15. Arrows

FIFTEEN

Arrows

By the time Alicia pulled up to the curb, I had convinced myself that I was under control. I climbed into the passenger seat, set my bag at my feet, and shut the door behind me. She glanced at me, then through the window, quickly taking stock of where I had been waiting.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" she asked me.

I glanced down at my legs, as though it might have been written there—what I had done. Instead, all I saw was the network of bruises that I had given to myself the night before. I quickly pushed my skirt back down and shook my head, and that was all it took for me to lose the composure that I had fought for at the roadside.

I cracked apart in the passenger seat, glad that all of the doors and windows were sealed so that I wouldn't lose any of the pieces of me that were suddenly crumbling away.

Alicia didn't gather me into her arms like an overbearing mother; she didn't smother me against her chest and stroke my hair. She didn't demand to know anything. She didn't touch me at all. She pulled away from the curb as I fell apart, driving over to the next block and pulling into the parking lot of a small café. She reached over me to the glove compartment and pulled out a small packet of tissues, extracting one of them and pressing it into my shaking hands.

I should have known what to do with it, but it suddenly seemed like a useless and unfamiliar object. What the hell did people use tissues for?

Crying . The answer came to me easily, but the tissue wasn't going to help me stop. Instead, I started tearing it to pieces. It was methodical, careful. A deliberate task. When I was finished, Alicia handed me another. I tore each strip with care, trying to keep them all the same width. That was important to me—them all remaining the same. No piece of tissue bigger or better or more significant than any of the others. Once they were ripped, I laid them over my thigh. I wasn't sure why I was doing it, but I knew with a single-minded determination that it needed to be done. It was the kind of certainty that came with a temporary loss of sanity. The why of the action wasn't important, only the action itself.

I set out the first line of tissue pieces horizontally, starting a few inches below the hemline of my dress and rising to a few inches above it. With the second set of tissue pieces, I laid out vertical lines over the top of the first set. A criss-cross blanket to cover up the evidence of what I had done to myself, even though it was already covered. Alicia handed me another tissue, but I didn't touch it. I stared at the packet until she took another out and tried to hand me two. Those, I took. I needed two. One more horizontal line, one more vertical line. It was important for things to be even. I couldn't have more vertical lines than horizontal lines. If I did, everything would unravel.

Alicia had yet to say a word.

Six tissues later, the packet was empty and I needed to blow my nose. I said so, and Alicia fetched another little packet of tissues from her handbag, handing me one. I blew my nose, crumpled up the tissue and placed it directly in the middle of my criss-cross blanket.

"I lost my virginity." I spoke to the faint reflection of my own face in the window before changing my mind and turning to Alicia. I wasn't sure what emotion was in the eyes of my reflection, but it felt judgemental—I couldn't bear to look at it anymore.

Alicia remained silent. Processing. "Is that how you got those bruises?" she finally asked. "They don't look fresh."

"What bruises?"

"On your leg." She pointed to my careful network of tissue pieces.

"No." I glanced back at my reflection. Disapproval glared back at me. Or maybe it was fear. "I don't want to talk about them."

"Okay."

"I lost my virginity," I repeated.

"Did you want to?"

"I asked for it." You were practically begging for it. You fucking wanted it, you twisted fuck. "I guess."

"Did you want him to stop?"

"It hurt. It reminded me of things I didn't want to think about, and then I didn't want to do it anymore."

She seemed to digest that information, and when she spoke again, she seemed almost afraid of the answer I might give.

"Did you ask him to stop?"

"Yes. We fought. He didn't try to come after me."

She reached out then, touching me for the first time, her fingers slipping against my palm and gripping tightly onto my hand.

"You did the right thing, Grey."

The right thing . "Who decides that?" I suddenly asked, snatching my hand away and taking the balled- up tissue from the top of the pile, throwing it into my bag. I began to peel off the tissue strips, throwing them into the same pocket. "Who gets to decide what's right and wrong?"

"I don't know how to answer that question." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and I felt disappointed.

Nicholai would have known .

"It's okay." I reached out to her then, my hand shaking. "Thank you for picking me up. I'm okay now. I just needed …" I drew back, fumbling for the right word—suddenly unable to maintain the contact that I had with her hand.

"You needed to feel safe," she finished for me. "You should know, Grey. You always have a safe place with me. Always."

"You don't even know me," I replied. My tone was accusing, slightly suspicious.

She put the car back into gear and started pulling back onto the road, turning over her shoulder to see behind her.

"No," she agreed.

