If I Was Your Girl by Meredith Russo
For Vivian and Darwin, for giving me the honor of being a mother.
For Juniper, who inspired so much of this book with her stories and who pushed me when I thought I couldn’t keep going.
For my parents, for not flipping out when I majored in writing (with a minor in women’s studies to boot).
For all my foremothers and forefathers and those in between, for rioting and fighting and surviving plagues and mourning friends, for coming through pain I can’t even imagine to give me the opportunities and freedoms I have now.
For my brothers and sisters and those in between, for surviving out there every day and being beautiful inside and out in a world that’s still so far from safe.
For the boys and girls and those in between who feel alone and afraid, who feel like there’s no way out, who feel like things can never be better than they are now.
For all those who didn’t make it, who now rest in power and whose names we will never forget.
This book is for all of you.
1
The bus smelled of mildew, machine oil, and sweat. As the suburban Atlanta sprawl disappeared behind us, I tapped my foot on the floor and chewed a lock of my newly long hair. A nagging voice reminded me that I was only a half hour from home, that if I got off at the next stop and walked back to Smyrna, by sunset I could be in the comfort of my own bedroom, the familiar smell of Mom’s starchy cooking in the air. She would hug me and we would sit down and watch awful reality TV shows together and she would fall asleep halfway through, and then nothing would change.
But something had to change. Because I had changed.
As I stared out at the swiftly moving trees, my mind was in a mall bathroom back in the city, the images shifting and jumbling like a kaleidoscope: A girl from my school, her scream as she recognized me. Her father rushing in, his rough, swift hands on my neck and shoulders. My body hitting the ground.
“You okay?” a voice practically screamed in my ear. I looked up to see a guy wearing earbuds, his chin resting on the back of the seat in front of me. He gave me a lopsided smile as he pulled out the headphones. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said. He stared at me, drumming his fingers on the headrest. I felt like I should say something, but I didn’t trust my voice not to give me away.
“Where you headed?” He draped himself across the back of his seat like a cat, his arms nearly grazing my shins. I wished I could roll up into a tiny, armored ball and hide in my luggage.
“Lambertville,” I said quietly. “Up in Hecate County.”
“I’m going to Knoxville,” he said, before going on to talk about his band, Gnosis Crank. I realized he’d only asked about me as a formality so he could talk about himself, but I didn’t mind; it meant I didn’t have to say that much. He told me about playing their first paying gig at a bar in Five Points.
“Cool,” I said.
“Most of our songs are online if you wanna check them out.”
“I will.”
“How’d you get that black eye, by the way?”
“I—”
“Was it your boyfriend?” he asked.
My cheeks burned. He scratched his chin. He assumed I had a boyfriend. He assumed I was a girl. Under different circumstances, that would have thrilled me.
“I fell down,” I said.
His smile turned sad.
“That’s what my mom used to tell the neighbors,” he said. “She deserved better, and so do you.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. Maybe he was right, but what I deserved and what I could expect from life were two different things. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he said as he put his headphones back in. He smiled and added, “Nice meeting you,” way too loudly before returning to his seat.
As we headed north on I-75 I texted Mom, letting her know I was okay and halfway there. She wrote back that she loved me, though I could feel her worry through the phone. I imagined her in our house all alone, Carrie Underwood playing on loop while the ceiling fans whispered overhead. Her hands covered in flour folded on the table in front of her, too many biscuits in the oven because she was used to cooking for two. If I’d had the strength to be normal, I thought, or at least the strength to die, then everyone would have been happy.
“Next stop Lambertville,” the bus driver called over the harsh, tinny intercom. Outside the windows, none of the scenery had changed. The mountains looked the same. The trees looked the same. We could have been anywhere in the South, which is to say, nowhere. It seemed like the sort of place where Dad would live.