Nine Years Ago
“Why are you quitting?”
I stood there, avoiding my coach’s eyes as I gripped the strap of my bookbag that hung across my chest.
“I don’t have time,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
I risked a glance, seeing her gaze hard on me under the short blonde hair hanging just over her eyes. “You made a commitment,” she argued. “We need you.”
I shifted on my feet, a curtain of self-loathing covering every inch of me.
This was shitty. I knew that.
I was good at swimming. I could help the team, and she put a lot of work into training me over the last year. I didn’t want to quit.
But she’d just have to deal with it. I couldn’t explain, even if not explaining meant that she’d misunderstand my silence as being irresponsible and selfish.
The voices of all the girls outside the office filled the locker room as they got ready for practice, and I felt her eyes on me, waiting for a response.
It was useless, though. I wasn’t going to change my mind.
“Is there something else going on?” she asked.
I squeezed the strap across my chest, the fabric cutting into my hand.
But I drew a deep breath and pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, straightening my spine. “No one’s giving me a scholarship for swimming,” I spat out. “I need to spend my time doing things that will get me into college. This was a waste.”
Before she could fire back, or the look on her face made this hurt worse, I spun around and pulled open her door, leaving her office.
Tears lodged in my throat, but I pushed them down.
This sucked. I was going to pay for this. It wasn’t over. I knew that.
But I had no choice.
The ache in my back fired up as I stalked through the locker room, and I slammed my hand into the door, feeling the pain in my wrist shoot up my arm before stepping into the hallway.
But I pushed through it, ignoring the discomfort as I headed down the nearly empty corridor.
I was glad I got out of there before she asked why I wasn’t quitting band, too. Band wouldn’t get me into college, either. I wasn’t that good.
It was just all I had left now that got me out of the house, and I didn’t have to wear a swimsuit to do it.
I chewed on my lip, a ten-ton truck sitting on my shoulders as I stared at the floor. I headed for my locker without looking where I was going, because I’d walked this path a million times. Just keep it together. Time would pass. Life would move on. I was heading in the right direction.
Just keep going.
A few students milled around the halls, here early because of clubs or other sports, and I reached my locker, dialing in the combination. It was still a bit before the first class started, but I could go hide in the library to kill time. It was better than being home.
Emptying my bag of my math and physics that I’d finished last night, I pulled my binder, my lit book, my copy of Lolita, and my Spanish text from my locker, holding everything in one arm as I dug on the top shelf for my pencil bag.
He was going to find out I’d quit. Maybe I had a few days’ peace before that happened, but a knot tightened in my stomach, and I could still taste the coppery cut in my mouth from two days ago.
He was going to find out. He wouldn’t want me to quit swimming, and pointing out why I had to would only make him angrier.
I blinked a few times, no longer really searching for my pens or pencils as the searing pain under my hair from the other night raced across my scalp again.
I hadn’t cried when he pulled it.
But I retreated. I always flinched.
Laughter went off somewhere down the hall, and I glanced over, seeing some students loitering against the lockers. Girls in their school uniforms, skirts rolled up much shorter than the three inches above the knee we were allowed, and blouses too tight under their navy blue jackets.
I narrowed my eyes.
With heads together and smiling as they joked around with the guys, the whole group looked about as shallow as a rain puddle. Never deep enough to be more than what it was.
Shallow, boring, tedious, ignorant, and insipid. All the rich kids here were like that.
I watched Kenzie Lorraine lean into Nolan Thomas, her mouth moving over his like she was melting into him. She whispered against his lips, and his white teeth flashed through his little grin before he slid his hands around her waist and leaned back against the lockers. My heart skipped a small beat, and I felt my pencil bag, absently sliding it into my satchel without taking my eyes off them.
Shallow, boring, tedious, ignorant, and insipid.
I blinked, my expression softening as I watched them.
Happy, excited, brave, wild, and in heaven.
They looked seventeen.
And suddenly, for a moment, I wished I was them. Anyone other than me. No wonder hardly anyone at this school liked me. I was even tired of myself.
Wouldn’t it be fantastic to be really happy for just five minutes?
Her friends hung around, talking to his, but I only saw him and her, wondering how it felt. Even if it wasn’t true love, it had to feel good to be wanted.
But just then, Nolan opened his eyes. He looked over at me, meeting my gaze head on as if he knew I was here the whole time. The vein in my neck pounded, and I was frozen.
Shit.
He didn’t stop kissing her, though, holding my eyes as they moved together. Then…he winked at me, and I could see his smile through the kiss.
