A Postcard Would Be Nice Page 7

  “Hot as balls out here, huh?” he says.

  “Yeah, enjoy it while you can. Next year you’ll probably be in Boston, crying about how cold it is.”

  Ryan chuckles, and it feels normal. Like it should when you’re joking with your best friend.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says. He opens the door to his truck and slides the seat forward.

  “Sorry I didn’t get this stuff to you sooner.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say. I kick a small rock around on the concrete rather than look at him. “Haven’t been in the mood to play much anyway.”

  He pauses, like he’s weighing his answer, but swallows it instead.

  We move the gear to my car in silence, then we both stand at the trunk with our hands in our pockets.

  “Listen, man,” he says. “I know I was a prick the other day. We’re all just—I’m just shocked as hell that you’d do something like that.”

  “I didn’t—” I start. But I have no defense. At least not one I can offer up. I want to tell him everything, but I can’t. And not really even because of the straight edge thing. But because I don’t know what the whole truth is; I’m not sure what my involvement or consent really was. And that causes a sickening swirl of humiliation in me every time I think on it too much.

  “And when you didn’t deny it— that just floored me. I thought I knew you, Ol. I thought straight-edge meant something to you. But as soon as we leave you’re drinking and sleeping around—”

  “I didn’t … I didn’t sleep around,” I cut him off.

  “Was it, are you like into her?” Ryan asks. “Is that what it was?”

  I know what he’s getting at. If it wasn’t just a casual thing with Tarryn, they’d be able to forgive me. They’d be able to let me back in the band and we could all be friends again. Maybe.

  “I don’t know what it is.” I shrug.

  “That doesn’t make any sense, dude,” Ryan says. He flips his key ring around on his finger like he’s getting impatient, like he’s over hearing me stumble on my words and not give him the answers he wants. I feel that. “I don’t know what else to say, man. Maybe you should figure your shit out.”

  “Maybe,” I mumble, as he’s walking away.

  ***

  Doing calculus is a thousand times easier than answering the question: Who am I? So I do that first. Afterward, I prop my feet up on my desk and stare out the window. There are some birds chirping like crazy in the neighbor's olive tree, and the thump of the bass from someone’s music vibrates through the neighborhood.

  And just like that, I’m back in Tarryn’s room.

  The crinkle of the sheets. The bareness of my legs. Her lips on my cheek.

  I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse.

  She’s on top of me again, and I can feel my mouth moving, but I don’t know if actual words are coming out, or if it’s like one of those bad dreams where no matter how loud you scream, or how fast you run, nothing happens.

  I jerk up to standing and run my hands through my hair. It didn’t happen that way. It couldn’t have. Maybe it is a bad dream. Shaking my arms around doesn’t help loosen me up, so I grab my phone out of my backpack to text Colm. He’s going to be pissed that I’m calling out again, but I send him a message anyway, telling him that I’m still not feeling well and won’t make it into work today either. I’m a low-level employee; I have no vacation or sick time to speak of, but I can’t do it. Going to school is bad enough. I need more time. Alone. I need to figure this out. I need to figure out how I made the biggest mistake of my life and don’t remember it.

  While I’m waiting for Colm to reply and hopefully give me the all-clear, I flip open my laptop and pull up the search engine. After typing in my query, I let my finger hover above the track pad for several long moments before finally clicking SEARCH.

  About 22,300,000 results (0.46 seconds) for:

  CAN A GUY BE RAPED?

  No matter what I do or don’t remember about the other night, this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to even think the word.

  I skim through the titles of the results. There’s a Wikipedia page, some Yahoo! Answers, and—

  My phone buzzes next to me, and I close the browser tab in a panic. Like I’m being watched.

  From Tarryn:

  Want to hang out?

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. What the fuck kind of sick joke is it that my best friend can’t stand the sight of me, and Tarryn Alridge is the only person who wants to hang out?

  I twist the rubber band around my wrist. Maybe she’s feeling weird about things too. Maybe, this time, she actually wants to explain things. Maybe she’s finally ready to admit this was all a joke.

  Maybe it’s not that simple at all. I don’t know.

  And the truth is, I don’t have a choice. None. The only person who can tell me what really happened that night, is the one person I want to avoid forever.

  But more than that, I want my friends back. I want to go back to being Oliver Wu.

  “Maybe you should figure your shit out.” Ryan’s voice replays in my head.

  Who am I?

  I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, the realization of what I need to do thumping through my head.

  I’m the guy who’s going to own it. If I do, it doesn’t have to strip away everything that I thought I was.

  Maybe she won’t be so bad. Maybe I haven’t given her enough of a chance. If something bad really had happened that night, she wouldn’t be texting me to hang out, right?

  Maybe it could become something more. Something real. As soon as I finish the thought, there’s a flash of black hair and dark eyes. Paloma.

  I can’t think about her right now, though.

  If I’m in a relationship with Tarryn, what happened with her won’t be the thing that makes my friends hate me.

  If I’m in a relationship with Tarryn, maybe it’ll erase what happened.

