But I want to win.
Except the glass is spilling and spilling and spilling, and suddenly it’s not in my hand anymore, and I try to catch it but Ander is cheating, somehow, and I can’t move, I can’t move right.
Wes shouts “Champion!” and slumps onto Piper, who rolls her eyes and starts getting to her feet, pulling Wes with her, heading for the door. I try to watch them go, but just then Ander’s syrup eyes wrap around my wrists, “Sorry Janie I guess I’m just better sorry I’ll make it up to you.”
And then he’s kissing me, his hands in my hair and his lips on my lips and his breath hot and wet and too loud.
“No,” I say, but it gets lost on the way out of my mouth and Ander swallows what’s left of it. He kisses me again and again, and his hand—where’s his other hand? His other hand is in my shirt, his shirt, and crawling crawling crawling up.
Far, far away, Piper says they’re leaving, and I don’t, I don’t want her to leave.
Wait, wait, wait for me, Piper. “Piper, no, stay. Stay.”
I see her look back, her eyes my eyes and the moment is still, but—
But she turns.
She pulls Wes after her and they go up the stairs and they’re gone.
And suddenly I’m freezing, frozen, and Ander is drawing slow circles like he’s trying to warm me up with his ice fingers.
“Ander, Ander, stop. No.”
“It’s fine,” he says. He’s in my ear, kissing and licking, and then his hand is too high in my shirt and I try to tell him, I tell him I’m tired, I’m so tired.
“Okay,” he says softly, his breath is in my mouth, his arms are behind my head and knees, big strong wrestler arms, and the world is spinning. I blink and we’re on the stairs, and then he’s pushing the door to my room open and I’m on the bed. It’s okay, I think, it’s okay okay okay—
—but then—
It isn’t, it’s not at all, because Ander is there too,
and me not knowing, not knowing, but knowing now, knowing that I don’t want to, I don’t, I don’t. He’s on my bed over me and he’s kissing, kissing, kissing. Touching, touching, touching.
“Ander,” I say. “No. Stop.”
“I have a condom,” he says, and kisses me again before I can say no again.
“Wait,” I say, and he says, “Don’t worry, they’re gone, it’s just us, it’s just you and me.”
Not you and me, never you and me, not Janie and Ander or Ander or Janie. Where’s Piper? Piper has to come back soon, she will, she will. I want to be Janie, alone, just Janie—
But then he’s pulling at my shirt, and I try to keep it on but he says it’s his shirt, it’s his. I try to get to my rocks, my Metaphor rock, Fear no more, but it isn’t there, it’s his. And the bra, the pretty pretty bra that gave me cleavage, real cleavage, is gone. And then the panties, matching and matchingly gone, and the world—
—it freezes, it stops turning and we are forever and infinitely trapped in this moment, this moment of Ander and Janie together and I fucking hate it, I fucking hate it, I fucking hate it.
“Just relax,” he tells me.
And I close my eyes and think, Maybe it won’t matter. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and I won’t even remember this. Maybe it will never have happened.
THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN
Once upon a time, a princess took a few shots of apple vodka. She took a few more and fell asleep. A prince kissed her awake, but all she really wanted to do was sleep.
She told him that, but he didn’t stop.
She did tell him. She told him no and stop, but did he listen?
Did anyone, ever?
PART II
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
after
DECEMBER 6
Forgetting is the easy part. This should be unsurprising, but it surprises me. Forgetting was easy. Remembering is endless and it hurts, endlessly.
On the night of the bonfire, on the last night that anyone saw Janie Vivian, it was too cold to be outside. I was in bed with my laptop on my chest when Janie came up the stairs. She had been gone all day. She was gone most days, actually. I see less of her now that she’s living in the basement than I did when she was at the new house.
She stood in the doorway, and I knew something was wrong.
Her eyes were almost colorless. Her hands were deep in her pockets and her pockets were full of stones. I could see them, knuckles and rocks.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Where have you been?”
She leaned her head against the doorframe. “What are you doing?”
“Senior thesis,” I said. “Have you heard of Thomas Müntzer? He said the world was going to end in 1525. Listen to this: he dies under torture and gets his head cut off, so I guess it was pretty damn apocalyptic for him.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for homecoming?”
I shrug. “I’ve got time.”
“Micah,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I blinked up from my screen. Her hair was falling into her eyes and she didn’t move it away. “What?”