I rolled my eyes and looked away. Great. Emory Scott was a pervert. That’s what he’d say. Just what I needed.
I turned back to my locker, embarrassed, and slammed the door.
Everything ached, and I arched my back, trying to stretch the muscles, but just as I turned around to leave, a fist came down and knocked my books out of my arms.
I sucked in a breath, startled as I retreated a step on instinct.
Miles Anderson glared at me as he passed, but a smirk curled his lips, too.
“See something you like, stupid?” he taunted.
I clenched my jaw, trying to get control of the pounding in my chest, but the sudden fright made my stomach roll as his friends followed him, laughing.
His blond hair laid haphazardly over his forehead, while his blue eyes trailed down my form, and I knew exactly what he was taking stock of.
The outdated plaid pattern of my secondhand skirt.
The missing button on the cuff of my blouse that was two sizes too big.
My faded blue blazer with little pieces of thread sticking off the patch-ups I had to do from the previous owner.
My worn shoes, from all the walking because I had no car, and how I never wore makeup or did anything with my dark hair that just hung down my arms and in my face.
So much different than how he looked. How they all looked.
Little shits. I let Anderson have his pathetic fun, because it was the only time he had any power. One thing I could be grateful to the Horsemen for.
I hated how this school was their own personal playground, but when they were around, Miles Anderson didn’t pull shit like that. I could bet he was probably counting the days until they graduated so he could take over the basketball team.
And Thunder Bay Prep.
Clenching my jaw, I crouched down and gathered up my books, stuffing everything into my bag.
But a light sweat covered my face all of a sudden, and I felt sick. Pushing myself to my feet, I blew out a breath and hurried for the bathroom, the closest one up the stairs and down the hall.
My stomach filled with something, the burn of the bile rising up my throat growing stronger. Throwing my weight into the door, I pushed through and dove into a stall, leaning over the toilet and heaving.
I lurched, the vomit rising just enough to taste the acid, but it wouldn’t come up any farther. I coughed, my eyes watering as I gasped.
I pushed my glasses up on top of my head, holding the sides of the stall as I drew in breath after breath to calm down.
I rubbed my eyes. Shit.
I fought back sometimes.
When it didn’t matter and when I wasn’t really threatened.
I wiped my brow and flushed the toilet on habit, exiting the stall and walking to the sink. Turning on the water, I dipped my hands underneath the faucet, but then I paused, my energy to even splash water on my face now gone. I just turned it off and left the bathroom, wiping my hands dry on my skirt.
I was too tired, and the day had barely started.
But as soon as I opened the door, someone stood there, and I stopped short, looking at Trevor Crist. He smiled at me as I fisted the strap of my bag, staring at him.
He was only a freshman, two years my junior, but he was already my height and looked absolutely nothing like his brother. Fake, plastic eyes that didn’t match his smile, and dark blond hair that was as perfectly styled as his tie was positioned.
He looked like his name should be Chad. What the hell did he want?
He held out a blue notebook, and I recognized the frayed notes and loose papers inside, highlighted with scribbled yellow marker. I darted my eyes back down the hall toward my locker.
I must’ve left it behind when that jackass knocked everything out of my hands.
I took the notebook, stuffing it into my bag. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
“I got it all, but I can’t be sure it’s in order,” he said. “Some of the papers fell out.”
I barely heard him, noticing the hallways filling with more students, and Mr. Townsend make his way for my first class.
“Trevor Crist.” The kid held out his hand.
“I know.”
And I walked past him, ignoring his hand.
Heading a few yards down the hall, I held open the door, following another student inside, and scanned the classroom for the safest seat. In the corner, at the rear and near the windows, an empty desk sat surrounded by students at every available angle—Roxie Harris next to me, Jack Leister in front of me, and Drew Hannigan kitty-corner.
I ran for it.
I slid into the seat, the legs of the desk skidding across the floor as I dropped my bag to the ground.
“Ugh,” Roxie groaned beside me, but I ignored her as I dug my materials out of my bag.
And she started to pack up her things.
The classroom filled, chatter and laughter pouring in as Mr. Townsend stood, hovering over his desk and going through his notes.
But Roxie didn’t even have time to clear out of her seat before they were there. Drifting through the door, tall, magnetic, and always together.
I turned my head toward the window, closing my eyes behind my glasses and holding my breath as I quickly pulled my earbuds out of my jacket pocket and stuck them in my ears.
Anything to look unapproachable.
Please, please, please…
The prayer was too late, though. I could feel Roxie, Jack, and Drew’s eye rolls as they sighed and grabbed their shit, vacating their seats without even being asked, like it was my fault these guys insisted on completely crowding me no matter where I sat in this damn room.
