Circle the Soul Softly (7 page)

October 27
Oh my God. My mother wants to get me a shrink—so I
can WORK ON LETTING GO OF MY FANTASIES
ABOUT MY STEPFATHER! How funny is that? I
can't wait to tell L.

Halloween
Grounded. Shit.

November 3
Opening night was amazing except for the scene after
where my mother told me that I'd better concentrate on my
acting and stop messing up her life. If I do anything else
stupid, I'm going to boarding school and pay for my own
damn college. Fuck her. Oh sorry. Everyone already has.

“Okay,well, call me blond, but what are you seeing besides your basic dysfunctional family?” He takes the book, flips pages, and hands it back.

Christmas to New Years
Little benefits—he got me the coat I wanted. Told me not to
show Mom. Maybe he should tell her to stop snooping in
my stuff. God bless L and J for getting me out of the house
most of break. And for the hot guy I met in Aspen.

January 7
One month, three weeks, one day, and seven hours but
who's counting. Maybe he thinks Mom knows something.
Maybe she does.

January 29
Shit shit shit shit. He caught me. I forgot it was Mom's
conference in San Diego. When did I get this stupid? By
the time I realized she was gone, he was already drinking
and it was too late to get out of the house. I hate him more
than is humanly possible.

I close the book and we stare at each other. David speaks first. “You think…?”

“I don't know. It could be.”

“Check this out.” He flips to a new page.

March 4
In my dreams, I saw off his dick, slowly, with a dull, rusty
blade. Then I stick it in his mouth, shove it down, and he
dies. I laugh.

“That was a few days ago.” He sighs.“What do we do?”

“There's nothing we can do,” I say. “Right? Is there?”

“Well, we sure as hell can't put it back and pretend we never saw it. She's obviously in trouble.”

“Then she should tell someone.”

“I think we should give it to Tess.”

“David, if Stacey finds out—”

“It doesn't matter.”

“She already hates me.”

“This isn't about you. I think we have to tell.”

Tess reads the page we show her and doesn't ask how we got the book. She thanks us and tells us to go on home and that she'll take care of things. She also tells us she's going to say she found it herself. She asks us not to discuss it anymore, because that could make it harder on Stacey.

As we close the door, she begins to dial the phone.

EIGHTEEN

What's your soul supposed to learn when you come back and molest a kid? I can't sleep because I can't get Stacey out of my mind. Everything about her takes on a different meaning—a subtext I didn't even consider. Of course she's arrogant and aloof. Of course she drinks and takes drugs and doesn't care who she sleeps with—it all makes sense.

I think back to that Saturday rehearsal day when she was late and try to remember what her stepdad looks like. I can't. He's too ordinary; he blends in with all the other dads. Absolutely nothing about him would make you look twice.

Monday I keep an eye out for Stacey, but don't see her or her car parked in the alley. Tuesday's the same. Wednesday I get behind Layla at snack, in line for the food truck. “So where's your other half?” I inquire, with definite Mack Truck subtlety.

“College trip.” It seems she freezes up a bit after that, but I can't tell for sure.

David sees Stacey drive up on Friday, a few minutes after snack ends. He text-messages me in class. At lunch we watch her and Layla drive away, just like always.

“Maybe we were wrong,” David says.

“Maybe.”

After school, on my way to a meeting with Tess, I hear someone stomp in through the other entrance.

“Hi, Stace. ”Tess's voice.

I freeze, then slowly crack open the greenroom door so I can hear.

“You found my backpack.”

“There. On the couch.”

No voices for a second. I imagine Stacey opening and rummaging through it.

“Where's my journal?”

“You know where it is.”

Another silence.

“I thought we were friends, Tess.”

“This has nothing to do with our relationship.”

“You called the police. They came to my house.”

“I called the Children's Protective Agency, Stacey.
They
called the police.”

“Why couldn't you just call me?”

“I'm required by law to report any suspected abuse.”

