students when the final bell rings. The only people left are a few teams scattered on the practice fields. 192 I don't know what to do with the comforter. It's really too ratty to take home. I should have gone to my locker first and gotten my backpack — I forgot about the books that are in here. I fold the comforter and set it on the floor, turn out the light, and head out the door for my locker. Somebody slams into my chest and knocks me back into the closet. The light flicks on and the door closes. I am trapped with Andy Evans. He stares at me without talking. He is not as tall as my mem- ories, but is still loathsome. The lightbulb throws shadows un- der his eyes. He is made out of slabs of stone and gives off a smell that makes me afraid I'll wet my pants. He cracks his knuckles. His hands are enormous. Andy Beast: "You have a big mouth, you know it? Rachel blew me off at the prom, giving me some bullshit story about how I raped you. You know that's a lie. I never raped anybody. I don't have to. You wanted it just as bad as I did. But your feelings got hurt, so you started spreading lies, and now every girl in school is talking about me like I'm some kind of pervert. You've been spreading that bullshit story for weeks. What's wrong, ugly, you jealous? Can't get a date?" The words fall like nails on the floor, hard, pointed. I try to walk around him. He blocks my way. "Oh, no. You're not go- ing anywhere. You really screwed things up for me." He reaches behind and locks the door. Click. Me: 193 "You are one strange bitch, know that? A freak. I can't believe anyone listened to you." He grabs my wrists. I try to pull them back and he squeezes so tight it feels like my bones are splintering. He pins me against the closed door. Maya An- gelou looks at me. She tells me to make some noise. I open my mouth and take a deep breath. Beast: "You're not going to scream. You didn't scream before. You liked it. You're jealous that I took out your friend and not you. I think I know what you want." His mouth is on my face. I twist my head. His lips are wet, his teeth knock against my cheekbone. I pull my arms again and he slams his body against mine. I have no legs. My heart wob- bles. His teeth are on my neck. The only sound I can make is a whimper. He fumbles to hold both my wrists in one hand. He wants a free hand. I remember I remember. Metal hands, hot knife hands. No. A sound explodes from me. "NNNOOO! ! !" I follow the sound, pushing off the wall, pushing Andy Evans off-balance, stumbling into the broken sink. He curses and turns, his fist coming, coming. An explosion in my head and blood in my mouth. He hit me. I scream, scream. Why aren't the walls falling? I'm screaming loud enough to make the whole school crumble. I grab for anything, my potpourri 194 bowl — I throw it at him, it bounces to the floor. My books. He swears again. The door is locked the door is locked. He grabs me, pulls me away from the door, one hand over my mouth, one hand around my throat. He leans me against the sink. My fists mean nothing to him, little rabbit paws thumping harmlessly. His body crushes me. My fingers wave overhead, looking for a branch, a limb, something to hang on to. A block of wood — the base of my turkey-bone sculpture. I slam it against Maya's poster. I hear a crunch. IT doesn't hear. IT breathes like a dragon. ITs hand leaves my throat, attacks my body. I hit the wood against the poster, and the mirror under it, again. Shards of glass slip down the wall and into the sink. IT pulls away from me, puzzled. I reach in and wrap my fingers around a triangle of glass. I hold it to Andy Evans's neck. He freezes. I push just hard enough to raise one drop of blood. He raises his arms over his head. My hand quivers. I want to insert the glass all the way through his throat, I want to hear him scream. I look up. I see the stubble on his chin, a fleck of white in the corner of his mouth. His lips are paralyzed. He cannot speak. That's good enough. Me: "I said no." He nods. Someone is pounding on the door. I unlock it, and the door swings open. Nicole is there, along with the lacrosse team — sweaty, angry, their sticks held high. Someone peels off and runs for help. 195 FINAL CUT Mr. Freeman is refusing to hand his grades in on time. They should have been in four days before the end of school, but he didn't see the sense in that. So I'm staying after school on the very, very last day for one last try at getting my tree right. Mr. Freeman is covering the grade wall with a mural. He hasn't touched the line with my name, but he eliminated everything else with a roller brush and fast-drying white paint. He hums as he mixes colors on his palette. He wants to paint a sunrise. Summer-vacation voices bubble through the open window. School is nearly over. The hall echoes with slamming lockers and shrieks of "I'm gonna miss you — got my number?" I turn up the radio. My tree is definitely breathing; little shallow breaths like it just shot up through the ground this morning. This one is not perfectly symmetrical. The bark is rough. I try to make it look as if initials had been carved in it a long time ago. One of the lower branches is sick. If this tree really lives someplace, that branch better drop soon, so it doesn't kill the whole thing. Roots knob out of the ground and the crown reaches for the sun, tall and healthy. The new growth is the best part. Lilac flows through the open windows with a few lazy bees. I carve and Mr. Freeman mixes orange and red to get the right 296 shade of sunrise. Tires squeal out of the parking lot, another sober student farewell. I'm staring summer school in the face, so there's no real hurry. But I want to finish this tree. A couple of seniors stroll in. Mr. Freeman hugs them carefully, either because of the paint on him or because teachers hugging students can make for big trouble. I shake my bangs down in front of my face and watch through my hair. They chat about New York City, where the girls are going to college. Mr. Free- man writes down some phone numbers and names of restau- rants. He says he has plenty of friends in Manhattan and that they should meet for brunch some Sunday. The girls — the women — hop up and down and squeal, "I can't believe it's really happening!" One of them is Amber Cheerleader. Go figure. The seniors look my way before they leave. One girl, not the cheerleader, nods her head, and says, "Way to go. I hope you're OK." With hours left in the school year, I have sud- denly become popular. Thanks to the big mouths on the lacrosse team, everybody knew what happened before sun- down. Mom took me to the hospital to stitch up the cut on my hand. When we got home, there was a message on the ma- chine from Rachel. She wants me to call her. My tree needs something. I walk over to the desk and take a piece of brown paper and a finger of chalk. Mr. Freeman talks about art galleries and I practice birds — little dashes of color on paper. It's awkward with the bandage on my hand, but I keep trying. I draw them without thinking — flight, flight, feather, wing. Water drips on the paper and the birds bloom in the light, their feathers expanding promise. 297 IT happened. There is no avoiding it, no forgetting. No run- ning away, or flying, or burying, or hiding. Andy Evans raped me in August when I was drunk and too young to know what was happening. It wasn't my fault. He hurt me. It wasn't my fault. And I'm not going to let it kill me. I can grow. I look at my homely sketch. It doesn't need anything. Even through the river in my eyes I can see that. It isn't perfect and that makes it just right. The last bell rings. Mr. Freeman comes to my table. Mr. Freeman: "Time's up, Melinda. Are you ready?" I hand over the picture. He takes it in his hands and studies it. I sniff again and wipe my eyes on my arm. The bruises are vivid, but they will fade. Mr. Freeman: "No crying in my studio. It ruins the supplies. Salt, you know, saline. Etches like acid." He sits on the stool next to me and hands back my tree. "You get an A+. You worked hard at this." He hands me the box of tissues. "You've been through a lot, haven't you?" The tears dissolve the last block of ice in my throat. I feel the frozen stillness melt down through the inside of me, dripping shards of ice that vanish in a puddle of sunlight on the stained floor. Words float up. Me: "Let me tell you about it."