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A drama that’s taught me more about myself than anything I went through in the years preceding it.
What Nate did to me will never go away. I will never stop being angry, because it will never stop rearing up to hurt me. He lashed out at me, attacked me with the weapons at his disposal, and changed the contours of who I am forever.
He changed my future.
He made everything harder.
But God. Here I am with West and Frankie and my dad—these people I love more than anything. And after I walk out of this room, I’m going to get into West’s car and roll down the window and stick my hand out to feel the spring air sliding through my fingers.
We’re going to drive down the interstate at seventy miles an hour, and all of this will slip away.
Back in Putnam, I’ll change into shorts and find
a blanket, drive over to campus, plant myself on the lawn, and pretend to study while I watch the boys playing Frisbee with their shirts off.
I’m going to head home and eat dinner with West and his sister. I’m going to talk to her about why we took her out of school to be here today, what it means for my life and my future, what it means for hers.
What it is to be a woman in this world.
After she goes to sleep, I’m going to lock the bedroom door and strip down to nothing and press every inch of my body against West, my boyfriend, my guy, the love of my life. I’m going to fuck him, be fucked by him, slide against him in the glow of the bedside lamp, kiss him and pant in his ear and tell him I love him, I love him, Jesus God I love him.
All of that belongs to me.
Nate can’t take it away.
I hope you’re happy—that’s his accusation.
It turns out that I only have one thing I want to say in response. Two words.
“I am.”
Dude, that is fucking creepy.
It’s not creepy, it’s evocative.
It makes my balls shrivel up.
That’s not my problem.
No, it is, though. You made it. You made this thing that shrivels my balls, so you’ve got to own it.
Can you stop talking about balls?
Balls are objectively relevant to the conversation.
Ball conversations are exclusionary. Pick a different metaphor.
The art building has long hallways, and at night when it’s mostly deserted, they amplify every sound. I came in the door nearest the library, which means I can hear this whole conversation as I walk the span of the building.
The building is plenty long enough to figure out who’s talking to who. West is the one who keeps referring to his balls. Annie’s the one who doesn’t want to hear it. And Raffe, I discover as I turn into the studio and get a look at what they’re discussing, is the one who’s created the strangest piece of mixed-media art I’ve ever seen.
It’s a metal folding chair tipped over. On the floor, stuck beneath the seat, is a small cloth doll dressed up like an adult man. It has a miniature red wig, a little suit, and shoes.
But rather than a doll’s face, it has a human face, projected onto it with a camera. Moving human features. It’s talking.
“That is fucking creepy,” I say.
They all three turn. West is already grinning. “See,” he says. “I told you.”
