Of Hustle and Heart (21 page)

CHAPTER 37

ZINA

S
hannon refuses his last drink, and I don’t drink anything at all. The two of us sit on the couch. Shannon’s crowding me, watching and catering to me as if I’m his six-year-old niece.

Between him, Rock, and Bee, I finally relax, realizing that I really have no choice. I don’t want to ruin their night. This means a lot to them. It’s the night of our senior prom, so I suck all my crazy, traumatized stuff up for a few hours, hoping the next episode will come when I’m alone.

“Did you notice that there wasn’t a gift from me?” Shannon asks.

“No, I didn’t pay attention. I’m sorry,” I reply.

“It’s downstairs.”

“Why is it downstairs?”

“Will you please come down with me? But you don’t have to. No pressure.”

I shake my head. “I don’t really want to.”

“But you could get a moment to yourself. You’re so uncomfortable. I don’t have to come with you. I’ll give you both keys.”

“I’m kinda tired. I just want to go to sleep.” He scoots closer and grabs my hand. My face twists. I try to hold back tears. “But I don’t want go anywhere by myself.”

“I’ll carry you.” He squeezes my hand, a glimmer of innocence and hope in his go-light-green eyes. I can’t picture Shannon carrying me anywhere and think it’s foolish for him to offer.

“Why is it such a big deal for you to get me downstairs?”

“You’re right.” He recoils and sits back on the sofa. “Forget it.”

I feel guilty, and the last thing I need is to feel guilty. I’ve always trusted Shannon, even after the whole dramatic thing with his fugazi ex-girlfriend. I don’t want that to change. It’s unfair to both of us that our relationship—our friendship—should change because of what some piece of crap did to me. It’s hard holding back tears and swallowing my sour, disheartening fear. I agree to go with him. We stand up, and he scoops me up, my dress and legs sweeping up from the floor.

“Don’t be stupid. Put me down.”

“Nah. Let’s go,” he says, beaming.

When the elevator doors open, Shannon steps off with me still in his arms.

“Um…” I say, looking around, “you can put me down now.” He ignores me and keeps walking.

“We’re almost there,” he says, stopping in front of room 319. “I thought if we got tired, we could hang out here. Peace and quiet, you know.” He put me down slowly. “If you don’t want me to come in with you, I won’t. I promise.”

The door to the room across from ours is open. A chocolate-skinned boy dressed impeccably in prom attire steps into the hallway. As Shannon digs our room keys from his pocket, I glance inside the chocolate boy’s room and see Beatrice perched calmly on the edge of the sofa inside. She sees me too and stands immediately, straining to see out into the hallway.

“Give me a key.” I hold my hand out toward Shannon, nudging him. Then, like the tsunami that she is, Beatrice storms into the hallway.

“Shannon!” He freezes at the sound of her voice, the warmth in his eyes fading. He turns nervously to face her.

“Tris.” He stares at her. “How’s your night going?”

The tension between them is dreadfully thick. If I could claw my way through our room door, I would. Beatrice’s date, who’d started his trip down the hallway with an ice bucket, halts when he hears Shannon and Beatrice talking.

“Shannon,” I say, tugging on his hand, “give me the room key.”

Beatrice looks at Shannon and starts to cry. I hate to see it. I step away from them, while Shannon looks at her.

“What the fuck, Beatrice,” he says.

“Shannon,” she whimpers. “Please…don’t.”

“We need this time apart, Tris. It’s better.”

Her date reaches for her. She puts up one hand to stop him, her eyes never leaving Shannon’s face.

“It’s not good for me,” she says, shaking her head desperately.

As Beatrice rattles on about how much she loves him, how happy she is that Shannon is her boyfriend, and how they’re meant to be, he puts an arm around me and nudges me toward our door.

“Tris, you gotta decide that you’re gonna be okay.”

I look up at Shannon, hearing the sentiment in his voice. He loves her and doesn’t intentionally want to hurt her. At this moment, we’re all hopeless, a small part of each of us breaking simultaneously. I tilt my head, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t want the baby,” Beatrice says.

