Michael remained silent for a moment. I almost wondered if he would answer.
“He loves the idea of her,” he finally told Townsend, sounding finite. “When she eventually faded from him, the dream of her would still be there, haunting him. That’s what he meant.”
Huh. Not an entirely poor assessment. And I thought Kai would be the only one of them who’d actually read the book.
Townsend shifted, flipping to another page and read, “She says, ‘He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.’ What is she telling him?”
Everyone kept silent.
The teacher scanned the room, looking for a flicker from any of us. “You merely broke my life,” he repeated.
Needles pricked my throat, and I dropped my eyes. You broke my life.
A student sighed from a seat near the door. “She willingly indulged him,” he argued. “Yeah, it was wrong, but this is an issue today. Women can’t just decide after the fact that they were abused. She was willingly sexual with him.”
“Minors can’t consent,” Kai pointed out.
“What, so you magically become emotionally and mentally mature when you turn eighteen?” Will replied, suddenly entering the conversation. “Just happens overnight, does it?”
“She was a child, Will.” Kai turned in his seat, debating his friend. “In Humbert’s head, he demands sympathy from us, and most readers give it, because he tells them to. Because we’re willing to forgive anyone anything if they’re attractive to us.”
I stared at my desk, not blinking.
“He doesn’t have a thing for Lo,” Kai continued. “He has a thing for young girls. It’s not an isolated incident. She was abused.”
“And she left him to go shack up with a child pornographer, Kai,” Will spat out. “If she were being abused, why didn’t she have the sense to not put herself back in that situation?”
I rubbed my thumb over the paperback cover, hearing it skid across the gloss. My chin trembled, my eyes stinging a little.
“I mean, why would she do that?” Will asked.
“That’s what I’m saying,” another student chimed in.
Words hung on the tip of my tongue, telling them that they were oversimplifying. That it was easier to judge a girl you knew nothing about than to allow someone the dignity of their process. That it was more convenient to not consider that there were things we didn’t know and things we’d never understand, because we were shallow and entitled and ignorant.
That you stayed, because…
Because…
“Abuse can feel like love.”
I blinked, the voice so close that my ears tingled. Slowly, I raised my eyes to look at the side of Damon Torrance’s face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie draped around his neck.
The whole class fell silent, and I glanced at Will next to me, seeing his eyebrows pinched together as he looked at the back of his friend’s head.
Mr. Townsend approached. “Abuse can feel like love…” he repeated. “Why?”
Damon remained so still it didn’t look like he was breathing.
He looked at the teacher, unwavering. “Starving people will eat anything.”
I stilled as his words hung in the air, and for a second, I felt warm. He wasn’t completely devoid of brain cells maybe.
Feeling eyes on me, I turned my head, seeing Will’s gaze focused on my leg.
I looked down, finding my fingers curled around the hem of my skirt, the scratches and part of a bruise visible on my thigh. My pulse quickened, and I yanked my skirt back down to my knee.
“Flip to the last chapter, please,” Townsend called. “And take out the packet.”
But the bruise pounded with pain, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Don’t you know you can have anything you want? I’d hurt anyone you asked me to.
My chin trembled. I had to get out of here.
Abuse can feel like love…
I shook my head, stuffing my materials back into my bag, standing up, and hooking it over my head as I charged down the aisle and toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
I turned my head toward the teacher. “To finish the book and the constructed responses in the library.”
I kept walking, blinking away the tears hanging in my eyes.
“Emory Scott,” the teacher called.
“Or you can explain to my brother why my SAT scores will be shit,” I said, walking backward with my glare on him, “because they’re dominating ninety-eight percent of every conversation in this class.” I gestured to the Horsemen. “Text me any additional assignments, if we have them.”
I pushed the door open, hearing whispers go off in class.
“Emory Scott,” the teacher barked.
I looked over my shoulder at Townsend, seeing him hold out a pink slip.
“You know what to do,” he scolded.
Strolling back in, I snatched the referral from his fingers. “At least I’ll get some work done,” I retorted.
Dean’s office or library, it made no difference.
Walking out of the room, I couldn’t help but glance back at Will Grayson, seeing him slouched in his seat, chin on his hand, and covering a smile with his fingers.
He held my eyes until I left the room.
• • •
Walking down the sidewalk, I didn’t raise my eyes as I turned left and headed up the walkway toward my house. I blinked long and hard for the last few steps, my head floating up into the trees as the afternoon breeze rustled the leaves. I loved that sound.
The wind was foreboding. It made it feel like something was about to happen, but in a way that I liked.
Opening my eyes, I climbed my steps and looked right, not seeing my brother’s cruiser in the driveway yet. The heat in my stomach cooled slightly, the muscles relaxing just a hair.
I had a little time, at least.
What a shit day. I’d skipped lunch and hid in the library, and after classes were done, I struggled through band practice, not wanting to be there, but not wanting to come home, either. Hunger pangs rocked my stomach, but it took the edge off the pain everywhere else.
I looked back at my street, taking in the quiet avenue, decorated with maples, oaks, and chestnuts, bursting with their finale of oranges, yellows, and reds. Leaves danced to the ground as the wind shook them free, and the scent of the sea and a bonfire somewhere drifting through my nose.
Most of the kids like me were bussed to Concord to attend the public high school there, since our population in Thunder Bay was too small to support two high schools, but my brother wanted the best for me, so TBP was where I stayed.
Despite the fact that we weren’t wealthy, he paid a little, I work-studied a lot, and the rest of my tuition was waived as my brother was a public servant. The wealth and privilege my private high school matriculated was supposed to be a better education. I wasn’t seeing it. I still sucked at literature, and the only class I really enjoyed was independent study, because I could be alooooooone.
On my own, I learned a lot.
I didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in, or that we weren’t rich. We had a beautiful house. Turn-of-the-century, three-story (well, four if you counted the basement), red brick Victorian with gray trim. It was more than big enough, and it had been in our family for three generations. My great-grandparents built it in the thirties, and my grandmother has lived here since she was seven.