Punch Like a Girl (21 page)

“Good. So you'll stay.” Wrinkles crowd the corners of her eyes as she smiles.

A buzzer goes off in the kitchen.

“We'll talk later.” She squeezes my arm the same way Alena does. “She's in her room.” She winks. “She'll be glad to see you.”

“Thanks,” I say, thinking how much I've missed coming here.

Alena's mom trundles toward the kitchen, followed by the pugs, while I wander down the hall. Alena's house is ranch style, so her room is on the ground floor. As I approach, I hear a top-ten radio station playing and Alena laughing and talking. I hesitate outside the door. Is anyone else in there? Maybe Jamarlo? Certainly not Daniel. Her parents wouldn't allow a potential boyfriend in her room.

Since I can only hear Alena's voice, I decide she's on the phone and push open the door to step inside.

Alena is sitting on her queen-sized canopy bed, painting her nails orange while holding her cell phone against her ear with one shoulder.

“Tori?” She gives me an I-can't-believe-you're-here look and then says into the phone, “I'll call you later, Carmen. Tori just walked in.”

I'm not sure whether to feel jealous that she's so friendly with Carmen or happy that she got off the phone for me.

“Sit down.” Alena waves to the white, plush chair in front of her mirrored makeup table. “I'll do your nails next. Pick a color.” She motions toward her double row of OPI nail polish.

It's a routine we have—Alena doing my nails and me tolerating it. When we were younger, she tried to get me to play dress-up too many times, and nail polish seemed like a good compromise.

I sit in front of the mirror and randomly pick up a bottle of nail polish. It's a hot-pink color called Kiss Me on My Tulips.

“Interesting choice.” Alena smirks and paints another nail.

The scent of nail polish becomes too intense. I make a face and drop the bottle. “You should wear it next time you see Daniel.” I pick a light mauve. “Sweet Memories?” I read. My memories of Matt are anything but sweet. “These names are terrible.”

She finishes her last nail and screws the lid back on the bottle. “I'll find you a good color.” She rolls off the bed and stands, wincing when she bends her sore knee.

“Forget it,” I say. “I don't need any polish. How's your knee?”

“Luckily, I still need physio appointments. Daniel is a big help.” Alena smiles, running her fingers over the bottles and keeping her nails extended to dry. She selects a bright red. “Big Apple Red. It'll be perfect with your pale skin.” She examines my cuticles like she's planning my manicure and then runs her fingers over my cast. “How's your hand?”

“Better. The bruises are fading.” I hesitate, remembering how upset she was at the hospital. She probably didn't want me to get hurt. It's how I felt about Casey. “I'm sorry,” I blurt out.

“For what?” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise.

“I don't know.” I scan the room like it will help me figure out what to say. A pile of dresses is draped over the end of the bed. High-heeled shoes are scattered across the floor. “I'm sorry for getting violent on Neanderthal, Jordan and anyone else who crossed my path. I know it upset you.”

“Yeah, you were out of control.”

“I guess.” I pause. “And you didn't want me to get hurt?”

“Exactly!” Alena squeezes my good arm. “It's like you had a death wish.” Her eyes examine mine. “It scared me.”

“Yeah, I was kind of out of it for a while.” I don't break eye contact, even though I'm trembling.

“Tell me about it.” Alena picks up a nail file. “What you need is a friend right now. Let me do your nails. Then we can talk dresses.”

“Dresses?” I lean back against the chair. “For what?”

“The anti-prom.” Her smile is a billion watts. “It's only a week away! It'll cheer you up.”

I stand up, tripping over shoes as I back toward the door. “I told you, I'm not—”

“Don't start that again.” She frowns. “It'll be good for you. Besides, we always go to parties together. Jamarlo says—”

“You can't talk me into it.” My throat is tight.

“Why not? Please, Tori,” she begs. “You have to come. Daniel is taking me, and I'm nervous about—”

“I can't, Alena. Really. It's not you. Or Daniel. He seems like a nice guy. I just…”

“What?” She sounds hurt.

I take a deep breath.
Tell her the truth
. “I just don't want to see…Matt.”

“Matt? Why worry about him?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “It doesn't matter anyway. Carmen says he's not coming.”

“How would she know?”

“I don't know. She just knows things. Listen, Matt's no big deal. Forget about him. It's not like he got anywhere with you.”

My face falls. I look away.

“I'm right, aren't I?” Alena's voice gets high-pitched. “You said he was pressuring you, trying to control you, so you broke up with him.”

“I did, but…” I shake my head ever so slightly. Take another step toward the door. My face heats up.

“He tried to…force me,” I whisper. “At Carmen's party. He followed me into the washroom. Locked the door. He got my shirt off. And…other things. Before I got away.”

A scene-by-scene playback pounds through my mind before I can stop it. The slick of sweat on Matt's upper lip. His stinking beer breath in my face. His hands pulling me down by my hair, my head slamming against the floor tiles. Me struggling against the weight of him. His fingers rough on my skin, worming inside my jeans. Music beating in my chest. My screams unheard. Then the press of his arm on my throat, silencing me.

