Secret Lucidity(60)

I point to the drawer next to the sink. “In there.”

He grabs the box and a tube of ointment before taking a seat on the edge of the tub.

“Come here,” he says, and I step between his legs.

With his eyes level to my stomach, he lifts my shirt, telling me to hold it in place. With my darkest secret exposed so boldly to him, it takes everything inside me not to cover myself. But I give him this moment he clearly needs when all I have been giving him are lies. If caring for my wounds is a way to fill his need to help me, no matter how small it seems, I won’t deny him.

He moves cautiously, cleaning the flakes of blood from my skin before rubbing the medicine over the cuts. When the Band-Aids are on, he wraps his hands around my hips and drops his head over my scars. I fight with what little strength I have left not to collapse on top of him in a storm of tears, because it’s breaking my heart to know that I’m breaking his.





I FOUND THE PAPERS THIS weekend. I woke up Saturday morning and went to check on my mother, but she wasn’t in her room—she wasn’t here at all.

No surprise.

But the opened envelope from the bank was lying on the floor next to her bed with the papers strewn about. I read them. Hell, I read through them maybe ten times, and yet I still didn’t fully understand much of what they said except that my mother was four payments behind on the mortgage.

I felt like such a child when I had to Google what a mortgage was.

I tried calling David. I called him all weekend so he could explain to me what exactly was going on with the house, but his cell was turned off, leaving me without a single ring—only his voice mail.

I left several messages before giving up and calling my mom.

She didn’t answer either.

The weekend passed slowly, a steady stream of anxiety looming in the pit of my stomach about why David hadn’t called or texted me. I busied myself with schoolwork to pass the time, completing my research paper for my government class that wasn’t due for another two weeks.

Ever since my alarm sounded this morning, I’ve been battling between rushing and stalling as I get ready for school. I want to see David—I need to see him—to know everything is fine and to find out why he hasn’t called me. But at the same time, I want to stay home to avoid the stares. Apparently, in the days following the incident last week—the days I stayed home and ditched school—Taylor took it upon herself to tell everyone she could about my cutting.

“They’re all talking about me, aren’t they?” I asked when I called David during his lunch break the day after everything came crashing down.

He suggested that I stay home until the weekend passed and then return.

It’s now Monday, and when I shove the envelope with the bank papers into my backpack, I will my emotions to sheath themselves under guarded iron.

After I pull into the school parking lot, I step out of my car and shrug my backpack over my shoulders. With my head down, I walk through the double doors and weave through the crowded halls as I make my way straight to David’s classroom.

His room is already filled with his first period students, and my tension eases a bit when I see him sitting at his desk. My presence goes unnoticed as I stand in the doorway.

The thought of having to wait until after fourth hour to talk to him stresses me out, so I call his attention with an understated, “Coach Andrews.”

He looks up from his laptop, and I immediately take in his unshaven face and tired eyes.

Without standing from his chair, he responds through the chatter all around us, saying, “You’re going to be late to class, Miss Hale,” dismissing me in a way he’s never done before.

A thousand thoughts of why he would reject me so coolly stack in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t deny a single one of them.

He turns back to his computer and runs a stiff hand through his mussed up hair. I start to panic, wondering if he’s changed his mind about me because of the cutting. My blood pumps faster and the fear of him separating himself from me catapults flares of anxiety through my system.

“Cam.”

I turn to see Kroy making his way down the hall with purposeful steps.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, grabbing my clammy hand and taking me in the opposite direction of my class.

“Kroy, I’m going to be late.”

“You should answer my texts then.”

He moves in quick strides, pulling me around a few corners toward the auditorium.

“Where are we going?”

He opens the door that leads to the backstage area. With only a few lights on, it’s dark, so I hold his hand and follow closely as we step over some stage props. Tucked behind the safety of the dark blue curtains, he turns to face me.

“What’s going on, Kroy?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,” he says. We both look at each other for a moment, and I already know where this is going. “Are you cutting yourself?”

I drop my hand from his and take a small step back. “Taylor’s full of shit, you know that.”

“When it comes to you, I don’t know what to believe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Cam. You never come around, never talk to me . . . you’re nowhere to be found. You’re like a ghost.”