“No, it’s just – Wren isn’t exactly, like, bold?”

“I know!” She squeals. “Which is like, the biggest compliment, if he got all gung-ho to ask me and stuff, right?”

“Yeah. Are you gonna say yes?”

“I already did!”

“What happened to him being a nerd-king?”

“He’s a slightly….cooler nerd-king now? I mean, I just – we’ve had woodshop together and it’s been really fun, we made this birdhouse and it came out really cute, and I cut my finger on the bandsaw a little and he got really concerned and took me to the nurses and –”

“You like him.”

Kayla chokes on nothing. “I-I do not! Like him! I just happen to want to go to Senior Prom! And he’s cute enough! And he’s nice!”

“He doesn’t drive.”

“That’s fine! I do! And anyway I’m totally gonna ask Daddy for a limo and you and Jack are definitely invited.”

“Uh, thanks? But me and Jack aren’t a thing.”

“You slept in the same bed.”

“Yes?”

“You’re a thing,” she asserts. “I’ll see you on Monday!”

I sigh and hang up. Having friends is great. Having friends determine your romantic status is not so great. Yeah, Jack and I slept in the same bed. And he touched my hair. And smiled a lot. And he was warm, and –

I run into the bathroom and grace my head with a cold shower. Mom’s surprised to see my wet hair when I drive up to her shrink’s.

“Did…did something happen?”

“Jesus blessed me with his holy water.”

“Oh?”

“Took a shower. How was your session?”

She laughs. “It was…it was alright. We talked about you, mostly, and Stanford.”

“Oh yeah?” My voice pitches up. “Cool.”

“It would be so wonderful for you, honey. And with your dad willing to help with the costs – you could really do it. You’d meet so many new people, and learn so many amazing things.”

“Yeah. And they’ve got these awesome foreign exchange programs – ” I pull onto the highway. “I’ve been looking at this one in Belgium, it’s like, four months, so one semester, but you live with a host family right in the city and there’s all this cultural exchange stuff in your program, like going out to the countryside, and visiting France for a week, and it sounds so –”

I stop when I see Mom raise her hand to her face out of the corner of my eye.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs, laughing. “I’m fine. Really, I’m okay.”

“Are you crying?”

“I’m fine, sweetie! I-I’m –”

Her crying gets louder. She’s shaking, her shoulders quivering and her hands quaking as she desperately tries to hide her face from me.

“Mom!” I pull over onto the shoulder lane and put the car in park, lacing my arm around her. “Mom, are you okay? What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

“N-No,” she whimpers. “I’m being selfish. I’m sorry. Please, just drive us home.”

“No! Not until you tell me what’s making you cry like this!”

She sobs into my shoulder, every echo of her pain tearing a hole in my heart. I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about Stanford. It probably hurts her just to hear me talk about going away so far.

“I don’t want you to go,” she cries. “Please, stay here. I need you here.”

I wince, and shut my eyes. I pull her closer to me, her trenchcoat enveloping the both of us.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say softly. “Mom, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“No! I want you to go,” She looks up, eyes panicked and red. “But I don’t want you to go. I know you have to. You have to grow and learn and fly on your own. But I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I’m sorry. Please, go. Please do whatever you want. Just…just promise me you’ll come back and visit sometimes, alright?”

“Mom, I’m not going –”

“You are!” Her expression suddenly turns furious. “You are, don’t listen to me! Don’t hold yourself back for me. I want you to go to Stanford.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do, Isis. I know you do. And you’re giving it up for me, and I can’t have that. You need people as smart as you, sweetie. You need challenges, and you’ll get that at Stanford. God, my little girl, going to Stanford. I’m so proud. So, so proud.”

She composes herself, and I start driving again, and she smiles and talks about mundane stuff like grocery shopping and what the neighbors said about her yard and how work was, but I know she isn’t done with the sorrow, because when we get home, she locks herself in her room and turns her music on. And she only does that when she doesn’t want me to hear her crying. My chest burns as I look over the Stanford brochures again. They’re a wonderful, impossible dream. I can’t leave her. There’s no way I can leave Mom here with a good conscience. I’d be too far to help if anything happened again – and she’d be too lonely. She wouldn’t get better if I was gone, she’d only get worse. I have to be close. Very close. Community college close. I have to stay with her until she’s strong enough to stand on her own two feet again, and going to Stanford won’t make that happen. Shit, going to Ohio State won’t make that happen.

My path is clear.

My path has always been clear.

I put the brochures in my desk drawer and cover them with my old sketchbooks from elementary school. Things I don’t touch. Things I won’t touch, ever again.

My email beeps, shakes me out of my misery, and then piles more on. The email’s from the same address that sent me the picture. Nameless.

‘Hi, Isis!

How’ve you been? You got my pic, right? That Jack guy seems really cool. Have you guys f**ked yet? :)’

I fight the urge to puke and lose, fantastically.

The darkness wells up in the bathroom. It bleeds out of my eyes and my mouth that cries with no sound. I lock the door and huddle on the floor, hugging my knees.

I’m not safe. I’ve never been safe.

I’ll never be safe. Jack’s wrong. He can’t do anything. He can’t help. Nameless lives inside me, and always will. The darkness will always be here.

There is a nest inside of me, and all it takes is a few words from the boy who raped me to bring the monsters roaring out of it.

-10-

3 Years

30 Weeks

5 Days

Naomi isn’t pleased with the fact I’m leaving town. She’s never been pleased when I leave, ever, because Sophia gets sad, and that probably makes her job harder. She escorts me to Sophia’s room grumpily.

“Something the matter, Naomi?” I inquire. Naomi grunts eloquently.

“Don’t try to schmooze me.”

“I’m just wondering why your face is more lovely than usual. New eye cream?”

“Are you really going to Harvard?” She snaps. “Do you know how far away that is?”