The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,62
mom, and it’s official. I am not ready for this to be anything, let alone official. I can handle this. I can handle it. I can.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You’re moaning. Bad dream?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You need a glass of water?”
“Nah.”
I listen as her footsteps fade away, and I breathe deep. Okay. Okay. I take a look at my phone. 4:33. Too early for this shit. And we have work in like a few hours, and now this, which is not real, not real until I decide it is.
Was I raped?
The idea makes me almost laugh. A smaller guy, just a year older. No. I stayed. I could’ve left. I stayed. Not rape. Just stupidity.
But then I think of the stuff we hear at school. No means no, which some of the stupider-ass baseball dudes translate as, “No means yes, yes means anal.” Which wasn’t funny then. And I said no. Naw. So is this like, rape-minus? Is that a thing? If you aren’t overpowered, if you could have left but you didn’t, you didn’t because you were curious, maybe, that’s not rape, right?
And I think of my dad, who saw that psychic, and who isn’t wise, exactly, but is an adult, kind of. So without thinking too much I call him.
“Wha — Max? What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
He sighs. “Whataya need? Can you call back at like a normal hour when people are awake? Christ.”
“Dad, is it, um, rape if one person says no but then doesn’t leave when they could?”
“What?”
“Like the um, girl. Like, she says no, but the guy pleads with her, and she doesn’t say yes, but she, like, freezes up like a rag doll. And he does — stuff — to her. Is that like rape?”
“What the — are you raping girls now?” Dad laughs. I don’t. It’s so not funny, and it’s so something my dad would think is funny, because my dad is an idiot. Why did I even call him?
“No.”
“So, are you researching rape now? At five oh-fucking-clock in the morning? Jesus.”
And for the first time in my life that I am aware of, I desperately want him to put the pieces together. To get serious and have a clue. To ask me if I’m okay.
“Um, sure,” I say, answering his question in a way that I’m sure will raise a red flag.
It doesn’t. He laughs. “So the girl says no, and the guy doesn’t stop, and she just lies there?”
“Yeah?”
Dad laughs again. “Dude. That’s not even like illegitimate rape. That’s garden-variety rape, kid.”
My whole body goes numb. Have I explained it all the right way? It can’t be. I mumble more words and then I can barely manage to press the button to hang up. But I do, because if any weird noise comes out of my body right now, Dad will make a joke, and the one thing I cannot take right now is a joke.
I shake, in bed. Waves of something syrupy run up and down my veins. That damn slush again. I feel myself underwater. I need to scream out the syrup. I cannot. I will wake up Mom. I will upset her. I cannot say anything about this, ever. To anybody.
I get maybe a little tad bit intense in the five hours between going to sleep and Max’s arrival in the morning. In the shower, I find myself playing over and over again the moment when Max’s truck will pull up, and I’ll see his face, his eyes, and they’ll tell me what I need to know.
For once in my life, it’s gonna be good. His eyes will smile as big as his mouth, and we won’t be able to keep our hands off each other as we set up for another lunch at ASU.
It’s about all I can do to not scream “Hurry” when my phone shows 7:00 a.m. and he’s not here yet.
True to form, he arrives five minutes late. What I love about Max is that he can do that and it’s not a big deal. If I were even a minute late I’d be apologizing. Who am I kidding? If I were a minute early I’d be apologizing.
He pulls up and gets out of the truck, and my heart is beating out of my chest in anticipation of looking into his eyes, like Kayla said.
But when I look over at him to say hey, he’s not looking at me. He mumbles, “What up, dude?” and gets right to work.