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  NOW

  1

  I’ve learned some things.

  Like that dirt comes in a variety of shades: tan, amber, silver, blue … Like that when you claw at it long enough, you’ll see these colors and wonder how you never noticed how striking dirt can be, with its pearly flecks of granite and residual bits of mica.

  I’ve learned that the ruddier shades (the reds and the oranges) can conjure up memories of childhood pottery classes—Mommy and me making pinch pots and coil vases—but that the brain only allows such memories for an instant before zapping them away, reminding you where you are.

  When you’re surrounded by dirt, when it forms the walls around you and the floor beneath your feet, you’ll feel the individual granules pushing through your skin, making everything itch, and you’ll taste mouthfuls of it, not knowing how it got there: on your tongue, at the back of your throat, and between your teeth.

  You’ll be so hungry, so depleted of energy, having spent so much time underground. You’ll chew the inside of your cheek and search your mouth for food—a lingering popcorn kernel casing or a grain of rice stuck in the crevices of your gums—before curling up into a ball and noticing for the first time how hard dirt can be, like a marble slab, making every bone ache.

  You’ll smell the dirt too. The scent is different from soil, not nearly as sweet or earthy. Dirt is arid, depleted of moisture, and so it smells like death—a sour, rotten stench.

  You’ll think a lot about death, racking your brain, trying to remember facts from bio class. How long can one go without water? What happens to the body upon complete dehydration? Is it one of the worst ways to die?

  You’ll replay the details from the night you got here—over and over again—tormented as to how it happened and what you could’ve done differently.

  Taken another path home?

  Called a cab?

  Not returned the spare house key to the planter outside?

  Because being here is your fault, after all—your stupidity, the result of not following everything you’d learned about safety and defense.

  Screaming is a defense, and you’ll do a lot of that. You’ll also punch the walls, as if you could ever break them down.

  Exhausted, you’ll find yourself in a fetal position, sucking your thumbs, hoping doing so will produce a mouthful of saliva, the way it did when you were little, all over your pillow. But instead the roof of your mouth will bleed from reaching too far and scraping too hard. Surprisingly, the taste will come as a welcome distraction. You’ll tell yourself: There’s iron in this blood, and fat in the oil in your hair, as if iron and fat could ever save anyone from a lack of food and water.

  Water.

  You’ll crave it like you’ve never craved anything, the way lions crave meat, picturing gallon jugs and fresh trout streams. Meanwhile, your mouth will be dry like a desert, like the dirt inside a barren well. And your tongue will feel foreign—too big for your mouth, too swollen to get enough air.

  You’ll pray for rain to come. And when it finally does, you’ll try to catch it in your hands and collect as much as you can before splashing it into your sandpaper mouth, not caring that it’s littered with dirt, because you will be too—so damned dirty.

  I’ve felt dirt in my eyes—the scratch, the burn, the constant blur—so perpetual I’d almost forgotten what it was like to see clearly. And I know how it feels inside the ears—so deep you can practically hear it: the sound of dirt.

  The crackle of madness.

  I’ve learned about madness too.

  Hospital beds.

  And doctors’ meds.

  And “Be a good girl.”

  “Don’t feel so much.”

  “She’s feeling too little.”

  “I’m not really sure how well she’s feeling today.”

  I’ve learned to “feel” whatever the people with the name badges say I’m supposed to, because that’s what’s “sane.”

  I’m not insane, but I’ve been diagnosed with some of Insanity’s cellmates—Delusional, Depressed, Defiant, and Paranoid—and lost people I thought were my friends.

  Thank god for Jane. Saint Jane is what I call her, because she’s the one who created the Jane Anonymous website, a place where victims of crime-related trauma can chat with one another and share their experiences.

  I discovered the site about a month ago, at the library where I work. The words VICTIMS UNITED screamed at me from a bathroom wall poster:

  VICTIMS UNITED

  Looking for a safe space to share your honest truth,

  without judgment,

  regardless of how unpopular that truth might be?

  Come chat with us.

  We’re here for you.

  Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  www.JaneAnonymous.com

  #JaneAnonymous #VictimToVictor #OnlyTheHonestSurvive

  I logged on that very night and have been chatting ever since. The people on the site “listen” without judgment and offer advice and consolation. The site also provides a journaling feature because “Jane Anonymous,” the site’s creator, firmly believes in writing about one’s trauma as a therapeutic means of processing it. Members can write, save, customize, and tag entries, then choose to leave them open (for others to read) or locked up (for privacy).

  In her memoir, “Jane” documents her time in captivity and the months after she got out. I’m going to do the same, starting with this entry—not that I need a website to journal, but it’s kind of nice knowing there’s a whole community of survivors journaling along with me. I’ve read so many of their stories. Now it’s time I wrote mine.

  THEN

  2

  I knew better.