Kai Mori slid into Jack’s seat ahead of me, while Damon Torrance took the seat diagonally from me.
I didn’t have to look up to see their dark hair, and I could always tell who was who without checking because Kai smelled like amber musk and the ocean, while Damon smelled like an ashtray.
Michael Crist had probably planted himself somewhere close, but it was the last body, passing me in the aisle and planting himself in the seat next to me in what should’ve been Roxie’s seat, that made my heart beat faster.
I could feel his eyes on me as I stared out the window.
If I knew we were going to share classes when the administration decided to move me to senior English a few weeks back—a year ahead of schedule—I would’ve said no. No matter what my brother wanted.
I was pretty sure they only moved me, because I was “difficult” last year and they thought challenging me would put a cork in my mouth.
They were all finding out that wasn’t true.
“You’re out of uniform,” I heard some girl whisper.
And then I heard Will Grayson’s voice heating the back of my neck. “I’m in disguise,” he told her.
“That piece of shit has a hard-on for you or something,” Damon added. “Every time he sees you, he wants to get you alone.”
I clenched my fingers around my notebook and pencil.
“In his defense,” Kai chimed in, “it was you who put the ‘Sorry, I hit your car’ notes on people’s vehicles all over town with his phone number on them.”
Damon snorted and then burst out laughing, while Will breathed out a self-satisfied chuckle.
Assholes. My brother’s phone rang all damn night last night because of that prank. And when he’s aggravated, he shows it.
“So, what do you say, Em?” Will prodded, finally engaging me like he could never stop himself from doing. “Is your brother hot for me? He’s certainly on my ass enough.”
I remained silent, absently opening my notebook as people got situated in their seats and talked around us.
Everyone in this school hated my brother. Their money and connections had no effect on his willingness as a police officer to hand out speeding tickets, parking tickets, investigate noise complaints, or shut down parties and drinking as soon as he got a whiff of anything going down.
My brother was a jerk for doing his job, and when they couldn’t come at him, they came at me.
I saw Will dig something out of his pocket, and I watched him unwrap a piece of candy and lift it to his mouth, peeling the sweet off the paper with his teeth.
His eyes never left me.
“Take out your earbuds,” he ordered me as he chewed.
I narrowed my gaze.
“And stop acting like you’re listening to music and that’s why you can’t be bothered to deal with the people around you,” he bit out.
Every muscle in my body tensed, and when I didn’t listen, he tossed his wrapper onto the floor and leaned over, yanking the cord and pulling the earbuds out of my ears.
I startled, sitting up straight.
But I didn’t shrink. Not with him.
Now…he had my fucking attention.
Grabbing the cord from where it hung down to the floor, I rose from my desk, picked up my notebook and bag, and started to leave.
But then his hands were on me, pulling me down into his lap.
Everything in my arms tumbled to the floor, and liquid fire coursed under my skin.
No.
I gritted my teeth and shoved at him as Kai sighed and Damon snickered, neither one stopping him, though.
I struggled against him, but he simply tightened his hold, turning his face away from my attack.
Will, Kai, Damon, and Michael. The Four Horsemen.
I just loved these nicknames little wannabe gangsters gave themselves in high school, but someone should really tell them it wasn’t scary when you had to tell everyone how scary you were.
Every school had these guys, too. A little money, some connected moms and dads, and pretty faces without hearts to match. None of that was really their fault, I guessed.
What was their fault was that they took full advantage of it. Wouldn’t it be fun if anyone ever said no to them? If one of them ever paid for a mistake? Or ever said no to a drink, a drug, or a girl?
But no. Same story. Shallow, boring, tedious, ignorant, and insipid.
And while others may give in or pathetically protest before finally giving in, I wasn’t interested.
And he hated that.
I could scream. Get the teacher’s attention. Make a scene. But he’d only get the laughs he craved, and I’d get the attention I didn’t.
“Wipe that fucking glare off your face,” he warned.
I locked my jaw, not doing a damn thing he said.
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know I may seem like the nicest one, and you probably think I regret the shit I give you sometimes, and someday I’ll wake up and reevaluate my life and its purpose, but I won’t. I sleep like a baby at night.”
“You wake every two hours and cry?” I asked.
There was a snort behind me, but I didn’t look away as Will’s eyes sharpened on me. School was always the one place I had a reprieve.
Until I got to high school.
I rolled my wrists inside his fists, trying to pry him off. “Let me go.”
“Why are your cuffs wet?”
His gaze fell and he forced my arm up, so he could look closer.
I didn’t answer.
