At the Stars(29)

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I guess.”

“Well, you shouldn’t pick a major you don’t like. Believe me, I made that mistake.”

She looks up. “It isn’t that. See, I had this boyfriend...”

I stop painting to let her know I’m listening, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. She drops her head like she wishes she could hide her face behind all of her long, dark hair. It’s too bad because she has her grandmother’s expressive eyes.

I point to her shirt. “I really like that band.”

She puts her hand to her chest, brighter now. “Yeah? They’re not as well known around here. The kids at school are either into Justin Timberlake or Fallout Boy.”

“I like those guys, too,” I say. “I believe good music is good music, and it all comes from the same roots. Better than Ezra has always been one of my favorites, though. They really spoke to me during my angry period.”

I say this last part with a wink, but it’s true. So many nights I stayed sprawled in my bed with my tangled hair stuck to my tearstained cheeks and listened to lyrics that told me someone understood. If I hadn’t had that music, maybe I might have been more inclined to go out the way my mother did.

So many maybes.

She’s blinking at me now, looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “You had an angry period?”

Translation: You seem normal. I’ve heard that one before. I went through my bedhead–and-sweats phase, too. My rock-band-shirts phase. My combat-boots-and-shaved-head phase. I’m still hoping nobody took pictures during that one.

Right now I’m happy in the uniform of a girl who smiles sometimes. I’m happy I can put on jeans and a tank top and feel comfortable.

I smile at her again. “I think a lot of us have. It’s okay to be angry.”

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I leave it alone.

She glances down at the shirt. “So when does the anger stop?”

Oh, sweetie. My heart hurts for this girl. “Whenever you’re ready for it to.” I squeeze her wrist carefully, to avoid her brand-new manicure. “Whatever happened, you reported it, right?” That helps, even when it’s scary. I talked to girls who didn’t, and they seem to have a harder time. Never speaking up must leave things unresolved.

Michelle sighs quietly. “Sure. But it was a bunch of guys at a party. My boyfriend and his buddies. They came from rich families. They all backed up each others’ story. Nothing happened.”

Which is why she wants to major in Criminal Justice. I get it. I totally do. “You know, I remember seeing a sign up on the community bulletin board over at the coffee shop. Announcing support meetings over at St. Martins. There’s an addiction support group on Sundays, breastfeeding moms on Thursdays, Tai Chi is Monday, and assault survivors are on Tuesdays.” I’m back to paying close attention to her fingers now, in case she feels put on the spot or embarrassed. I know what that’s like.

“And you think I’d like Tai Chi?”

“I hear it’s relaxing.” I risk a glance, and she’s smiling a little. No easy thing in a conversation like this.

She doesn’t answer though, so I continue, “You know, maybe if you haven’t been to a group meeting, it’s something to consider. It feels awkward at first, but being around other people who understand can be helpful. You don’t even have to share.”

“Would you go with me? Please? I don’t think I could do it alone.”

My stomach twists with indecision. I want to say yes. I want to help, because I know what this is probably like for her. I was a newcomer to one of those meetings once. Still, I’m supposed to be leaving. If I take Jake’s offer, or even if I buy a bus ticket, by Tuesday I ought to be gone.

My phone buzzes again, reminding me politely that I’ve been ignoring its messages: Hey it’s Jake. Checking in.

“Aaand here we are. This lady’s ready for her manicure.” AJ comes over, rolling another satisfied customer.

I give him a hairy eyeball. “Did you give Jake my phone number?”

AJ scratches the back of his neck the way I’ve seen every nervous criminal on TV pantomime when they’re about to tell a lie. It’s that look like his clothes don’t fit suddenly, and he knows he’s in trouble. “He swung by the other day while you were doing laundry, and I suggested he call you. Anyway, he already had your number from the shop. Is it really so bad? I thought you liked him.”

“I—” I kinda forgot I’d given Jake my number at the shop. Right. I glance around. Everybody in earshot seems interested in what else I have to say about the subject. Instead, I turn to Michelle’s grandmother. “Let’s go polish those nails, shall we?”