Untouchable (Untouchables, 1)

Every time I close my eyes, I see Carter or Jake or Shayne—in the worst moments, I see all three of them. I relive Jake dragging me around so they could gawk at my naked breasts, Carter’s mouth sucking on my nipples, Shayne’s smirk as he pawed at my breasts.

Carter is the most traumatizing, obviously. I remember the way he made me suck him off, the way he shoved his dick so far into my throat, I thought I would lose consciousness. The filthiness of him making me show him his cum in my mouth afterward, before swallowing the evidence of his assault.

I’ve tried to study so I don’t fall behind, but I can’t concentrate long enough to read all the words on a single page, let alone a whole chapter. I can’t outrun my own memories, so I lose the afternoon mindlessly perusing apps on my phone to distract myself.

By the time evening rolls around, I am beyond frustrated with myself for letting this get to me so much. I don’t want Carter Mahoney in my head. I want to forget all about what happened yesterday, and never see any of their stupid faces again. They don’t deserve to make me listless and scatterbrained.

I tell myself I have a two day limit. For two days, I can get stuck in my feelings if I need to, but after that, I have to pull it together, get back to school, and go on like Carter Mahoney never happened.

Come evening, my mom calls me down to help with dinner. I don’t have energy to do that either, but arguing about it would be too taxing, so I make the mashed potatoes and keep my mouth shut.

“You’re still in pajamas?” my mom asks when she notices, her gaze raking over my sweats and baggy T-shirt.

“I’m still not feeling well,” I tell her.

“Well, it’s too early in the school year to be missing classes, honey. Didn’t you say you have a test this week?”

Ugh, yes. In history, of all classes.

How am I supposed to sit in the same classroom with that psychopath? Is he done with me now? Will he leave me alone, or is he just waiting for another chance to pounce? He’s probably bored with me already, but I feel like I need to watch over my shoulder even more now than I did before, when Jake was my biggest problem.

How many more problems am I going to have to juggle? It’s getting out of hand.

“I think I just need one more day,” I tell her, nodding confidently. “I’ll get lots of sleep tonight, do some yoga to get my head straight… I’ll be better after tomorrow.”

The doorbell rings and my little brother calls out, “I’ll get it!”

I frown, glancing at the clock on the wall as I grab a serving spoon for the potatoes. My step-dad should be home any minute, but he wouldn’t ring the doorbell. Grace wouldn’t stop by unannounced. Hopefully it’s not another jerk playing a prank.

Last week, someone rang the doorbell and when I answered it, there were a pair of Longhorn blue panties on the ground with a note card reading “slut” stapled to the flimsy fabric. Probably from one of Jake’s admirers who have the audacity to be offended that he showed me unwanted attention. It could have been someone on the football team, but the handwriting seemed girly. Probably a desperate rally girl or one of the meaner cheerleaders.

Just when I’m about to head to the door to make sure it’s nothing like that, my younger brother pops into the kitchen just long enough to say, “She’s in here,” then he heads back to the table to obsessively line up butter knives. He’s in fourth grade, and they just finished learning how to set the table, so now every night he’s double checking that spoons are in the right spot and butter knives are facing the right direction.

Behind me, my mother offers a halting, confused, “H—Hello.”

I turn to look and suddenly feel as if I’ve swallowed my whole heart. I can’t explain why, but Carter Mahoney is standing in my kitchen—all 6 feet 3 inches of him. He’s wearing gray sweats and a white T-shirt with his letter jacket over it, to subtly remind us all who he is.

I feel like a monster snuck into the house, like I should grab a wooden stake and drive it through his black heart. My kitchen is the last place in the world he should be.

“Ma’am,” he says respectfully, flashing my mom an admittedly charming smile. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your dinner. I heard Zoey wasn’t feeling well today, so I wanted to bring her something.” Now he holds up a clear container of what appears to be chicken noodle soup.

My mother recovers from her confusion quickly. Rather than being remotely cautious of him, she sinks into a relieved sort of admiration, like she’s a damsel in distress and he’s the gallant knight who just showed up to save her.