“Yeah, well, are you
required by law
to snoop through my stuff?”

I realize I'm holding my breath.

“You left it in the theater. I had to find out who it belonged to. Your wallet isn't in there and you don't have your name on any of your textbooks. So I looked in your journal.”

“I don't believe you.” This time, a short silence. “Anyway, you totally overreacted. That was all character work.”

“I don't think so.”

“Yep. So you screwed up my week for nothing.”

“I read the whole journal, Stacey. It's pretty clear what's been going on, and—”

“Nothing's been going on, so fuck it, okay? Let it go. Nothing happened. Except I'm on restriction—thanks to you. And stay out of my stuff, or my mom will call her lawyer.”

Meanwhile,
my
mom's going for Mother of the Year. I get to stay out an hour later on school nights and until two on the weekend—if homework's done and I'm with “Davy.” She loves the boy. She tells Michael
he
should act more like him. Then she asks me if I'll go with Michael to Santa Rosa on spring break; she doesn't want him driving by himself. She even offers to call Ginny's mom to see about a visit, but I manage to say we had a little fight and I'd rather stay with Michael at Steve's.

“Set it up however you like, honey. You've earned it. And thank you.” That almost gets me. And when I realize how completely both David and Michael are playing her, I have a brief moment of guilt. It passes. What people don't know can't hurt them.

I watch Stacey the entire next week, but nothing's different. She's still Arrogant Asshole Girl, though I have to admit she's not as rude to me as usual. Probably because I am Girl with Boy now, a generally Status-Raising Condition.

I go online and find out more about child abuse than I ever wanted to know.

“This could affect her entire life,” I tell David as we're driving to school one day. “She is never going to be the same.”

“Katie,” David replies, patient as ever,“does the word
obsession
mean anything?”

“I'm not obsessed—I just don't get it. Why didn't she say something? Tess would help her. She could get the asshole arrested.”

“Maybe she didn't want to.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“You're going off again.”

“Sorry. But she's not the kind of girl who would let this happen.”

“What kind of girl would?”

NINETEEN

“It's our week now, okay?”

I'm down with that. I'm down with switching cars with David's sister so she can ride with Michael and I can be with David. And with my mom not knowing what I'm doing.

“No school, no show stuff, and definitely no Stacey,” David instructs as I slide in his car. I nod, but I don't think I'm really all here. Because we're on our way to San Francisco.

We get in around two. I have the keys, since Michael and Casey are going pick up his friends. We have to park a few blocks away and lug our suitcases over. David keeps checking over his shoulder.

“What are you looking for?” I want to know.

“Nothing. Just …looking.” Two burly bald guys saunter past, and he tenses.

“David, are you scared?” I ask and get his don't-be-ridiculous expression—but he is, I can tell. He thinks we're going to get mugged. When we finally get inside, he relaxes. So do I—the house is perfect, a funky old Victorian, the essence of San Francisco.

“Is this where you and Michael grew up?” he asks, perching on the window seat to peer outside.

“No, it belongs to a friend who's in Mexico. She goes to SF State.” He finishes checking, and I can tell he's relieved. “Okay, where to for lunch?” He shakes his car keys and I work to keep from laughing; he's so brave now. “Someplace good—I'm starving.”

“Fisherman's Wharf. And we're taking the streetcar.” I grab his hand on the way out.“Don't worry, I'll protect you.”

“See him?” I point to the beefy, sweaty, hairy guy in a wife-beater, cooking up the lobsters in an outdoor pot. We're at the best outdoor fish place in town. I
know
San Francisco. David loved the streetcar and the cable car. Now he's slurping up chowder in a bread bowl and loving that, too. “Right before they bake that bread, he takes the loaf and swipes it under each arm. That's what gives it the tang.”

