Old Wounds (17 page)

“Where are you going?” I asked Jason, as he headed toward the Dalton’s stairs. I wasn’t happy to be here again.

He shrugged. “My turn with Robin.”

I made a face, indicating my disgust. “Yuck.” He turned and ascended the stairs. I’d be left alone with the rest of the Screw-Up Club until he returned, and then I’d probably have to be subjected to Bitch Wallace too.

Everyone was sort of milling around, except the Daltons and their entourage. They all sat together on the couch. Well, Elliott was sort of sitting with them. It was obvious that he was a part of their group, but equally obvious that he was a fifth wheel. I turned around quickly, not wanting to engage Pinny Dalton or her brother before it was absolutely necessary.

Moving through the hall, I found Andrea Tuttle next to a table filled with food. She looked absolutely miserable and probably wanted to gorge herself sick. “This is probably the least comfortable place for an anorexic-bulimic girl, you know.”

She looked up at me. “Yeah, but Dr. Dalton’s watching. I have to at least
look
like I’m contemplating eating something.”

I turned, finding the handsome doctor easily. He was in casual clothes, leaning against the archway that led to the kitchen. He wasn’t only looking at Andrea. Dr. Dalton’s perfect cinnamon-brown eyes took in each of the kids in the room.

So, he was the spy. The
sexy
spy. “Damn, he’s fine.” Andrea just snorted. “What? You don’t think he’s sexy as hell?”

She turned to regard him, her eyes traveling from his feet up to the perfectly-groomed hair on his head. Damn, his hair looked good. “No, he’s sexy, but every soccer mom in Damascus has tried to get with him.”

“Well, I’m not a soccer mom.”

“Ew, Sophie.
Please
do not throw yourself at Dr. Dalton.”

Sighing, I tore my gaze from him and turned to her. “Who says I’d
throw
myself at him? Perhaps I would seduce him until he threw himself at me.”

Andrea laughed. “Did your dad put you in therapy because you live in a delusional fantasy world, or what?”

I cracked a smile. Andrea was pretty damn funny. I guess I liked her. “Shut up.”

“I’ll make you a deal. The day you get Dalton, and by that I mean
Doctor
Dalton, to beg you to sleep with him, I’ll eat an entire meal, with dessert, without tossing it five minutes afterward.”

“Well, now you’ve ruined it. How could I call myself your friend if my happiness cost you those calories?” Andrea rolled her eyes and looked like she was going to say something else, but didn’t get the chance.

Dr. Dalton made his way over to us and gave me a winning smile. Part of me swooned and the other part was annoyed by my newfound ability to swoon over all things Dalton. “Sophie,” he said smoothly, “your father is concerned that perhaps you’re not eating enough.”

Andrea’s eyes widened and I said, “What?”

“He’s concerned that…”

Then I remembered last Friday night and my hypoglycemic episode. “I missed
one
meal.”

Thankfully, at that very moment Jason found me and let me know it was my turn with Wallace. While I hated my time with her, I was grateful to be spared a lecture on the importance of monitoring my diabetes.

I found her waiting for me, her worthless little notebook on her lap. “Hello, Sophie.”

I wondered if they taught all shrinks how to speak like that in school. All calming and soothing and shit. “Hi,” I said as I plopped down in the chair. Our eyes locked, and I wondered if we were going to play the staring game today.

I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. “How was your trip to D.C.?”

“Good.” Did she ask Elliott that question? What was his answer? Did he tell her that I practically assaulted him before getting out of the car?

She smiled. “That’s great. I think Elliott enjoyed it too.” After a moment of silence, she said, “Let’s talk about our goals.” She paused to gauge my reaction. “First, I would like to preface this conversation by telling you that it doesn’t take a lot of effort to recognize some of the traumas you’ve undergone as you’ve grown up.” My whole body tensed. “It is also very clear to me that you are reluctant to talk about it. Just so you know, I’m not asking you to talk to me because I’m a therapist Sophie, but because in the long run, it would be far better for you to work these issues out with a trained professional.”

