Educated

Shawn sees the red jeep. He watches me lick my thumb and scrub dirt from
my face, and he becomes excited. “Let’s go!” he says.
“I’ll wait in the car.”
“You’re coming in,” Shawn says.
Shawn can smell shame. He knows that Charles has never seen me like this
—that every day all last summer, I rushed home and removed every stain,
every smudge, hiding cuts and calluses beneath new clothes and makeup. A
hundred times Shawn has seen me emerge from the bathroom
unrecognizable, having washed the junkyard down the shower drain.
“You’re coming in,” Shawn says again. He walks around the car and opens
my door. The movement is old-fashioned, vaguely chivalrous.
“I don’t want to,” I say.
“Don’t want your boyfriend to see you looking so glamorous?” He smiles
and jabs me with his finger. He is looking at me strangely, as if to say, This is
who you are. You’ve been pretending that you’re someone else. Someone
better. But you are just this.
He begins to laugh, loudly, wildly, as if something funny has happened but
nothing has. Still laughing, he grabs my arm and draws it upward, as if he’s
going to throw me over his back and carry me in fireman-style. I don’t want
Charles to see that so I end the game. I say, flatly, “Don’t touch me.”
What happens next is a blur in my memory. I see only snapshots—of the
sky flipping absurdly, of fists coming at me, of a strange, savage look in the
eyes of a man I don’t recognize. I see my hands grasping the wheel, and I feel
strong arms wrenching my legs. Something shifts in my ankle, a crack or a
pop. I lose my grip. I’m pulled from the car.
I feel icy pavement on my back; pebbles are grinding into my skin. My
jeans have slid down past my hips. I’d felt them peeling off me, inch by inch,
as Shawn yanked my legs. My shirt has risen up and I look at myself, at my
body spread flat on the asphalt, at my bra and faded underwear. I want to
cover myself but Shawn has pinned my hands above my head. I lie still,
feeling the cold seep into me. I hear my voice begging him to let me go, but I
don’t sound like myself. I’m listening to the sobs of another girl.
I am dragged upward and set on my feet. I claw at my clothing. Then I’m
doubled over and my wrist is being folded back, bending, bent as far as it will
go and bending still. My nose is near the pavement when the bone begins to
bow. I try to regain my balance, to use the strength in my legs to push back,
but when my ankle takes weight, it buckles. I scream. Heads turn in our