Page 29 of Paging Dr. Hart
Stubborn?Yes.
Confident?No.
“You know exactly where you’re going. I’ve floundered and flailed around, trying to find my way, but you’re like an arrow shot straight at your target. I’ve never seen you hesitate.” Ethan’s bottle clinks as he sets it on the ground.
“I’ve gone off course before,” I correct him. “And most of the time, I don’t feel confident. I keep thinking someone is going to take away everything I’ve built. Like they’re going to come and say I’m not a real doctor. That’s why I always wear my lab coat and badge. I put on my glasses, sometimes even when I don’t need them. I’ve found that people listen to me more if I’m a stereotype of what a doctor should look like.”
A small chuckle from him. “I’m not sure the glasses are working. They just make you look like a sexy librarian. I know what you mean, though. There’s a lot of pressure to meet people’s preconceived ideas.”
I agree with Ethan, although now I’m hung up on his librarian comment. Does he really see me that way? Surely not. I try hard not to project sexy. I don’t want that kind of attention. It can be dangerous.
Crush
23
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 16
You sexy little brat,” the boy says, emphasizing the word “sexy.”
I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him watching me. His hungry eyes have followed me as I crossed the schoolyard. I’m used to men staring from a distance now. Ever since I grew boobs and a butt, it’s been that way.
Never as close as this, though.
“Think you’re so much better than the rest of us, don’t ya?” His body presses me against the cinder-block wall behind my high-school auditorium. Rough skin scratches my cheeks as he tries to force his mouth against mine. Whipping my face side-to-side, I avoid his lips. His breath smells like cigarettes and onions. It mingles with the smell of trash from the dumpster next to us. I swear I’ll never eat onions again after this.
Inpatient hands tug at my shirt. “Always got your nose in a book. Think you’re so smart.” He looks at me with a mixture of lust and hate.
Hands raised, I try to fight him, but he easily bats me away. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Keeping a low profile at school, I spend time either in the classroom or the library, always studying hard. I was on my way to return a book when he grabbed me and pulled me back here. He’s a teenager like me, but big and strong.
My cries for help are lost in the sound of our struggle.
Years ago, my mom warned me about this. When I turned 13 and my figure started to develop, she had stood behind me and picked up a lock of mybright copper hair. “You’re getting so pretty, Kitten,” Mom had said in her saddest voice as she ran the strands through her fingers.
I had been confused. Wasn’t it a good thing to be pretty? Shelly and I spent hours searching through women’s magazines, trying to decipher the minuscule differences that made one woman more beautiful than another. We tried to replicate those models, stealing our mother’s makeup and jewelry. Giggling as we put lipstick on each other, exclaiming, “You’regorgeous,darling,” in fake British accents.
Now my mom was telling me it was a bad thing to be attractive. “People…men…are going to look at you in a certain way. You’ll have to be careful. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
It’s this conversation that comes back to me as the sun-warmed bricks burn my skin. The boy finally gets his hand under my shirt, ripping it in the process. My shouts for help get louder. Reality sets in. This is happening, and I need to stop itright now.
Just when I’ve lost hope, a shape moving so fast it blurs crashes into the boy. The attacker is pushed off and falls to the rough pavement. The sudden movement unleashes my sobs. I should get up and run away, but my legs aren’t responding. My whole body trembles so hard that my teeth chatter.
I watch helplessly at the scene unfolding in front of me. That blur turns out to be another kid from school. Even though I’ve never talked to him before, I know this one’s name. It’s Raphael, but everyone calls him Rafe. He’s hard to miss, with languid cat green eyes and a devilish grin. He never walks or runs, just casually saunters around our campus like he owns the place.
Moving faster than I’ve ever seen from him, Rafe pins the boy down on the ground and sits on top of him. He presses his face close to the kid beneath him and sneers, “You little piece of trash. What do you think you’re doing?”
The boy squirms, not bothering to answer what is clearly a hypothetical question. A look of pure rage has replaced Rafe’s usual sardonic expression. When Rafe’s fist comes out of nowhere and pistons into the kid’s face, both the boy and I whimper at the resounding crack of his nose breaking. Blood gushes down his face, a river of red.
Rafe leans in closer. “If you ever, and I meanever, so much as look her wayagain…” Rafe’s blood-stained hand grabs the front of the kid’s shirt. He pulls the boy’s head up and slams it back on the pavement. “I’m going to cut off your dick and stick it so far down your throat you choke on it.” Another head slam into the ground. “Understand?” The boy is still conscious enough to nod.
Rafe stands, pulling the kid with him. He gives the boy one last shake, sending arms and legs flapping like a rag doll. Then he sets him on his feet and shoves him away. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see your face again. If I do, I’m gonna bust it wide open.”
The boy scurries off, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
With the boy gone, Rafe turns to me. I lie huddled on the ground, knees tucked into my chest and arms wrapped around the sides of my head like I’m practicing for an earthquake drill. When he kneels in front of me, I flinch backward, slamming into the wall behind me. My sobbing intensifies.
Rafe holds up a hand and ever so slowly moves it closer to pat me gently on the knee. The kind of comforting pat a grandmother might give you if you fell off your bike.
“You’re okay. Tiffany, isn’t it?”
