23
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 16
You sexy little brat,” the boy says, emphasizing the word “sexy.”
I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him watching me. His hungry eyes have followed me as I crossed the schoolyard. I’m used to men staring from a distance now. Ever since I grew boobs and a butt, it’s been that way.
Never as close as this, though.
“Think you’re so much better than the rest of us, don’t ya?” His body presses me against the cinder-block wall behind my high-school auditorium. Rough skin scratches my cheeks as he tries to force his mouth against mine. Whipping my face side-to-side, I avoid his lips. His breath smells like cigarettes and onions. It mingles with the smell of trash from the dumpster next to us. I swear I’ll never eat onions again after this.
Inpatient hands tug at my shirt. “Always got your nose in a book. Think you’re so smart.” He looks at me with a mixture of lust and hate.
Hands raised, I try to fight him, but he easily bats me away. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Keeping a low profile at school, I spend time either in the classroom or the library, always studying hard. I was on my way to return a book when he grabbed me and pulled me back here. He’s a teenager like me, but big and strong.
My cries for help are lost in the sound of our struggle.
Years ago, my mom warned me about this. When I turned 13 and my figure started to develop, she had stood behind me and picked up a lock of my bright copper hair. “You’re getting so pretty, Kitten,” Mom had said in her saddest voice as she ran the strands through her fingers.
I had been confused. Wasn’t it a good thing to be pretty? Shelly and I spent hours searching through women’s magazines, trying to decipher the minuscule differences that made one woman more beautiful than another. We tried to replicate those models, stealing our mother’s makeup and jewelry. Giggling as we put lipstick on each other, exclaiming, “You’re gorgeous, darling,” in fake British accents.
Now my mom was telling me it was a bad thing to be attractive. “People…men…are going to look at you in a certain way. You’ll have to be careful. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
It’s this conversation that comes back to me as the sun-warmed bricks burn my skin. The boy finally gets his hand under my shirt, ripping it in the process. My shouts for help get louder. Reality sets in. This is happening, and I need to stop it right now.
Just when I’ve lost hope, a shape moving so fast it blurs crashes into the boy. The attacker is pushed off and falls to the rough pavement. The sudden movement unleashes my sobs. I should get up and run away, but my legs aren’t responding. My whole body trembles so hard that my teeth chatter.
I watch helplessly at the scene unfolding in front of me. That blur turns out to be another kid from school. Even though I’ve never talked to him before, I know this one’s name. It’s Raphael, but everyone calls him Rafe. He’s hard to miss, with languid cat green eyes and a devilish grin. He never walks or runs, just casually saunters around our campus like he owns the place.
Moving faster than I’ve ever seen from him, Rafe pins the boy down on the ground and sits on top of him. He presses his face close to the kid beneath him and sneers, “You little piece of trash. What do you think you’re doing?”
The boy squirms, not bothering to answer what is clearly a hypothetical question. A look of pure rage has replaced Rafe’s usual sardonic expression. When Rafe’s fist comes out of nowhere and pistons into the kid’s face, both the boy and I whimper at the resounding crack of his nose breaking. Blood gushes down his face, a river of red.
Rafe leans in closer. “If you ever, and I mean ever, so much as look her way again…” Rafe’s blood-stained hand grabs the front of the kid’s shirt. He pulls the boy’s head up and slams it back on the pavement. “I’m going to cut off your dick and stick it so far down your throat you choke on it.” Another head slam into the ground. “Understand?” The boy is still conscious enough to nod.
Rafe stands, pulling the kid with him. He gives the boy one last shake, sending arms and legs flapping like a rag doll. Then he sets him on his feet and shoves him away. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see your face again. If I do, I’m gonna bust it wide open.”
The boy scurries off, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
With the boy gone, Rafe turns to me. I lie huddled on the ground, knees tucked into my chest and arms wrapped around the sides of my head like I’m practicing for an earthquake drill. When he kneels in front of me, I flinch backward, slamming into the wall behind me. My sobbing intensifies.
Rafe holds up a hand and ever so slowly moves it closer to pat me gently on the knee. The kind of comforting pat a grandmother might give you if you fell off your bike.
“You’re okay. Tiffany, isn’t it?”
I nod my head miserably. I didn’t think he knew my name.
Now that the fight is over, Rafe loses some of his bluster. He looks around like he wants someone else to deal with my hysteria. Finding no help nearby, he sighs and gathers me up in his arms, holding me like a child. It’s comforting. I rest my head against his hard chest, all modesty forgotten in my trauma.
When he starts to walk toward the school, carrying me, I panic at the thought of everyone seeing me like this, tear-soaked with torn clothing. It won’t be hard to figure out what happened. I don’t want to be known as the girl who got attacked. The weak girl who couldn’t fight for herself. I clutch Rafe’s shirt and mouth the word “no.”
He changes course, understanding my silent plea, and heads for the parking lot. We end up at a beat-up truck, the color so sun-faded that it’s impossible to tell if it was once gray or silver. It’s been lifted. Aftermarket bright red shocks are visible in the wheel wells.
Juggling me awkwardly in his arms, Rafe kicks open the passenger door and gently hoists me up into the seat. I sit high in the tall truck, easily seeing over the tops of the surrounding cars. He moves around the vehicle and climbs into the driver’s seat. Once settled inside, he turns on the engine. Latin rap music blasts out of the speakers, so loud that I clap my hands over my ears. He quickly dials down the volume until the music is a faint hum in the background, and I lower my hands.
