Louder Than Words Page 3

  The day after Christmas, I met my best (and only) friend for coffee so she could give me my birthday present. She said it was something I really needed. Maybe she had bought me a new personality. I could only hope.

  Jules—her real name was Juliana, but no one ever called her that—kissed me on both cheeks. “Happy birthday, babe.” She had gone to Paris the previous summer and had adopted this European custom as her standard greeting. If anyone else did that, it would be ridiculously phony, but Jules managed to pull it off. “Did you get my texts and e-mails?”

  I nodded and mouthed a thank you. Jules knew my birthday was really hard for me and that I liked to keep it low-key. We had met on the first day of nursery school, were milk and cookie buddies in kindergarten, penny partners in first grade, and best friends throughout. As we grew up, although we went off in totally different directions, we remained close. At least that’s what she told me, because I really didn’t remember much about our friendship beyond the fact of its existence. Into books and art, I could spend hours browsing through art anthologies at the library, lost in another century. Jules Harper, on the other hand, was head cheerleader and part of the theater crowd. She hated being alone and had a million friends, but I was still her closest. We were quite the odd couple, and I’m not sure why we meshed so well—maybe because there was absolutely no competition between us—but whatever the reason, I would never have survived without her love and support.

  After the accident, Jules visited me in the hospital and then at home every day until I returned to school. Her over-the-top enthusiasm may have been the only thing that kept me from falling to the bottom of a well of despair. If she hadn’t nagged me into reentering the stream of life, I might still be curled up in a ball somewhere.

  “Sasha, I brought your homework. You have to do at least some of it. Come on. You don’t want to end up repeating seventh grade, do you?” Jules had pointed to a pile of books and papers on the desk in the corner.

  At that moment, I had planned never to leave my bedroom again, so whether or not I completed the seventh grade was irrelevant.

  “Mrs. Walsh said if you read To Kill a Mockingbird and write a five-page paper about it, you can still get an A in English. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  I had stared impassively at my best, and only, friend in the whole world. How could I have explained to her that nothing mattered anymore, least of all an A in English?

  “Sasha, stop it. Don’t ignore me. I know you hear me. I know you understand me. Please don’t shut me out.” Climbing onto my bed, Jules had stroked my hair and whispered in my ear. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I know how much you miss them. I love you so much. And no matter what, I’m not going anywhere, ever. We’re sisters.”

  And she hadn’t abandoned me for the last four years, through piles of legal pads covered with my illegible scrawl that passed for my side of the conversation, and hours of one-sided late-night phone calls when Jules would tell me what had happened on a date or at a school dance. She was my only link to the real world, and I lived vicariously through her. I melted when she described her first kiss, laughed silently when Jason Draper couldn’t figure out how to unhook her bra, and cried to myself when I thought about how no one would ever kiss me or touch me like that.

  Our whole friendship made no sense. Were I in her shoes, I doubt I would have had the patience to stick it out. As ill-fated as my life had been in certain ways, I was blessed to have Jules, who had chosen me as her closest ally—as well as her pet project.

  “I hope you like it.” Wrapped in plain brown paper with a pink satin ribbon, my gift was clearly a book. “Don’t open it here. Wait until you get home and then open it in your room.”

  Jules was an expert in translating my gestures, so when I tilted my head, shrugged my shoulders, and opened my eyes wide, she just laughed. What? I mouthed.

  “It’s something you need. You’ll see. Trust me. I always take care of you, right?” That was true. In the last four years, Jules had been my advocate, my protector, and my champion. “Just make sure you’re alone when you open it.”

  Gestures weren’t enough. I pulled out my Hawkie Talkie. “WHAT DID YOU GET ME? A BOOK ON HOW TO BUILD A PENIS OUT OF OLD CAR PARTS?”

  “Kind of. Don’t worry. Text me after you open it, and let me know what you think. But enough about my fabulous gift. What did Dr. O. say at your birthday session?”

  “SHE KIND OF FIRED ME. I THINK I’M HER ONLY FAILURE.”

  “What do you mean, fired you? I didn’t think a shrink ever fired a patient. Couldn’t that be dangerous? Wouldn’t it be her fault if you slit your wrists? Did Charlotte stop paying her or something?”