He looked back up at me. “And your eyes are red.”
My throat tightened, but I gritted my teeth together and yanked my wrists free.
But before I could escape from his lap, he grabbed my chin in one hand and wrapped his other arm around my waist, pulling me in. Against his body, and whispering so softly no one could hear him but me.
“Don’t you know that you can have anything you want?” His eyes searched mine. “I’ll hurt anyone for you.”
The weight on my chest was too heavy, it almost hurt to breathe.
“Who is it?” he asked. “Who do I have to hurt?”
My eyes burned. Why did he do this? He’d soften and tempt me with the fantasy that I wasn’t alone and maybe—possibly—there was hope.
His scent hit me. Bergamot and blue cypress, and I looked up at his brown hair, perfectly styled and rich against his perfect skin and dark brows. Black lashes framed eyes that looked like the leaves surrounding a lagoon on some stupid island somewhere, and for a moment, I was lost.
Just for a moment.
“God, please,” I finally said. “Get yourself a life, Will Grayson. You’re pathetic.”
And his beautiful eyes instantly hardened as he lifted his chin. He pushed me off his lap and shoved me back toward my desk. “Sit down.”
He almost sounded hurt, and I nearly laughed. Probably disappointed I’m not stupid enough to fall for his shit. What was he planning? Gain my trust, lure me to Homecoming, and watch as they dumped pig’s blood all over me?
Nah, not original enough. Will Grayson had more imagination. I’d give him that, at least.
“All right, let’s go ahead and get started,” Mr. Townsend said, clearing his throat
I grabbed my bag and notebook off the floor and slid back into my chair, tucking my earbuds into my pocket.
“Take out your books,” he instructed as he took a quick sip of his coffee and flipped a paper on his desk.
Will just sat there, staring silently ahead, and I faltered for a moment as I watched the muscle flex in his jaw.
Whatever. I rolled my eyes and dug out my copy of Lolita as the rest of the class found theirs. Except Will, because he hadn’t bothered to bring a bag or books today.
“We’ve talked about Humbert being an unreliable narrator in the book.” Townsend took another drink of coffee. “How we are all the righteous heroes of our own story if we’re the ones telling it.”
I heard Will draw in and release a breath. I focused on the back of Kai Mori’s neck, usually fascinated by how precise and clean the lines of his trim were.
I was having trouble concentrating today.
Townsend continued, “And how often a matter of right or wrong is simply just a matter of perspective. To a fox, the hound is the villain. To a hound, the wolf. To a wolf, a human, and so on.”
Oh, please. Humbert Humbert was derailed.
And a criminal. Fox, hound, wolf, whatever.
“He believes he’s in love with Lo.” The teacher circled his desk and leaned against the front, his paperback curled in his fist. “But he’s not completely ignorant of his crime, either. He says,” —he flipped open his book, reading from it—“‘I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever; but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita.’” He looked up at the class. “What did he mean?”
“That she’d grow up,” Kai answered. “And no longer be sexually attractive to him because he’s a pedophile.”
I smirked to myself. Kai was kind of my favorite Horseman, if I had to pick one.
Townsend considered Kai’s thoughts, but then prompted another student.
“Do you agree?”
The girl shrugged. “I think he meant that we change, and she would, too. It’s not that she’s growing up. It’s that she’ll outgrow him, and he’s scared.”
Which was probably what Humbert actually meant, but I liked Kai’s assessment better.
The teacher nodded and then jerked his chin at another student. “Michael?”
Michael Crist looked up, sounding lost. “What?”
Damon snorted at his friend, and I shook my head.
Townsend hooded his eyes, looking impatient, before restating his question. “What do you think he meant when he said she wouldn’t be forever Lolita?”
Michael remained silent for a moment. I almost wondered if he would answer.
“He loves the idea of her,” he finally told Townsend, sounding finite. “When she eventually faded from him, the dream of her would still be there, haunting him. That’s what he meant.”
Huh. Not an entirely poor assessment. And I thought Kai would be the only one of them who’d actually read the book.
Townsend shifted, flipping to another page and read, “She says, ‘He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.’ What is she telling him?”
Everyone kept silent.
The teacher scanned the room, looking for a flicker from any of us. “You merely broke my life,” he repeated.
Needles pricked my throat, and I dropped my eyes. You broke my life.
A student sighed from a seat near the door. “She willingly indulged him,” he argued. “Yeah, it was wrong, but this is an issue today. Women can’t just decide after the fact that they were abused. She was willingly sexual with him.”
“Minors can’t consent,” Kai pointed out.
