By now, most of the girls in her class knew there was something wrong with her. Not just in the way she walked but they figured out she had something to hide, too. Some would come out and ask her what happened, others would ask why she always changed in the girl’s toilet stall instead of out in the open like everyone else.
The girl always had an answer. To the first question, she would tell people she was attacked by a shark. Sometimes it was a bear. Other times it was a tragic skiing accident in the Swiss Alps. There was always an exciting story to think up and the girl was a natural at lying. The second question was worse. If she admitted the accident had given her scars, the scars, those burned red ribbons of horror, they would always ask to see. So the girl told the others that she was shy, or that it was against her religion. With high school being the cesspool that it was, that started a rumor about her being a frigid prude. Well, it was better than the one that had her sleeping with Camden McQueen in the ninth grade.
But no matter how used to the questions and the whispers and the looks that the girl got, every time gym class would come, she’d be a barrel of nerves. It didn’t help that in the tenth grade she got Mr. Kane: a tall, paunchy asshole of a man with a balding crew-cut and the desire to make every girl’s life a living hell. Mr. Kane wasn’t even a proper gym teacher—he taught law class to twelfth graders. And yet there he was, barking at young girls to give him push-ups or a few more laps around the track.
The girl hated to run. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, but she was slow and her run was worse than her walk. She couldn’t do sports like soccer or hockey either, anything that could involve impact for her scars or required a lot of balance and quick turns. Consequently, she was always picked last when it came for teams for the sports that she could play.
On that particular day it was a game of soccer in the sun-baked grass field behind the school. As she had done many times before, she went up to Mr. Kane and told him she couldn’t play and would have to sit it out.
And like the many times before, Mr. Kane turned to her with nothing short of disgust.
“Again, Miss Watt?” he sneered over his clipboard.
She swallowed hard and hated how she had to prove her disability when most of the time she was trying to hide it. “Yes. You know I have a disability.”
“Actually, I don’t know. I never received a doctor’s note and you look right as rain to me. I’m a bit tired of these excuses, Ellie. You can walk, right? So you can play soccer.”
She shook her head and stood her ground. “It’s not an excuse. I can’t. I might get hurt and then I won’t be able to walk for days.” Why did he have to be such an asshole? Couldn’t he see from her eyes how sincere she was?
By now a few girls had crowded around him, girls she wished would go back to touching up their makeup on the sidelines. Vicky and the girl now had an uneasy truce, but as the years went on, new mean girls took the reins at the school and didn’t ignore her the way that Vicky did now. These girls loved to tease the girl every chance they got.
Mr. Kane folded his arms over his fat stomach, an almost impossible feat. “To tell you the truth, I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Soccer never hurt anyone. You’re just hurting yourself—and your grades—by refusing to play. Maybe you should stop being a little baby about all of this and man up.”
The girls snickered and Mr. Kane looked ridiculously pleased with himself. The girl felt an anger pushing up through her veins like a swarm of malevolent bees.
“I’m not a baby! I have a—“
“A disability, yes we know. But what is your disability? Does it have a name?”
“Sir Limps A Lot!” one of the girls shouted, somehow conjuring up that dreaded earlier nickname. The girl felt like stomping her pretty red head into the grass. With cleats.
“Hey, be nice,” Mr. Kane tossed over his shoulder at her in a vain attempt to look like a diplomatic teacher and not some controlling, sexist moron. He looked back to the girl. “Come on. Tell us what it is. Tell me what happened to you, tell me exactly why you can’t play the game, and I’ll let you off.”
All eyes were on her, watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer. She couldn’t tell them the truth, tell them what really happened to her. If she did, she’d shame her parents and they’d been shamed enough. No one would believe the truth anyway. No one would believe it happened because she’d been caught trying to steal from one of the Gulf Coast’s most powerful drug lords.
“I…” the girl started but couldn’t find the right excuse, the right answer that would satisfy all of them. She looked down at the ground, her cheeks heating.
“I knew it,” someone in the crowd said, “it’s probably something lame like she has one leg longer than the other.”
“Ha, lame, get it!” joked someone else.
As she stared at the grass, she could see the high noon shadow of Mr. Kane slowly shaking his head. Not believing her.
“All right, well then you’ll have to play,” he said, sounding so far away. “Or you’ll fail the class.”
She wanted to scream “you can’t do that!,” she wanted to threaten to sue him, to report him to the principal. She wanted to do all of those things and she certainly had a right to. She might even win.
But she wanted to put an end to it once and for all. Just to get it fucking over with.
She snapped her head up and glared at everyone, their faces becoming an anonymous blob in the harsh sunlight.