  “OF COURSE NOT. DR. O. SAYS I HOLD THE KEY TO MY OWN RECOVERY. THAT’S A DIRECT QUOTE. I THINK SHE’S JUST GIVEN UP ON ME.”

  “Maybe you’re hearing it wrong …” Jules began.

  “DEFINITELY NOT. WHAT DO I DO NOW? I CAN’T REMEMBER MUCH, AND WHEN I TRY, I GET A MIGRAINE.”

  “Well, she’s the doctor. Buy yourself a giant bottle of aspirin and try to remember what happened the night of the accident and pretty much your whole life.”

  “GREAT IDEA. AND WHILE I’M AT IT, I’LL END WORLD HUNGER.”

  “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, just necessary. She wouldn’t say that she thought you could do it if she didn’t mean it. Would she?” For Jules, everything was simple and straightforward, no undercurrents, no hidden meanings.

  “I’M NOT SO SURE ABOUT THAT. I THINK SHE’S RUN OUT OF SOLUTIONS AND SHE’S JUST PASSING THE BUCK.”

  “You need to have more faith in yourself. You’re much stronger than you think you are. Maybe you need to start fighting for yourself.”

  “I ALREADY AM.”

  “Which I think might mean fighting with yourself.” Jules sipped her coffee and stared pointedly at my talking machine.

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHAT ONLINE SCHOOL OF PSYCHIATRY DID YOU GRADUATE FROM?”

  “Don’t be like that. I’m on your side. Remember? All I’m saying is that I think you’ve built a wall to protect yourself from something. The pain, the memories, and all that guilt about still being alive when they aren’t. Maybe if you can break through that, you’ll get your voice back.”

  “SO HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU, DOCTOR?” I mimed writing a check.

  The worst part was, Jules was right. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my sister staring back at me. She was the pretty one, the fun one, the one who should have lived. I was the expendable one, and yet here I sat, a useless lump of flesh who couldn’t even ask for directions let alone do justice to the extra years I’d been given simply because I had been sitting on the right side of the car’s back seat instead of the left.

  “Don’t be flip, Sash. I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have gotten into it, especially on your birthday. Not fair. And you’re right, what do I know?”

  “IT’S OKAY. YOU’VE BEEN SO PATIENT WITH ME. ANYONE ELSE WOULD HAVE ABANDONED SHIP A LONG TIME AGO. I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE APOLOGIZING.” I opened my arms and we hugged, both of us crying.

  Later that day, in the privacy of my room, I opened Jules’s gift. It was a copy of Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), by Dr. David Reuben. Inside the front cover she had crossed out the original inscription and written: Dearest Sasha, You may have missed out on a few things, but read this and I guarantee you’ll be more than caught up. You’re seventeen—make it count. Your best friend, forever, Jules. P.S. Hide this well—if Charlotte and Stuart find it, I’ll be on their shit list.

  Flipping randomly through the pages, I was startled by how many -isms there were in the world of sex: fetishism, voyeurism, sadomasochism, autoeroticism. Fortunately, chapter 1 was entitled “Beyond the Birds and Bees.” I definitely needed a crash course. The stuff the gym teachers taught in health class was dull and clinical, while my aunt’s infrequent and very sanitary efforts had always been prefaced by “When you’re older
, hopefully married …” I wanted to learn about the sex people had in the movies. I wanted to learn how to make a guy want me so bad he couldn’t see straight.

  I texted Jules. Excellent gift. Thank you. I especially like the original inscription: “With love to my dear son—make sure you read this before your wedding night. Love, Mom.” Maybe I’m not as fucked up as I thought.

  She wrote back: Clearly just a loving mother looking out for her son. Sorry it’s a used copy, but I found it at that cool vintage book store, The Last Word. Now you’ll be prepared for your wedding night.

  Wedding night? I typed.Isn’t that jumping the gun? I’d be happy with getting felt up at the movies.

  Finding a boy who would put up with my shit show would be like winning the lottery. Finding someone who would stick around long enough to marry me would be a walking-on-water miracle.