I pause, stunned, my mouth gaping. I look at Shannon. He flinches at the word
baby
and refuses to meet my eyes. I look at Beatrice’s date. He’s ready to burn.

“Tris…” His voice sounds gravelly; he seems barely able to speak. “I didn’t want the baby either. You’re right.
I’m
too young. But we are
not
meant to be.”

“You love me,” she says, pressing her palms over her exposed chest. “You said you did.” She looks beautiful in her silky peach dress as she sweeps the bottom of it to the side and steps toward us. “Please don’t do anything with her. Don’t touch her.”

He moves in front of me, handing me the room key. “Go in,” he says.

“No!” She tugs on Shannon’s arm. “If you ever cared at all. Shannon, please.”

I want no part of this, and I consider going inside and locking him in the hallway with her. I slide the key in the door, and Shannon reaches around me to push it open with one hand. He grabs my hand and pulls me inside, the door shutting behind us.

I can hear Beatrice crying in the hallway. I’m transfixed behind the closed hotel room door. I move closer and press my ear to it. She’s complaining to her date, blubbering about how Shannon just threw her away for me. I feel bad for her. She loves him more than I do right now.

“What’s she saying?” Shannon asks, removing his suit coat while I stand pressed against the door.

“She really loves you,” I whisper.

“Come away from the door.”

“Maybe you should go to her.”

He looks at me as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Stop,” he says.

“I’m not prepared to deal with a love triangle. Can’t do it. Shit’s crazy.”

“I’m sorry about Beatrice. She takes meds for her mood swings.”

“Meds, huh? Lucky girl.”

“Get away from the door, Zina.”

I move away slowly. Beatrice is not fine, the chinks in her armor becoming more noticeable by the second. Her reality is one she’s unable to accept. Shannon being with me must be unimaginable. I know the damage that’s caused when you become a victim of the unimaginable, how it changes you. I’m frustrated with Shannon for being stupid and not seeing that neither one of us is fine. Beatrice’s grief is shallow in a way, sobbing and making a gushy scene over a boy because he quit her for another girl. Shit’s pretty weak. Still, I recognize the pain, and I empathize with her. I wonder if she’d hate me less if she knew I could relate to her emotional shit storm.

“Why do you want to do this?” I walk over and stand in front of him. “You got a girlfriend in the hallway losing herself and another girl in here trying to hold herself together.”

“She’s fine. You’re fine.”

“She’s not fine,” I say, watching anger spark in Shannon’s eyes.

“God. She’s never fine. Never. There’s always something someone will do to upset her.” He stands from the bed and backs up until he’s standing in the middle of the room. “She needs to deal. Take her medicine. Calm down or whatever.”

I’m shocked he’s so insensitive. “I thought you cared about her.”

“I don’t want to talk about it…her. She’ll be fine. It’s ruining the night.”

“Night’s already ruined, Shannon. Can’t you tell?”

Standing perfectly still near the bed, I’m ready to leave. I move closer to the door, waiting for the hallway to go quiet. Soon I hear no more voices, and a door clicks across the hall.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Shannon says. “What’s wrong with you? You’re nervous all the time. You don’t want to be around anyone. You don’t want to be around me.”

I put my hand on the doorknob.

“Zina!”

The unyielding force in his tone prompts me to stop.

“We haven’t really been talking,” I say, my throat burning. I feel panic rising in me. I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold on. “But it’s not you.” I try to assure him, my body quivering. “Don’t think that it—” I break into tears, reminding myself of the girl we’d just left in the hallway. “It’s not you…or anyone else.” I sob.

Shannon stands still, watching the flood of tears stream down my face. It’s a hard cry. One that I cannot control. Through blurry eyes I can almost see the lump in his throat. He steps toward me. Unable to speak, I hold my arms out, signaling for him to keep his distance. He backs away until he’s almost in the far corner on the opposite side of the room.

