“I guess you would know, mama.”
She puts her arm around me and kisses my cheek. “Yes, I would, sweetheart. Yes, I would.”
Chapter 11
Ava
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t climb into his truck with him. I was shaking like a leaf, terrified, thinking that this is the way that I’m going to die. I figured I was prey for some deranged psychopath, and as the tears poured down my face, mixing with the rain, I was mortified. Besides, this would just give Gunner the opportunity to scold me. And that’s the last thing I need right now. I finally feel like I’m getting my life in order, and making progress, and having to deal with him is not something that I’m prepared for.
Even though I still miss him as much as the day is long. Gunner is the only man that I’ll ever love. The old Gunner, that is. Not this angry, resentful person that is present now. And even if he was offering out of the kindness in his heart, which I know is there, somewhere, I’m not ready to explain. I’m not ready to explain why I had to leave Houston, and tell him the truth. The only person that knows the truth is Felicia, and with her, I’m safe. With her, I don’t have to feel like I’m not good enough, like I’m not worthy, or that I’m not deserving, because that’s all I’ve ever felt my whole life.
For a stitch in time, for those few, short days that Gunner and I were together, I was the person that I want to be. That person that can take love and hold on tight. That person that isn’t afraid to take it. That person that is with the right person, that makes them feel like all those feelings are there for a reason, and nothing or nobody can take them away. And even though that moment is gone, it was there, and because it was there, I know that I did it. I loved. And I was loved. And if that’s all that I get for the rest of my life it was worth it. But the way that I left things, even though I didn’t have a choice, I can neither take it back, nor make him understand.
Felicia sits at the table, with her laptop up, and her reading glasses on, making a lesson plan, as I scour through my homework, keeping my eye on the time, so I’m not late for work. She has a small, wireless printer next to the laptop, and I hear it sputter out a sheet of paper. She hands it to me without taking her eyes off the monitor. “What’s this?” I ask her, as I scan it. It’s a notice for a support group.
“It looks like some sort of project for troubled teens.”
I look at it. It sure says project. And I’m barely a teenager now. I’m nearly nineteen. Personally, I’d like to leave my teenage hood alone, and head into my twenties fresh. The last thing I need is to sit in a circle with others, airing my dirty secrets, looking for sympathy. No thanks, I’ll pass. “And you want me to join this group? Don’t you think it’s a little self-serving at this point?”
She removes her glasses and looks at me with serious conviction. “No, Ava, I don’t want you to join it.” She pauses. “But I think that nobody else would be a better fit as a speaker.”
***
The good news is that I haven’t run into Gunner in weeks. Somehow my stars have aligned in school, too. I’m getting top grades, I seem to be maneuvering my work and my academic schedule in such a way that works, and I’ve been able to keep both jobs successfully. And I took Felicia’s advice and joined the ‘Crusade for Troubled Teens’ group, that meets, virtually, each week. It’s nothing like I thought it would be. We meet via Facebook, and I’m sort of the leader, giving advice, based on my experience. There is another girl, a few years older than me, who also is a leader, but she’s leaving to move to Canada with her folks, which is where I come in.
It’s cathartic, therapeutic, and more gratifying for me than I ever thought possible. Some of these kids have been through way worse than me, and most of them, like me, are terrified to go to a therapist. I’m the only one that is living with a foster family. Most of these kids are with the system, which means that they have no fixed address, and it really puts things into perspective, because I realize just how lucky I am. Felicia is so proud of me for doing this, too. I think in a lot of ways I’m like her. I like helping people because it helps me, too. The group is funded by the state government, and they’ve already asked me to go to schools and talk about the subject at hand.
I haven’t decided if I’m ready to go public with this, especially since I’m not sure if it’s safe. However, I know by now that my folks aren’t coming to look for me, and even if they did, everyone in our neighborhood knows me, so I’m safe. It’s been almost a year since I left my folks. It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, but it has. Felicia has been so good to me. I’m so grateful for her love and support. And I feel like I would do anything for her, as she would do anything for me. It’s also for my own good, and it shows. As much as I have a past, I don’t let it define who I am. I don’t say that I’m a victim. Because I’m not. I’m stronger than that.
And the way that I can show it is to stand up in front of other people who also don’t want to be a victim anymore, and say so, with my chin up and my heart open, and do what’s right. I speak twice a month at different schools, talking about getting help and what to do if something doesn’t feel right, even if it’s being done to you by people you trust. It’s not just about abuse, it’s about boundaries, and learning to trust again, and getting help, in your own way. I’ve seen the crowds, and so many people don’t want to be the face of abuse. Neither do I, but I’ve learned that if it means helping one person, it’s worth it. Especially since my dream is to be a psychologist.
