Things Change Read online

  "Paul, that's silly." I was laughing, but he didn't crack a smile.

  "Whatever." Paul slumped back in his seat. "When is this crap going to end?"

  "Paul, it's not my fault."

  "You should just tell your parents off."

  I leaned over toward him. "I can't do that."

  "I tell my mom that all the time. When are you going to stand up to them?"

  "I can't talk to them like that."

  "Can't or won't? Maybe if you went out with Marcus of Kodak that would be okay?"

  "Paul, let's talk about this later. Can't we just have a good time?" I begged.

  "A good time, as long as it is once a week, right?" He bounced his fist off the table.

  "You just don't understand what my parents are like." I was talking slowly, logically, and calmly. I had to make him see my point of view. "You don't know what it's like to have parents like mine. My father—"

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. He pushed the table away, then started toward the door. Not even the sound of "If I Should Fall Behind" filling the room stopped him. He grabbed his coat from the rack and raced outside.

  The freezing wind chilled my face once I grabbed my coat and left the school building. I couldn't just see my breath, I could hack it with an ice pick. The arctic wind just bounced my own words back to me. "Paul! Paul! Where are you?"

  I made it to the car, but while the Bird was there, Paul was nowhere to be seen. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to ask anyone else for a ride; that would just make him even more jealous. I couldn't leave him out here. This was all my fault. I knew better than to mention Paul's father. I never asked; he never told.

  In the distance, I thought I heard Paul crying. I had actually never seen or heard him cry, so I was guessing.

  "Paul? Is that you?" No answer.

  "Paul, please answer me. I'm scared." The quiver in my voice sounded like a warped recording. No answer.

  "Paul!" I was screaming now, pulling punishing gulps of frozen air into my lungs. The source was close now. I navigated the snow piles the best that I could with heels, tracking the fresh footprints in front of me thanks to my years as a Girl Scout.

  The sound was louder, the wind was colder, and my lungs were ready to explode.

  There he was.

  Paul was kicking the huge green Dumpster behind the cafeteria. He was kicking it with the force of a fireman breaking down the door of a burning house. Over and over and over, he slammed his foot against the metal.

  "Paul, stop that!" I shouted as I tried to run over to him.

  He gave the container one last stiff kick, and then turned to face me. It was dark, so there were no details to take in. He was dressed almost all in black; there was no smile shining toward me. There was no moonlight to bounce off his green eyes.

  "Leave me alone." He was breathing heavily.

  "Paul, I'm freezing," I said, reaching a hand out toward him. "Let's get in the car."

  He put his head down and walked right past me.

  I followed close behind him, which was easier than I imagined. Even though I was skating on ice with heels, he was limping. I had to imagine, from what I had heard and seen, that his foot, or at least a couple of toes, must be broken.

  I was standing by the passenger-side door. The light was better, but I saw no tears in his eyes. I didn't say anything; all my well-crafted words had no use here.

  "Paul, let's go, please." I tried to wrap my arms around him, but he pushed me away.

  "Leave me alone."

  "Paul, please, it's freezing—"

  "I said leave me alone, or are you as deaf as you are dumb?"

  He looked so lost, so damaged. I just wanted to hold him. "Everything is going to be okay." I said the words softly, just as he had said them to me so many times when I was worried, upset, or scared.

  The look he gave me was one that I had never seen. Worse than the looks my father gave me. If looks could kill, I would be dead.

  "What did you say?" No cold air went into his lungs as his teeth were clinched too tight.

  "I said everything is going to be okay."

  "Listen, don't you ever say that to me again." He jammed his index finger hard into my collarbone. His breathing was heavy; his tone, icier than the wind blowing over both of us.

  "But Paul, I just meant—"

  "This is all your damn fault, Johanna." His face was two inches from mine, but it could have been two hundred feet, and I could have heard him as loud as his voice was now.

  I was crushed between him and the car. I couldn't move. "Please, I'm freezing."

  "Poor you. You are cold; isn't that too fucking bad. Yours is such a hard life!" Paul screamed at me. He took one step back, then pushed me hard up against the car with all of his strength.