“Tell me,” he croaks. “Tell me what happened.” His pain is a reflection of mine.

No longer able to stand, I back into a corner, wedging myself between a desk and the bed. Sobbing, I slide down the wall, collapsing into a pile of charmeuse silk, barely able to breathe. I fall to my side, and I lie there.

“No,” I say as Shannon moves toward me. Shaken, he backs away and sits on the floor on the other side of the room.

I cry for what seems like hours as he watches, helpless, stinging emotion and glassy tears all over his face. He sits propped on his knees as if ready to intervene on my behalf and chase away whatever boogey man haunts me. When I quiet down, my loud gasping and coughs depleting into tiny whimpers, he crawls toward me.

“Zina.” His voice is grave. I continue sobbing. He clears his throat. “You’re scaring me. I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“It’s nothing.” I lie on the floor, distant and tired. My voice sounds hollow and faraway as my spirit flutters from the room. “I was raped. I didn’t want to…but he did.” I crane my neck to look at Shannon. “You’re the only person who knows. It’s been a week,” I whisper. I see his hands begin to shake.

“Can I come closer?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. I like you on that side of the room.”

I nod in and out of sleep as Shannon keeps his promise and leaves me alone in my corner. He talks to me, never knowing whether I’m awake or not to hear him. Occasionally he ask questions I can hear but don’t bother to answer. At one point I awake up underneath a blanket he’d pulled from the king-size bed. I jerk up to find Shannon sitting Indian style, his tie removed, his shirt untucked, and shoes sitting next to him.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I could tell you were cold.”

I lie back down.

“Did you go to a doctor?” I don’t respond. “Let me take you.”

“I don’t want anyone to know,” I mutter.

“So no police?”

“Fuck the police.” I pull the blanket tight around me.

“Stop it. That’s not funny. You have to. You can’t let this dude—”

“No cops.”

“What if he does it again?”

“I don’t care.”

“I do!” he snaps. “The only thing I know to do is to take you to the hospital. It’s the only way I know how to help. Let me help you. Please.”

I push the blanket off and get up from the floor. “No! You can’t help me, Shannon. That’s not why I told you. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t face it alone. If you tell someone…it would be too much. It’s too late anyway. I washed away any traces of him.”

Shannon jumps up and runs to my side. “Who was it?” He grabs my arms and shakes me a little.

“You don’t know him.” I sob.

“Does he go to our school?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want you to take me home.”

“What? Why?”

“Can you just let me go? Please.”

Before I leave, I wash my face as best as I can and rinse with mouthwash. Shannon calls a cab for me after he asks again why I won’t let him take me home. And again I ignore his question. I don’t want Shannon to know that I’m not going to Tony’s. His talk of going to the cops set my guard on high. I’ve never liked cops, and I don’t trust them as far as I can spit. There’s no cop who gives a shit about me or what I’ve gone through. I don’t need them. And I don’t want them creepin’ around my life. It’s bad for business.

My cab comes in about thirty minutes, and by six forty-five I’m knocking at Tony’s door. I knock because I don’t want to ring the doorbell, and I text because I get tired of knocking. I stand outside for what seems like forever. I can already tell it’s going to be a hot day, as the sun begins to peek above the horizon. I pull my hair up and use the wristlet corsage as a ponytail holder. Finally, Tony unlocks the door and looks at me through a crack in it before he pulls it open. He’s shirtless and shoeless, wearing only black pajama bottoms.

“How’s everything?” he asks.

I shrug. “Fine. I have a little pot left. I’ve made a lot of money.” I hold out the skirt of my dress. “See my dress? It cost a grip.” I force a smile. “Real charmeuse silk.”

He chuckles.

“You look tired.” He steps outside and stands over me, staring into my face. It returns. The heat I felt the last time I was with him. But now it makes me feel used and nasty instead of loved or wanted. He grabs at the layers of my dress.

“I think someone missed you,” he says. “He’s been wandering around the house, not knowing what to do with himself.”