But my worst fear has finally come. My next speaking appointment is going to be at my school. As much as I know it’s just the venue, and that I won’t actually be speaking in front of my fellow classmates, unless they sign up for it, I’m still terrified. The engagements are not televised, and no recording is permitted, so my folks will never see it or know what I’m doing, but it’s still nerve wracking. I mean, the coordinator records bits and pieces of my presentations, just for the website and closed Facebook group, but that’s it.
“You’ll be fantastic.” Felicia says, so proudly it makes my heart swell. She’s come to every gathering, supporting me, and it’s great. We’re like crusaders, us two. We go out for ice cream afterwards, so that I can decompress, and she gives me ideas on what topics I should cover for my next presentation. She’d make a great speaker, too, but she says that she isn’t as close to the topics as I am, and I often wonder if maybe she has a painful past, too. I guess, in some ways, we all have some pain in our past. Since being around all these people, that is fairly apparent. It’s great being around people, too. That, in itself, is therapeutic. There are so many wonderful people out there, and I get to meet many of them.
As I prepare myself for my speech, standing at the podium for sound checks, I draw in a deep breath, feeling my nerves unclench. This engagement isn’t open to the public, so I watch one of the coordinators insert a ‘room in use – no entrance’ sign into the plastic sleeve that’s attached to the outside wall of the theater. I’ve seen the roster for tonight. There are about two hundred people expected to be in attendance. Just a little shy of double what I’m used to for audience size. And I envision myself talking to these people as I go through my notes, and practice a few passages of my speech, without the microphone.
Felicia is standing behind me, listening, and as I turn around to face her, she has her hands clasped together, and a smile so proud it makes my heart melt. “You nailed it, darlin’.”
***
Gunner
My ‘Classifications of Energy and the Environment’…say that twice…teacher, went on sick leave, so the class had to be switched around to an evening class for me, since the replacement class conflicted with another one of my classes, so essentially, I’m fucked and I have to take an evening class for the rest of the semester, which, thankfully, is only another six weeks long. As much as I’m nineteen years old, mama still isn’t hot on the idea of me being in class until nine o’clock at night or later.
What makes things worse, is, I get to class, and find the hallway is cordoned off due to a major leak in the ceiling, that’s visible from the staircase. So they’ve moved this class all the way downstairs to one of the theaters on the first floor, since evidently they have to squish two classes into one for tonight. I have no idea what the fuck that’s all about, but I don’t have any classes in any of the theaters, and I’m not thrilled about it, either, plus, I’m late, so I have to run all the way downstairs, get into this theater, find a seat, and get my books out, just in time for someone to approach the podium.
The introduction to some speaker is confusing, and I notice that nobody else has their books out, not to mention, I don’t recognize anyone’s face here, even though I know that there are two classes mixed. I’m almost at the front, since most of these people took the surrounding seats, to my chagrin, since, again, I’m late, when I see her. Ava. The girl I haven’t seen in months. She comes to the podium, and I wonder what the fuck is going on here. This isn’t my class. I’ve come to the wrong goddamn theater. But when I see her, it’s like I can’t move. My feet are cemented onto the floor underfoot.
Goddammit I forgot how beautiful she is. She’s wearing her hair out and it’s grown so much. Under the lighting it’s so blonde it’s shimmering. Her eyes stand out a mile, too. She looks like an angel standing there. And then she speaks, and I’m entranced.
“Hi, everyone. My name is Ava Long.” She starts, sounding both soft yet confident. “I’m here tonight because I want to be. I’m part of this group also because I want to be. I think it’s important to share my story because it isn’t a story about being victimized or being ruined, it’s a story about love. About loving yourself enough to be that person you want to be, regardless of your insecurities.” She looks around, hands outstretched slightly. “Because we all have them, right? We all feel insecure. And it’s not just because of someone else’s doing. We all have insecurities. Millionaires have them. The Queen of England has them. A vagrant has them, too. It all comes down to one common denominator. We are all human, and we all have issues, but we can all get past them…with the proper tools.”
What the fuck is she talking about? Has she become some kind of whacky motivational speaker or something? I want to get up, but I’ll stick out like a goddamn pink elephant now, and she’ll see me.
“For those of you who have seen me on the Facebook group, or even if you’ve seen me speak before, you’ll know that my childhood was like yours. I was abused by both my folks, and I grew up thinking that it was completely normal. I never said a word, even though deep inside my little body, I knew that what they were doing was wrong. And it wasn’t until someone very special came into my life that I realized just how wrong it was.”
Oh…my…God. My fucking heart is pounding a mile a minute. I need to get out of here. But I can’t.
