Unspoken (The Woodlands) Read online

  “Are you going to work as a clerk in a shoe store?” Ellie asked with a heavy amount of disdain.

  I looked down at my clothes. “Too bland?”

  “Girl, even the people at the Dockers store would be embarrassed to be seen in that outfit.” Ellie frowned. She was right. Ordinarily I had no problems picking out the right outfit, including for class, but for some reason tonight I was a mass of nerves and indecision.

  “We don’t have to go,” Ellie said in a rush, measuring my anxiety by the hideousness of my outfit. She met my gaze in the mirror and her eyes softened in sympathy. That look sent a steel rod up my spine.

  I hated pity more than I hated the gossip. Maybe she gave me that look on purpose, to help me find my courage. I turned on my foot and went into the bedroom, where I picked up a pair of discarded skinny jeans and a loose silky top. I pulled on a pair of heavy socks and a battered pair of riding boots. My heavy felt, navy-blue peacoat completed the outfit. I looked a lot less like Dockers layaway and more like hip young person. I felt better, too.

  The past year had taught me that sometimes the best defense in the world was a stony glare and the right attire. Going into the lion’s den dressed like I was dressed for church was bound to create even worse talk than looking like a prostitute. The latter they expected, the former said I was trying too hard. The vultures never liked anything more than cutting down people who set themselves up.

  I picked up my phone and ID card and headed out to meet Ellie. She was putting on the last touches of makeup. The au natural look required as much effort as the heavily made-up look. Guys never knew the difference, but the cosmetic industry didn’t have fifty shades of natural and blush lipstick because girls could run around with bee-stung lips just by biting them heavily. Biting led to chapped lips and teeth marks.

  We didn’t talk as we walked toward the commons. Ellie seemed to instinctively understand that I didn’t have much to say. The campus looked magical in the evening light. The snow sparkled where it was illuminated by the lampposts that marched along the sidewalks, intersecting the campus lawns. Central was an old campus, over one hundred years old, and even though it had been modernized, the feel of it was nostalgic. The streetlights were made of wrought iron instead of hard steel. The callboxes looked like old-fashioned telephone booths. Even the sculptures positioned throughout had an old-world charm to them.

  Maybe the student body took cues from it. For all the modern, liberal thinking that was preached from the professors’ podiums, the men and women who took classes here had some deep-seated, old-fashioned views. Girls who hooked up a lot were sluts. Guys who did the same were studs. Girls who wore their hair short and their pants long were lesbians. Guys who used too much product and cared too much about their appearance were gay. And those who didn’t conform were weirdos and easy objects of scorn.

  During my freshman year, I’d have given anything to be thought of as a weirdo or gay. Being deemed a slut meant that you were fair game to every asshole on campus. They could slap your ass or casually grab your boob during the sober, daylight hours. Once the sun went down and the beer came out, the groping was more obvious. Then it was a full body press, trying to corner you in a dark spot and stick their hand up your skirt. If you said no at any time, you were a bitch or cock tease or cunt. And because no one wanted to admit being turned down by the class bicycle, rumors started anew.

  I remember one guy whom I’d never met, never talked to, bragging in the library to a few others in his study group about how he had to force me off his dick so he could get another beer, that I was just so hungry for him. Another guy regaled the group with how he’d poured beer on his penis and then forced me to suck him off. They all laughed when he described, graphically, how he had held my hair in place and how the gagging noises I made only made him harder.

  None of it had ever happened, but it didn’t stop me from feeling violated, used, and dirty. It wasn’t one thing that drove me off campus, but a hundred wounds both large and small. I felt that if I spent one minute more than necessary there, I would be nothing more than a dried honeycomb, all the life sucked out of me, exposed and used.

  As Ellie and I walked down the sidewalk, no one stared at me. The cement at our feet didn’t crack in half. We were just two students in a big crowd, some moving toward the commons and some away. I felt anonymous for a moment, and I almost stumbled when relief poured through me.

