you don’t date and you’re not interested in a relationship, but you pick me up at a bar—when I was a total stranger, I might add. Then you’re all cozy with Foster the other night. And now you’re here with this guy.”
“How is he your business?” My temper climbs as Noah continues to talk. I should’ve known nothing can change. Guys all think the same way. Of course he’d get the wrong idea about me. Even when I’ve done nothing to warrant it.
“He’s not.” Noah shakes his head. “You just don’t seem like the type, that’s all.”
Of course, I know what he’s saying. I don’t seem like a slut, so why am I acting like one? My ears go hot. I look around and it seems like everyone’s staring at me. Whispering. Judging.
I have to get out of here.
No wait, fuck that.
It’s fight or flight. And though my instincts tell me to fly, my intoxicated mind wants me to go the other way. He will not chase me off. Let him think what he wants; I don’t care anymore.
I level a l ong stare at Noah, stunned he could say that to me. Or even think it.
Then I take the beers and go back to my game.
I feel Noah’s eyes on me the entire time.
TWELVE
That night, after Michael leaves, I find the two things he left for me. The first is a bag of all my ballet slippers. I pull them out and set them all around my bed, reaching out to stroke the leather and satin.
Next to the bag is a piece of paper—a message on the university letterhead that reads in bold print, “Company B dance tryouts are December 30 th .” Then in Michael’s scrawl: I think you should consider it. I’ll be back to see you again soon. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got your back, little sis.
That he does, I think curling up under my covers.
I don’t know what I would’ve done without Michael last year, especially the day Thomas’ friends came after me. The day that continues to give me nightmares.
I remember I could feel them behind me as I headed to my dorm room. It had only been a week since everything went down, but I quickly became the resident scapegoat. Once everything became public, my friends abandoned me, playing shocked and horrified and Thomas played the victim. He actually had everyone believing that the whole thing was my fault. I was the slut who came to strip at the party, got drunk and out of control, and started pointing fingers. And poor Thomas had to sit out two games while the embarrassing mess got sorted out.
His act worked well. After all, he had the pictures to prove it.
Even my parents wouldn ’t rock the boat with his family. Apparently, the partnership between Mr. Richardson’s company and my stepfather’s was what funded my mom’s lifestyle, and she wasn’t willing to give it up.
When I turn ed the corner that day, I could feel Eric Milton and gang on my heels. Eric was Thomas’ best friend and he was pissed that Thomas was forced to sit out two games because of me.
The n they all started in with that whole fake cough routine—hurling the worst of insults.
“Slut.”
They started closing in.
“Trash.”
I moved faster.
“Whore.”
I was in the hallway, just a few more steps to my room.
Johnny Milton yelled, “There she is guys, the poster child for STDs.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking, inching toward my door.
By this time people are peeking out of their dorm rooms, gathering in the hallway. Then Milton threw a condom at me and said, “Tabby, maybe next time you decide to put on a little show and make your way around the hockey team, you should use protection.”
The package hit my back.
When I reached t he door to my dorm room, it was papered with photos of me at the party posing with various guys. Of course, their faces were blacked out. I was topless and bombed out of my mind, there in color for everyone to see.
I remember t he way the walls tilted in and the floor moved in waves. I was dying. Bit by bit. The name-calling and attacks
“How is he your business?” My temper climbs as Noah continues to talk. I should’ve known nothing can change. Guys all think the same way. Of course he’d get the wrong idea about me. Even when I’ve done nothing to warrant it.
“He’s not.” Noah shakes his head. “You just don’t seem like the type, that’s all.”
Of course, I know what he’s saying. I don’t seem like a slut, so why am I acting like one? My ears go hot. I look around and it seems like everyone’s staring at me. Whispering. Judging.
I have to get out of here.
No wait, fuck that.
It’s fight or flight. And though my instincts tell me to fly, my intoxicated mind wants me to go the other way. He will not chase me off. Let him think what he wants; I don’t care anymore.
I level a l ong stare at Noah, stunned he could say that to me. Or even think it.
Then I take the beers and go back to my game.
I feel Noah’s eyes on me the entire time.
TWELVE
That night, after Michael leaves, I find the two things he left for me. The first is a bag of all my ballet slippers. I pull them out and set them all around my bed, reaching out to stroke the leather and satin.
Next to the bag is a piece of paper—a message on the university letterhead that reads in bold print, “Company B dance tryouts are December 30 th .” Then in Michael’s scrawl: I think you should consider it. I’ll be back to see you again soon. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got your back, little sis.
That he does, I think curling up under my covers.
I don’t know what I would’ve done without Michael last year, especially the day Thomas’ friends came after me. The day that continues to give me nightmares.
I remember I could feel them behind me as I headed to my dorm room. It had only been a week since everything went down, but I quickly became the resident scapegoat. Once everything became public, my friends abandoned me, playing shocked and horrified and Thomas played the victim. He actually had everyone believing that the whole thing was my fault. I was the slut who came to strip at the party, got drunk and out of control, and started pointing fingers. And poor Thomas had to sit out two games while the embarrassing mess got sorted out.
His act worked well. After all, he had the pictures to prove it.
Even my parents wouldn ’t rock the boat with his family. Apparently, the partnership between Mr. Richardson’s company and my stepfather’s was what funded my mom’s lifestyle, and she wasn’t willing to give it up.
When I turn ed the corner that day, I could feel Eric Milton and gang on my heels. Eric was Thomas’ best friend and he was pissed that Thomas was forced to sit out two games because of me.
The n they all started in with that whole fake cough routine—hurling the worst of insults.
“Slut.”
They started closing in.
“Trash.”
I moved faster.
“Whore.”
I was in the hallway, just a few more steps to my room.
Johnny Milton yelled, “There she is guys, the poster child for STDs.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking, inching toward my door.
By this time people are peeking out of their dorm rooms, gathering in the hallway. Then Milton threw a condom at me and said, “Tabby, maybe next time you decide to put on a little show and make your way around the hockey team, you should use protection.”
The package hit my back.
When I reached t he door to my dorm room, it was papered with photos of me at the party posing with various guys. Of course, their faces were blacked out. I was topless and bombed out of my mind, there in color for everyone to see.
I remember t he way the walls tilted in and the floor moved in waves. I was dying. Bit by bit. The name-calling and attacks
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