Sammi opens up her notebook and starts scribbling to me.
Where the hell were you?
C-wing bathroom
How??
Blythe Jensen.
“What the fuck?” she whispers.
I shrug because I don’t know, which is really the truth. I rub my stomach and groan.
“Is it hot in here?” I say to Sammi and throw my hair up in a bun, the back of my neck sweaty.
She goes back to the notepad.
I’m worried about you.
I know. We’ll talk after class. PROMISE.
Mr. Chui draws a rocket on the board. He says the rocket is going to launch a projectile with a strong velocity.
My body gets real hot. Like clammy-sweaty hot, and I can’t stop it, and then I launch my own projectile . . .
I puke.
* * *
I convince the nurse that I’m fine. Just a nervous stomach. I slap my cheeks. Look. I’m perfect.
“I have to call your father anyway. And if you feel at all nauseous again, you need to come right back here.”
“Fine,” I say. Anything to avoid going home. I don’t want my father eyeing me all afternoon.
* * *
Lunch room. Sammi doesn’t say a word to me in the lunch line. She waits until we get to a small table in the back. Just me and her. She gets in my face and does that yell-whisper. “What the fuck is going on? You smelled like smoke in class. C-wing? Then you puke?”
“Shhhhh.”
“Ali, what really happened with you and him?”
“This isn’t something I want to even admit to myself.”
She practically chokes on her tater tot. “What does that even mean?”
Sammi has been my best friend since second grade and telling her is like telling myself. That’s how close we are. That’s why I don’t want to say it out loud. I pull her face close and put my lips to her ear.
“Why are you breathing in my ear?”
“Shhh. Just listen.” I hear the echo of my breath against her earlobe. Back and forth. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Remember I told you about what happened with Sean Nessel?”
She nods. Her face frozen. Eyes bugging out of her skull.
“He forced me.”
She pulls her face away. Her eyes squint in that way they used to around that time my mother left and I would make up stories about where she was. My mother is exploring the moon, actually. My mother decided to be a rock climber. Anything sounded better than My mother went to rehab because she has the alcoholic disease and also she’s moving to this weird place in New Mexico.
He put his hand over my mouth, I want to tell her. But I can’t say it out loud. I can’t say any of it to her. If I say it to her, it’ll never stop. That voice in my head will keep going. I’ll relive that night on repeat. And I want to get it out of my mind.
So I pull my T-shirt down a little on the one side. Since we’re in the cafeteria, I hold back my tears; they’re choking me.
I hear her gasp. I know she sees it, the bruise above my collarbone, close to my shoulder.
I quickly cover it up. No one’s going to see that again. Sammi’s circling her eyes with her hands. Rubbing them.
She whispers, “Is that why you ran out of there?”
I nod.
“And you just left this information out when you were at my house last night?”
Her eyes tear up. Her face reddens. She covers her face with her hands. Tears stream over her knuckles.
“We are not telling anyone,” I say, breathless. “Not anyone.”
“Cherie? Can’t I at least tell her?”
“Oh my God, Sammi, especially not her. She’ll make me go to a protest with a uterus strapped around my head.”
“But you have a bruise on your shoulder. He forced you. I mean. This isn’t right, Ali.”
“I was drinking those tiny bottles of vodka. My stupid collage books?” Saying it out loud takes my breath away. I grit my teeth. “He was my target. Everyone saw me.”
“But, Ali—”
“You saw me, Sammi. You said it yourself. You saw me drinking with him. Everyone saw me drinking with him.”
“So what? We’ve learned about this a million—a zillion—times. It doesn’t mean it’s consent just because you were drinking.”
“But don’t you see, that’s everything. Because—I wanted to do it.” I think about my back scratching against his soccer jacket. His hand over my mouth. I rub my eyes. I wonder how long I’m going to have to do this just to get rid of those images. Then if I have to tell people? And if they don’t believe me? It’s one thing for the stupid health teacher to mindlessly talk about consent because it’s in the curriculum, because that’s what’s expected of her. She wants to preach consent and #MeToo and #GirlsToo. But I’ve seen too many news stories, too many articles, I know that in real-life situations, girls don’t get the chance to defend themselves. Especially not when it comes to the captain of the soccer team.
I try to explain this to Sammi. That my whole life is on the line here, that she can’t tell anyone because if she tells even one person, my whole life is going to explode. That Sean Nessel will ruin my life. But she keeps pressing. She won’t stop. So I just shake my head, close my eyes, pretend I don’t exist. Like this is happening to someone else.
“And then?”
But I say nothing.
“And then what happens? He just gets away with it?”
I shake my head. Nothing comes out. I’m nothing. I’m not even here.
“If you said no. If you have a bruise on your shoulder. Ali,” she says, looking around, covering me up, holding my hands, pulling me closer, her voice so low and quiet. “You have to tell someone.”
“Oh,