  The commons looked the same. It was a squatty brick building, one of the uglier structures on campus, built into the side of the hill. When you approached from the south side, it looked like Bag End, or some other building from the Shire, only without the cute circular doors. On the north side, it was all windows, so that when you were here in the morning you could catch the sunrise through the two-story foyer. Whoever decorated the interior must have used a focus group study from the ’80s. It was full of dark browns and blues with neon light tubes twisted into waves and circles. The café housed in the lower level served up a mix of salad bar fresh foods and mystery plates. You could hear the cacophony of the slap of forks and plates and trays against tables from the balcony that overlooked the seating area.

  Ellie and I paused at the railing and looked down. “Do you see him?” I asked quietly. First rule of crush stalking was to ensure that you weren’t obvious. You can’t alert your prey that you’re observing his every move.

  Ellie scanned the crowd and checked her watch. “No, but we’re about five minutes early. Should we wait?”

  I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to eat and get the hell out. Even though nothing bad had happened, it was early yet. I wanted to ease back onto campus instead of jumping headfirst into an unknown body of water. Who knew how close the rocks were to the surface? I took a deep breath. I was here for Ellie, just as she’d been there for me all those times before. “Sure, let’s walk through the Bookstore for a few,” I suggested.

  The commons had a lounge area with pool tables and a quiet study place upstairs, along with rooms that local high schools sometimes rented out to hold a prom. The bottom level was a major arterial vein of the campus. Lots of activity flowed in and out of QC Café and Central Bookstore, a small store where students could come and buy sodas, snacks, and Central attire. Ellie started forward, but I stopped her. I’d walk down those steps first just to prove to myself I could, even if I was trembling inside.

  Students passed me by and still nothing. Not a sideways glance, not a smirk, not a whisper behind a hand to a companion. By the time we had reached the Bookstore, I felt nearly serene and not a little chagrined. I should have braved the masses last semester. A summer away from Central had probably dimmed my reputation in everyone’s memory. What a self-important asshole I was, thinking that I was so important that people were still talking about me. I gave a half laugh and Ellie turned to me with a lifted eyebrow. “Sorry,” I said, “just swallowed wrong.”

  Ellie nodded and looked toward the door, trying to keep an eye on the crowd streaming through entrance of the café while not being obvious about it. I didn’t know who I was looking for despite her exhaustive description earlier.

  A loud group came in, commanding everyone’s attention. It was a group of guys barking loudly to one another, like a flock of geese. At the light in Ellie’s eyes, I knew that her new man was in this group. Showtime.

  We waited another ten minutes in the store, pretending to admire the variety of sweatshirts, T-shirts, and sleep pants adorned with one big C on them. When we judged that the boisterous man crew had made their way through the cashier, we went and gathered our food. Salad bar for both of us because that was the only fresh food served in the café, that and deli sandwiches. Anything else and you were just asking for a bout of food poisoning.

  Exiting the cash line, I stood with my tray in hand while Ellie surveyed the crowd, trying to find exactly the right table where we could sit and observe and maybe even eavesdrop on the table that held the object of her crush.

  She started forward and
then stopped and I nearly dumped the contents of my tray on her back. I followed her gaze to a table in the center of the room filled with guys wearing their trucker caps backward, mid-calf socks, and Flow Society shorts even in winter. The lacrosse team. Or laxers, as they liked to call themselves.

  The hottie from Rocks for Jocks was a lacrosse player. Ellie turned and looked at me with dismay, and I briefly closed my eyes in silent supplication, praying that the team would not look at us. I abruptly walked to a table as far away as I could get.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was a lacrosse player,” Ellie whispered as we settled into our seats. I barely heard her because I was too busy internally debating the safest way to sit. Should I position myself so I could see them coming or with my back to them? I compromised and sat at an angle from their table, making myself the smallest target possible. The giant salad I’d assembled looked like the least appetizing bowl of food ever. I moved my fork around, pushing the cherry tomatoes to the side and rearranging the mushrooms into an ordered pattern, one slice lying next to the other in a circle around the bowl. I was so intent on repositioning my food, I missed the signs of an approaching classmate.

