Page 47 of The Way I Used to Be
“Maybe it is,” I tell him. He looks like he doesn’t understand. “Me,” I clarify. “How would you know? You’ve been gone.”
Sidestepping that question, he just goes on to make more demands. “Look. You’re absolutely not seeing him again—Miller. He’s too old for you, I mean it, Edy. You’re fourteen; he’s eighteen. That’s four years apart. Think about it, that would almost be like you and Kev—”
“Just stop, all right!” I can’t possibly let him finish that sentence. “First of all, I’m fifteen now. And second, I’m not seeing him again anyway, but that’s only becauseIdon’t want to.” Lie. “But I’ll see whoever I want and I’ll do whatever I want with them and I don’t need to ask your damn permission!”
“You know they’re just using you, right?” he blurts out. “I mean, you can’t be that blind to think that they actually—”
“No one is using me! You have no idea what you’re talking about. No one’s using me, Cae. No one.”
“Edy, come on, of course they are. I’m only telling you this because I care, okay? They prey on girls like you. Edy, you have to—”
“Girls like me? Please, tell me, genius, what am I like?”
“Naive and innocent—stupid—that’s what they look for, okay. They’ll just chew you up and spit you out. You have no idea. They just throw you away when they’re done with you. I should know, Edy, I’ve seen them do it a million times. Those guys, they don’t care. Do you really think they give a shit about you? ’Cause they don’t!”
“It wasn’t like that. Josh wasn’t like—” But I stop myself. “What makes you think I even want them to give a shit about me? What makes you think I’m not using them, huh?” Not that there had been anyone other than Josh yet, but that’s completely beside my point right now.
He screws up his face like I’m trying to explain nuclear physics to him or something. “Using them for what?”
I turn his patented you’re-the-stupidest-person-on-the-face-of-the-earth tone back on him: “Um, isn’t it kind of obvious, Caelin?”
That shuts him up. He shakes his head slightly, as if he could erase the images from his mind, like an Etch A Sketch. “Look,” he finally says, “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but I do know that you’re going to get yourself into trouble if you keep this up.”
“Get out of my room now, please,” I tell him, totally calm.
“Promise me, Edy, you’re at least being safe. You have made them use—”
“Caelin, please, I’m not a complete moron.”
“I’m just worried about you, Edy,” he says in this oh-so-very-concerned tone.
His sincerity ignites a tiny fire in my rib cage. “Oh, now you’re worried?” It spreads to my vital organs, engulfing my heart and lungs in thick black smoke. “Wow, well, isn’t this just a great time to start worrying about me,” I hear myself growl. “Thanks a lot, but that really doesn’t do me any good now!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But I’ve said too much. “Just worry about yourself.” It takes everything I have within me to not add “asshole” to the end of every sentence I say to him. “Mind your own business.” Asshole. “I can take care of myself, okay?” Asshole. “Leave. Go. Now!”
He throws his hands up and stands to leave. He turns around at my door, looking so far away, and says firmly, definitively, “You know, I don’t even recognize you anymore.”
And then he’s gone.
I shut the door behind him, lock, unlock, lock, and pull.
“HEY,” A GUY’S VOICEwhispers in my ear, “I hear you’re real dirty.”
I swing around to face him. I remember he was with Josh that day in the hall, Jock Guy, in this exact spot, in fact, when Josh gave me the note at my locker. But it wasn’t just a him, it was a them—two guys. The other one I recognize too—a senior, not a jock, but still in with Josh’s clique. He is more like page-sixteen Abercrombie catalog model; his are weight-room fitness-equipment muscles, not sports muscles.
It’s the first day back from winter break. There isn’t another person in the hall. It’s late, after school. I stayed to help Miss Sullivan catalog a shipment of new books. “What did you just say?” I manage, thinking for sure I must’ve heard him wrong.
“I said you really like fucking, don’t you?” Jock Guy answers, trying to touch my cheek. I back away, slam my locker shut, loop my arms through the straps of my backpack and start walking.DANGER DANGER DANGER: my skin getting hot and itchy again.
The other one—Pretty Boy—says, “Don’t run away. We just have a question for you.”
“Yeah, what?” I ask sharply, trying to seem brave, calm, and tough while moving myself down the hall, away from them, toward the front doors of the school, as fast as I can.
Pretty Boy answers, “Yeah. We wanted to know if you wanna be in our movie?”
Then Jock Guy chimes in, “It’s just a little film we’re doing and we hear you have a lot of experience in that, uh... genre. We figure you could have the leading role.”
