Read I'm Not Her for Free Online Page B
Authors: Janet Gurtler
virginity to. I want to tell her that she will have sex with someone else and it will be beautiful and perfect, like the romance books she likes to read.
I want to tell her that she’s brave and I love her. But I don’t know how to say it. Talking about things is not what I do.
So I sit in silence. I close my sketchbook and toss the magazine on the floor. I close my eyes and imagine all the things I should have said.
chapter five
Kristina refuses to go to school on Monday. I don’t really blame her. Far as I’m concerned, she deserves time to mope. Time to contemplate her abandoned virginity and the fact that a disease is eating away at her bones. She deserves whatever she wants right now.
And honestly, I don’t really want to face her, and even though my lameness offends even me, I skedaddle out the door while she’s arguing with Mom. Mom is blabbing on about keeping up appearances.
I should go back inside and yell at her to leave Kristina alone to chill and watch TV all day if that’s what floats her boat. Instead I clutch my backpack, run to the garage, take out my hot pink bike, and hop on it, zipping off down the road, not wanting to pick sides or face my sister and everything that’s happened.
My shame turns to anger and it propels me along, and for a while I forget how much I hate exercise as I pedal. Soon my butt is aching, but at least the wind dries my damp hair. I consider it a free blow-out without having to deal with Mom’s annoying hairdresser in her clothes two sizes too small and two decades too young.
I finally reach the school just as my legs are telling me to stop pedaling already. I’m about to pull into the parking lot when a horn honks behind me. I almost fly off the seat of my bike. A car streaks by and through the rear window I see Bree, one of my sister’s teammates, giggling in the passenger seat. I recognize the driver too. Drunk Pimple Guy from the party.
His car is a Pile, capital P. Rusting and dented, an ugly thing from the 1990s. I want to give them both the one-finger salute but I’m afraid to take my hand off the handlebar in case I wipe out.
I drop one foot to the ground, watching as they squeal into a parking spot. I could waste more energy being mad at them and their low IQs and thus low form of seeking entertainment, but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t even bother to watch them get out of the car.
Instead I picture my sister’s face. Her bitter and broken laughter. The way she stepped on the gas pedal on the way to Devon’s, drove like she was Thelma or Louise in the movie our mom made us watch on an imposed “Girl’s Night.”
In my daydreams I never get as far as having sex, but when I imagine kissing, it’s like licking my favorite ice cream on the hottest day in summer, not dropping the entire scoop on the ground and watching it melt.
I hop back on my bike and head to the almost empty bike racks. Riding a bicycle to high school is apparently a faux pas. Especially a bike like mine. It’s expensive of course; Mom picked it out—only the best for the Smiths—but who buys pink bikes after their ninth birthday besides my mom? I’m not crazy about my mode of transportation, but it beats the bus.
A lump clogs my throat. I won’t cry. I won’t. Not only would it be humiliating, but Kristina would kill me. I agreed to her cone of silence. Bawling in public wouldn’t be a great way to keep her secret.
“Hey, Tess, right?”
I turn and the kid from the frosh party is standing behind me, an inquisitive look on his babyish face. I try to remember his name.
“Jeremy,” he supplies.
“Oh yeah. Clark Trent’s friend.” My lips turn up as I think about his friend’s name. “Are you going to be in the Honor Society too?”
Jeremy stares at me. “No, I’m not smart enough.” He glances around. “Uh, where’s your sister today? Don’t you usually get a ride with her?”
Thunk. The mention of my sister sends spikes of pain through me.
I turn and
I want to tell her that she’s brave and I love her. But I don’t know how to say it. Talking about things is not what I do.
So I sit in silence. I close my sketchbook and toss the magazine on the floor. I close my eyes and imagine all the things I should have said.
chapter five
Kristina refuses to go to school on Monday. I don’t really blame her. Far as I’m concerned, she deserves time to mope. Time to contemplate her abandoned virginity and the fact that a disease is eating away at her bones. She deserves whatever she wants right now.
And honestly, I don’t really want to face her, and even though my lameness offends even me, I skedaddle out the door while she’s arguing with Mom. Mom is blabbing on about keeping up appearances.
I should go back inside and yell at her to leave Kristina alone to chill and watch TV all day if that’s what floats her boat. Instead I clutch my backpack, run to the garage, take out my hot pink bike, and hop on it, zipping off down the road, not wanting to pick sides or face my sister and everything that’s happened.
My shame turns to anger and it propels me along, and for a while I forget how much I hate exercise as I pedal. Soon my butt is aching, but at least the wind dries my damp hair. I consider it a free blow-out without having to deal with Mom’s annoying hairdresser in her clothes two sizes too small and two decades too young.
I finally reach the school just as my legs are telling me to stop pedaling already. I’m about to pull into the parking lot when a horn honks behind me. I almost fly off the seat of my bike. A car streaks by and through the rear window I see Bree, one of my sister’s teammates, giggling in the passenger seat. I recognize the driver too. Drunk Pimple Guy from the party.
His car is a Pile, capital P. Rusting and dented, an ugly thing from the 1990s. I want to give them both the one-finger salute but I’m afraid to take my hand off the handlebar in case I wipe out.
I drop one foot to the ground, watching as they squeal into a parking spot. I could waste more energy being mad at them and their low IQs and thus low form of seeking entertainment, but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t even bother to watch them get out of the car.
Instead I picture my sister’s face. Her bitter and broken laughter. The way she stepped on the gas pedal on the way to Devon’s, drove like she was Thelma or Louise in the movie our mom made us watch on an imposed “Girl’s Night.”
In my daydreams I never get as far as having sex, but when I imagine kissing, it’s like licking my favorite ice cream on the hottest day in summer, not dropping the entire scoop on the ground and watching it melt.
I hop back on my bike and head to the almost empty bike racks. Riding a bicycle to high school is apparently a faux pas. Especially a bike like mine. It’s expensive of course; Mom picked it out—only the best for the Smiths—but who buys pink bikes after their ninth birthday besides my mom? I’m not crazy about my mode of transportation, but it beats the bus.
A lump clogs my throat. I won’t cry. I won’t. Not only would it be humiliating, but Kristina would kill me. I agreed to her cone of silence. Bawling in public wouldn’t be a great way to keep her secret.
“Hey, Tess, right?”
I turn and the kid from the frosh party is standing behind me, an inquisitive look on his babyish face. I try to remember his name.
“Jeremy,” he supplies.
“Oh yeah. Clark Trent’s friend.” My lips turn up as I think about his friend’s name. “Are you going to be in the Honor Society too?”
Jeremy stares at me. “No, I’m not smart enough.” He glances around. “Uh, where’s your sister today? Don’t you usually get a ride with her?”
Thunk. The mention of my sister sends spikes of pain through me.
I turn and
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