Please, Jesus, don’t go with me.
Mom smiled. Her porcelain caps shone brilliantly. The majority of her teeth were fake, the real ones rotted out by meth. “If I got to pay to spend time with you, I will.”
Zip, thunk. Arrow right in the heart. It sank deep, quivering. I knew this woman loved me in some delusional way. I just preferred when we both ignored that fact.
She chain-smoked in the van. I hung halfway out the window, texting Wesley. Please kill me. Girls’ day out with Mom.
He texted back, Who’s the girl?
Good old Wesley.
We drove through sleepy Carbondale, green lawns and campus commons, to the University Mall. Ice cold AC, that soda pop smell in the slightly carbonated air. Mom took me straight to American Eagle. We passed a rack of pre-torn, pre-faded jean shorts, indistinguishable from what I was wearing except for the price tag. I raised an eyebrow. Translation: told you so.
“Get what you like,” Mom said. She held a mesh tank against her boobs, turning left and right.
“I’ll meet you at the register,” I said, slipping away.
Alone on the hardwood floors under champagne-colored lights, I’ll admit it—I felt slightly glamorous. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirrors. I knew I was pretty. I’d never been one of those angsty girls who needed constant reassurance. When your mom’s skeezy “business partners” hit on you when you’re twelve, you learn fast. I’d been aware of male attention since before menarche. I knew I was desirable. I knew how to wield that as both a tool and a weapon.
I’d never really thought of myself as beautiful, though.
The girl in the mirror was beautiful.
Part of falling in love with someone is actually falling in love with yourself. Realizing that you’re gorgeous, you’re fearless and unpredictable, you’re a firecracker spitting light, entrancing a hundred faces that stare up at you with starry eyes.
The girl in the mirror stared at me. She blinked slowly, knowingly. She seemed to be looking at something bright—chin raised, eyes distanced, guarded. Button nose and full lips. Her mouth was open slightly, a sliver of white visible. She had the kind of effortlessly slender body older women hated her for. Despite what Wesley said, her br**sts were average, even on the small side, but she carried them in a way that made you aware. She carried her whole body that way. Spine straight, each limb flowing loosely and easily. She only had bones when she needed them. Rich chestnut hair spilled over her bare shoulders, an elegant mess.
I looked at her and thought, I don’t know who you are.
A group of girls drifted past, laughing in brazen tones. They smelled like a walking Bath & Body Works ad. They were moisturized and shining and tan, but beneath that was pudginess, acne, bulimia, self-hatred. They were processed. I was natural, uncultured and untamed.
My phone vibrated.
Britt, the girl from history class, asking about our project. After I’d responded and put it away, I still felt it. His number was right there, snug against my ass. Any moment, I could reach out to him, connect. For now it was comforting just knowing it was there. But I knew this kind of comfort wouldn’t last. I’d need more.
Mom didn’t bat an eyelash at the armful of clothes I dumped on the counter. I watched the register tick up, growing increasingly nervous as we hit $100, $150, $200. No way would she go for this. She’d stop the cashier. Oh god, she wasn’t stopping the cashier. There was going to be A Scene.
$242.18.
Mom pulled out a wad of twenties. I tried not to gawk.
One of the laughing bulimic girls watched us leave, her eyes glinting jealously.
I was too stunned to say thank you. I followed Mom to the food court, feeling like a delivery person, about to give this to some kid who really deserved it.
She bought us a huge plate of orange chicken and picked at it, eating like a bird.
My body tensed, expecting a blowup. It couldn’t go this long without turning ugly.
“Want to see a movie?” Mom said.
My mouth dropped. We hadn’t done that since I was little. I cleared my throat, blinked. Something weird was happening in my chest. It was an actual feeling for this woman.
“I’m kind of tired,” I said.
Her eyes widened. She looked like a sad raccoon. Her mascara made spider legs out of her eyelashes.
“Maybe a short one?” I suggested.
I couldn’t believe myself. I knew she was manipulating me. I didn’t know why yet, but I knew better than to buy her shit. Remember what she’s done to you, I thought. Remember those nights she left you alone on the couch with a man who kept saying how pretty you were, who touched you, so she could squeeze more money out of him. Remember her going to jail for possession and sticking you in a group home for three months. Remember she’s the reason you’re so screwed up.
I didn’t remember anything.
I sat with her in the refrigerated theater, smelling her cigarette breath and way-too-young perfume, watching a terrible movie, laughing.
That night, I sprawled on my bed with my ancient laptop, ostensibly researching my history report but actually Googling Mr. Wilke. Not much internet presence. Some placeholder profiles on social networking sites. Some blurry JPEGs. Even those tiny, pixelated images made my heart spin like a top. I saved the best one to my desktop, glancing at it while reading about the Cold War.
Not good. I was becoming obsessed.
New search: Illinois age of consent laws.
We were legal.
That night at the carnival was legal, obviously, and even if it happened now, as teacher and student, when he was in a “position of trust or authority” over me, it would still be legal because the cutoff was seventeen. As an eighteen year old, I could legally f**k my teacher.