  Because my parents had trained me well. A year of cardio kickboxing, two years of tae kwon do, summer camps for self-defense, a purple belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu …

  And that was just the beginning.

  As soon as I’d turned double-digits, my parents warned me of the hazards that could happen with a loss of inhibitions. Whenever some poor, pathetic girl got something slipped into her drink at a drunken keg party and wound up as News at Eleven, I got an hour-long lecture about personal vigilance and looking out for my friends. Even my thirteenth birthday: while most of the other girls got gift certificates for piercings and highlights, my present included a can of pepper spray and a six-month voucher to work with a personal trainer.

  But my parents didn’t get it. I would never become a cliché. I wasn’t anything like those “poor, pathetic girls.”

  Or so I believed.

  But I believed a lot of things back then that have since proven untrue. One of my biggest lessons: There’s no such thing as a “poor, pathetic girl.”

  Unless, of course, you’re talking about me.

  * * *

  It started with a party.

  The
Theta Epsilon sisters were hosting a sorority mixer on the Friday before spring vacation, and my friend Jessie’s older sister, the acting sorority president, had given Jessie and me the green light to go.

  “Consider this an early graduation gift for the both of us,” Jessie said.

  Except I still had another year of high school. I’d stayed back in middle school, after the world as I’d known it had gone up in flames. My guidance counselor said that giving myself extra time would translate into less stress and more healing. But repeating my eighth-grade year, not advancing with my friends … It just made everything worse.

  Jessie flashed me her phone screen; her sister’s big, fat YES was typed across it. “You can thank me later.”

  I thanked her then, on the spot, because I really wanted to go. The high school that Jessie and I attended didn’t exactly have the vibrant social scene that you read about in books or see on TV. To out-of-towners, the Tremont Academy name conjured up images of plaid school uniforms and ivy-covered buildings. But to everyone else, we were Emo students—and for good reason. TrEMOnt prided itself on catering to those with “social and emotional challenges.” Long story short: There wasn’t much socializing that went on outside our therapeutically structured school day, so the green light to this college party …

  It was a really big deal.

  I dressed accordingly, in a sleeveless top, a pair of dark-washed jeans, and the wedges I’d been coveting at Dress Me Up; they’d finally gone on sale.

  “You look amazing,” Jessie said as we headed up the walkway to the sorority house. “What I wouldn’t give to have your killer golden highlights and sun-kissed skin.”

  “You look great too,” I told her. “I love that dress.” A short black number, paired with strappy heels.

  “Fingers crossed my sister lets us crash here tonight.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?”

  “I mean, wouldn’t it be fun to spend a night or three, get a preview of what college life will be like?”

  Jessie didn’t even give me a chance to respond. Instead, she stepped up to the door, paid the five-dollar cover charge, and led me inside. The Theta Epsilon house looked practically like a mansion with its marble-tiled floors; fancy columns and pillars; and high, vaulted ceilings. Still, despite the size, the place was packed that night.

  Jessie and I maneuvered among clusters of people until we got to a makeshift bar: two bookcases pushed together. One of the Epsilon sisters stood behind it, guarding the punch bowl. She ladled us cups full of sparkling purple punch, and Jessie and I made a toast.

  “To never looking back.” Jessie tapped her cup against mine.

  I took a sip. It tasted a little like freedom—like something I wanted to guzzle from a jug, which prompted me to ask the question: “Do you really think your sister will let us crash here tonight?”

  At the same moment, Jessie’s phone went off. She checked the screen. “Speak of the devil. That’s her. She needs my help upstairs. Are you good for a sec? Or do you want to come?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  After she went off, I sent my aunt a text: I may stay over at Jessie’s sister’s tonight. Then I pocketed my phone and waited like a wallflower, taking more of the party in: the dart game in the corner, the drunk girls playing hopscotch (using a lipstick to draw the squares), and a group of boys watching soccer on a big-screen TV. Rule number one on my parents’ list of survival tips: Be aware of your surroundings. Make a mental checklist of all you see.

  But nothing appeared off. So why couldn’t I relax? My neck itched. My feet were already aching.

  I moved to the staircase and gazed up the steps. The smell of something sweet hung heavy in the air, reminding me of candy canes. I took out my phone and sent Jessie a text: Where are you?

  Meanwhile, music pounded—so loud and hard, I could feel it in my ribs; it bounced off the bones of my skull. The lead singer sounded like he was gagging on a chicken bone.

  “Looking for someone?” a male voice asked from behind.

  I whirled around, startled by how good looking the guy was: tall, with rumpled dark hair; deep blue eyes, framed by artsy black glasses; and just the right amount of facial scruff. I forced myself from gawking by glancing away toward the hopscotch-playing girls. “I’m looking for a friend,” I told him, shouting over the music. “She went upstairs.”

  “Do you need some help finding her?”