David stops mid-bite and I bust out laughing. After,we check out Pier 39 and watch the seals push each other off the rocks. We visit tourist shops, have a blue-screen video shot of us “flying” a magic carpet over the Bay, and make reservations to tour Alcatraz Prison the next day. We eat a late dinner at a seafood bar called Swann's on Polk Street, and David proceeds to share the secret of sourdough with the guy behind the counter. I call Michael and we coordinate the nightly check-in. He has me do it since Mom's less likely to worry if I tell her he's out with Steve.

Then we go “home” and it doesn't take me but ten minutes to turn schizo. I plunge into my strange alternate reality—and marvel as Stupid Kate heads up to a bedroom with a boy! Fog seeps into my head. I wanted to be with him, I really did—right up to
now
, when it's actually going to happen.
Now
I don't know what the hell I want.

The bed's a queen mattress on the floor, by a bay window. Clean sheets are folded on top, and we put them on together. David rambles about the day; I manage to slow the flow of the fog-turned-mush as it oozes relentlessly in search of my brain.

“I'll change first, all right?” he says, pointing to the bathroom. I stare blankly in his direction, no doubt giving Subtle Clues that I'm a bit flustered. He smiles, takes my hands and kisses each one.“We're just going to sleep, Katie. Okay? Wearing clothes.” I nod. At least I think I do.

“I'll sleep on the floor if you want me to, but I'd actually rather hold you. All right?”

Stupid Kate blinks but doesn't speak.

“Not because I don't want to be with you. I just don't think it's time yet.” He smiles.“I mean, I'm perfectly willing to change my mind if you want me to. Do you?” He kisses me on the forehead. Fog has cleared completely.

TWENTY

Right. Sleep. When the guy you are
definitely
falling in love with is right there, in bed next to you? Yes, and I can move objects with my mind, too.

I turn on my side and watch him sleep. When his mouth drops open and he starts to snore, I morph to Silly Child at Sleepover; I cannot stop giggling. He doesn't budge. I tickle his nose to see what he'll do. He snorts a bit and turns over, then farts—a little tiny one. I'm giddy trying not to laugh out loud. When I finally get myself under control, I settle in, back to back, loving how the bulk of him makes me feel safe. There won't be bad dreams tonight.

I'm not aware of dropping off to sleep—the next thing I know, sunlight's streaming in through the blinds.

I wake first and nuzzle up close; David turns away and pulls the covers over his head. I snuggle again—he snarls. I say, “Good morning,” he mumbles something nasty, sits up, and scratches himself. I go to the bathroom to get dressed and come out prepared to ignore him. Except he's standing in the middle of the room like a little lost boy—with the front of his boxers sticking straight out. I can't help laughing! He grunts as he slams the bathroom door.

We spend the week doing everything tourists are supposed to. We see Alcatraz. We walk over the Golden Gate Bridge and go down into Sausalito. We explore Stanford University, where David's dad went to school. We have dinner at the Top of the Mark. We drive up the coast, all the way to Point Reyes. I call my mom every night and start to catch on to how easy it is to fool a parent.

We start our last day in the Haight-Ashbury for breakfast, trek over to the zoo to ride the merry-go-round, and then rent a rowboat in Golden Gate Park. We end up that night on the San Francisco Beach, huddling for warmth and watching the frothy surf pound on the sand. I cannot ever, in my entire life, remember having this much fun. Back at the house Michael orders dinner for all of us, and before we know it, David and I are alone in our little room.

“This is where I wish I had a script.”

My insides turn to water—his tone leaves little doubt about his intentions. I smile the Stupid Kate smile because I know he's trying to figure out how to end this relationship. What perfect timing—we're packing, it's our last night in San Francisco, and I'm riding home tomorrow with Michael.

“I love you, Katie.”

I stare. I blink. And need I mention? Smile.

“Um …your line?” he says with an impish grin.

Guess what.

“Katie? You probably need to say
something
.”

“Um, yeah…. Wow.”

“Okay, if you could be just a little more specific? Do you mean ‘wow-what-an-asshole' or ‘wow-I-love-you-too'?”