“What, so you magically become emotionally and mentally mature when you turn eighteen?” Will replied, suddenly entering the conversation. “Just happens overnight, does it?”
“She was a child, Will.” Kai turned in his seat, debating his friend. “In Humbert’s head, he demands sympathy from us, and most readers give it, because he tells them to. Because we’re willing to forgive anyone anything if they’re attractive to us.”
I stared at my desk, not blinking.
“He doesn’t have a thing for Lo,” Kai continued. “He has a thing for young girls. It’s not an isolated incident. She was abused.”
“And she left him to go shack up with a child pornographer, Kai,” Will spat out. “If she were being abused, why didn’t she have the sense to not put herself back in that situation?”
I rubbed my thumb over the paperback cover, hearing it skid across the gloss. My chin trembled, my eyes stinging a little.
“I mean, why would she do that?” Will asked.
“That’s what I’m saying,” another student chimed in.
Words hung on the tip of my tongue, telling them that they were oversimplifying. That it was easier to judge a girl you knew nothing about than to allow someone the dignity of their process. That it was more convenient to not consider that there were things we didn’t know and things we’d never understand, because we were shallow and entitled and ignorant.
That you stayed, because…
Because…
“Abuse can feel like love.”
I blinked, the voice so close that my ears tingled. Slowly, I raised my eyes to look at the side of Damon Torrance’s face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie draped around his neck.
The whole class fell silent, and I glanced at Will next to me, seeing his eyebrows pinched together as he looked at the back of his friend’s head.
Mr. Townsend approached. “Abuse can feel like love…” he repeated. “Why?”
Damon remained so still it didn’t look like he was breathing.
He looked at the teacher, unwavering. “Starving people will eat anything.”
I stilled as his words hung in the air, and for a second, I felt warm. He wasn’t completely devoid of brain cells maybe.
Feeling eyes on me, I turned my head, seeing Will’s gaze focused on my leg.
I looked down, finding my fingers curled around the hem of my skirt, the scratches and part of a bruise visible on my thigh. My pulse quickened, and I yanked my skirt back down to my knee.
“Flip to the last chapter, please,” Townsend called. “And take out the packet.”
But the bruise pounded with pain, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Don’t you know you can have anything you want? I’d hurt anyone you asked me to.
My chin trembled. I had to get out of here.
Abuse can feel like love…
I shook my head, stuffing my materials back into my bag, standing up, and hooking it over my head as I charged down the aisle and toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
I turned my head toward the teacher. “To finish the book and the constructed responses in the library.”
I kept walking, blinking away the tears hanging in my eyes.
“Emory Scott,” the teacher called.
“Or you can explain to my brother why my SAT scores will be shit,” I said, walking backward with my glare on him, “because they’re dominating ninety-eight percent of every conversation in this class.” I gestured to the Horsemen. “Text me any additional assignments, if we have them.”
I pushed the door open, hearing whispers go off in class.
“Emory Scott,” the teacher barked.
I looked over my shoulder at Townsend, seeing him hold out a pink slip.
“You know what to do,” he scolded.
Strolling back in, I snatched the referral from his fingers. “At least I’ll get some work done,” I retorted.
Dean’s office or library, it made no difference.
Walking out of the room, I couldn’t help but glance back at Will Grayson, seeing him slouched in his seat, chin on his hand, and covering a smile with his fingers.
He held my eyes until I left the room.
• • •
Walking down the sidewalk, I didn’t raise my eyes as I turned left and headed up the walkway toward my house. I blinked long and hard for the last few steps, my head floating up into the trees as the afternoon breeze rustled the leaves. I loved that sound.
The wind was foreboding. It made it feel like something was about to happen, but in a way that I liked.
Opening my eyes, I climbed my steps and looked right, not seeing my brother’s cruiser in the driveway yet. The heat in my stomach cooled slightly, the muscles relaxing just a hair.
I had a little time, at least.
What a shit day. I’d skipped lunch and hid in the library, and after classes were done, I struggled through band practice, not wanting to be there, but not wanting to come home, either. Hunger pangs rocked my stomach, but it took the edge off the pain everywhere else.
I looked back at my street, taking in the quiet avenue, decorated with maples, oaks, and chestnuts, bursting with their finale of oranges, yellows, and reds. Leaves danced to the ground as the wind shook them free, and the scent of the sea and a bonfire somewhere drifting through my nose.
Most of the kids like me were bussed to Concord to attend the public high school there, since our population in Thunder Bay was too small to support two high schools, but my brother wanted the best for me, so TBP was where I stayed.
