If I Was Your Girl Read online

  “Excuse me?” I said, nearly choking on a glob of wasabi. “Sorry,” I coughed, before taking a sip of water. “Spicy.”

  “Where’d you get sushi in Lambertville?” he asked, pointing to what was left of my lunch.

  “I made it,” I said, nervously fiddling with my chopsticks.

  “Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know you could just … make sushi.”

  “It’s not that hard,” I lied, remembering the countless nights I had spent at my mom’s kitchen table, trying to get the rice to stick together. When the stress of transitioning had become too much, my doctors insisted I take some time off. The year at home had seemed fun at first, like an extended summer break, but eventually boredom kicked in. I had started to feel like I was just standing still, like life was passing me by outside and I would be forever trapped in our house with nowhere to go and no one to talk to. I had to occupy myself somehow.

  He looked surprised. “Most families around here think a fancy meal is getting Italian instead of Tex-Mex. And I’m Grant, if you were wondering.”

  “Okay,” I said. The back of my neck tingled. “I’m Amanda.”

  “Sorry for choking you with my lame pun, Amanda,” he said. “I meant it as a compliment, but that kind of thing must be pretty old at this point.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “A girl like you?”

  I narrowed my eyes. What did he mean, a girl like me? My fears from earlier returned in a rush. “Are you messing with me?”

  “You’re just fishing for more compliments now,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Fine, whatever. Did you see the dude with the nose situation who sat by me in homeroom?” I nodded slowly and swallowed. “That’s my friend Parker. He wants to ask you out, but he’s a big chickenshit, so here I am asking for your number for him.”

  “You want my number?” I put my hands in my lap. Blood pounded in my temples. People who looked like Grant had never spoken to me without secretly planning to hurt me. For so many years I’d been on the wrong side of too many jokes, too many pranks, too many confrontations. I’d been knocked down a hundred times in a hundred different ways. “For your friend.”

  “Yup,” he said.

  “My dad’s, um, really strict,” I said. I thought of the look on his face at the diner when the old man had offered to lend him a rifle to use on my suitors. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward on his elbows. For some reason, I felt compelled to go on. “It’s complicated … I’m complicated.” I pursed my lips tight and felt my nostrils flare. I was saying too much.

  “Okay,” Grant said easily, leaning back in his chair. A moment of taut silence followed as those charcoal eyes flickered over my face. In them I saw curiosity, but not menace. I wondered if a boy like him could ever understand what it was like to be me. To know what it was like to view high school as something you needed to survive. Because that was all it was to me, a series of days to get through, boxes on a calendar to be crossed off. I had come to Lambertville with a plan: I would keep my head down and keep quiet. I would graduate. I would go to college as far from the South as I could. I would live.

  “For the record”—Grant rubbed the back of his neck—“I told Parker this would go better if he came by himself. But he’s my buddy, you know? So I had to try. He’s a horse’s ass, though, and you probably think I am too now.”

  “I don’t,” I said. I started to put my things away and realized my hands were shaking. I believed he was earnest, or at least I wanted to, but my fear had been carved into me over years and years, and it wasn’t going to be reasoned with or ignored. “It would have gone the same way if he’d come himself. I—I just can’t.”

  A look crossed Grant’s face I couldn’t quite read. He slipped his hands in his pockets and stood. “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Amanda.”

  “You too,” I said. My cheeks felt warm.

  Grant gave me a small wave and walked away. He stopped after a few steps and turned.

  “What book is that?” he said, nodding to the table.

  “Sandman,” I said, putting a hand over it protectively. “It’s a comic book.”

  “Is it good?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Cool,” Grant said, waving again and turning to leave. My hands stopped shaking and my breathing slowed, but for some reason I was afraid to consider, my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

  3

  Art class came last on Mondays and Tuesdays, and met in the music building at the edge of the school grounds. Outside, the withering heat hit me swiftly, my skin like shrink-wrap under a blow dryer.