  I seemed almost to bounce off the car back toward him. I was too stunned to do, to say, even to feel, anything. I could feel the tears freezing as they rolled down my face.

  "Get your fat ass in the car!" Paul said as he opened up his door, but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed: The blood was rushing to my face and out of my heart.

  Paul turned the music up loud, then pushed the passenger door open. I let instinct win over intellect and climbed in.

  We drove around—without a word between us—for almost an hour, before Paul pulled into a 7-Eleven. He kept the car running, and that was all I could think of as well: running away. But the physical pain and my utter confusion kept me stuck in my seat. I sat back and started gnawing on my nails.

  Paul returned a few moments later with a grin on his face and a six-pack of Stroh's in his hands.

  "You want one?" he asked as he got back in the car.

  "No," I said very firmly.

  "Whatever," he said, peeling out of the parking lot. We drove around the back streets of Pontiac listening to Springsteen while I held back tears and Paul downed beers, tossing the empty cans into the backseat. There was nothing to say. As Paul finally pulled off the freeway and headed toward my house, he turned down the music and leaned against me.

  "Look, Joha, I'm sorry," Paul said.

  "Please, Paul—"

  "I want you to kiss me," he said, pulling me closer to him. Before I had a chance to answer or act, Paul jerked the car to the side of the road. We were about a mile from my house on a stretch of road without any houses. Paul turned off the lights.

  "I said, I want you to kiss me," he repeated softly into my ear, although the words were slightly slurred. "I bet if I were Marcus, you would want to kiss me."

  I tossed my hands in the air. "Paul, that is so wrong. Why are you playing these games?"

  "You want to play games, Johanna. We'll play games," he said, crawling into my seat, lying on top of me.

  "Paul, get off me." I tried to push him off, but he was too strong.

  "How about this game?" He was totally on top of me, his hands pinning down my arms. His weight made me unable to move, or even breathe.

  "Please, Paul."

  Paul thrust his arms underneath my coat and my sweater. "What's wrong with this game?" His elbow was digging into my stomach as he roughly squeezed my breasts.

  "Get off me, please." I tried to get away, but he was pressing down too hard against me.

  "What's wrong? Marcus wear you out?" Paul's eyes were dead.

  "Paul—" But that name really meant nothing. I didn't know this person looking at me with such anger. I didn't want to know this person. I just wanted to get away.

  "Shut up! Where is Marcus now? Why don't you call him to come save you? Is Marcus who you are going to be with when you abandon me? Is he?" Paul screamed at me.

  "Paul, stop!" He pulled his hands from under my sweater and tried to cover my mouth.

  "Shut up! Isn't there something better you could do with your mouth than run it?" I heard him shout as he unzipped his pants.

  "Don't touch me!" I screamed, still trying to push him off me.

  "Oh, I'm done touching
," he said, smashing the back of his hand hard across my face. The second blow was with the palm. It was with more force. It drew blood from my nose and sent my glasses flying. The third was another backhand shot, so hard I think it loosened some of the teeth my parents had paid to have straightened. He moved off me and collapsed in his seat.

  I reached out with my right hand and pushed the car door open and fell out onto the pavement. I scrambled to get to my feet. I started running; although with no moon in the sky and no glasses on my face, I was almost blind. The tears running down my face and the blood flowing from my nose made it hard to breathe, but still I ran.

  I had made it only a few yards up the road when the Firebird roared up behind me. I heard the door slam, and seconds later Paul was pulling me toward him.

  "I'm sorry, Joha, I'm so sorry." He grabbed on to me, smothering me in his arms. I was exhausted. I couldn't fight him and win. He picked me up, an inch off the ground, and pulled me back to the car. I tried to push away, but I didn't have the strength; his grip was too tight.

  "Joha, let me explain," Paul said, pushing me into the car. I thought about making a run for it, but even if I got away, this scene would just be replayed over and over again.