  My phone vibrated with a text—from Jessie: Im upstairs helping Sarah and her friend with a party game. Be down soon. Or come join. Third door on the right … Or left? Lol!

  “All okay?” the guy asked.

  “It’s fine. I mean, she is, rather.”

  “You sure?” He squinted as though examining me under a scope. “Because I’m pretty much an expert in finding people.”

  “Oh yeah?” I smiled, unable to bite it back.

  He smiled too, gazing at my mouth, making my face heat up. “I’m Garret, by the way.” He extended his hand for a shake.

  “Terra.” I shook his hand.

  “And are you in TE?”

  It took me a beat to decipher the initials: TE … A girl on the staircase had the Greek sorority letters embroidered across her sweatshirt. “Not exactly.”

  “One of the pledges, then?”

  “That depends.” I took a sip. What was a pledge?

  Garret shot me a suspicious grin just as someone bumped him from behind, almost spilling punch all over his shirt. “I think we’re in the line of traffic here.” He took a step back as though about to turn away, but then motioned to a couple of chairs by a wood-burning stove. “Want to go sit?”

  Like a reflex, my body steeled. But I really wanted to talk to him more, so I gave a slight nod.

  We sat down, opposite each other, a few feet from the hearth.

  “So, how come I haven’t seen you around before?” he asked.

  “Maybe you haven’t been looking.”

  “Right…” He smirked. “I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed you.” He peeked at my hands.

  I couldn’t stop scratching. My palms were so itchy. “Do you live on campus?”

  “I used to, but now I rent a place with a couple of friends. They’re here tonight too.” He peered around, searching the throngs of people.

  I searched too, still wondering about Jessie. I sent her another text: All still ok???

  While I awaited her response, Garret and I continued to talk, everything from favorite places to eat—Taco Tango for him and Fork & Table for me—to the classes he was taking (mostly criminal justice and forensic science courses). He wanted to be a cop. I wanted to talk to him all night.

  “I’m really glad I decided to come to this,” he said. “I wasn’t going to, but my philosophy professor talked me into it.”

  “Your philosophy professor knows about sorority parties?”

  “Not exactly.” He grinned some more. “But we had a discussion in class about taking chances, going outside one’s comfort zone.”

  “Your comfort zone doesn’t include sorority parties, I assume.”

  “Not typically. I’m more of a sports-bar kind of guy. Have you taken any of Professor LeDuc’s philosophy classes?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “He talks a lot about conscious choice—how sometimes even the seemingly simplest ones can change the whole trajectory of our lives.”

  “Sounds pretty intense.”

  “But it’s also kind of true, when you think about it.”

  “So, if I’d decided to have spaghetti over quesadillas for lunch today, my life would be totally different?”

  “Maybe not.” His face turned pink. “It’s sort of hard to explain, but it made sense when he talked about it in class.”

  “Well, I have my own philosophy. I think that everyone we meet—from the purest of hearts to the darkest of souls—crosses our path for a reason.”

  “Talk about intense. Does that ph
ilosophy apply to here, now? Meeting me, that is?”

  “Definitely,” I said, feeling my face pinken too.

  “That’s pretty deep.”

  “No philosophy course required.”

  “So then where do you get your wisdom?”

  “Life school.” A.k.a. years of listening to people of all sorts (specialists, strangers, friends, my aunt…) telling me the way it is and how I should think. “I believe we’re here to learn lessons—to get closer and more prepared for whatever the big thing is.”

  “What do you think that big thing is?”

  “I’m still working on that one.”

  “So, the teacher who made me sit in the corner in the second grade,” he continued. “That dark soul … What did I learn from him?”

  “The abuse of power, maybe.”

  “And the sixth-grade bully who kicked me off my bike more times than I could count?”

  “Maybe he taught you about compassion.”

  “And how about right now?” He leaned slightly forward and gazed, once again, at my mouth. “Are you learning anything from me?”

  I could smell the spearmint on his breath, and could feel the pounding inside my chest—a deep and rhythmic throbbing that made my pulse race.

  My phone pulsed too, vibrating against my thigh. A reminder to take my meds. An icon of a pill bottle rolling its eyes popped up on the screen. I quickly turned it over. How was it possible that two hours had passed?

  “Is everything okay?” Garret asked.

  “It is. It’s just … I should probably go find my friend.” I stood up just as Jessie stumbled in my direction.

  Her eyes looked glassy. She was sucking a lollipop. “I may’ve had a little too much to drink.” She laughed. “But you’ll be proud of me: I gave my keys to some girl. In hindsight, I probably should’ve given them to you, but she said she needed a car, and I really wanted to help. Anyway, I’m sleeping here, in my sister’s room.”

  “Wait, what?” My head fuzzed.

  “I’m really sorry.” She suckled. “I tried to score you a place to crash, but there are zero spare beds and I’ve already claimed the futon.”