  Sounds good. As long as you have a goal. Happy birthday, Sasha! Now get reading.

  Chapter 5

  Kicking off my shoes, I tucked my feet under me at one end of my couch. As a regular at the Shoreland Public Library, I had acquired squatter’s rights on one of the battered leather sofas in the sunroom off the main reading room. Charlotte and Stuart worked late in New York City at least three nights a week doing their lawyer thing, and I hated being alone in their concrete tomb of a house, just waiting to hear their key turning in the lock. The library was my haven. It was always filled with people, but since talking was frowned upon, it was the one place I felt like I belonged. I could enjoy a sense of companionship without standing out as the only one not carrying on a conversation. If my voice never came back, I could spend my life shelving books, unless of course I ended up baking fruitcakes or making lace in one of those convents where the nuns were required to take a vow of silence.

  With a pile of architecture tomes on the cushion next to me, I settled in for another afternoon of browsing coffee table books filled with photographs of extraordinary sights in spectacular places I would probably never visit. I was the ultimate armchair tourist. Lost in photographs of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, with a dome designed by Brunelleschi and a bell tower by Giotto, I was too busy imagining myself strolling across the Ponte Vecchio to notice that someone was standing in front of me.

  “Excuse me, may I sit here?” He gestured at the empty third cushion.

  I shrugged my shoulders in response. Rude, but I couldn’t help myself. Although he was really cute, I knew that having a relationship with a boy was virtually impossible if I couldn’t talk to him, so what was the point of attempting some half-assed form of communication, or even showing common courtesy? Along with all my other therapies, I was probably a candidate for some anger management classes. Besides, wherever he sat, I could enjoy the view, and since looking at a guy was the most action I could hope for, I found myself unable to make the effort to be nice, especially when there was no way he would reciprocate my admiration. Better to reject than be rejected. Better to be the sniper than the victim.

  He had the body of a runner. His hair was long, longer than most guys at my school wore it, and I had a sudden urge to run my fingers through it. And he had this smile, like he knew a secret and desperately wanted to tell. Although I tried not to look interested, I stole quick glances as he sprawled at the opposite end of the couch, slouching low with his legs stretched out far enough to trip anyone who walked by.

  Ballsy, making yourself so comfortable on my couch. Everyone here knows this is my corner. It’s not like there aren’t other pieces of furniture to sit on, I thought. What I really wanted to do was crawl into his lap and play with his messy ringlets, but that would only prove how out of touch with reality I was. Everyone knows you don’t climb all over people you don’t know, unless you’re crazy.

  Without a word, he stood and relocated to an enormous chair directly across from my couch. He dropped his backpack, causing the ancient, bespectacled librarian to turn around and frown in his general direction, and made himself comfortable, his legs draped over one arm of the overstuffed chair, not even glancing in my direction. Was the expression on my face that obvious? Was my shrug that offensive? Did I smell funny? Twisting my head a little to the side, as if I’d heard a noise and was turning to see where it came from, I sniffed at myself. Though I’d thought I wanted him to move, now that he had, I still wasn’t happy. Peeking over the top of my huge book, I could see that he was smiling into the pages of his paperback copy of Sartre’s No Exit, which, although a compelling story, had never struck me as particularly funny. There was something about this guy. I was hooked, but I knew it was a dead-end street, so I returned to my imaginary Italy vacation.

  Unable to ignore the unnaturally cheerful stranger across from me, I finally gave up on Florence and gathered my things. In my hurry to escape, I let the enormous book on Italian architecture slip out of my hands. The thud caused everyone in the library to look up, except him. Wishing I could somehow melt into the floorboards, I stood there staring at my feet. He just kept grinning into his book, as if he were making a conspicuous effort to ignore me. I needed to go home, where no one could look at me or sit next to me or smile at me. So much for the library as sanctuary.

  “Shhhhh,” hissed the librarian.