I shook my head. She didn’t know shit. What she had were assumptions. “What
things
are you talking about?”

I was tired and I really wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t care what goals she had for me. I didn’t really care what she knew about me or my past, and I certainly didn’t want to hash out issues that were nothing more than history now.

“I’d like to talk about some of the broken bones and contusions that are very clearly visible on some of your x-rays. Your father released them for me to review with Dr. Dalton.”

“I’m clumsy.”

Wallace shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you do.”

“Why are you protecting your mother? Your father has custody now. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

I had to hand it to her. She was ballsy and straightforward. I looked down at my hands as they picked at the worn fabric covering my knee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sophie.”

I looked up. I just wanted her to drop it. I didn’t understand why she wanted me to talk about my mother. If she and Dr. Dalton had figured out where my broken bones came from, then why the hell did I need to talk about it?

She just sat there looking at me. “Can’t you at least start with an easy topic? Maybe just
pretend
that trust is something that needs to be built?”

“Do you have a hard time trusting people?”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I shook my head. “What do you think?”

Her lips pursed together and she acted like she was truly studying me. “I think you only trust yourself and your trust is very hard to win but once someone has it, you give it to them freely.”

She was so damn wordy. “I don’t know about all that, but if you think I’m just going to trust you because you’ve got some degree or something, you’re an idiot.”

She gave me a smile that was probably supposed to make me feel like she was my friend, but it didn’t work. She still just seemed like some woman trying to weasel things out of me; things she wasn’t supposed to know.

“You’re right, Sophie.” Of course I was right. I didn’t need her to validate it. “If you’re uncomfortable about jumping right into the hard stuff, let’s talk about a lighter subject.”

I shrugged, letting her know she could try.

“How are you enjoying Damascus High? I know you have a class with Elliott, and Photography with Jane, but how are you transitioning?”

That
was what she wanted to talk about? I was beginning to wonder if Wallace was trained at all. “School’s fine.”

“I think it’s great that you’re a photographer. I’ve always thought that having a creative outlet is vital. Perhaps someday you’ll show me your work.”

The rest of the session went the same way. Wallace kept asking me small questions, unrelated to my past, my mother, or what she perceived as my “issues”. Group was boring as hell. Jason’s partner, Olivia, talked about something. I didn’t know what exactly. Maybe something about being picked last for dodge ball as a kid or something ridiculously simple like that.

Honestly, I didn’t want group to end. It meant that I would be alone with Elliott, and I didn’t want that. I was already entirely too wrapped up in him. He should’ve just stayed “Rusty Dalton” and not “Elliott”, who liked Russian novels and music, and had lived in Chicago with a heroin-addicted mother who shot herself in the head.

I sighed deeply. It was no use. I was already attached to the good-looking social outcast who stuttered and didn’t smile enough. There wasn’t any stopping how I felt about him. The only thing I could do was stop myself from
acting
like a fucking fool.

So when group was over, I looked over at Elliott and saw him sitting there as usual, as everyone else got up and headed to various parts of the house. I waited. Finally he looked at me. Still, I didn’t move; even my face was frozen in place. I didn’t know what I was doing or
why
I was testing him, but it felt vital that I force him to make the first move.

His brow creased and his tongue flicked out over his lower lip quickly, his hands rubbing up and down on his thighs. I was making him nervous. He opened his mouth in an attempt to say something, but then gave up and closed it. He let out a breath. Still, I waited.

It wasn’t until he tilted his head toward the stairs that I let myself move, my lips curled up in a satisfied smile. I didn’t break first. I caught sight of his uneven smile as he stood.

Wordlessly, I followed him up the stairs and down the hall to the only place I felt comfortable in the Dalton house. It wasn’t until we were in Elliott’s room that I spoke. My eyes were fixed on the wall, but I knew he was looking at me. With a short nod to the instruments, my voice all soft and girly, I said, “Play something for me.”

My brain didn’t start working again until Sophie disappeared into her house. I was such an idiot! She’d kissed me and I hadn’t been prepared for it. Her roaming hand on my leg was also shocking, because her initiating something like that with
me
had never crossed my mind.

