What They Don’t Know Read online

  Also by Nicole Maggi

  The Forgetting

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2018 by Nicole Maggi

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Whitney Manger

  Cover images © Karina Vegas/Arcangel; Ajintai/Shutterstock; r.kathesi/Shutterstock

  Internal design by Travis Hasenour/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Internal images © Stephen Rees/Thinkstock; everythingpossible/Thinkstock; DavidMSchrader/Thinkstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book is not intended as a substitute for medical advice from a qualified physician. The intent of this book is to provide accurate general information in regard to the subject matter covered. If medical advice or other expert help is needed, the services of an appropriate medical professional should be sought.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Maggi, Nicole, author.

  Title: What they don’t know / Nicole Maggi.

  Other titles: What they do not know

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2018] | Summary: Alternating journal entries chronicle the powerful fight for Mellie’s right to choose after she becomes pregnant by rape.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018010647 | (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Pregnancy--Fiction. | Abortion--Fiction. | Family life--Fiction. | Rape--Fiction. | Christian life--Fiction. | Diaries--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M33 Wh 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018010647

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  February 13

  February 13

  February 14

  February 14

  February 14

  February 14

  February 15

  February 15

  February 15

  February 15

  February 16

  February 16

  February 16

  February 18

  February 19

  February 19

  February 19

  February 20

  February 21

  February 21

  February 21

  February 22

  February 22

  February 22

  February 23

  February 24

  February 26

  February 26

  February 27

  February 27

  February 28

  February 28

  February 28

  March 1

  March 1

  March 2

  March 2

  March 4

  March 5

  March 6

  March 6

  March 7

  March 7

  March 9

  March 12

  March 13

  March 13

  March 13

  March 14

  March 14

  March 14

  March 14

  March 14

  March 15

  March 19

  March 21

  March 21

  March 22

  March 22

  March 22

  March 23

  March 23

  March 23

  March 23

  March 23

  March 23

  March 23

  March 24

  March 24

  March 24

  March 24

  March 24

  March 25

  March 29

  April 27

  Author’s Note

  Resources

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  In memory of my mother and for all the women who came before to pave the way

  February 13

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  You probably think you know who I am, but I’m here to tell you that you don’t. I used to be a bright star of a girl, but that girl burned out of existence, like a fire swept through my life and left nothing but ash and smoke. That smoke is the memory of what I had, so thick I can smell it and feel it in my eyes and ears and nose. But I can’t touch it. Smoke, like memories, will slip through your fingers and disappear as if it never existed at all.

  I keep thinking that if I could write down how my life used to be, maybe I could capture that smoke, keep it from drifting away. That’s what made me finally crack open this journal you gave us at the beginning of the semester. Could these pages be some magical vessel to contain that gone-girl? All those bright memories preserved in this one place?

  I would write about how on Sundays, after the long hours spent at church, we’d pile into the truck, exhausted, and my mom would say, “I’m too tired to cook,” which is the greatest sin for a woman on a Sunday in our church, but my dad would smile indulgently and order a pizza. “God rested on Sunday; why shouldn’t you?” he’d joke. Then they would kiss, and I’d be reminded that I’m one of six kids, so they must’ve had sex at some point. Which is gross to think about but also comforting because it means there’s some order to the world.

  I’d write about how when my youngest sister, Joanie, was a baby and would wake up crying in the middle of the night, I was usually the one who got there first with a bottle of warmed-up breast milk from the freezer. Some nights I’d rock her for hours even after she’d fallen asleep, watching her tiny eyelids flutter as she dreamed. What is she dreaming about? I’d wonder. Sometimes I’d place her gently in her crib and get my sketchbook, draw her in soft, black pencil. Those nights were magical. They seemed to exist in their own dimension, the spell broken only by the rising sun.

  I’d write about the day after my older sister, Hannah, got her license. She picked me up from school, and instead of going straight home, we drove and drove and drove. We rode over the mountain passes, twisting along ba
ck roads until we came to this hole-in-the-wall dive in the middle of nowhere called the Wooden Nickel. Hannah had read about it in Sunset Magazine, how it supposedly had the best bison burgers in America. We ate them with their secret special sauce dripping down our chins, washed them down with small-batch root beer, and got home hours after dark. Mom and Dad yelled their heads off, and Hannah lost her license for a week, but after they sent us to bed, Hannah turned to me and said, “Worth it.”