“You want to see? Do you want to see why I can’t play? Why I have nerve damage to my leg?” she yelled at them sharply, her voice cracking in places. Everyone, including the teacher, was stunned into an uneasy silence, as if they were afraid the girl would reveal she was some hungry, fire-breathing dragon underneath, ready to devour them all.
The girl stuck out her right leg and with one yank, she rolled up the leg of her sweatpants to the knee.
Everyone gasped. A few covered their mouths. Mr. Kane looked startled and reproached. The girl knew what her leg looked like, knew what an acid burn did when it covered an entire leg. She kept her harsh eyes on everyone else, making sure they saw it. Making sure they got it.
Finally Mr. Kane said, “That’s enough, Ellie. You’re excused. Please sit at the sidelines and observe the game.”
He turned and pushed his way through the girls, who were still staring in horror and disgust, even when the girl rolled the pant leg back down. At least now they understood why she changed in the bathroom stall, why she never wore shorts to gym class, why she wore jeans in 100-degree heat.
She had to.
“Come on, girls, either we start this game or you’re all giving me five laps around the track,” Mr. Kane barked as he began unloading the soccer balls. “Now!”
At that, they all jumped to attention and quickly left the girl to her own devices. She could hear them whispering to each other as they scattered, but the girl didn’t want to hear what they were saying.
She sighed, her breath shaking like a leaf, and carefully walked across the field and over to the sidelines. She sat down on the bench and watched.
She thought exposing the truth and getting out of class would have brought her a sense of relief. But it only brought her a sense of shame. She’d seen their faces, their reactions. The girl wasn’t the fire-breathing dragon, but she was a monster all the same.
Now
The cozy flannel bedspread was wrapped around us, our limbs entangled in its softness and each other. After Camden and I retreated into the house, wrapped in only cheap IKEA blankets, we decided to finish off the bottle of wine and raid his cupboards for something that would make up for the lost steak dinner. We settled on grilled cheese with tomato basil soup. Not exactly gourmet, but after the sex, we didn’t really care.
Nor did we bother getting dressed. When dinner was done, Camden decided he was still hungry and proceeded to go down on me in front of the freshly-made fire. The man had some serious skill with his tongue and this time, with no neighbors to worry about, I really let go, screaming out his name loudly and gripping the top of his head with each spasm.
Naturally, I returned the favor. He didn’t even have to ask; I’d been wanting to take his cock in my mouth the whole night. I’d wanted a nice clear view of him while I sucked him off, watching his beautiful eyes roll back in his head, his body become more rigid by the second.
And if that wasn’t enough to exhaust a person, we ended up in the bedroom for our final course. Nothing fancy here, just the good ol’ missionary position. Women may scoff at it, but I’m telling you, when you have an all-male machine of strength and hard muscle primed above you, pounding you to the bed while spearing you with his eyes, there’s no better feeling in the world. To me, missionary is all about being taken.
That’s probably why I felt a little tender and vulnerable afterward. I wasn’t one for spooning, but I let him hold me pressed up against his naked body, his mouth laying soft kisses on the base of my neck. I was delirious, tired and a bit sore from all the sexual escapades. And with all that, I felt that little tug at the base of my belly, the one that produced butterflies and caused your heart to burst. One—okay, a few—stints in the sack with this man and I was starting to get emotionally attached.
I let out a long breath and snuggled my head further down into the soft pillow. I’d let myself feel all lovey-dovey and whatever for tonight. Just for tonight. Then tomorrow, I had to shut off my heart and it was business as usual.
“Do they still hurt?” Camden whispered into my hair.
I paused. “What?”
“Do the scars still hurt?”
I raised my head and twisted around to face him. His eyes had heavy lids from the lust and impending sleep, but they were curious and kind. I chewed on my lip, wiggling my jaw back and forth, debating whether I should get into another one of these discussions. But I decided to embrace it and tell the truth.
“All the time,” I answered softly.
His eyes crinkled at the corners in sadness and he gently kissed me on the forehead.
“I’m sorry they still hurt,” he said.
I nodded. “Me too.”
Feeling brave and honest, I pulled the bedspread back and showed him my leg. He had seen it many times that night, you know, with all the nakedness, but his eyes never lingered, he never reacted and never questioned. Now I wanted him to see.
He took his hand and held it above my leg. I tensed, not knowing what he was going to do. He gently placed his fingers on it and traced the ribbons from the back of my heel all the way up my calf and shin to the knee. I shivered from his touch, the sensitive scar tissue making me feel everything to the bone.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asked, tracing his fingers up and down.
“No,” I said, barely able to speak. It actually felt nice, pleasurable enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I’d never let anyone touch them before, except the occasional doctor.
“It’s like art, Ellie,” he said gently and looked up at me. His eyes looked wet in the table lamp’s amber light.
