But he tried again.
“No,” I said, and tried to sit up. With his knees on either side of my hips, it was difficult. He rubbed himself against me and I thought he’d gotten the hint and moved on to other pastimes. It felt good, but after a minute, the seam of my jeans digging in was too painful. I told him it hurt, so he moved.
Behind him, a streetlight flickered. I heard his zipper at the same time. Then he blocked my view. He grabbed my hair. Held me half-sitting up. It wasn’t violent—it was almost gentle—but I couldn’t get away. I didn’t know what else to do.
So I closed my eyes. And before I could say anything, he opened my mouth.
When he was done and rezipped, he tugged on my ponytail and wiggled his fingers at me. “You sure you don’t want a turn?” I shook my head. “We should do this again sometime,” he said. I made a noncommittal noise. “I mean, like … you know.” He coughed. “For fun. Not like, a girlfriend thing.”
“Yeah,” I managed. “Yeah, no. Whatever.”
He gave me a quick peck on the lips. He walked me back to the dorm. And then he rejoined his boys and got a drink and some high fives.
I found Matt and a second beer. Tried to wash away the salt and sweat.
It didn’t take me long to puke.
*
Here’s the thing: I’ve given blow jobs before.
It really shouldn’t be that big a deal. I know that’s what people would say, if I told them what happened. Either that, or they’d ask why I didn’t fight. Why I didn’t scream or bite him.
I just didn’t know what to do. It happened fast.
And I don’t know what to do now, when he’s acting like it was no big deal. Maybe it isn’t.
But I know what I shouldn’t do, and that’s sob in front of Matt.
Yet here I am.
Matt kneels beside me, one hand on my knee, and I want him to leave me alone. Or put me on his lap and wrap me up like a kid. Something—anything is better than this splintering inside me, sharp edges puncturing the soft organs around it, small blood balloons leaking into my bones and making them weak. Seeing myself in those pictures—seeing myself through Matt’s eyes … What he sees is something better than me. Something he wants me to be.
Something I’m not.
“Raych,” Matt says quietly. “Just tell me.”
But I can’t. We joke about sex, talk about other people’s sex lives, but personal details are off-limits. Awkward. Verboten. If I break that rule, he’ll lecture me about being careful. Or he’ll try to kick Carson’s ass. Or he’ll badger me into telling a parent—if not mine, then his. Matt will try to fix it, and he’ll only make it worse.
So I lie. Or rather, I tell him the little bit of truth that’s safe. “My dad’s checks have been bouncing for the last six months.” He sits and puts his arm around me. “If I can’t find a job, and Mom keeps getting deeper in debt…”
Matt hugs me tighter. “I know,” he says. “But it’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know,” I tell him. “Your family’s perfect.” The Richardsons are rich and that’s ironic and hilarious, ha ha ha. “My folks are just poor white trash from the Delta. That’s never going to change.”
“You’re not them,” he says, rubbing my arm. “You can do anything, Raych.”
And I want to believe him. But it’s hard. Matt was born with a silver spoon. I was born with a plastic straw. He can’t possibly know how much that sucks.
MATT
Raychel is quiet during dinner while the rest of us argue about football and TV shows and whether the weather forecast is right. There’s an awkward moment when Andrew asks why her eyes are so red, and another when Dad wants to know if Andrew’s signed up for the next ACT and gives him a lecture on responsibility. But Mom starts telling us about the excuses her law students give for missing class (“He said he had a guild raid on World of Warcraft!”), and by the end, even Raychel’s laughing.
And then, over dessert, Dad says, “So, Raychel, I’ve been thinking. Did you hear my office assistant quit?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” he says. “She was terrible anyway. But I was thinking—would you like to work for me? Just part-time, very flexible so you don’t have to worry about school, nothing too strenuous. You’d mostly be doing data entry. I can’t let you take things home, of course, but you’re here all the time—”
“That’d be great,” she interrupts, her face lighting up. “I don’t have a computer anyway.”
“Great, great,” Dad says. “We can hammer out the details later, but if you want the job…?” He leaves it hanging like a question.
“Did you put him up to this?” she asks me.
“Definitely not,” I say, my mouth full of cake. I may have mentioned she got fired, but I thought Dad might have leads. I didn’t expect him to give her a job himself.
“Okay,” she says, with a real smile. “That would be fantastic, actually. Thank you.”
“Oh no, thank you!” He grins. “Wait until you see the pile of work I have for you.”
“I can’t wait.” She sounds like she means it.
*
After dinner, we take turns playing pool. “Are you going hiking tomorrow?” Andrew asks.
“We were going to do Roger’s Hollow, now that Raych’s ankle is back to normal,” I say, “but it’s supposed to rain.”
“You want to come?” Raychel asks him. It annoys me, but then again, we just said the trip’s unlikely anyway.
“Yeah, if you end up going.” He lines up a shot and misses. “You should come to Cruz’s party tonight,” he says, stepping aside so Raych can shoot. “It’s at his parents’ lake cabin, so there’s no way it’ll get busted.”
“Can’t,” Raychel says, and sinks a ball. “Asha and Spencer are coming over.”
“Good luck with that,” he says, punching me in the arm. Asha is nice, but she talks. A lot. They arrive right as he’s leaving, and we try to watch a movie, but Asha chats through most of it, telling Raychel about her eighty-seven cousins and how her sister’s refusal to have a traditional wedding is making the entire family argue. I wonder if Spencer has developed some kind of superpower that lets him tune her out, because he stares at the television the entire time, laughing at the funny parts. At least they look funny.
But after they leave, it’s just Raychel and me. She beats me at pool, I beat her at some video games, and we both beat our personal records for how much cookie dough we can fit in our mouths. We laugh so much that Mom has to get out of bed to tell us it’s 2 a.m. and time to shut up, so we leave the mess for morning cleanup and tromp up the stairs out of earshot.
It’s just like old times: a couple of hours to ourselves after hanging out with our friends. That’s probably why we’ve been bickering so much lately. Our only buffer these days is Andrew, who does nothing but annoy me, and combined with all my weird feelings for Raych that weren’t there before …
It’s just nice to remember why we ended up best friends in the first place.
*