After I dropped her off, I sat at the curb outside her house far longer than was appropriate, and had to force myself to leave before her father came out to scare me away. Even when I got to my house, I sat in the car for nearly a half-hour.

It would have been extremely embarrassing to answer questions about how my day in D.C. went while sporting a relatively painful erection.

Even after all that time, it didn’t subside, so I had no other choice but to go inside and hope no one noticed. I had the bag from the bookstore to keep in front of me, but thankfully I didn’t need it, since the house was quiet when I walked in. I had expected Stephen to be waiting at the door, checking me for any outward signs of anxiety or stress. If not Stephen, then perhaps Jane would be waiting to interrogate me about how pretty Sophie was. The evidence would have spoken for itself.

I didn’t know where Stephen or David was, but Jane must’ve been in her darkroom. Sometimes she lost herself in there, spending hours and hours developing film the way I spent countless hours with my instruments.

Thankful that I wasn’t ambushed, I rushed up to my room, letting the bag drop to the floor as I locked my door.

I was such a freak. A normal teenager could have thought about baseball, grandmothers, dead puppies, or some other clichéd thing to get his penis under control. Not me. As usual, once it was sprung, it had no intention of leaving willingly.

This had happened before, most notably after the thing with Megan Simons my freshman year.

It wouldn’t go away, no matter what I did. There were no real words in the English language to describe how painful something like an erection could be after a couple of hours. I did what I could to relieve the situation, but it had never been natural for me to masturbate.

I was feeling so desperate after a hot shower and multiple attempts at making it go away, that I was beginning to consider asking for help.

I hated even
thinking
about talking to Stephen about the depth of my dysfunction, but he was a doctor and no matter how scared I was of exposing my situation, he probably had some kind of drug that could help me.

I wanted it to go away. I thought of Sophie in every inappropriate way while attempting the act that so many people felt was natural, but as the hours drifted by it became too painful to even touch, and I felt dirty with guilt and shame.

I
had
to go talk to Stephen and hope that he had something to alleviate the situation. It took everything I had to force myself to stand up and walk to his room. It was late and Stephen had been working so many hours at the hospital. I didn’t want to disturb him.

My jaw tightened as I knocked and then waited. I heard a thump and a rustle. My heart started to accelerate. This was a horrible idea. I heard a murmur and I wondered if Stephen was talking to himself. Had I not been preoccupied with the pain I was experiencing, I would have realized sooner that Stephen might not have been alone.

I should have just dealt with the situation on my own. How asinine could I be? I turned and practically ran back to my room.

With the door shut and locked behind me, I realized that I was back to where I started.

I very carefully sank down onto my bed and thought about everything I possibly could that wasn’t related to sex. It took a while before my mind settled on something that could possibly work. It was already on my mind and now was the perfect time to relive it.

As I thought about my blood-and-brain-splattered door back in Chicago, the physical pain lessened.

I awoke on Sunday to the sound of knocking. The clock read twelve-thirty. It had been a long day yesterday, and an even longer night. It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that I fell asleep.

“Elliott, I’m not going to stand out here forever, you know. I don’t care what Dad says, I’ll open this door and drag you out.”

I sighed deeply, shoving the covers off of my legs as I rolled out of bed, tugging on my shirt. I had to put up with David waking me up five days a week, but now on Sunday too? Before I went to the door, I looked down, double-checking that the erection hadn’t returned in my sleep.

Thankful that it hadn’t, I finally unlocked and opened the door. “W-w-what?”

David was wearing his large, dopey smile and pointed to his head. “Rebecca’s over giving haircuts today and if you don’t hurry, she’ll give you a bowl cut.”

I rolled my eyes, but nodded. “R-R-Rebec-c-c-ca d-d-did that?” I nodded to his hair. Rebecca was fairly vocal about her enjoyment of David’s slightly longer hair. I didn’t want to know this, but apparently it felt good when she ran her fingers through it.

He shrugged. “It’s for the Homecoming court.”

