“Does everyone in Prescott know?” Cheyenne says. She sounds mad. “How many people know?”
“Just us,” Grace says. “The guys don’t know we know.”
Cheyenne takes a deep breath. “This is crazy,” she says. She closes her eyes for a moment. “What the hell? I guess I should invite you in.”
“Only if you want to,” Grace says.
Cheyenne looks Grace in the eyes. “I want to,” she says softly, almost too quietly to hear. She turns around and they follow her inside.
Erin thinks the living room looks like the kind of place where nice things are supposed to happen. Not things like this.
“Sit down, I guess,” Cheyenne says as she curls up in an armchair already draped with a blanket, a cup and crumb-dusted plate on the table next to it. Grace and Rosina sit on the couch, and Erin takes the matching love seat with the arms just high enough Cheyenne won’t notice her rubbing her hands.
“So how do you think you’re going to help me?” Cheyenne says.
“That’s up to you,” Grace says. “At the very least, we can listen. You don’t have to keep it all in.”
Cheyenne looks at them, one by one. Erin studies her face as it softens. She can see the moment Cheyenne makes the decision to trust them.
“It happened on Saturday night,” she says. “I got home early Sunday morning, before my parents woke up. They didn’t even know I missed curfew. I slept almost all day yesterday, and when I woke up, I told my mom I have a fever. She let me stay home sick from school today.”
“Your parents don’t know?” Rosina says.
Cheyenne shakes her head. “I was going to tell someone,” she says. “My mom, or the counselor at school or something. But I had no idea how to do it. I was waiting to feel like talking about it. But that never happened.”
“Can you talk about it now?” Grace says. “With us?”
“Yeah,” Rosina says. “Do you want to talk about something superintimate and scary with these weird girls you’ve never met in your life who just showed up at your door?”
“Honestly, I think it’s actually easier,” Cheyenne says. “Because I don’t know you, I don’t have to worry about your reaction. I don’t have to worry about how it’s going to affect you.” Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Plus, you’re the Nowhere Girls, right? So I know I can trust you.”
“How’d you know?” Grace says.
“You’ve heard about us?” Rosina says.
“Of course I’ve heard about you,” Cheyenne says. “Everyone’s heard about you. You’re like superheroes or something.”
“Wow,” Grace says, and Erin can tell she’s trying not to smile.
“I don’t even know their names,” Cheyenne continues.
“We do,” Rosina says.
“I don’t want to know,” Cheyenne says quickly. “Please don’t tell me.”
Erin wonders if Rosina was right—maybe they shouldn’t be here. Maybe they shouldn’t be pushing Cheyenne to talk. Maybe it’s not always a good idea to talk about it. Everyone is always saying “Talk about it.” But what if talking hurts? What if it does more harm than good? What if talking about it just makes you relive it over and over again? What if it just gives the pain more fuel?
Or what if talking about it burns it out? That’s the theory, anyway. But has anyone scientifically proven it? Do memories have a half-life, like carbon? Do they shrink over time until they’re minuscule, microscopic? Can you share something so much you give it all away?
Erin does not know the answers to any of these questions. She hates not knowing. She hates looking at this girl in pain and not knowing how to fix it, but also not knowing how to run away, not knowing how to stop caring. Erin is powerless. She hates being powerless.
She hates the feeling of the world crushing her. She hates metaphors being the only way to describe it.
Cheyenne takes a deep breath. “I was at a party. A girl in my math class invited me. I just moved here so I don’t really know anyone that well. I went because I thought it’d be a good way to meet people, to make friends.” Her face scrunches up. “How ironic, right?
“There was this punch, and you couldn’t even taste the alcohol, so I had no idea how much I was drinking. I was just standing there in the corner, not talking to anyone, holding that stupid plastic cup and drinking because I had nothing else to do. I was so embarrassed. And then these three really cute guys started talking to me, and I was so grateful, you know?”
“Do you remember what happened?” Rosina asks.
“Of course I remember,” Cheyenne says. “I remember everything. I wasn’t that drunk. I wish I was. Then I’d have an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?” Grace says.
“For not doing anything,” Cheyenne says. Her hands grip the arms of her chair. She squeezes her eyes shut as she pulls her blanket-covered knees close to her chest. “I could have fought back maybe. I could have screamed. But it was like I was frozen. I just laid there. I couldn’t move. I saw everything. I felt everything.”
Cheyenne is shaking now. Erin looks away and tries to focus on the rhythm of her own rocking body. She thinks she might be shaking too. She doesn’t know which feelings are Cheyenne’s and which are her own.
Erin thinks about Spot. She thinks about what he does when she’s shaking, when Erin feels like Cheyenne must be feeling. Erin thinks of Spot resting his furry warm face on her hand. She thinks of the feeling of his breath on her fingers. She gets off her chair and walks across the living room. She kneels on the floor and puts her hand on Cheyenne’s. Erin thinks of what she would have wanted to hear if someone had ever helped her.
“Just breathe,” Erin says. And Cheyenne breathes. And Erin breathes with her. They wrap their fingers together. They hold hands. Erin knows she is breaking the rule of not touching her. They breathe in. They breathe out. Erin wonders how she can feel Cheyenne’s tears on her cheeks, but then she realizes they’re her own.
“It’s not your fault,” Erin says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But maybe I could have done something,” Cheyenne says. “Maybe I could have stopped it. If I fought back. I didn’t even fight back.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Rosina says. “We should never be put in a position where we have to fight someone off us.”
“Shit,” Cheyenne says, covering her face with her hands. “I can still feel them on top of me. The weight. They were so heavy. I can smell them. Their BO. The beer on their breath.” She speaks between her fingers. “My neck got wet when they breathed.” She puts a hand on her neck, as if she’s trying to cover up the memory on her skin.
Erin leans into Cheyenne’s leg. Her whole right side is touching another human being, and she is not freaking out. Erin is not thinking about herself at all.