  Maybe it won’t make what happened rape.

  From Colm:

  I can’t cover your shift today.

  You’re gonna have to drag your ass in.

  I set my phone down, then immediately pick it back up and type a message.

  To Tarryn:

  Sure. I’ll come by after work.

  16.

  My hair is pulled back into a bun, but a chunk has come loose and hangs in my face as I lean down and scribble onto a piece of paper, trying to get my thoughts down for this stupid essay.

  Colm has asked me no less than fifteen times today if I’m all right. Just a bad cold, I tell him.

  I look up. It’s her.

  I crumble the piece of paper and shove it under the counter top.

  There’s a weird pang in my stomach that feels like guilt when I see her, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. I glance down at the empty counter. It feels safer there.

  “Hey,” she says.

  My head snaps up again for a split second at the sound of her voice, but I tear my eyes away from hers quicker than I want.

  “I didn’t bring your coat.” Paloma giggles. It’s a nervous laugh, but I don’t know how to fix it. The nervousness between us. “I left school early and accidently left it in my locker. I promise I’ll get it back to you.”

  I keep my eyes on the counter.

  “Dropping off?” I ask. My voice sounds cold and robotic.

  Paloma nods, then lays a thin sweater out on the countertop. She doesn’t need to check it, that’s obvious. There’s a chill in the museum, so she would probably be more comfortable with it on.

  I don’t tell her how the rose color of the sweater is the same shade she wore to the party the other night. I don’t look up to see the light parts of her eyes dance like they do under the bright museum lights.

  I don’t say anything.

  (Written in the German art exhibit) (Undelivered)

  17.

  I was feeling a little braver than this ninety seconds ago. When I was st
ill on Tarryn’s porch. Before she opened the door and led me upstairs to her room.

  The room.

  Tarryn plops onto her bed, a couple of stray feathers floating loose into the air when she does.

  I press my back up against the wall. Wishing I could become part of the floral wallpaper.

  “You can sit, you know,” she says. She shakes her head at me like I’m being ridiculous. I think maybe I am.

  “I’m okay right here.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you over.”

  To continue to ruin my life?

  “A little.”

  “I just … okay, the other day at breakfast. You seemed really freaked out. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m all right,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. She tilts her head to the side with her eyebrows pulled in. It almost looks like she’s actually concerned. Except this has to be an act, right? She can’t honestly think that I’m okay. That any of this is okay. She has to know.

  “Like I said, the details are just a little fuzzy.” Even those words make my stomach turn. “Can you fill anything in?”

  Tarryn straightens up. “Like what, Oliver?”

  Like everything. Did I touch you back? Did we really have sex?

  “Like, how did I get up to your room in the first place?” I spit out.

  “You asked to come up,” she says. “We were sitting on the couch talking, and you said you wanted to go somewhere quiet. That you wanted to be alone.”

  Alone. Not alone with her. She leaves that last part off, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “And…” I stare up at the ceiling.

  “And then you kissed me.”

  “I did?” I swallow hard.

  “Of course you did, Oliver.” Tarryn throws her hands up and steps off the bed. “I never make the first move.”

  I want to ask what else had happened, but I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear it.

  Tarryn steps in closer and runs one of her long, manicured nails down the length of my arm. I jerk away.

  “Easy,” she says with a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

  I let my backpack slip down my arm a little. “Do you wanna work on homework or something?”

  Tarryn raises a brow and smirks.

  “No, Oliver. I didn’t call you over here to work on calculus.”

  “Okay.”

  She leans over to glance in her vanity mirror and apply some sticky-looking lip gloss before she asks, “So, what are you into?”

  I nearly choke.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, I know you play in the band, and you’re in all the smart classes. But what else?”

  “I don’t … I work.”

  “Oh yeah? Where at?”

  “The Museum of Art.”

  Tarryn pops her mouth into a perfect ‘O,’ and then says, “Huh.”

  I look around the room, searching for something that’ll help me relate to her.

  The problem is, I blew off the girl who, up until three days ago, I’d dreamed about getting to know better. I don’t want to be standing in this room with Tarryn, but what the hell choice do I have?

  Keep it simple, Oliver. You can do this.

  “Do you have a job?” I ask her.

  I can do this. I can have a normal conversation with her. I can make this work. I can make myself forget what had happened that night. Or maybe, maybe she’ll tell me the fucking truth. I can do this.

  “No.” She shrugs. “I mean, well, sort of. My older sister owns a dance studio. I help out there. Sometimes I fill in for the tiny tot’s class, but mostly I just do behind the scenes stuff at recitals and things like that.”

  I try to replace the image I have of her in my mind. Instead of Medusa, I instead try to imagine Tarryn shuffling little ballerinas around.

  “So you’re a dancer,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”

  Right, because I know nothing about her. Dancing. That’s normal. That’s harmless.

  “Yep,” she says. “Since I was a kid. Speaking of dancing—”

  She taps a few times on her iPhone, and some song I don’t recognize comes on. It’s light and poppy, and I try to loosen up a little. I try to think of what I could gain by being nice to Tarryn.

