I PULL MY BOTTOM LIP between my teeth as I think about his kiss. The softness of his lips against mine lingers in phantom pressure, twirling my stomach in pleasurable aches.
Returning to school, just as I had promised, I hang on to thoughts of Friday night to get me through the dreadfulness of the day. It’s the second week, and this is only my second day in attendance. I skipped because I couldn’t deal with the looks and whispers, not realizing the act of avoiding them would just send more my way. It’s worse today than the first day was, forcing me to fake my way through the hours.
Kroy sits next to me in second period. I’m thankful for familiar comfort but also feel an incredible amount of guilt for what happened between me and Coach Andrews. Kroy isn’t the first boy I’ve ever kissed. He is, however, the only one I’ve kissed for the past two years, and guilt is pricking at my conscience. After all, he’s been my best friend for countless years, and we broke up only a few short weeks ago. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about me, nothing I haven’t shared with him, nothing until now. But I couldn’t tell him even if I wanted to, because Coach Andrews is my teacher, and because I’m only seventeen, and because I don’t want to risk it never happening again.
Fourth period comes, and the moment our eyes catch is the moment my schoolgirl daydreams flicker into static. He quickly looks away from me, diverting his attention elsewhere.
“Stare much, creeper?” Linze says when she takes her seat.
“What?”
“You . . . Mr. Andrews. I mean, I get it, but relax on the obvious.”
“Zoning out,” I lie. “I’m tired and still feeling a little crappy.” Another lie.
“Seriously. I tried calling you like a thousand times. I’m starting to get a complex.”
“I was sick. Nothing personal.”
She flips her notebook open and starts scribbling on the page with her pen.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?”
Keeping her focus on her paper, she responds with a shadow of agitation, “Just wondering when the old Cam will be making her return.”
Her words prick my nerves.
She’s kidding, right?
Coach calls the attention of the class, and what I was hoping would be my hour pardon of the day, is already ruined by Linze’s remark and the fact that the guy who was so tender with me the other night is blatantly avoiding me. If he’s trying to be discreet in his diverging eyes, he’s failing miserably.
So, I play the part of a good student, pull out my notebook, and take notes as he drones on about Shakespeare and preps us for our unit on Othello, which we will be doing for the next three weeks.
The bell couldn’t come soon enough, but torture doesn’t relent when he calls, “Miss Hale, I need you to stay after so I can go over the work you missed last week.”
My guard goes up at his formality, doing what I can to shield myself from the oncoming pangs of rejection. I stay put in my desk, forcing him to approach me, and when the last student leaves, he comes to the back of the class and takes the seat next to me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the pencil that I’m fidgeting between my hands.
“I think we should talk about the other night.”
I can already feel it coming in the tone of his voice, in his tempered attention toward me, and his offish demeanor.
It was a mistake. It should have never happened.
“It can’t happen again,” he states in a hushed voice, and I nod—completely humiliated. Taking the pencil out from between my fingers, he continues, “I care about you, Cam. And I’m still here for you if you need me. But whatever this is between us . . . I could lose my job.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I know you aren’t, which is why I know you understand the severity of what could happen.”
For a moment, I had peace. For a moment, I had a silver lining. Now, I’m just mortified.
“Is that all?” I’m eager to get the hell out of this classroom and far away from this conversation.
“Look at me,” he requests, and I do. “I get that things at home are rough right now, and I want to be here for you, I need you to know that. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you did anything wrong. You didn’t. I take responsibility for what happened. But from this point moving on, I can only be your teacher and your coach, okay?”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I agree with him quickly just to get this over with, but he holds me to the flame a bit longer. “I’m also concerned about your swimming. We have a meet coming up at the end of September. If you want to swim, you can’t keep avoiding team practice.”
“Fine,” I exhaust on a lengthy breath. “No team today though.”
“Individual then?”
“If you’re saying that I have to practice today, then yeah, I don’t want a team swim.”
“Be in the water at five.”
Without giving him another second, I grab my backpack and what little self-esteem he left me with and hightail it out of here.
“Do five one hundreds, flutter kick, on the one forty-five,” he calls out.
With my kickboard in hand, I work my legs to propel myself down the lane.
Silence is my friend, and I decide to embrace it in an effort to shield myself from the embarrassment of this whole situation between the two of us. I don’t have the option to avoid him, not unless I request a class transfer and drop the swim team, which I refuse to do. But he’s keeping it strictly business, calling out drills to build my strength and endurance. As long as I stay focused, surely the tension will eventually lessen.
“Legs up,” he shouts, and I push harder, doing all I can to ignore the burn in my quads as he times my laps.
I tighten my core and kick, kick, kick, until fire slices down my left leg, seizing it in an excruciating cramp. Hissing through my teeth, I flex my leg under the water and whimper as the pain bites back against my attempt to alleviate.
“You okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I abandon my board and grip my leg with both hands, letting myself sink below the surface. I hear a distorted shout seconds before he dives into the water and swims out to the middle of the pool where I’m stranded in agony. Looping his arm around my waist, he gets us over to the wall. When I’m out of the water, he begins to dig his fingers into my leg to massage out the cramp.
“It hurts so bad.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” he instructs calmly. “Breathe.”