  “Hey, uh, aren’t you in my geology class?” I heard a voice slightly above me say. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the lacrosse table laughing behind their hands and some were not so furtively pointing in our direction.

  Ellie looked at the object of her crush with contempt and gave him a short, no-nonsense answer. “Yes.” It was not an invitation to start a conversation. This must be some kind of hazing, although I thought that started at the beginning of school, not halfway through the semester. Why else would this poor kid be forced over to our table to start up a conversation?

  I kept my head down and averted, which I knew was rude, but I didn’t want to be here and definitely did not want to participate. Two months into college, I’d had my fill of lacrosse guys. I didn’t need to make the acquaintance of any more.

  Ellie’s dismissive answer didn’t drive the freshman away. Instead, he pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and sat down so he could lean his arms on the back. “Thought I recognized you. I’m Ryan Collins.” He held out his hand to Ellie. She stared at it like it was diseased. He held it out for a couple of beats and then awkwardly brought his hand down to his side, to wipe it on his pants.

  No one spoke a word. Ellie stared at Ryan with hostility and Ryan returned the look with puzzlement. Maybe he didn’t mean to come over and make some rude come-on. Maybe he really did mean to introduce himself to Ellie.

  I felt reluctant admiration for this guy who was bucking normal rules of engagement and putting himself out there for public rejection, in front of his teammates and other classmates. I knew what it felt like to be the subject of unwanted scrutiny. Almost against my will, I spoke up. “Nice to meet you.” My voice sounded raspy, as if it hadn’t been used for a week. I cleared my throat. “I’m AnnMarie and that’s Ellie.”

  She shot me a shocked glance as if I’d engaged the enemy in direct combat. I gave her a tiny shrug. The introductions shook loose Ryan’s mute button. “Ladies.” He smiled and two dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. The dimples, the short hair with the slight Mohawk styling, retro black plastic glasses, and brow piercing all bespoke a guy who was making his own way in life. He didn’t look like a stereotypical laxer. There was no STX lanyard with his keys and ID. No hat, not even an old tournament jersey.

  “So you play lacrosse?” I asked when Ellie remained silent.

  Ryan nodded, seeming relieved that I included him in a question. “I do. We’re gearing up for our season to start in a couple of months.”

  “Where’s your pinnie?” Ellie asked, sneering slightly. I was surprised at her overt hostility. Shouldn’t asshole girl be my role?

  Ryan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I just like to play the game. It’s fun, a good way to keep in shape, and why am I defending myself to you?”

  “You came to sit with us,” Ellie pointed out.

  “I’m guessing you had a bad experience with a laxer?” Ryan suggested.

  “You might say that.” I was grateful that Ellie didn’t turn to look at me when she replied, insinuating that it was her problem and not mine.

  Ryan scrubbed a hand through his shorn hair, destroying his mini Mohawk and making the short hair on his head stick out in different directions.

  “So I’m guessing my suggestion that we be lab partners is going to be shot down?” Ryan said, giving an adorable half smile. Even though I had a hate boner for all laxers, Ryan’s smile was potent. It looked like it might be affecting Ellie as well.

  Ryan took her hesitation as a maybe he could turn to a yes. “I’m just a dumb freshman. Take pity on me.”

  That was smooth. He was all dimples and self-deprecation. Ellie resisted, though. “I’ve had a really bad experience with laxers.”

  At that, Ryan turned to look to his table. There was no avoiding it. The table of lacrosse players had seen us and identified at least me. I could see the shit-eating grin of one Clay Howard III from a hundred feet away. I shrank back. Never had a grin ever looked so menacing.

  I wondered if Clay even knew my real name anymore, or if the nickname he’d given me was my only source of identification. I wasn’t convinced Clay even thought of me as a real person. Maybe I was some imaginary punching doll he’d created and trotted out for jokes to his pals.