  It was already dark at five. Shivering in the biting January wind as I trudged down the steps, I realized I had stupidly left my coat on the back of the couch. How could a guy who barely looked at me throw me so far off balance? My punishment would be to walk home coatless. I was too embarrassed to go back for it—he might think I’d left it behind on purpose, like a dropped handkerchief in a nineteenth-century novel, a second chance to strike up an acquaintance. That wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I took a shortcut through the park. The full moon reflecting off the snow made the ground glow, and the trees cast long shadows. A little bit spooky, but I was so busy dissecting my many inadequacies, I didn’t take much notice. Besides, I wasn’t afraid of the dark. There were so many other things to fear.

  “Hey, Sasha, where are you headed?” Footsteps, more than one set, somewhere behind me.

  Startled, I didn’t turn around, just picked up my pace a little bit, although the path was icy and I was afraid I might slip if I started to run. The voice was familiar, just a boy from school, nothing to worry about. Seconds later, they were behind me, and then on all sides of me.

  “What’s the rush? You got someplace to go?”

  The speaker was Jed/Jeff, my detention buddy, and the others looked familiar, although they were pretty much clones of each other with their nearly shaved heads and muscles bulging through their sweatshirts: Shoreland High School varsity football’s finest. Changing directions, I continued to ignore them, but they surrounded me. Paul, my other detention playmate, scooped me up in his arms and carried me up the steps of the park’s gazebo about twenty feet off the path. In the spring and summer, the gazebo was a popular gathering place for concerts, but it was deserted the rest of the year, and on a frigid winter evening it looked like an igloo. He put me down on the ice-cold concrete slab, surprisingly gently, and I scrambled to get to my feet. Not so gently he pushed me down on my back and straddled me, pinning my arms to the ground.

  This was bad. First, there were four of them and only one of me. Even one-on-one, I wouldn’t have stood a chance—I weighed half of what one of them weighed. Second, no one knew where I was or was waiting for me at the house. It would be hours before Charlotte and Stuart got home from work and realized I was missing. Finally, and worst of all, I lacked the ability to let anyone know I was in danger. No matter how hard I tried to scream, I remained dumb. Not even the most basic survival instinct could trigger my voice box. I was completely and utterly useless.

  “Hurry up. I have to get home. My mom wants me to babysit my little sister tonight.”

  One of them looked at his watch. How ironic that he was in a rush to finish assaulting one girl so he could go home to look after another. The sound of a zipper being pulled down echoed in my ears.

/>   “I’m not going to rush this, dude. You may like it fast, but I want to take it nice and slow.”

  “So, Sasha, this your first time? I’m guessing yes, looking at you. Don’t be scared. Which one of us do you want to pop your cherry?” This from Paul as he sat on my chest.

  “She doesn’t talk, remember, so there’s no way she’s ever done it. I’ve never even seen her with a guy. But now that I think about it, she would be the perfect girlfriend—a rockin’ little body and no whiny voice to ruin it. You want to be my girlfriend, Sasha? I bet I could make you scream.” The one who had been standing out of my field of vision bent over my face, making kissing noises and licking his lips.

  “You ever seen a cock up close? You ever touched one?”

  “Stop fucking around, dickhead. I don’t have all night, so if you’re not going to get on with it, get the fuck out of the way, so I can get mine.”

  “Yeah, hurry up.”

  “Shouldn’t we use something?”

  “A condom? What the fuck for? You afraid you’re going to catch something?”

  “No, you asswipe. Cum is full of DNA. If she tells, we’re fucked, and not in a good way.”

  “Ohhhh.” I knew for a fact that Paul had flunked biology and chemistry. He put one finger under my chin and tilted my head back so I had to look at him. “You’d better not tell anyone, or else.” If I hadn’t been so scared, it would have been funny. Or else what? How could it possibly get any worse?

  I struggled to free myself from under the two-hundred-pound gorilla. When he let go of my arms, I scratched at his face and tried to roll him off me, but it was like trying to move from under a pile of sandbags.

  “Cool it, bitch. I think you drew blood with those claws of yours. Okay, dudes, I’m going first. I’m tired of holding her down.”

  He was like a cat playing with a mouse he had just caught, teasing me, wearing me out before he devoured me. With one quick motion he pulled my sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head. The frozen cement burned the bare skin on my back. Fumbling with the clasp on my bra, he gave up and tore the flimsy fabric, flinging the lacy bits to one side.