The air conditioner gives a rattling gasp and turns on. Hot air bursts into my face and then slowly turns cold. It’s soothing, the air drying the sweat from my hairline. I’m still crying. It’s like a dam has burst open inside of me, and I can’t plug it up.
A silence settles between us. He looks out his window, giving me privacy to pull myself together. Eventually, I calm down enough to speak. “Thanks for helping me.” It’s a whisper as light as a feather.
He nods in acknowledgment. “That guy’s a prick. He won’t try it again,” he says gruffly. “You should be fine. If he, or anyone else, bothers you, just come to me, and I’ll take care of it.”
I wonder what kind of power Rafe has that he can make these promises with such confidence. Maybe I should be more suspicious, but I believe he can deliver the justice he’s threatening.
“Okay,” I agree. “You’re Rafe, right?”
Emerald eyes turn my way, and my breath catches. It’s likely residue from my earlier adrenaline rush, but everything appears extra sharp and in focus. Like I’ve developed some kind of super vision. I can see the ebony stubble on his cheek. The slight chapping of his lips. Rafe’s not classically good-looking. The artist who drew him was too heavy-handed for that, but he possesses a dark beauty. He exudes magnetism, and I feel its pull.
“Yeah, that’s me.” His voice is deep, a man’s voice in a teenager’s body.
I try to remember if he’s one or two grades ahead of me. The silence settles again, making me self-conscious. Maybe he doesn’t want me here? Should I leave? About to crack open the door and escape, I stop when Rafe asks, “Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”
Caught off guard, I stutter, “Oh, it—it’s okay. I can catch the bus.”
When I look down at my watch, I realize it’s later in the afternoon than I thought. The public transit I usually take home has already come and gone. The next bus won’t arrive for another 45 minutes and by that time Mr. Chen will start to worry.
Although I’ve outgrown the need for a babysitter, most days I still go to Mr. Chen’s after school. He’s kept his promise and teaches me piano and interesting medical facts. When I get stuck doing my homework, Mr. Chen is there to help. He’s good company, quietly puttering around while I work.
I consider calling my mom to come pick me up but decide against it. She’s home sleeping, preparing for a night shift. Mom has looked extra tired recently, dark circles under her eyes and her normally pale skin so translucent I can trace the branching river of veins at her temples.
Not wanting to bother my mother or Mr. Chen, my decision becomes easy. “Yeah. I could use the ride.” I give Rafe my address and directions to the apartment.
Without another word, he puts the truck into gear. It’s a stick shift, so his hand grasps the ball-tipped stick between us. He rests his palm loosely on top, with his hand so close he could touch my knee with the slightest movement. Watching that hand out of the corner of my eye, I’m not sure if I want it closer or farther away.
Red still stains the creases of Rafe’s knuckles. I assumed it was from the boy, but now I see fresh blood oozing. He must have broken the skin.
“You’re hurt,” I exclaim, dismayed. My body lurches toward him, wanting to examine his hand.
Rafe rears back at my sudden movement, shying away. “It’s nothing.” His jaw clenches.
“But you’re bleeding,” I protest.
His laugh is deep and harsh. “Trust me. I’ve had worse.” His eyes scan the road ahead like he’s ready for danger to jump out at any moment.
Uncomfortable with the quiet between us, I resort to small talk. After all, Rafe isn’t filling the air with chatter. “Do you like school?” I ask and then wince. What kind of lame question was that? Who am I? Someone’s nosy great aunt at Christmas?
This earns me a response, at least. An ironic smile crosses his face briefly before falling away. It was a nice smile while it lasted, white teeth against dark skin. “It’s okay. Guess we have to go, right? It’s good for business.”
What does that mean? He’s certainly not selling textbooks. It might be better to stay ignorant about what “business” Rafe does. Before I know it, we’re pulling into my complex. He parks in front of my building, angling his truck so it takes up several parking spots at once. The engine is still running. The heavy door screeches as I wrench it open. I free fall to the ground, landing on my feet so hard that the impact reverberates up my legs. At least I don’t stumble or embarrass myself. When I stand on my toes to peer over the seat, Rafe is looking down at me, his face impassive.
“Well, thanks again…for saving me.” It sounds lame to my ears, but I can’t come up with something better.
“No problem.” He leans over and grabs the handle of the door that I’ve left open. Just before he pulls it closed, he says, “Try to stay out of trouble.”
Then he’s gone, leaving a plume of exhaust behind.
Something changes at school after that day. The boys no longer look at me. Instead, they deliberately look away. It’s so obvious that I decide to test its limits. I place myself right in front of a guy from my gym class and stare into his face. He’s terrified. Quickly averting his eyes, he rushes past, almost knocking me over in his haste.
Rafe must have said something. That’s all I can figure out. I can’t imagine the kid who attacked me told anyone. It wouldn’t look good for him to admit his crime or how he got beaten. Besides, I hadn’t seen him since the attack. Maybe he fled. Or maybe something happened to him?
No, it must have been Rafe. It’s like he’s claimed me, left his mark. Told everyone I was off limits.
So much for getting invited to homecoming this year.
A few days later, I approach him at school, hoping to say thank you again and to ask what he said to the other boys. As we pass each other in the hallway, I call out Rafe’s name. He looks straight at me, so I know he heard, but he walks right past, his face an emotionless mask. I’m open-mouthed, watching his retreating back.
Fine.
We aren’t speaking to each other. Message received. Act like we don’t know each other.
I can do that.