I grind my fists against my eyes, trying to shut it all out. Nothing like this had ever happened to me—until Matt. Nothing like this is ever supposed to happen.

I open my eyes to a look of horror on Alena's face.

“Tori, no!” Her face pales. “Did he…?”

“I kneed him before he could rape me.” My body trembles. “But it feels like he did.” I remember how I couldn't breathe when he unzipped his fly. Then I aimed, desperate for air.

“God, Tori. Why didn't you tell me?”

I shake my head, unable to talk.

“Did you talk to anyone? Jamarlo? Your parents?”

“No.” I grab her wrist. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Why not?” Alena's forehead wrinkles. “You can't go through this by yourself.”

“Why not?” I echo back. “No one came when I screamed.”

“Oh, Tori!” She gapes. “I didn't know.”

A sob slips from my throat. I let go of her wrist.

“Tell me everything that happened,” she whispers. Her arms wrap around me.

I pull away. She holds fast.

Slowly, I give her the play-by-play. How I couldn't break free. How his lips pulled back from his teeth. His cruel fingers, probing inside my shirt, my jeans.

Alena's face goes blotchy. She reaches for the tissue box. I like how she doesn't turn away when I tell her the hard stuff.

Eventually, we end up on the floor, leaning against Alena's bed, side by side, staring at our reflections in the mirrored doors of her closet, me with red-rimmed eyes and her with a tear-stained face.

It's a relief to share the horror, to have someone else know my secret. It makes me think of Casey at the police station, and I get a flash of clarity.

I did more than help Casey talk again. I helped her be
heard
.

When her mom calls us for dinner, Alena embraces me again. She smells like the fruity Body Shop perfume she always wears.

“I still think you should come to the anti-prom, Tori.” She squeezes me tighter. “Not for me, but for yourself. You should be with your friends, even if you won't tell them what's going on. Don't let Matt scare you away.”

“I don't know.” I pull away, feeling like a refugee entering a new country. I'm not sure how the inhabitants speak, what they wear, how they talk. But somehow, I need to get along.

“It could be good for you.” Her eyes reflect the sunlight shining through her wide-open windows. “Just think about it?”

“I will.” I sigh.

She claps her hands together. “It's a start.”

SQUEEZE
to exert pressure on

Late Saturday morning, I'm studying math and munching toast at the kitchen table when the phone rings. I ignore it, hoping Joel will pick it up in the den, until the sixth ring.

“Tori Wyatt?” says a woman. “It's Janice Reese with
Glencrest Region News
. I wonder if you would—”

“No.” I start to hang up. How did she get our number?

“Wait, please!” Her voice has a catch in it that makes me hesitate. “I've covered a lot of stories, and something about this one sticks with me.”

I lean against the side of the fridge, ready to hang up on her any second. “What do you want?”

“I'd like to do a piece on your version of events at Mill Pond Park. Something about what motivates people to take positive action during a crime rather just than watch events unfold. If you'd just consider talking to me?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “You can call my cell anytime.”

She rattles off her number just as the door from the carport opens. Mom pushes into the kitchen, grocery bags in her hands. Dad trails her with more bags. Janice continues yakking. She sounds sincere, but I don't trust her.

“Sorry, but I can't help you.” I hang up the phone. Janice Reece reminds me why I'm glad to have a new cell-phone number.

“Who was that?” Mom shoves the bags at me.

“No one important.” I take the bags from her and set them beside the fridge, flinching from the weight on my cast.

Dad kicks off his shoes while Mom lines hers up beside the door. As she and Dad unpack groceries, I put my feet up on a chair and concentrate on my next algebra problem.

“It's a good thing you're here,” Mom says as she stacks cans in the corner cupboard. “Your father and I have a proposal for you.”

Oh no. I keep my eyes on my textbook. “I have a lot of studying—”

“It won't take long, Tori, and it's important.”

“So is my math exam.”

Dad stops loading the fridge. “Listen to your mother.” His voice is gruff.

“Fine.” I drop my pencil and stare stonily at them.

“We've been worried about you for a while now, Tori.” Mom gestures with a can of tuna.

“I keep telling you that there's nothing wrong. Really. You don't need to worry.”

“Now, we all know that's not true. The head shaving? The fights? We've tried to get you to open up, but you're just not talking about whatever's going on.”

“Nothing's going on, Mom.” I slouch lower.

“So we want you to see a therapist. I've found the perfect one. Maybe when you have someone to talk to—”

“Are you serious?” I straighten up. “I already said I didn't want to.”

“We're very serious.” Dad crosses his arms.

“Maybe you should stop interfering and let me figure things out on my own.” My voice is shrill.

“But you haven't even been seeing your friends,” Mom says. “Alena hasn't been around in ages. Jamarlo either. And what happened to that nice boy you were dating?”

I flinch. My cheeks get warm. “I'm going to an anti-prom party with everyone,” I say, immediately regretting it. “Is that enough proof that I'm fine?”

Mom sighs. “Tori, just think about it. This therapist is a great fit for you. She's—”

“I have to study.” I slam my textbook shut and stack it on my binder. “I'll be in my room.”