Despite the fact that we weren’t wealthy, he paid a little, I work-studied a lot, and the rest of my tuition was waived as my brother was a public servant. The wealth and privilege my private high school matriculated was supposed to be a better education. I wasn’t seeing it. I still sucked at literature, and the only class I really enjoyed was independent study, because I could be alooooooone.
On my own, I learned a lot.
I didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in, or that we weren’t rich. We had a beautiful house. Turn-of-the-century, three-story (well, four if you counted the basement), red brick Victorian with gray trim. It was more than big enough, and it had been in our family for three generations. My great-grandparents built it in the thirties, and my grandmother has lived here since she was seven.
Opening the door, I immediately kicked off my boots and jogged upstairs, throwing the door closed behind me as I went.
Passing my brother’s room, I pulled off my school bag and dropped it just inside my door before continuing down the hall, softening my steps just in case.
I stopped at my grandmother’s door, leaning on the frame. The nurse, Mrs. Butler, looked up from her paperback, another wartime thriller from the looks of the cover, and smiled, her chair ceasing its rocking.
I offered a tight smile back and then looked over to the bed. “How’s she been?” I asked the nurse as I stepped quietly toward my grandma.
Mrs. Butler rose from the chair. “Hanging in there.”
I looked down, seeing her stomach shake a little and her lips purse just slightly with every breath she expelled. Wrinkles creased nearly every inch of her face, but I knew if I touched it, the skin would be softer than a baby’s. The scent of cherries and almonds washed over me, and I stroked her hair, smelling the shampoo Mrs. Butler used for her bath today.
Grand-Mère. The one person who meant everything to me.
For her, I stayed.
My eyes dropped, noticing the wine-colored fingernails the nurse must’ve painted today when she couldn’t convince my grandma to go with a nice, gentle mauve. I couldn’t hold back the small smile.
“Had to put her on oxygen for a bit,” Mrs. Butler added. “But she’s okay now.”
I nodded, watching her sleep.
My brother was convinced she’d go any day now, the occasions she was able to get out of bed fewer and fewer.
She was sticking around, though. Thank goodness.
“She likes the records,” Butler told me.
I looked over at the stack of vinyls, some stuffed haphazardly back into their sleeves laying alongside the old turntable. I’d found the whole lot at an estate sale last weekend. Thought she’d get a kick out of it, fifties baby that she was.
Well, she wasn’t born in the fifties. She was way older than that. But she was a teen in the fifties.
Mrs. Butler gathered her purse, pulling out her keys. “You’ll be okay?”
I nodded, but I didn’t look at her.
She left, and I stayed with Grandma for a bit longer, making sure I had her pills and shot ready for later, and I opened the window a few inches, letting in some fresh air, which Mrs. Butler asked us not to do, since the allergens in the air could aggravate her breathing.
Grandma said, “To hell with it.” This was her favorite time of year, and she loved the sounds and smells. I didn’t want to make her miserable merely to continue a life of misery.
Bringing up the room’s camera on my phone, I left the door open a crack, grabbed my bag from my room, and headed downstairs, starting the water boiling on the stove. I set the phone on the kitchen table, keeping an eye on her in case she needed me, and laid out my books, going through the easy stuff first.
I logged onto my laptop, requesting all the books I’d need from the public library, a few from Meridian City that Thunder Bay didn’t have, all for my history report, and drew up my outline. I finished the WebQuest and packet for physics, completed my reading for Spanish, and then stopped to chop and sauté vegetables before starting literature.
Literature… I still hadn’t done the constructed responses and they were due tomorrow.
It’s not that I didn’t like the class. It’s not that I didn’t like books.
I just didn’t like old books. Third person, wonky paragraphs a mile long, and some dumb academic trying to force me to believe there’s profound meaning in the author’s overwritten description of a piece of furniture I don’t give two shits about. I’m pretty sure the author doesn’t even know what they were trying to do in the first place, and they were probably just high on laudanum when they wrote it.
Or soothing syrup or absinthe or whatever the kids were doing in those days.
They push this shit down our throats as if there were no quality stories being written anymore, and this was it for us. The House of the Seven Gables is what Caitlyn the Cutter, who sits three seats down from me, was supposed to find relevance in? Got it.
Of course, Lolita wasn’t that old. It just sucked, and I’m pretty sure it sucked in 1955, too. I’ll ask my grandma.
I soaked the pasta, cooked the peppers and onions, and fired up the meat, mixing everything together before popping it in the oven. After making a salad, I set the timer and pulled out the worksheet, reading the first question.