I waited for more, for an explanation, but it didn't come.

"Why?" I eventually pressed. "You don't know me, so why are you giving me unconditional support? Unconditional safety? "

"Do you know how long it's been since my daughter laughed?" The question was surprising—not only because I considered it a change of subject, but also because Jean hadn't struck me as a particularly happy person.

"She does laugh." I was defending her. I wasn't sure why.

"She does. Now. Occasionally." Alicia seemed to be having trouble forming the words. They were being squeezed out through clenched teeth, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the road as she drove a few miles above the speed limit. "Only since you, Grey. She hasn't had a real friend in years. And I know—" She lifted one hand from the steering wheel and displayed it to me in a stop motion, as though I had been on the verge of interrupting her. "I know she has friends. Those girls are around her all the time. They're with her at school, they train with her, they even come over to the house sometimes. It's like she's trying to prove to me that she's normal, that she can have friends. It's like she's trying to prove that to everyone ."

She paused, and I could see her fists tightening on the steering wheel. This was the most emotion that I had ever seen Alicia display, and it suddenly all made sense. She was worried about her daughter, and she thought that I would be able to help her.

"She surrounds herself," Alicia continued. " Friends everywhere, and nobody that she actually talks to. They don't notice, either. They're all too self-involved, too glad to have someone who only listens, who only wants to hear about them . She's the best friend they've ever had, and they're the worst friends she's ever had."

"So she had better friends, once?"

"When she was younger. Before high school. She knew a few good girls, but they moved away, and she lost touch with them."

"But that's not why you're worried. You're not worried that she doesn't have good friends." It wasn't a question. I was certain that Alicia was trying to recruit me to solve her daughter's issue—meaning that she was sure that her daughter had an issue.

"No …" Alicia hesitated over the word, before clearing her throat and continuing. "That's not why I'm worried."

I could feel it coming, then. The numbing, tingling fear. It was back, creeping up the length of my legs until I couldn't sit still any longer. My feet started to bounce, my knees bobbing up and down slightly. I was itching to dive out of the car and start running. Alicia was about to be honest with me. The veil was about to come up and I wasn't ready for what was underneath. I wasn't ready .

She didn't care about me—none of this was about me.

None of this was unconditional.

This was about Jean.

"I don't understand what's happening with her," Alicia told me, her voice so soft that it was almost inaudible, only a mumble. "She doesn't spend any time with us anymore, but it's not like she's spending that time with anyone else, either. She's alone. She skips breakfast and takes the bus to school so that she doesn't have to wait around for Marcus. She spends all afternoon in the library or at track, and then skips dinner most nights to eat out. I ask who she's with, and she says nobody, says she ate alone at the diner or got a sandwich and took it back to the library. She's spending as little time with me as possible, and I don't know why."

"I'm sorry." I didn't know what else to say. I didn't understand what she was asking of me.

"Listen, Grey." Her voice had suddenly gained strength again. She stopped the car at a red light, freeing her eyes to seek out mine. "I'm going to be straight with you. I think you care about Jean. I think you're a good person, and I know you're going through a lot right now. I want to help you, I want to be there for you, because I can. All I'm asking is that you be there for Jean, because you can. That's all. Keep an eye on my daughter while I'm keeping an eye on you, because she won't let me, but she'll let you."

I felt sick and I didn't want to think about why. I opened the door and quickly stepped out of the car, grabbing my backpack and swinging it over my shoulder.

"Grey!" Alicia jerked on the emergency brake, leaning over to stare out of the passenger side window as I slammed the door. A car rolled up behind us and the light turned green, but she didn't budge.

She yelled out my name again and I stopped walking, turning slightly to glance back at the car. I fished my phone out of my pocket and wrote a quick text as the car behind her beeped angrily again.

Thank you for inviting me to stay. I will be nice to Jean .

I paused, my finger about to hit the send button before I quickly added my name at the bottom of the text. I wasn't sure why, but it seemed like the proper thing to do. Even though I was standing right in front of the woman, causing an angry traffic pileup.

I sent the message, turned away from her, and didn't look back.

So many things left unsaid, but I preferred it that way. I didn't want to waste words—and I wasn't very good at speaking in the first place. Words were funny. You could say something positive and a person would find insult in it. You could acknowledge a comment and a person would extract a promise from it. Words might have been weapons, but I was a weak shot.

I'll be nice to Jean.

I won't spy for you.

I'll do this for her.

You hurt me.

I wasn't ready.

So many things left unsaid.