Instead of laughing like I expected her to, she gave me an understanding look. “No, you’re heartbroken.”
Maybe she understood a little better than I thought. “This class, are you going to teach them to actually fight, or will it just be things like blowing whistles and sticking people with keys?” Because Magda had taken one of those classes, and it had done her absolutely no fucking good.
“There might be a little bit of whistles and keys. But we’ll be teaching them to fight, and to fight dirty. We’re talking forcing testicles to retract, that kind of fighting.”
For the first time in months, a genuine smile curved my lips. “I’m in.”
* * *
“You should eat something.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, I looked up at my mother. She had that pinched expression on her face that I’d seen a lot since Magda died. It was an expression I understood to mean that while she was worried about me, she was also annoyed with me. I think she thought that I should be over it by now.
But did we ever get over losing someone we cared about? I mean, it wasn’t like Magda had moved to another city, or had gone away to school. She was gone. Forever. Three-quarters of my life had been spent with her and then, during the space of a few hours, she’d stopped being. How did you just “get over” that?”
“I’m not all that hungry.”
Mom spooned some scrambled eggs onto my plate. “At least eat these. You need the protein.”
She was right. I wasn’t one of those kids who thought my parents were wrong all the time. Usually they were right. Well, Mom usually was. My father pretty much just pissed me off whenever I saw him.
Then again, it didn’t take much to upset me these days.
I didn’t argue about the eggs. I ate them on autopilot, not really tasting them. I couldn’t live the rest of my life like this—numb except for bouts of rage. I knew it was part of the grieving process, but it was also exhausting.
“You’ve gotten so thin.”
I ate another mouthful of eggs as a response. I hadn’t really lost much weight. After the funeral I did lose about ten pounds, but some of those had come back. The difference was that I had been working out like mad. Aikido was the third martial arts class I had taken since I was thirteen. It hadn’t started out as me just wanting to hit or kick something. I signed up for martial arts because I wanted to be fit, and it was really the only thing I found fun enough to stick with. And now it was the only thing that calmed me down.
Magda hadn’t been into the kicking and punching. She liked to run and had been on the school track team. The muscles in her legs had been like granite. I ran with her once in a while, but I could never keep up.
Regardless, I was working out more, turning the soft parts of my body into something hard and strong.
“The police officer that was at class last night asked me to help her with a self-defense class for girls.”
Mom look surprised at this. “Really? Why would she do that?”
I shrugged. “She thinks I’m good. And she knew Magda.”
There was that pinched look again. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Hadley.”
“I do.” And it wasn’t until that moment when she opposed it that I realized I had already made up my mind about it. “I’m good at it, Mom. And if I can help even one girl escape what happened to Magda, it will be worth it.”
She sighed. “I suppose if I say no you’ll only do it anyway.”
“Why are you making it sound like I want to go out and do something reckless? Or something that might get me hurt or in trouble? Jesus, Mom.” I shook my head. “I just want to do something good.”
She looked pained, like I was doing this deliberately to hurt her. I had no idea why she was so opposed to this. I had no idea what was going through her head. It was almost like she blamed Magda for my emotional state. It didn’t make sense, but I was sure it was true.
“Fine. Help at the class. If your grades start to suffer, you will quit.”
I nodded. “Sure.” But I only made the promise so she’d stop talking about it.
Mom wasn’t done. “Your father isn’t going to like this.”
It was so tempting to say that I didn’t care if Dad liked it or not. I wanted to ask why she was so worried about his opinion anyway. It wasn’t like he was ever around. He was always working or... Whatever.
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “He’ll be okay with it when I tell him that I think it would be good for me—help me work out the guilt I feel for Magda being raped.”
My mother winced. The R word always made her intensely uncomfortable. “It wasn’t your fault. You know how much I liked Magda, but she ought to have known better than to be drinking at a party with that many boys around.”
My fingers tightened around my fork. Her words—so stupid and careless—made me remember what I’d said to Magda that day about being punished for making a mistake. She hadn’t done anything wrong. “No, those boys ought to have known better than to drug and rape a girl.”
“Hadley...”
“Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say it.” I didn’t understand how she could think it, let alone believe it. I knew, however, that my mother wasn’t the only woman to think that Magda had asked for what happened to her. Hell, even I had thought it once or twice. God, I wish I could take it back, because that guilt was a weight I’d carry the rest of my life. “Even if I walked into school stark naked with a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, I would not be asking to be raped.”
“Oh, Hadley!” She made a face. “Don’t be so crude.”
“What if it had been me, Mom? Would you blame me? Would you say those things about me?”
“Of course not!” She looked offended that I’d even suggest it. God, she really didn’t have a clue. “I hope I raised you well enough that you wouldn’t get yourself into such a situation.”
I’d had enough. There was a very real possibility that I was going to stab my mother with my fork if I didn’t leave the house at that moment. I pushed back my chair—it screeched against the floor—and practically jumped to my feet.
“I have to go. I’ll be late for school.” I grabbed my bag and stomped from the kitchen, throwing open the door so hard that it banged against the wall.
“Hey!” my mother yelled. “There’s no need for that!”
I ignored her and kept walking. I was halfway to school before I realized that I still had the fork in my hand.
I ran into Zoe at lunch that day. Actually, I was outside sitting on the grass, letting the sun beat down on me in the hope that it might thaw the coldness inside, when she plopped down beside me.
“So,” she began, “are you going to the party Saturday night?”
I turned my head toward her, looking at her through the dark lenses of my sunglasses. “What party?”
“Jason Bentley is having a party Saturday night.”
I laughed—it was not a happy sound. “No.”
“He asked me to tell you about it.”
I peered at her over the top of my sunglasses. She was shitting me, right? “Seriously? Why would he do that?” Was he trying to mess with me?
She