Unable to sit still, I fist my hands and bite down while he works the kink out. When I feel the muscle start to relax and lengthen, I draw in a slow breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it even slower.
“Better?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He continues to work his hands into my leg, and it doesn’t take long for the skin to tingle beneath his touch. It’s a physical reaction I can’t avoid, and I jerk my leg out of his hold. His head snaps up with a stare he can’t deny. We sit in it for seconds that disguise themselves as minutes, both of us unable to hide the thoughts that are worn so apparently on our faces—thoughts that invalidate his mild lecture from earlier. He isn’t just my teacher though. If he were, he wouldn’t be trying to talk himself out of his internal struggle right now, the struggle I wish he’d give up. Because I’m lonely and lost, and the balm of his kiss could momentarily wipe those feelings away.
My heart pounds, and I wonder if he hears it, but none of it matters when he stands, severing what was attempting to bind. I take his hand when he reaches down to help me up.
“You okay now? The cramp gone?”
“Yeah.”
Evading unspoken thoughts, he keeps it as neutral as possible.
“Try not to exert yourself so much. We may be in a rush to get your body built back up, but we’ll be in worse shape if you push yourself too hard,” he says with a clear distraction in his eyes before he looks at his watch. “Why don’t we call it a night? You got in a solid hour, and I need to get out of these wet clothes.”
He waits for me while I shower and change as awkwardness continues to build, and I couldn’t be done with this day fast enough. Once he locks everything up, we walk to our cars, which is when he offers me extra swims in the mornings, since I missed all the two-a-days.
“We need to start playing catch up,” he insists, and I agree.
Even with scouts watching me last year, I’ve yet to secure any scholarships.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn to him before opening my car door. “We’re good, right?”
To help ease his confliction, I lie. “Yeah, we’re good.”
There’s no tricking myself into believing the undeniable truth—that I’m not good at all. I’m so far away from it that it’s almost impossible to recognize at this point. Long ago, I forgot what good felt like and looked like. I thought I had it back when he kissed me, but he vanquished it in a matter of two words spoken.
Thoughts of teenage angst go absent when I walk through my front door and flick the light switch on.
Nothing happens.
Pushing it down and then back up, I’m met with abiding darkness.
“Mom?”
I walk through the quiet house, and when I get to the kitchen, I open the fridge.
It’s off too.
My mom’s car isn’t in the garage either. I then go to the front door again, and I see that the neighbor’s lights are on.
Pulling out my cell, I dial my mother.
Please pick up, please pick up.
“Camrrr . . . Camr . . . Camrila.”
“Mom,” I assert after she butchers my name. “Where are you?”
“Umm . . .” There’s a shuffling of voices in the background, and my hand tightens around the phone, as if I can squeeze out my thwarting irritation.
“Never mind. The electricity is out at the house.”
“So.”
“Did you pay the bill?”
“Ask your father.”
What the fuck?
“Mom! I’m serious.”
“I’m not home, so I don’t know what you’re wanting.”
“Forget it,” I snap and then disconnect the call.
I turn on my heels, pissed off beyond belief. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine due to the lack of air conditioning while I look up the number for the electric company. My mood goes from bad to worse when they confirm service has been cut due to three months of non-payment. I hang up on the woman because I don’t have any of my mother’s credit cards.
My palms pulse angrily, and I shove my phone into my pocket before I end up throwing it across the room. I march up the stairs, and burst into my parents’ bedroom. Hostile tears lick my cheeks, and I grab the pillows off the bed and sling them against the walls.
“I hate youuuuu!” I scream violently, hoping the echo travels to wherever the hell she is right now. I want her to know how I truly feel about her. Because I do—I hate her so much for taking our wrecked life and destroying it even further.
I take one of the bottles sitting on the nightstand into the bathroom. Opening up the shower door, I throw the bottle against the slate. Glass shatters everywhere, and the sound is so powerful that I grab a few more bottles and smash them, one by one, against the tiled wall. But it isn’t enough to dilute pent-up aggression.
I turn to my father’s sink and rummage through the drawers in the dark until I find his shaving kit—the one I bought him for Christmas last year—knowing the true gift that’s waiting for me on the inside of the leather case.
Once in the safety of my own bathroom, I sit on the floor and unzip the bag. Before taking out my painkiller, I hold the leather to my nose and inhale the lingering notes of his aftershave.
And I cry.
I don’t want to though, because crying hurts far worse than not crying. I take out the straight razor, unfold the handle, and with just enough foresight, I lift my shirt. Pressing the blade’s edge to hidden flesh, I slice a passageway for buried anguish, freeing it from the cage within.
Tears dry on my face as I drift away in relief. I close my eyes, relishing the path of heated liquid as it trails down to the waistband of my pants. The stillness of the house is replaced by my heart’s soothing beats in my ears. They are a lullaby to my senses, and I literally feel like I’m melting into the wall that’s supposed to be supporting me.
My mother may choose alcohol to self-medicate, but I’ll happily choose this. At least I’m only hurting myself. These superficial wounds of mine will scab and heal, but hers are acid, searing through the flesh of me and her, forever leaving their lesions on the crux of who we are.