  I’d write about how I had everything I wanted and didn’t know it. I had a family who surrounded me with love and acceptance. I had a father and mother who stood on such high pedestals that the sun blinded me when I looked up at them. They loved me unconditionally, or so I thought. I never imagined there could be conditions under which they would not love me.

  Every night I thanked God for my parents’ love and for my family’s abundance, and yet every day I took each of those things for granted. Now I’m left with the memory of what I once had.

  No. These pages can’t contain that smoke, those memories. They’re gone now, destroyed in one irreversible moment.

  Maybe I should stop here. Let you go on believing everything you think you know about me. That would definitely be easiest. I could record what I ate for breakfast, what time I went to bed, which TV shows I like to watch. All those myths you have about me can stay intact. You can go on thinking I’m the perfect daughter of Mayor Rivers, the shining example of the family values he talks about in speech after speech after speech. Believe that I never cause any trouble and I’m always a good girl. I’ll probably get a C, but you’ll never know my innermost thoughts. I’ll stay safe.

  Except I can’t stay safe anymore.

  As of December 21, nowhere is safe.

  I would give anything to redo that day.

  But I can’t.

  And the only place I can talk about it is in these pages.

  So let’s start with a pop quiz. TRUE or FALSE: Mellie Rivers is a virgin.

  False. As of December 21, at 3:30 in the afternoon, on the floor in the basement of my house, I am not a virgin.

  TRUE or FALSE: Mellie Rivers would never have sex before marriage.

  True. I made a promise to God and my family, and I wear the ring on my left hand, where, presumably, one day, my husband will place a different, more permanent ring. I would have kept that promise. But the choice was taken from me.

  TRUE or FALSE: Mellie Rivers would never, ever get pregnant out of wedlock.

  False.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  February 13

  Dear Ms. Tilson—

  Mom always tells me that I can do anything I put my mind to, but sometimes I think she’s lying.

  Okay, maybe not lying, because I don’t think my mom ever intentionally lies to me, but maybe she’s being overly optimistic. She’s not accounting for the fact that sometimes the universe doesn’t want you to do everything you put your mind to. Sometimes, in fact, the world pits itself against you so that no matter how hard you try, you’re gonna fail.

  Today the world—okay, the school board, but it feels like the world—pitted itself against me and I failed. And it feels like crap. Which is why I’m writing this from under a fluffy blanket on the couch with Parks and Recreation on in the background because Leslie Knope always cheers me up.

  They suck. The school board, I mean. It didn’t matter that I had a petition with 250 signatures, the backing of both guidance counselors, and a bunch of the teachers (including you, thank you for that) supporting a gender-neutral dress code. They just went on and on about MORALS and VALUES and DECENCY. The not-so-subtle subtext was that girls are sexual temptresses and boys must be protected from them.

  Because if you read the stupid dress code that’s been in place since, like, the late 1700s, it doesn’t say anything about what boys can and can’t wear. It doesn’t prohibit shorts for boys. Just for girls. It doesn’t prohibit tank tops for boys. Just for girls.

  The dress code doesn’t give hemline or neckline or strap-width restrictions for whatever boys want to wear to prom. No, only girls are subject to that. Those red T-shirts that Principal Conway keeps in her office for when someone violates the dress code only come in girls’ sizes. We’re the ones who are forced to wear those shirts—like we’re straight out of freaking Gilead—when we have the gall to show a bra strap. Because, OH MY GOD, how dare we remind anyone that girls have breasts and wear bras?

  Superintendent Fugelson (I really want to write a mean perversion of his name, but I will restrain myself) actually had the nerve to say that the dress code was for “our own good.” Because, you know, a boy could get the wrong idea if a girl wears a spaghetti strap that’s narrower than half an inch. A boy might lose control if the neckline of a girl’s shirt is too low. And that, of course, would be the girl’s fault for wearing said shirt in the first place.

