Part 11 (1/2)

C'mon. Dude. Let's get out of here.

What've you done? You're an a.s.shole.

Nothing. Nothing happened. I didn't do anything. I swear she wanted this.

Wait. Please. Please. Don't leave me here.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...I can't untie the knot...

It's not her fault. Jess, none of this is your fault.

But it is. I believed him when he called me beautiful.

Nothing happened. Not really.

I'm so sorry.

You're a lucky, lucky girl.

I'm covered in a fine sheen of sweat, about to vomit, but grateful to be awake.

When I sleep through the nightmare-when I make it to the part where my parents are standing around me and I'm in a hospital bed-then everyone in the house hears me crying in my sleep.

Everyone except me, that is.

I'd almost been to that point. I strain to listen for any footsteps or sounds that might alert me to my parents lurking in the hallway. The towel is still in place where I'd stuffed it under the door to block out any sounds I might make, so that means no one peeked in here either. Thankfully all is silent save for my racing heart. I allow the fear and voices crawling through every inch of my soul to wash over me so the rest of it can play out as quickly as possible.

As the spinning stops, I stare at my jellyfish lamp and count. Tonight, the words from the nightmare are worse-louder than ever. Repeating. Rocketing through my head.

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky girl. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

I haven't heard them this clearly in almost two years.

The words belong to the people who were present the night I was drunk and almost raped freshman year. The night I snuck out to a party, lied to my parents, got drunk and brought all of this on myself. The nightmares and the voices are my memories. Or what's left of them.

It's always me, floating in and out of varied versions of the same scene.

I'm half-naked sometimes. Often, I'm all wrapped up in a white sheet. Usually there's two faceless guys talking. The policeman is always around too. Sometimes, a nurse, and if I don't wake up, my parents appear when it moves to a hospital room.

In the nightmare, I'm forced to be everyone. I'm observing each moment from very far away-like it's on a small TV monitor. But as it unfolds, it's my own voice that's been dubbed over the words everyone else spoke that night.

It's freaky, but whatever. It's a nightmare. They're supposed to be horrible, right?

I work to sit up, still counting, and rest my chin on my knees so I can watch my nightlight better. The three tiny jellyfish spin aimlessly up and down, up and down, in their water-filled tank. The tentacles are almost distinguishable.

Almost. Almost.

How I hate that word and the way it defines me. Almost raped. Almost over it. Almost normal. Much, much worse: a night I can almost remember. Almost forget.

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. Even though everyone says it wasn't my fault, I feel responsible. How can none of my messed up life be my fault? I did wrong. I broke all the rules. And I'm paying the consequences for my *bad choices' in this endless time-out. Nightmare. Punishment.

My parents used to make us do time-outs on a little bench in the front hallway. Mom and Dad's price for misbehaving: sit on the bench one minute for every year *old' we were.

Six years old, six minutes.

Ten years old, ten minutes.

This used to really make me mad, because I'm four years older than Kika and she always got free four minutes earlier for the same crime.

A few months ago, as one of my stay-awake-projects, I ran the numbers on my current time-out. There are 52,560 minutes in every non-leap year. Multiply that number times the three years I've been stuck in this stupid limbo. Officially-according to the rules in this house-I've been doing time for my bad behavior at that party for 1,576,800 minutes.

This means, I'm 1,576,800 years old. Sometimes, when every inch of my body aches like it does now-when I can't see straight from wis.h.i.+ng I could sleep at night-I think that number is dead on.

Mom was way off when she'd called me a skeleton impersonator the other night. Ghost would have been a way better word. That's what I'll become if I can't regain control over my sleep schedule, and make the nightmare go back to a reasonable level.

Chapter Thirteen.

Gray ”A different name for me? Hmm. That's going to be weird,” I say, motioning to the door of the minuscule office Jess and I have been a.s.signed to share. ”Can you move into the hall? I need to put this desk against the wall you've been holding up with your back.”

I'm joking, but I'm also serious. Worried as h.e.l.l about her, actually. She looks really pale and fragile again-like how she looked the day we made the contract.

I step around a box overflowing with brand new office supplies and shove it to the side. Clearing the way for her to exit more easily. She trades one leaning spot for another and props her weight against the door. I know I won't be able to concentrate unless she sits down. Rests. Sleeps? I grab one of the wheeled office chairs and traverse the mess with it to set it near her.

”This chair is also in my way,” I add, pausing to scan her face up close. ”Maybe you can drag this out into the hall and just hang while I finish?”

She makes no move to touch the chair. ”I'm good.”

I'm certain she's lying. Coach's words haunt me as I scan the etched circles under her eyes. They're so dark today they look like bruises. Does Jess need to sleep, even now? It's not like I can ask directly, or call her on her answer. It's going to take some time before I can just know if she's having a bad day or not.

I wish she'd talk about herself. Most girls usually have no problem doing that. I've already deciphered that Jess is not like other girls. Her eyes haven't left the chair.

”Might as well take a load off,” I encourage again. ”This is going to take me a bit, plus I could use the extra twenty inches of s.p.a.ce.”

”Yeah, but you're doing all the work. I can't just sit and do nothing.”

”Only one of us can fit in here while the big stuff is moved around. I don't mind being the grunt. I'm the paid employee. Remember?”

”Oh, I remember.” Her tone is dry and possibly sarcastic, but I see her flush. She turns away to thankfully, pull the chair out into the hallway and sit. She lets out a sigh that sounds relieved. When she leans into the seat I'm unexplainably happy and relieved.

I pretend to ignore her and shove the long, rectangular workstation into the center of the windowless office we've been given. It's down in the bas.e.m.e.nt near the s.h.i.+pping department. Takes five minutes just to find it. Mr. Foley told us not to worry about the tight s.p.a.ce or the bad location. The office is supposed to be more of a room to store our things and a place to learn the database. Apparently, once we get through that, we'll be a.s.signed to special projects and work in the one of the larger warehouses. According to the smug dude I'd met in the employee lounge this morning, the summer slaves (as he called us) were usually stuck working on the jobs no one else wanted. Whatever. Bring it on. I can't wait.

”Names,” I call over my shoulder. ”Let's get it over with. What are you thinking I should be called? I'm terrified,” I joke. ”Name me Edward, or Peeta, or Prince Charming, and I swear-I'll quit.”

She laughs and it takes all of my strength not to look toward that sparkling sound. ”We need to pull a real guy's name from our cla.s.s,” she says. ”Once my mom latches onto the idea of me being into a guy-she's going to head straight for my yearbook and look him up. Kika will be right behind her turning the pages. Plus, I'm going to have to add you to the contacts in my iPhone. Right now when you text me, I have you listed as Interns.h.i.+pGuy. Meaning you aren't really anyone to me, yet. That has to change soon because my mom and sister have started tracking that already.” Jess holds up this year's yearbook. ”Let's just choose someone, anyone, I guess.”

I glance up and watch her half-heartedly flipping through pages. ”What if I think who you choose is a downgrade? Pick someone cool, or at least good looking,” I joke.