly. After a moment, she says, “Be home before dark.”

I turn and leave the house, and for the first time, I feel sorry for my mother.