I picture the police
exploding into the room
with their guns drawn.
And as they lead my father away,
I picture the look on Alice’s face
and on my mother’s—
like they’re watching a horror film
that they can’t turn off.
I picture all of this,
and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt,
that I can never ever
tell my father about Luke.
And I Can’t Tell Mom Either
Because she’ll tell Dad.
Even if I beg her not to.
And then,
even if he doesn’t kill Luke,
he’ll definitely send him away.
And if he sends Luke away,
he’ll take his money with him
and then my father’s company
will be wrecked,
and my mother will be so demolished
by everything that’s happened,
she’ll be too depressed to go to work.
And before we know it,
the four of us will be sleeping
in our SUV.
And then what?
Then what?
If Only
If only I hadn’t
been such an awful flirt
that day Luke took Alice and me
to the beach.
If only I hadn’t tickled him
and gazed into his eyes like I did
when we were playing in the waves.
If only I’d pulled away
when he leaned in to kiss me
that first time—
none of this
would be happening.
It’s all
my fault.
All of it.
What I Should Have Done:
I should have listened
to Taylor and Rose when they
warned me about Luke.
I should have ended it
that day he carried me
to the couch,
unzipped his fly,
and pressured me
to do that stuff to him.
Even though he knew
I didn’t want to.
I should have realized
right then and there
how sick that move was.
How sick he was.
But now—
it’s too late.
I’m
in
way
over
my
head.
I’m drowning.
And no one can save me.
I’ve Been Trying to Sleep for Hours
I keep closing my eyes.
But they keep springing back open—
like one of Alice’s ballerina dolls.
Finally, I sigh,
switch on the light,
and reach for Rebecca.
Maybe if I read for a while . . .
But when I open it
to the bookmarked page,
a shower of dried white lily petals
flutters out into my lap.
The petals from one of the lilies
Luke gave to my mom.
I’d forgotten
they were here.
I gather up every last one of them.
Then I rush to the bathroom,
fling them into the toilet,
and flush.
On Sunday
I tell my parents
I’m working on a school project,
and hide out in my room all day.
Presley calls.
But when I see his name on my screen,
my throat closes up
and I let it go straight to voice mail.
I can’t even bring myself to listen
to the message he leaves.
A few minutes later,
Rose calls to ask
if I’m feeling well enough
to come to lunch with everyone
before Evan heads to the airport.
I tell her I’d love to,
but I’m still too sick to my stomach.
Which is the first time
I’ve told Rose the truth
in a very long while.
Then I hear everyone
shouting in the background.
“We love you, Lil. Feel better soon!”
But I can’t imagine ever feeling better.
Later
Alice knocks on my door
and asks me if she can help me
with my project.
I thank her.
But I tell her
that this is something
no one
can help me with.
She cocks her head to the side.
“How come your eyes look so sad?” she asks.
“Oh . . . ,” I say. “Just teenage stuff.”
“I’ll understand when I’m older?” she says.
“I’m afraid so,” I say.
“Then I think I’ll stay young
as long as I can,” she says.
“That is an excellent plan,” I say.
And I pull her into a hug,
blinking back tears.
At School the Next Morning
It’s like I’m having
an out-of-body experience—
drifting along above myself,
watching as I wade through the halls
to get to chemistry,
like I’m slogging through mud,
watching the look of concern
that springs into Taylor’s eyes
when he sees me come in,
watching him
put his hand on my arm and say,
“You look like death, Lil.
You sure you’re over your food poisoning?”
Then watching myself force a smile,
and tell him it was really bad
for a while.
But that everything
is fine now.
Everything. Is. Fine.
In Creative Writing
Mr. Bennett says
we have to write haikus—
haikus that condense
how we’re feeling
into seventeen syllables.
Here is mine:
Life sucks. Life sucks. Life
sucks. Life sucks. Life sucks. Life sucks.
It sucks . . . sucks . . . sucks . . . sucks.
In French Class
I slip into the room
a few minutes late
and collapse onto my seat.
Rose takes one look at me,
then reaches over to squeeze my hand
and whispers,
“Etes-vous okay, ma chère Liliette?”
“Elle est une total zombie today,”
Taylor whispers. “But she won’t admit it.”
Then he flashes me
such a worried, supportive smile
that I almost start crying—
right then and there,
in front of tout le monde.
And Lunch Isn’t Any Easier
The second we sit down,
Taylor and Rose ask me what’s up.
“And by ‘What’s up?’” Taylor says, “we mean
‘Did you really have food poisoning?
Or did you leave the dance for . . .
for some other reason?’”
“You’re scaring us,” Rose says.
“You gotta tell us what’s wrong.
It’s a need-to-know situation.”
I swallow the huge lump in my throat
and tell them nothing is wrong.
They exchange a glance,
and then Taylor says,
“Why can’t you just admit
that this is about that older guy?”
“It’s not about him,” I say,
my voice cracking.
Though I can tell
that they can tell
it�
��s totally about him.
So
We have
this weird silent conversation
with our eyes.
Because none of it
can be spoken out loud.
Since even
if they promised not to tell,
once they heard my secret,
they’d say some promises
need to be broken.
They’d say
they have to tell.
They’d say
it was for my own good.
But what about the good of my family?
I can’t risk ruining all their lives
just because I made
a horrible mistake.
In Geometry
How can I be expected
to grasp the function rule,
when I can barely even function?
How can I concentrate
on trapezoids,
when I’m feeling
so totally trapped?
What’s the point of studying rays,
when there’s not a single ray of hope
on my horizon?
In Photography
Mr. Lewis spends the whole period
talking about self-portraits.
Presley keeps smiling at me,
trying to catch my eye.
But I pretend I don’t notice.