  I wish I could say that I’m shocked, but I’m not. I didn’t really expect the school board to lose its misogynistic worldview overnight. But I had this seed of hope inside me that I let take root. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I was passionate enough, if I gave a really well-reasoned argument, and had the support of the students and staff, the board would see that I was right. That this wasn’t the whim of some silly girl, but a serious cause from a serious thinker.

  Instead, the school board made me feel like the Whore of Babylon for wanting to wear a dress that hit above my knee and sent me home with my tail between my legs.

  And you know what the worst part is? I felt ashamed. Ashamed for asking for something so small. Ashamed for wanting to be valued the same as the boys in my school. Ashamed for speaking up for myself. Like I was naughty for raising my voice in a room where I’m meant to be silent.

  On the way out of the meeting, I could feel the tears welling up inside me. I had to run into the bathroom before they fell. I hunched over the sink and cried until my eyes were red and swollen, and then I had to put on a ton of powder to look even halfway normal. That’s how low they made me feel. I hate that I let them make me feel that way.

  You know what? NO. I’m not going to give them that power. I’m going to keep using my voice. I’ll raise it, and I’ll keep raising it until I get so loud they can’t ignore me.

  —Lise

  February 14

  Afternoon

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  I’m sitting in study hall, surrounded by roses. The Valentine’s Day roses the student government sells as a fund-raiser are everywhere. Everyone sends flowers to each other, not just boyfriends and girlfriends, but friends too. If you send a rose to one friend and not another, you’re saying something about that friendship, so if you’re a decent person, you send them to everyone in your circle.

  That’s what I did, anyway. White for all my friends (except Delia, who got pink because she’s my best friend, so she deserves a special rose). Of course, I got roses in return, mostly white, but a couple of pink ones too, and a deep red rose from Delia with a little note attached.

  I love you so much, Mellie! I can’t wait to be sisters-in-law!

  I can’t stop staring at her note.

  It’s like trying to catch that smoke in my hands again.

  I wanted to write something sweet and cheery to Delia too. I wanted to write about the night Hannah got engaged. It was at the church BBQ last summer. The fireflies were twinkling all around us, and the first people Delia and I hugged after we heard the news weren’t my sister or her brother, but each other, because we’d achieved what all best friends want. We were becoming actual sisters.

  I wanted to write about how we jumped up and down, screaming so loud that Delia’s dad finally yelled at us to stop, and Hannah stomped her foot and said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” I could have written a three-page letter about everything Delia and I have done together, about how we know each other so well
that we’re already like sisters, how we don’t need a marriage certificate to make it legal. I wanted to write about all the secrets we’ve shared, like how she puts on makeup when she gets to school and then washes it off before she goes home, or how she knows I read all the Harry Potter books behind my parents’ backs even though my dad disapproves of them. It means so much to me that she can trust me with her secrets, and I can trust her with mine.

  Oh, I wanted to tell her all that so bad.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because now I have a secret that I can’t tell her.

  I want to trust her.

  But I can’t risk it. Delia likes to see herself above everyone else. We’ve always been equals, but I think if I tell her this, she’ll look down on me, like she does the rest of our friends. I’ll no longer be on her level.

  I couldn’t stand that.

  I’ve lost so much already. I don’t want to lose her respect too.

  So I wrote: Happy Valentine’s Day to my bestie!

  And the rose was pink. Not red.

  I wonder what roses I’ll get next year.

  When everyone finds out what happened, who will still love me?

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  February 14

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  I threw away the roses when I got home. I put them in the green bin outside so no one would ask why I was getting rid of perfectly good flowers.

  Delia’s was on top. The red petals fell off, splayed against the white.

  I slammed the lid to hide them. The red petals looked like blood.

  There was blood on my thighs after it happened.

  And now there’s no blood, which is even worse.

  You’re probably wondering if I reported what happened. I did not. Now you’re asking yourself why, right? Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I didn’t say no loud enough. Maybe it was my fault.

  That’s why I didn’t report it.

  I didn’t want everyone questioning me. Doubting me. And mostly, I wanted to forget that it happened. I stopped going down into the basement. If my mother asked me to deal with the laundry or get an extra jar of tomato sauce, I got one of my sisters to do it. If I didn’t go down there, then it was easier to pretend it didn’t happen.