But then lights flashed, and I shot my gaze up, seeing a car turn into our driveway from out the window. Rain glittered in front of the headlights, and I jumped to my feet, closing my books and piling my papers, stuffing everything into my bag.
Heat curdled my stomach.
Shit. Sometimes he pulled a double shift or got caught up with a matter or two, and I was blessed with a night without him.
Not tonight, it seemed.
I pinched my thighs together, feeling like I was about to pee my pants, and threw my bookbag into the dining room where we never ate. I quickly set the table, and as the front door opened, I spun around and pretended to fluff the salad.
“Emory!” Martin called out.
I couldn’t stop my stomach from sinking like it did every day, but I plastered a bright smile on my face and peeked my head through the open kitchen doorway and down the hall.
“Hey!” I chirped. “Is it raining again?”
Just then, I realized I’d left my grandmother’s window opened. Dammit. I’d need to find a minute to run and close it before it soaked the floor and gave him an excuse.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “’Tis the season, right?”
I forced a chuckle. Droplets flew everywhere as he shook out his coat, and I watched him hang it up on the coat rack and head down the hallway toward the kitchen, his wet shoes squeaking across the wooden floor.
I had to remove my shoes at the door. He didn’t.
I pulled my head back, straightening and blowing out a steady breath. Picking up the salad and tossing forks, I spread my lips in a smile. “I was thinking of going jogging around the village later,” I told him, setting the bowl on the table.
He stopped, loosening his tie and giving me the side-eye. “You?”
“I can run,” I feigned, arguing. “For a few minutes.”
He breathed out a laugh and walked to the fridge, taking out the milk and pouring himself a glass.
“Smells good.” He carried his glass to the table and sat down. “Is your homework done?”
His silver badge glinted under the light of the overhead bulbs, his form in his black uniform seeming to grow larger and larger by the second.
Martin and I were never close. Eight years older than me, he was already used to being an only child by the time I came along, and when our parents passed away about five years ago, he’d had to take care of everything. At least he got the house.
I cleared my throat. “Almost. I have some lit questions to double-check after dishes.”
I hadn’t completed them at all, actually, but I always embellished. It was like second nature now.
“How was your day?” I asked quickly, taking the pasta out of the oven and setting it on the table.
“It was good.” He served himself, while I doled out salads into our bowls and poured myself some water. “The department is running smoothly, and they offered to move me up to Meridian City, but I—”
“Like it clean and tidy,” I joked, “and Thunder Bay is your ship.”
“You know me so well.”
I smiled small, but my hand shook as I picked up a forkful of lettuce. It wouldn’t stop shaking until he left for work in the morning.
He dug into his meal, and I forced a bite into my mouth, the silence filling the room louder than the sound of the drops hitting the windows outside.
If I weren’t speaking, he’d find something to say, and I didn’t want that.
My knee bobbed up and down under the table. “Would you like more salt?” I asked, lacing my voice with so much sugar I wanted to gag.
I reached for the shaker, but he interrupted. “No,” he said. “Thank you.”
I dropped my hand and continued eating.
“How was your day?” he inquired.
I looked at his fingers wrapped around his fork. He’d stopped eating, his attention on me.
I swallowed. “Good. We, um…” My heart raced, the blood pumping hot through my body. “We had an interesting discussion in lit,” I told him. “And my science report is—”
“And swim practice?”
I fell silent.
Just tell him. Get it over with. He’ll find out eventually.
But I lied instead. “It was good.”
I always tried to hide behind a lie first. Given the choice between fight or flight, I flew.
“Was it?” he pressed.
I stared at my plate, my smile gone as I picked at my food. He knew.
His eyes burned a hole into my skin, his voice like a caress. “Pass the salt?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. The eerie calm in his tone was like the feeling before a storm. The way the air charged with the ions, the clouds hung low, and you could smell it coming. I knew the signs by now.
Reaching over, I picked up the shaker, slowly moving it toward him.
But I knocked his glass instead, his milk spilling onto the table and dripping over the side.
I darted my eyes up to him.
He stared back, holding my gaze for a moment, and then shoved the table away from him.
I popped to my feet, but he grabbed my wrist, yanking me back down to my seat.
“You don’t rise from the table before me,” he said calmly, squeezing my wrist with one hand, and setting his glass upright before taking my water and moving it in front of his plate.
I winced, my glasses sliding down my nose as I fisted my hand, the blood pooling under the skin because he was cutting off my circulation.
“Don’t you ever leave this table without my permission.”
“Martin…”
“Coach Dorn called me today.” He stared ahead at nothing, slowly raising my water to his lips. “Saying you quit the team.”