  My friends.

  The truth.

  “I don’t,” I say with an unintentional chuckle. I shouldn’t laugh around her. I shouldn’t let my guard down at all. But she’s not a monster, is she? “I don’t dance, I mean.”

  “Ah, sure you do. Everyone does.”

  She reaches over and links her fingers through mine, then steps in even closer and presses herself close to me. Her hair smells like raspberries; sweet and tart all at the same time and her hand is soft in mine.

  I’m definitely not laughing now.

  I’m actually working really fucking hard to slow down my breathing before I hyperventilate. Every part of me is tense and rigid. Because no matter how soft her skin is, or how good she smells, every bit of this feels wrong.

  “Come on,” she says. “It’s not that hard. Just relax and move.”

  Try, Oliver. Just try.

  I hold my breath and sway back and forth a little.

  I think you raped me.

  Who am I?

  I am the guy who is dancing with the girl who raped him.

  Fuck. I can’t think like that. I can’t. That’s not how it was. Right?

  “I just—I’m not good at this,” I say, pulling back in every way I possibly can.

  “All right.” Tarryn laughs as she plops back onto her bed. “But do you think you could maybe try?”

  “Try? No. What are you talking about, Tarryn?”

  “Prom,” she says, then pauses, weighing my reaction. Which, based on the amount of sweat currently dripping down the back of my neck, is probably one of pure horror. “It’s coming up super quick, and—”

  “Wait. I can’t—we aren’t—You don’t have a date for prom?”

  Tarryn looks down at her hands in her lap, and, for the first time since I met her, she seems a little insecure. Maybe even embarrassed.

  “It’s not a big deal, I just … I was seeing someone from Mater Dei, we were supposed to go together, but we broke things off a couple of weeks ago. And you—”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, I mean, we’ve already, you know—gotten to know each other, so there’s none of that pressure. And everyone thinks we’re together anyway—”

  “They do?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “We’re not—I’m not—I’m not going to prom. With you … Or with any girl,” I clarify.

  I reach down for my backpack. I was wrong. I can’t do this.

  “Really? Any girl?” Tarryn snorts. “What, are you gay or something?”

  “Did you pull one of those perfect calf muscles leaping to that conclusion?” I ask her. Then I laugh at her. Right in her face. Because I want her to feel as vulnerable and stupid as I do right now. “Because it’s so damn inconceivable that anyone would turn you down?”

  Except, really I just say, “We’ll go with that if it makes you feel better, Tarryn. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait, Oliver,” she says. “I didn’t mean to upset you, or whatever. I was just trying to be nice. You seem like you feel really weird about what happened, but you asked me to prom the other night, and if you want to take that back, that’s fine.”

  I press my fingers to my temples, trying to remember. Trying to make sense of all of this. I’d asked her? Is this somehow all my fault?

  “I asked you?” I say.

  “I mean, you were pretty hammered. I wasn’t even sure your junk would work, but it did.”

  My face contorts into what I can only guess is horror because she smiles and says, “And don’t worry, I had a condom.”

  “Tarryn…” I start, but I don’t know what else to say.

  “Look, I just
wanted to see if you still meant it, but I guess not.”

  “I have to go.”

  (Written in the Picasso and His Printers exhibit) (Undelivered)

  18.

  I turn up the amp so the chords I’m playing cover the sounds of Mom and Dad talking. I think I heard a knock on the front door. They’re probably chatting with Mrs. Claiborne from down the street. She likes to come by and spread all the neighborhood gossip.

  I can’t get my bass tuned right. Or maybe it’s just that everything sounds wrong and feels wrong because it is.

  I can’t stop thinking about Tarryn, and I hate that. I want to wipe her and whatever actually happened that night from my memory completely, but I still find myself dissecting the tiny details I do remember, trying to piece them together in a way that might make sense.

  There’s a soft knock on my bedroom door now. Crap. I really don’t want to have to go downstairs and listen to Mrs. Claiborne warn me of the dangers of the gated community gang she swears is forming in our neighborhood.

  “Come in!” I call, without moving from my place in the center of my room, the guitar slung low on my waist.

  It’s not Mrs. Claiborne, though.

  My mouth hangs open a little when I see Paloma standing in my doorway.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “How’d you know where I live?” I ask. I pull the guitar off my shoulder and prop it against the wall. My room is full of furniture, but neat. Other than my full-size bed, there’s also a futon against the opposite wall. On my desk there’s a laptop open and a stack of music magazines. There are band posters on the walls, but they’re in large frames rather than held up with push pins. Nothing embarrassing. Still, it feels bizarre having Paloma in my space.

  Paloma tugs at the ends of her hair. “I asked around.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Asked who?”

  “Okay, your boss, Colm, told me.”

  I rush past her and close the door behind her. Is that allowed? I’m not really sure. I’ve never had a girl in my room before.

  “When I went to pick up my sweater from coat check, you were gone. Colm said you left early. He says you’ve been doing that a lot lately.”