  Ryan’s eyes moved around from Ellie to me to his table. He stood then, and I noticed Clay had also risen from his seat and was making his way toward us. I looked wide-eyed at Ellie and my anger and trepidation were reflected in her face. And then I felt my backbone stiffen as my fight instinct kicked in.

  Why was I allowing one douche bag to dictate my life on campus? I wondered how many other girls who sat in the café right now had turned down Clay, only to be branded a slut in exchange. I watched in wretched fascination as he swaggered over to our table. As he walked toward us, each section he passed seemed to quiet, as if they knew something was about to happen.

  Ryan had positioned himself slightly in front of our table, as if to intercept Clay, a move I couldn’t comprehend at that moment. I inhaled, taking breaths as deep as I could make them without being obvious about it. I’m going to own you one day, I mentally told Clay. You’ll be broken at my feet, and I’ll laugh as the world pisses on your head.

  “Bro.” Clay’s greeting to Ryan sounded like a shotgun in an empty range. He held out his fist for a bump. Ryan obliged but said nothing. “You looking for some action?” Clay asked.

  Ryan shook his head. “No, just catching up with Ellie about a class we have together.”

  “These girls, particularly Mary here, probably have a lot they’ll be willing to put out.” Clay smirked at his own really bad pun.

  “It’s AnnMarie,” I said quietly but loud enough that I knew Clay could hear.

  “What’s that?” Clay asked, obviously hoping to set me up or hoping I’d shut up.

  “It’s AnnMarie,” I repeated and stood up next to the table. Ellie got to her feet and picked up her tray. She was ready to go. I wasn’t going to run out like a scaredy cat, but I also wasn’t going to sit there and be the butt of the innumerable lies that Clay would enjoy regaling young Ryan with.

  As I bent down to pick up my tray, Clay remarked on the nearly uneaten contents. “Did you eat too much before you came to dinner tonight, Mary?” He emphasized the name so I wouldn’t miss that he’d intentionally called me the wrong name again.

  “I was afraid if I ate something, I might have to ingest the same air you breathed. Plants die when you’re around,” I told him. Rumor was that Clay had nearly flunked biology, failing to grow his seed into a plantable seedling. High color flared in his cheeks. Rumor must have been correct, and this spurred my feet into motion. I knew I was needling an angry animal now, but I couldn’t resist another poke, and as I walked by him I said in a low tone, “Heard you had problems germinating
seeds.”

  He grabbed my arm, causing the tray to tip precariously. Ryan reached out and steadied the tray and looked questioningly at Clay’s hand on my biceps. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, dark-haired guy rise to his feet. Noah, Bo’s weight-room buddy. His thickly muscled arms and toned body caught Clay’s attention, too. He dropped his hand and then shook it in the air. “Damn, I’m going need to some sanitizer so I don’t catch one of your friends.” His words rang out loudly in the now-silent cafeteria. This time I was the one who couldn’t keep the blood from rising and coloring my cheeks.

  Now we both looked like angry animé characters with red spots denoting our anger and embarrassment. “You aren’t good enough to touch me, and you know it,” I told him.

  “I’m no OB, but I know a cunt when I see one.” Maybe he’d meant to whisper it to me, but everyone was so quiet, so intent on getting the details of the drama, that the insult carried on the waves of silence through to the entrance of the dining hall as clearly as the Main Hall bell that rang at noon. The entire room sucked in their collective breaths and even Clay, as dim as he was, realized he might have gone one step too far with the putdowns.

  “It’s gynecologist,” I said, leaving him behind. I heard him say, “What?” and Ryan answered slowly, as if he could barely believe what had just transpired. “An OB delivers babies. Gynecologists examine women in the way you were suggesting.”

  “What’s the difference?” Clay asked.

  Ryan’s response was filled with disgust so transparent that I think even Clay must have noticed. “There’s a difference.”

  By the time we reached the conveyor belt that took the dirty trays and plates back to where I assumed everything would be washed, I was shaking like a leaf. The contents of my tray were clinking together, and Ellie took my tray from me before the contents spilled onto the floor.