  “Around back,” a female voice called as I reached the shed-sized wooden building. I followed it, finding a girl alone in the grass. Oval sunglasses shielded her eyes and bright-red lipstick contrasted with her pale skin. Dark bristles grew on a third of her head while the other two-thirds sported a thick, wavy halo of hair.

  “Art class?” she said. I nodded and looked around uneasily. She propped herself up on her elbows. “Teacher’s in Nashville. Her son fucked up his hand in a car accident.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Right? He’s a musician too. Was a musician. Hey, it’s hot as shit out here and you look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Why don’t you sit? Name’s Bee, by the way.”

  “Shouldn’t we go to the office?”

  “Jesus, no,” she said quickly. “They won’t hire a sub. They won’t hire a new teacher. They’ll put my fat ass in PE and move all the art funding to the athletic department like they do with everything. I’m gonna milk this shit for everything it’s worth.”

  I nodded weakly and sat. The girl flopped back down with her arms spread wide.

  “So you’re the new girl?”

  “That obvious?” I said, pulling my knees close.

  “Word gets around.” Sweat glistened on her arms and legs, her face pointed up at the sky.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” she said, still barely moving.

  “Sorry,” I said reflexively, then winced.

  “You know you never told me your name, right?”

  “Amanda,” I said quickly. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sure.” She fished in her battered old Silver Age X-Men lunch box and pulled out a joint. “Mind if I smoke?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  “So,” she said, blowing out a smoky speech bubble. The smell was like mulch after a heavy rainstorm, earthy and a little sour. “Where you from?”

  “Smyrna,” I told her. “Dad moved here after the divorce.”

  “Dads,” she observed. I didn’t have a response, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You’re pretty cool, Amanda. I think we’re gonna be friends.”

  “I don’t know how cool I am,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” Bee said, nodding as she put the half-smoked joint back in the lunch box. “Oh, we will see.” She giggled and lay back in the grass, closing her eyes.

  I fell back beside her and started to read Sandman, holding the book up above me to shield my eyes from the sun. I was quickly caught up in the story. As people all around the world fell asleep and never awakened again, I lost track of time. The Lord of Dreams managed to escape after decades of imprisonment to try to rebuild his life. The sleepers woke up to find themselves in bodies they didn’t recognize, subject to the consequences of abuse while they were helpless. Finally, as the Lord of Dreams descended into hell, I put the book away.

  Sitting up, the afternoon heat seemed to pulse and throb. I glanced over at Bee, who was in a sort of trance, half-asleep, half-awake. “What’s the time, anyway?”

  “Four,” she said as she yawned and flopped back onto the grass.

  “Shit,” I said, scrambling to jam my notebook in my bag. I heard the buses hiss into motion as I stood up and ran around the corner to find a mostly empty parking lot.

  “Miss your ride? Shitty,” Bee said. “Anybod
y you can call?”

  “Dad doesn’t get off until six.”

  “I’d give you a ride,” she said, “but I don’t drive stoned, which is super, super what I am right now. Stoned like a medieval witch…” She snickered dreamily at her joke.

  “I have to walk then,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t,” Bee said in a singsong voice. “High’s 113 today. Heat-stroke territory.”

  “Teenagers don’t get heat stroke though, right? I mean, logically, people lived in the South for a long time before air-conditioning.”

  “Your funeral,” she said with a lazy wave. “See you around if you don’t die.”

  * * *

  Sweat poured down my back as I walked along the shoulder of the road. After the first thirty minutes I had covered two of the six miles, but I panted and dragged my feet. I thought about calling Dad, but didn’t want to bother him on my very first day. I made it another mile, but my knees ached and my bare calves stung, scratched up from the brambles. My tongue felt dry, and my head throbbed.

  I barely registered as a black car blasted by, then reversed to a stop on the shoulder beside me.

  The window rolled down and a pale girl with short dark hair leaned out. “Need a ride?”

  “Nah,” I slurred, “I don’t wanna trouble anybody.”