Mr. L says cell phone selfies
aren’t self-portraits.
They’re junk food.
He says selfie sticks
should only be used
for one thing: kindling.
He says a real self-portrait
requires a shutter release or a mirror.
An actual mirror, not the ones in our phones.
He says a great self-portrait
shows us what’s going on
on the surface
and below the surface too.
It reveals something
about the photographer
that no one else can reveal.
“The best self-portraits tell us the truth,” he says,
“the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Homework Assignment: Self-Portrait
I hold my camera just below my chin,
aim it at the bathroom mirror,
and snap a picture of my reflection.
But when I look at it,
I see the truth
written all over my face—
in the dull staring eyes,
in the dark shadows below them,
in the grim straight line of my mouth.
So, of course,
I’ve got to delete it.
Suddenly I remember
my photo shoot with Presley,
and start leafing through People magazine.
I find a photo of a smiling model,
tear out the lips,
and tape them over my mouth.
Then I slip on my sunglasses,
and shoot a second self-portrait.
I check it,
to make sure the truth is hidden.
And decide that this one
is safe to send to Mr. L.
On Wednesday After School
Luke arranges to “tutor” me again.
He opens the door of the sleazy apartment.
He motions for me to enter before him
and says, “Ladies first.”
Because he is such a gentleman.
He takes off his jacket
and helps me off with mine.
The lily is still in the thin vase.
But now its head is bent,
its petals the color of dried blood.
Luke kisses me.
Hard.
Though not so hard
that I’ll look like I’ve been kissed.
Then he smiles a terrible smile,
and pulls the Murphy bed down from the wall.
I see the pink satin sheets and clench my teeth.
Luke says he needs me.
He says he wants me.
He says I’m his dream come true.
And I can almost remember back
to a time when I used to feel
the same way about him.
That Night
I’m curled up on my bed,
thinking about the leopard—
the one that Luke shot
after it sank its teeth into his arm.
I’m thinking about that leopard.
About how close it came
to killing him that day.
And about how different
my life would have been
if only
it had succeeded.
And when I hear Luke
tapping on my wall,
I don’t tap back.
Now
Each “tutoring” session
is a torture session.
I try desperately to improve
my chemistry grade,
so my parents will finally call Luke off.
But I can’t seem to raise it
any higher than a C.
I can’t grasp liquid states
or solid states or any states.
Even when Taylor explains them to me.
In fact, I’m having trouble
in all my classes.
I guess it’s hard to do well in school
when you can’t even think straight.
And it’s hard to think straight
when you’re not getting any sleep.
And it’s hard to sleep
when you’re plagued
by headaches so horrible
that whenever you close your eyes
you feel like there’s an ax in your head—
an ax that’s trying to hack its way out
through the walls of your skull.
At School
about my mauvaises grades.
She asks me how things are chez moi.
“Ça va . . . bien,” I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow and says, “Oui?”
“Oui,” I say.
And Ms. Peyser
has noticed something’s up too.
Or maybe she just feels sorry for me.
Because she offers to let me
take my chemistry test over,
to try and bring my grade up.
I take it again,
but I don’t do any better.
Even Mr. Bennett has gotten suspicious.
He passes back my poetry quiz
(which I barely managed to get a B- on)
with a little note that says:
I’m here every day after school,
if you feel like chatting.
I do not feel like chatting.
Especially Not with My Parents
But they come up to my room
one night after dinner
and tell me they’re worried about me—
about my falling grades, my weight loss,
the circles under my eyes.
They tell me
they don’t know what’s going on,
but they hate to see me struggling like this
and they want to help.
I’m too worn out
to make something up.
So I decide to tell them the truth.
I tell them
I was in love with a guy.
But he broke my heart.
My Mother Hugs Me
My father pats my shoulder.
Then they offer to send me
to a therapist.
But I tell them I don’t need one.
I tell them I’ll get over it.
I just need a little time.
But in my head
I’m thinking:
A little time
or a little good luck—
like Luke getting struck by lightning.
“Well, Lilybelle,” Dad says,
and my throat instant
ly closes up,
because he never calls me that.
“There’s only ten days till Thanksgiving.
You’ll get some rest over the nice long weekend,
and it will help heal that heart of yours.”
I lean my head against his chest
and let the tears fall.
Later That Night
I hear a quiet knock on my door.
A wave of nausea grips me.
Is it Luke?
But then I hear Alice’s voice.
“Can I come in?”
I open the door and there she is—
her chubby fingers wrapped around
the handle of a wrinkled orange paper bag
filled with what must be the last
of her Halloween stash.
“You’ve been looking a little . . .
a little hungry lately,” she says shyly.
Then she reaches into the bag,
pulls out a handful of Hershey’s Kisses,
and offers them to me.
“Look!” she says. “Your favorite.”
“You’re my favorite,” I say.
And I bury my face in her silky curls.
I Wade Through the Next Week and a Half
In constant dread
of each “tutoring” session,
feeling as if my body
has been drained
of all its blood,
and in its place
is a swarm of tiny bees,
circling endlessly
through my veins,
relentlessly flapping
their tiny bee wings,
buzzing,
buzzing,
buzzing,
till I want
to unzip my
vibrating
skin
and let
them
all fly
out.
The Day Before Thanksgiving Break
Mr. L asks me to stay after class.
We sit facing each other across his desk.
He studies me, then clears his throat
and tells me he’s noticed a change
in the quality of my work lately.
I can feel my cheeks blaze up.
I say I’m sorry. I say I’ll try to do better.
I say I’ve been a little distracted lately.
But he smiles at me and tells me
I’ve misunderstood—he loves my stuff.
He’s never seen such honest student work.
“That self-portrait,” he continues.