  He reached out to wipe the tears from my eyes, but I turned away, crunching myself into a little ball in the corner, the safest shelter I could find.

  "Joha, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. I just—" He handed me my glasses.

  "Take me home." I don't know how he could understand anything I was saying. I was speaking through the noise of the tears, sniffles, and heavy breathing.

  "Let me explain."

  "I don't want an explanation." I was hissing the words. He didn't say anything. He turned the music off, so the only sound was my out-of-control crying.

  Before the car came to a complete stop in my driveway, I opened the door. I tried to escape, but he grabbed on to my left arm and tried to pull me back inside.

  "Joha, let me make it up to you—"

  I looked down at his hand touching mine, then looked him right in those green eyes.

  "Joha, I don't know what else you want me to say. I said I was sorry. Let's just forget it. Everything is going to be okay, trust me."

  "No, everything is not going to be okay!" I shouted. I jerked my arm away from him and slammed the car door behind me. My eyes filled with tears. I knew the taste of these tears, although they were new to me. These were tears that tasted of never again. It was over.

  TWENTY

  My mother was at the front door, but she never got a word out of her mouth. I raced through her smoke screen, going past her so fast that she didn't get to ask one question about, or take a close look at, the blood trickling down my nose or the tears running down my face. I hit the stairs in a dead run, taking them two at a time. I flung open the door to my room and tossed Paul's parka onto the floor, then locked the door behind me.

  I grabbed a T-shirt—a Springsteen T-shirt that Paul had given me—from a drawer and used it to wipe away the blood from my nose. I hurled the T-shirt onto the floor, tossing it away from me like it was garbage. I wanted to cry, but I heard my mother's footsteps coming up the stairs.

  "Johanna, what's wrong?" she said, knocking on the door.

  I couldn't speak. I couldn't tell anyone, especially her. I wanted to be Alice and disappear down the rabbit hole.

  "I want you to open this door, do you hear me?" The pounding grew louder.

  I took a deep breath and walked toward the door. I leaned against it but didn't turn the knob.

  I looked down through my tears and saw the doorknob twisting. "Johanna Marie, you open this door right now!"

  I unlocked the door and quickly turned away, my mind racing to invent the lie that would keep me free from both her questions and her contempt.

  "You know you are not supposed to—" my mother started, but stopped when I turned around for her to see my face.

  "What is going on here?" she asked, but the tone was not that of the Grand Inquisitor but one of real concern for my well-being.

  "I fell on the ice in the parking lot at school. I'm okay, just a little bruised." I tried to hide my eyes from her the entire time I spoke.

  I waited, praying that she would believe me. To speak the truth, to tell her that Paul did this, to admit that she was right and I was wrong—that I couldn't do. Not now, not yet. Not ever.

  "Do you need me to take you to the hospital?" my mother asked, her instincts for control overcome by her primal instincts of motherly love for an injured child. "What can I do?"

  I paused again, considering the question. I needed someone to talk to about this, but it couldn't be her. "No, it's not that bad. I just need to sleep, that's all."

  "Let me get you some aspirin and a cold compress," my mother continued, not willing to let go.

  "I'm fine, really, Mom," I said, very softly, almost in a whisper.

  "That doesn't look fine to me," my mother said as she started out of the room. "I'll be right back."

  There was no use in disagreeing with my mother; I would never win. As she walked away, determined to do what she wanted rather than what I said I needed, it became so clear to me. I had been able to hide the bruises from her under clothes, but this one I couldn't cover. Nor did I think I would be able to hide my hurt from breaking up with Paul. The solution was so simple. When my mother pushed, I wouldn't push back. I wouldn't argue or disagree. If I went along, I could get along. With no fighting, there would be no questioning. If there was no questioning, then my shame from this night would remain secret.

  My mother returned, setting two aspirins and a glass of water on my desk, then handed me the cold compress. To my surprise, she then hugged me and kissed me gently on the forehead. "Johanna, if you need anything . . ."