  She turned to someone in the backseat. “I don’t care what she said, Chloe, just get her in here before she passes out.”

  A girl with a curly red mane and freckles appeared, squinting painfully in the bright light. She wore a checkered work shirt unbuttoned at mid-chest and rolled up at the sleeves. Without saying a word she took me by the arm and walked me to the rear left seat.

  “Really, it’s okay…” I said weakly, but I closed my eyes as the cold air-conditioning blasted across my face. “I hope you guys aren’t kidnappers.”

  “We’re not kidnapping you,” a petite girl with blond hair and innocent eyes said from the front seat, her brow furrowed with worry.

  “She’ll come to her senses,” the driver said as we pulled back onto the road. “Just give her some water.”

  “My name’s Anna,” the blond girl said. I opened one eye as she gave me an excited little wave. “What church do you go to?”

  “Don’t mind her,” the driver said. “It’s literally the first thing she asks every person she meets. I’m Layla. Freckles is Chloe.”

  “Amanda,” I said.

  The girl with the red hair nodded and said “Hey” as she pulled her seat belt back on.

  “A person’s faith says a lot about them,” Anna went on. “It’s a good conversation starter.”

  “I don’t actually go to church anymore.” I felt a stab of guilt remembering how long it had been since I had gone to church, though I hoped God would understand why. “I used to go to Calvary Baptist, though, down near Atlanta.”

  Anna clapped and bounced in her seat. “She’s a Baptist!” she said happily as the other girls rolled their eyes.

  “How many people do you know in this town who aren’t Baptists?” Layla said. “How many people in the whole South?”

  “I know some Lutherans,” Anna protested, squaring her shoulders.

  “Here.” Chloe handed me a water bottle from her backpack. I rasped a thank-you and guzzled half the bottle, spilling water on my chin and shirt.

  “You hungry?” Layla asked, turning to me from the front seat. “I bet she’s hungry. Let’s grab a bite.”

  A sign reading HUNGRY DAN’S in garish neon letters hung above a 1950s-style restaurant covered with blinding chrome. I got my first good look at Layla and Anna as we left the car. Layla stood as tall as me, with black hair and creamy skin. Anna barely reached Chloe’s shoulder and her long, shimmering blond hair flowed to the bottom of her red Bible Camp T-shirt.

  Inside, framed posters for movies like Grease and Rebel Without a Cause hung on the two back walls, and menus with cracked fake leather binding and plastic covers lay on the table.

  As the waitress took our orders I checked my phone and realized it was dead. I started to ask if I could borrow one of the other girls’ phones to tell Dad I’d be home late, but then hesitated. I might still make it back before he got back from work, and I didn’t want to tell him I’d missed the bus on my very first day.

  “So anyway,” Layla said with an air of ceremony, “there’s a football game this Thursday.” She turned to me. “You’re coming, right?”

  “Ooh, yes,” Anna agreed.

  “I don’t really like sports.” I shrugged.

  “But our best linebacker has a crush on you,” Layla replied, smiling coyly.

  “Who?”

  “Parker,” Chloe said. “You know him?”

  “Oh, she knows him,” Layla said, raising her eyebrows knowingly.

  “I d-don’t—” I stammered.

  “There’s no point playing dumb,” Layla said, a fry held gingerly between her fingers like a cigarette. “Him and Grant sit by me in biology. I heard them talking about how you shot Grant down.”

  My cheeks burned as I remembered Grant’s easy smile. “It wasn’t like that.” I shook my head. I wondered, for a moment, what my response would have been if Grant had asked me out for himself.

  “Quit torturing her,” Anna said. She turned to me. “So how’s Lambertville been for you so far? Everyone been nice?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, I’ve only met five people so far, including you guys and Grant.”

  Anna smiled. “Who’s the fifth?”

  “Her name’s Bee. We have art together.”

  The girls exchanged a quick glance, their eyes meeting and then darting quickly away.

