15–Whispers

MARYJANE

Oh no.

Rina is a wonderful public speaker. She has everyone fascinated at her job (storyboarding) and that she grew up on a small farm. How am I going to follow that?

“I’m Maryjane. Um, I work at Flux as an accountant.” Crickets. I’m so boring. There’s nothing these people want to hear about me.

“Tell them about the kittens you rescued,” Rina says.

“Oh!” I launch into a mini speech about the kittens. At the end everyone is ‘awing’ and saying how sweet it is, which is the best reaction I’ve had with my public speaking. Thank god for Rina. I don’t know how she thinks of these things.

“Ok!” The older woman says. “Who wants to go first?”

One by one, everyone delivers their poems, and I’m almost shaking as I watch them. That’s the problem with going last. I’ll be sitting here in fear until I’m done.

“Your turn,” Rina says.

I don’t say anything. I just try not to throw up as I walk to the mic. When I bring my mouth to it the mic makes one of those ringing noises, and it startles me. This isn’t going well.

The poem came to me after my night at Gustavo’s. My voice is small as I speak into the mic.

I can’t stand the frustration

Stitching you shut as you tear me open

Your gentle nips are razor blades

There’s the splatter of brain on pavement

My heart beats faster.

I want you.

Will I make it out okay?

The poem is shorter than everyone else’s, and it’s ok at best. I pull away from the mic and people clap, which I wasn’t expecting.

“I loved it,” one of the hipsters says. “You have amazing use of metaphors. I felt the part where you talked about brain on pavement.” I can’t tell him that’s not a metaphor.

“Thanks,” I respond.

People buzz and talk about poetry for awhile longer, before eventually trickling out. Finally, it’s just Rina and I. She’s sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed and I don’t like the look on her face. Great. I finally make a friend and I piss her off in the first few weeks.

“Did I do something wrong?” I squeak.

“No.” She glares at Gustavo, who’s given up on pretending to read, and is now watching from the library table. “That poem was about him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” My voice is small as I say it.

“I don’t like it. ‘Stitching you up as you tear me open.’ What’s he doing to you? I’m going to go over there and beat his ass.”

That part of the poem was only half a metaphor. But I can’t tell Rina that. ‘Oh yeah he’s a criminal, I found him almost dead at the docks and stitched him up, and now we’re living together.’

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“What’s complicated about it? From what you said, it sounds like he’s physically or mentally abusing you. Or both!”

Oh boy. How am I going to make it out of this one?

“I didn’t want to tell you because you wouldn’t believe me,” I say.

“I knew it!” she interjects. Rina stands up and starts to head towards the door. “I’m going to go over there and beat his ass.”

“No! There’s no abuse.” I grab her arm and pull her back on the sofa. “The story is so outrageous that I didn’t want you to think I’m lying.”

“I would never think you’re lying.”

There’s only one way out of this. I have to tell the truth. I’ll just omit certain parts of our story. Anything that can get him or my dad into trouble.

“Don’t look at Gustavo as I tell you or he’ll know,” I say. I start from the beginning. How my father is the owner of Diego Medical Supplies, and I had to inspect the warehouse at the docks. How I found Gustavo, and against my better judgement, stitched him up. Then all the random happenstances that went on from there.

“Holy shit. Where do I even start?” she says. “You really did see brains on concrete.”

“Yeah.”

“Gross.” Rina looks disgusted as she holds her stomach. “How did you not puke?”

“The two years of med school. I’ve seen nastier things.”

“Oh, right.” Rina’s expression switches from amazed to sad. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I was on the wrong side of the law too, once.”

The look in her eyes tells me I brought up a bad memory. She quickly shakes it off and continues to interrogate me.

“Wait. He was kissing your neck that day. How’d that happen?”

I turn bright red. “Well, um, that is…” How do I say I can’t resist him?

“Your poem. You totally want the guy.”

Part of the reason I’ve been staying in my room is I need to keep away from Gustavo. I can’t take anymore neck kisses. If we kiss, and he tries to go further, I’m going to disappoint him. I’m not ready to have him touch me in those intimate places.

I can tell that Gustavo has done those things with girls, and with how handsome he is it’s probably often. I hate myself for getting angry that he’s touched girls other than me.

The gentle, teasing kisses can’t happen anymore. I know he wants me as badly as I want him, but our intimacy comfort levels are different. This needs to stop.