  "I know Mom, I know," I said, but that was the whole problem. I wanted to give in to my need for her, but as long as I needed her, she could control me. My life wouldn't be my own; it would be hers. No. This was the night my life would start. I was taking it back from my mother, back from Paul. This throbbing pain in my face felt like the new me laboring to be born.

  "I love you, Johanna," she said, then hugged me again and walked away. I collapsed next to the door, listening to her footsteps, then the sound of her bedroom door closing. I rubbed my hand against my face, feeling the damage done. How could those hands that had touched me so gently, that had moved me with passion, have done this to me?

  I stared up at the ceiling. I felt like it was pushing down on my chest, but it was just the memory of Paul on top of me. No wonder I couldn't take a decent breath. Reaching up to touch the side of my face again, I could feel the bruise forming. How was I going to explain this away? I had been able to hide the bruises on my arms from when Paul hurt me before, but how could I explain this to anyone? I rubbed my hands over it again and again, trying to make it go away, trying to erase it from my face and the memory of it from my mind. I moved my hands up a little and felt the star-shaped earrings dangling from my lobes.

  I jerked the earrings off. Like a woman possessed, I crawled over to my desk. I pulled the bottom drawer out, tipping the con tents on the floor: the wrapping paper, the boxes, the cards, the ribbons, and the bows. I emptied the trash can next to my desk, then dumped into it all those precious souvenirs. Beneath them were ticket stubs to movies and all the Baskin-Robbins bags. I went over to my books and pulled out the ones that had the rose petals pressed in them. The rose petals were silent as they floated into the trash.

  I opened the door and looked, to make sure my parents' bedroom door was closed. I picked up the trash can and lugged it downstairs into my father's office. On a low shelf I found a bunch of big mailing envelopes and dumped the mass of paper into them. In my right hand I clutched the earrings. I hesitated for a second, and then tossed them inside. I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, getting as far as "Dear Paul" until I realized, words meant nothing and tossed the paper into the trash.

  I wrote Paul's name and ad
dress in big bold letters on the envelopes, then sealed up all the evidence of our past together. I covered the envelopes with stamps, but didn't put a return address on them. From the hall closet I grabbed my old long coat, and then found my mother's car keys on the kitchen table.

  I drove a couple of miles to the nearest post office. I kept the car running and took the envelopes with me. Balancing the envelopes on the top of the mailbox, I opened the door, but I couldn't close the door. I couldn't do it; it was too hard. Standing alone in the middle of the night on the side of the road, I looked up to the open sky. It was so black, I was so small, and I felt so lost and alone. But that moment of hesitation allowed my anger to rush back in, and that was all it took. The tears started to fall. I wouldn't, I couldn't, I shouldn't let this happen to me. I reached up to wipe the tears away. As my left hand brushed over my face where Paul struck me my right hand dropped the envelopes into the mailbox.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Dear Dead Dad:

  It's Paul, again.

  I am alone here in room 127 of the Atlas Mini-Storage. Alone. I had better get used to it.

  Once I left Johanna's house, I hit the gas hard enough to see if the Firebird would live up to its name and fly through the air. Then when it crashed into the ground, would the screeching sound of the metal open the way for the ball of fire? When I drove over the bridge just before getting on the interstate, I can't tell you how tempted I was just to turn right about twenty feet too early. I could fly off the edge of the bridge, crash, and burn.

  I felt a thousand miles from myself as I drove around and around that night. I drove fast, wanting to break the speed of light. I wanted to hurl myself back in time. Then I could erase Johanna. And Carla. And Vickie. Maybe I could even go back in time far enough so I could talk to you and beg you not to leave.

  I skipped school today, just like the day before and the day before that. I can't face anyone there; I can barely stand myself right now. I went to work, getting that good hurt in my back, just like you used to have hanging hoods on the line. Let's share our pain: both the taking and the giving. I'm feeling little pain right now, thanks to the Stroh's Brewing Company; I'm feeling lots of pain right now, thanks to the United States Postal Service. Here's what went down. I had just walked in the door from work when the phone rang. I knew it was Johanna. Carla always came back and things were much worse; Johanna would come back to me.