  “What’s wrong with Bee?” I asked.

  “Nothin’,” Chloe said.

  “She’s fun in small doses,” Layla said. “Emphasis on the small.”

  I sucked at the dregs of my soda, unsure what to say.

  “God, I’m a bitch,” Layla said after a moment. “Hang out with whoever you want. We just met! But you’re welcome with us anytime.”

  When the check came, they refused to let me pay. I fell into the Southern ritual I’d watched Mom play out for years without even thinking: Offer to pay once, they refuse, pull out your money and insist, they refuse again, and then concede. I wished all social interaction had such clear rules.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later we pulled up outside my apartment building, an unimaginative tan brick box sitting beneath a tall ridge choked in kudzu vines.

  “So you’re coming to the game then, right?” Anna asked.

  The cicadas buzzed persistently in the growing dusk. I had read once that they lived underground for most of their lives, only emerging as adults to live out their final days. Was that going to be me? Was I going to live underground for the better part of my life, never coming out into the world?

  They were all looking at me hopefully, the car’s engine running. Finally I said, “I’ll meet you guys there.”

  Layla honked the horn happily, and they drove off.

  After the car disappeared around the bend, I stood alone in the blistering parking lot. It was way past six, and Dad must have been home for a while, wondering where I was, with no way to reach me. I wanted to avoid whatever waited in the apartment, to wander around until midnight and sneak in once he fell asleep, but even at dusk the heat was still overpowering.

  I climbed the stairs, turned the key in the lock, and stepped inside. Dark filled the space like a living thing. A single sunbeam came in through the gap in the balcony blinds and cut across the living room, red dust motes floating in a golden sea.

  “Where were you?” Dad walked into the light, a hard edge in his voice.

  “Sorry,” I said quietly.

  “Sorry isn’t a place.”

  “With some friends,” I said, looking down. “I missed the bus.”

  “When I got home and you weren’t here I called over and over. I was worried sick.”

  I started to speak, cho
ked, and took a deep breath. “You never worried before.” I remembered the days after I woke up in the hospital and realized I was still alive. I remembered having nobody to keep me company but nurses and Mom and the television—no friends, no family, no Dad. I remembered suspecting, for the first time in my life, that he might not actually care if I lived or died.

  I clenched my fists and looked up at him. “You never even sent a letter. I almost died and you were a ghost.”

  “What did you want me to say?”

  “Anything.”

  He sighed, letting out his breath long and slow.

  “I didn’t know what to do, okay?” he said, rubbing his brow. “You hold a baby when it takes its first breath, you sing it to sleep, you rock it when it cries, and then you look away for what feels like a second and your baby doesn’t want to live anymore. You’re my child.”

  “I’m your daughter,” I whispered. “Nothing to say about that, either.”

  A semi drove by on the highway outside, the dull whoosh of its passing loud in the silence. “Sorry for worrying you. It won’t happen again.” I moved past him toward my room, closing the door.

  NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO

  The counselor’s office was a converted study in an old mansion in one of the Atlanta neighborhoods rebuilt soonest after the Civil War. It smelled like old wood, and the floors creaked with a century of traffic. An old CRT television sat on a rolling stand in the mouth of a fireplace large enough to swallow it whole. Embellished shelves meant for leather-bound books were lined with titles like, I’m OK, You’re OK and Coping with PTSD. A grandfather clock echoed persistently outside the door.

  The counselor tapped his pen against his notepad, maddeningly out of sync with the rhythm of the clock. I pulled my knees up to my chest and tried to disappear into the overstuffed leather chair.

  “How are you, Andrew?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I pulled mechanically at a loose thread in my jeans.

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Could I ask you a question?”

  “If you want.”

  He uncrossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap. He was using his body language to tell me I could trust him, because it was his job to seem trustworthy. When he spoke his tone was calm and even. “Will you tell me about the note you gave me when you were in the hospital?” I closed my eyes and shrugged. “Could you tell me what the note meant?”