Today is Monday, a Monday where the sky shines brightly, the clouds are fluffy and white and harmless, and the birds are chirping in the trees. It is a perfect day (almost a Disney movie), and you hate it. You want darkness and gloom, and you get light and fluffy instead (Irony, much, God?). Light is all about seeing, and you want to hide, to slide in among the clouds, and melt into invisibility. But apparently He isn't going to spring for that; today you're going to have to be seen.

You didn't sleep very well the night before, and it's not helping all that much today. You feel tired and cranky and generally just bad, but you're going to school anyway. Why? He only knows (and probably won't say, either.)

On the bus ride to school, you curl up against the window and use your scarf as a makeshift pillow on the hard, plastic window. It's not all too comfortable, but it works. You're adapting. Half-asleep, you say something in this regard to Luke, who's sitting next to you. He's adopted the same concerned demeanor of Mom, Dad, and Kevin, and the four of them keep looking at you like they expect you to break down and jump off a cliff at any given moment. Which, of course, you wouldn't do. You don't want to be their "crazy daughter" again.

Last night, dinner had not been fun. Everyone (you included) had adopted the classic Girardi tactic of silent interrogation. Luke and Kevin ate their lasagna sparingly, their faces morphing between concern, anger, disgust, and confusion. Even Kev's usually outgoing candor and sense of humor seemed to have been relegated elsewhere because, unlike crazy camp, this is not something about which he can tease; Mom would had taken out his eyes had he tried. Out of all the people in your family, Mom understands painfully well, well enough to know that this is something where no words are ever quite right and trying is sometimes just the first step to failure. So she is silent, too. Dad studies you from the head of the table, and it is as though he's looking deeper into you, than the rests, as though you're a puzzle, a case set out for him to solve. Because, you see, Dad already knows what happened: he read the report. Not that he came out and told you, of course, but you can see it in him, see his knowledge, see that he knows. And you didn't speak either, because you knew that tonight your blessed silence would be shattered today. Today you will have to speak.

As the bus pulls up to the stop, you sit up and awaken to your nightmare.

……

You and Luke arrive at Physics late, just seconds before the bell. It is unspoken agreement between the two of you, that you will dawdle in the halls, take the long away around, and utilize only the most crowded corridors. This way, you won't have to talk to Adam or Grace. Nobody will have a chance to ask you about your weekend (What would you say, "Oh it was a physical and emotionally scarring journey into the depths of living hell. You?") or inquire as to why you never returned their calls. It is a scheme devised to give you just the slightest edge, the smallest chance at surviving the day.

As you slide onto your stool, you stare determinedly at the desk, intent not to meet anyone's eyes. You hear Adam's voice whisper a barely audible "Hi, Jane" to which you respond with a simple "Hi." As you speak, you wait for your voice to crack, anticipating the destruction of your flimsy façade. You're stuck here all period because Lischak wouldn't let you change desks without a good explanation (like you'll give her yours…), and you can already tell this is going to be hell (Figuratively speaking, of course, as to avoid one of His lectures.) Giving a sidelong glance to Adam's face, you wonder how you can be so afraid of someone you love.

You never thought you'd actually be happy about a Physics test over material you haven't studied and don't understand, but you are. And so you spend the period, writing down formulas that you don't understand, scribbling them out, and fruitlessly writing new ones that you're pretty sure aren't even real. You get very little done this period, but you utilize every minute of it, only handing in your test you head out the door. That way, there is no time to talk.

….

Luke walks with you in the hallway today. Not slightly behind you, as he usually does, but right beside you. It is his attempt to protect you, and to be honest, you sort of appreciate it. It's macho and pointless and kind of unsettling, but at least he's trying to help, and you've failed too many times not to appreciate effort. After all, if God didn't appreciate the fact that you tried, you probably would have been reduced to pile of ashes long before now (Mercy is a wonderful thing.) So, thanks, Luke.

You don't see Adam come up behind you or else you would certainly move away. His arm snakes around your waist gently, pulling you close; it's a loving motion, a kind motion and yet you can't take it. For some reason He only knows, the touch sickens you, and you bolt toward the bathroom. This is just wonderful.

….

You sit on cool tile floor of the stall and shut your eyes. The wave of nausea has passed by, but you still feel shaken up. Adam wasn't the guy at the show, the one whose hands reached inside you, who pinned you against the wall. They didn't even look the same. And yet Adam's touch was like poison. His hands, so skilled and delicate, became one and the same with the hands of that night. You, Joan Girardi, are totally, unequivocally insane.

You open your eyes to see Adam and Grace standing above you. They both wear the same worried expression. Wait… Adam is here? In the girls' bathroom? (Why do you care? Is it really that big of deal?) Grace opens her mouth to speak, and you already know the question: Are you okay? But all you can think about is a guy in the girl's bathroom… again. And then you really do hurl.

Grace stares at the vomit on the floor, but there is no disgust on her face, just a strange sense of familiarity. You're puzzled until you remember that Grace has cleaned up a lot of vomit in her day. You look toward Adam and then point to door, and Grace quickly ushers him out in the stern, commanding way only she can. Then she leaves the stall and comes back with a wad of paper towels in her hand. Without a word, she starts cleaning the stall. It is then you realize that Grace Polk is stronger than you think.

As she cleans, you find yourself talking to Grace, talking about it. Somehow, it is easier than it ever was before. Maybe it is because Grace is a girl or maybe because she keeps her face solemner than most, hiding tears with a certain finesse that is born only of years of practice. Maybe it is because she says "That sucks" instead of "I'm sorry" and doesn't feed you some platitude from a TV movie. Or maybe it's because Grace knows how to be strong when life is shit. Or maybe she's just a friend. Whatever, it is you thank God for Grace.

Not long after Grace finishes wiping up the floor, Mom comes rushing in. Half-crying, she rushes over and enfolds you in her arms. Her grip is strong, tough, unyielding. She helps you to your feet. In your ear, she whispers quietly, "I know, honey." The funny thing is, you actually believe it.

…..

"On Saturday, I was molested."

It sounds so weak, bland, so simple when it is the exact opposite of that. It is power and dynamism, hell on earth, pain beyond description. But you can't describe that to yourself, much less to Adam Rove. So you settle for plain, crappy vanilla.

He and you sit on opposite sides of the table. Your hands are withdrawn into your lap, as though to protect them from his touch. You are sitting in an empty classroom Mom found for you. The minute you walked out of the bathroom and saw Adam, you knew you had to talk So here you are, spilling your guts (not literally, thank Him) to Adam Rove.

For a second, Adam looks like he might be sick himself. Then he utters, barely audible, two words:

"I'm sorry."

Sorry for what?, you wonder, Sorry for not being there? Sorry that's he become poison to you? Sorry for loving you?

For a moment, you are mad, and then it hits you that neither you know what say. Disconnect.

….

That night, a bouquet of flowers is delivered to your house. The tag reads Jane, I'd build you a sculpture, but there isn't time. Adam.

It's lovely and sweet and yet sad, too.

But there isn't time.

You understand perfectly.

You love Adam Rove, and yet don't know if you can be with him. You are silent, and yet you speak. Life is hell, and yet you see God.

There's always black with white. Even in plain vanilla.