Knowing I needed to leave my room before Stephen became worried and called Robin for another session, I said, “I-I-I’ll be d-d-d-down in a m-m-m-mmmm…”

“Minute, got it. I’ll tell Becca to choose something other than a mullet or a bowl cut.”

He winked good-naturedly before turning and retreating down the hall. I shut the door and locked it. Looking down, I saw that the bag of books was still by the door where I had dropped it last night. I bent down to retrieve it and as I created a spot for them in my bookcase, I very carefully trained my thoughts on something other than Sophie. There was no need to accidentally excite myself again.

Not after last night.

Monday was the beginning of a strange and confusing week at school. Sophie didn’t speak to me at all on Monday, nor did she look at me more than once. The smile she gave me wasn’t real.

I didn’t understand it. I thought our trip had gone well, and
she
had kissed
me
at the end of it, not the other way around.

Then on Tuesday we had to complete another task together, and again she barely acknowledged my presence. Maybe my inability to be normal had cost me her respect. Maybe she realized after Saturday that I had absolutely nothing to offer. Maybe she regretted even asking me to go with her.

It could have been any number of things. Maybe it was my failure to return her kiss or my inept speaking ability. Perhaps it was because I foolishly told her all that stuff about my mother. Maybe it was that I didn’t get high like she did.

I was a social leper and Sophie Young had figured it out.

When I entered Ms. Rice’s office that day, I was in no mood to read children’s books. The word “depressed” didn’t even begin to cover the depths of my current emotion. I hated my stuttering. I hated my family history. I hated Stephen and Robin for forcing me to talk to Sophie. I hated just about everything.

So when Ms. Rice asked me if I’d like to pick the book today, I crossed my arms and refused to speak. She tried, but couldn’t get me to budge. I hated that she took my silence as her failure, but I had nothing to say.

I didn’t speak to anyone that day. The worried looks on everyone’s faces didn’t escape me, but there was nothing to talk about. I didn’t want to hear my own stuttering, stammering voice. I didn’t want to hear or acknowledge the verbal ineptitude that I was sure had pushed Sophie away.

Wednesday, Stephen decided that he was concerned enough to call Robin. Once again, I found myself in his study, pinned to the overstuffed chair by the weight of Robin’s stare. “Elliott, what has you silent again?”

Everything
, I mentally answered her.

“Did something happen last weekend on your trip to D.C.? Was Sophie…?”

I fought against my urge to speak, but I lost the battle. If I didn’t speak up, Robin would come up with her own scenario. She would decide that something horrible happened and that Sophie had somehow caused me to regress. She would tell Stephen and then I’d never be allowed to go anywhere or be alone in the house again.

“N-n-no. I-I’m ffffffine, R-Robin.”

Clasping her hands in her lap, she leaned forward, piercing me with her shrink stare.

I sighed exaggeratedly. “I-I’m ffffine,” I said again. One day, she’d believe me when I said that.

That day wasn’t today.

“No, you’re not.” For a moment, she was silent and then her expression changed. It was as if she was deciding something. Finally, she shifted her expression back to neutral. “Why did you go to Stephen’s room last Saturday night?”

My eyes widened. He told her about that? I was back in my room before he even opened the door. How could he have known it was me? Had she been in the room with him? Were they a couple now? Were they…

“Elliott?”

I was tired of being different. Even if I had a horrible childhood, why couldn’t I at least pass as normal, like David? Why did I have to be the one with no friends? Why did I have to be the person Chris Anderson made fun of? “I-I w-w-want t-t-to be n-normal.” I grimaced as the words came involuntarily from my mouth.

It was out there now, and Robin was all too ready to pounce on it. “Define ‘normal.’”

I shook my head and lifted my eyes toward the ceiling. She knew what normal was. Everything I wasn’t. I wished that I could have taken my bumbled words back, but I couldn’t. I had to sit there while Robin scrutinized me, probably making mental notes about my posture or how I picked absently at the skin on my left hand.

“Elliott, this notion you have about what is ‘normal’ is keeping you from seeing that it isn’t the same for everyone. It’s a very subjective concept.”