The unbuttoned cuff of my white uniform shirt hid his hand, but I was sure his knuckles were white. I started to twist my wrist because it hurt, but I immediately stopped, remembering that would just anger him more.
“I didn’t say you could quit,” he continued. “And then you lie about it like an idiot.”
“Martin, please…”
“Eat your dinner, Em,” he told me.
I stared at him for a moment, reconciling my head, once again, to the fact that it was going to happen no matter how hard I tried to stop it.
There was no stopping it.
Dropping my eyes to my plate, I lifted the fork, less sure with my left hand than with my right, and scooped up some rotini noodles and meat sauce.
“You’re right-handed, stupid.”
I paused, still feeling his fingers wrapped tightly around that wrist.
It only took a moment, and then I felt him guide my right hand over, prompting me to take the fork. I did and slowly lifted it to my mouth, his hand still wrapped around that wrist as the dull points of the silver utensil came toward me like something I’d never been scared of until now.
I hesitated, and then… I opened my mouth, almost gagging as he forced the silver in deep, almost brushing my tonsils.
Taking the food, I pulled the fork back out, feeling the resistance in his arm as I did.
We refilled the fork for round two, my lungs constricting.
“What is the matter with you, exactly?” he whispered. “Nothing can be done right. Ever. Why?”
I forced the bite down my throat just in time for another forkful to be shoved in. He jerked my hand as it entered my mouth, and my heart stopped for a moment, a whimper escaping at the threat of the prongs stabbing me.
“I thought I’d walk in the door, and you’d sit me down and explain yourself, but no.” He glared at me. “As usual, you try to hide it like the candy wrappers under your bed when you were ten, and the three-day suspension when you were thirteen.” His words quieted even more, but I almost winced at how it hurt my ears. “You never surprise me, do you? There’s a right way and wrong way to do things, Emory. Why do you always do it the wrong way?”
It was a double-edged sword. He asked questions he wanted me to answer, but whatever I said would be wrong. Either way, I was in for it.
“Why is nothing ever done how I taught you?” he pressed. “Are you so fucking stupid that you can’t learn?”
The fork moved faster, scooping up more food and rising to my mouth, the prongs stabbing into my lips as I opened them just in time. My mouth filled with food, not swallowing fast enough before more was pushed in.
“Dead parents,” he mumbled. “A grandmother who won’t die. A loser sister…”
Dropping my wrist, he fisted my collar instead and rose to his feet, dragging me with him. I dropped the fork, hearing it clatter against the plate as he backed me into the counter.
I chewed and swallowed. “Martin…”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he cut me off. “All these anchors pulling me down? Always constant. Always a weight.”
The wood dug into my back as my heart tried to pound out of my chest.
“You wanna be ordinary forever?” he bit out, scowling down at me with my mother’s green eyes and my father’s shiny, dark brown hair. “You can’t dress, you can’t fix your hair, you can’t make friends, and, it appears, you can’t do anything impressive to help yourself get into a good university.”
“I can get into a good school,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I don’t need swimming.”
“You need what I tell you that you need!” he finally yelled.
I tilted my eyes to the ceiling on instinct, worried my grandmother could hear us.
“I support you.” He grabbed my hair with one hand and slapped me upside the head with the other.
I gasped, flinching.
“I go to the teacher conferences.” Another slap sent my head jerking right, and I stumbled.
No.
But he pulled me back by the hair. “I put food on the table.” Another slap, like a wasp sting across my face, and I cried out, my glasses flying to the floor.
“I pay for her nurse and her medicine.” He raised his hand again, and I cowered, shielding myself with my own arms as he hit again and again. “And this is the thanks I get?”
Tears filled my eyes, but as soon as I could catch my breath, his hand would come down again.
And again. And again. And again.
Stop. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to scream.
But I clenched my teeth instead.
I hissed at the pain, I winced, and I cowered.
But I didn’t cry. Not anymore.
Not until after he was gone.
He grabbed me by the collar again, fisting it tightly, the fabric chafing my neck. “You’ll go back,” he breathed into my face, “you’ll apologize, and you’ll rejoin the team.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t.”
He threw me into the counter again and backed away, unfastening his belt.
A lump swelled in my throat. No.
“What was that?” he asked. “What did you say?”
Anger twisted his face, and his skin boiled with rage, but he loved this. He complained about my grandmother and me—spit in my face all the time about what a burden I was—but he didn’t actually want me gone. He needed this.
“I can’t,” I whispered, unable to do more, because my voice shook so badly.
He yanked his belt out of the loops, and I knew what was coming. There was no way to stop it, because he didn’t want to.
“You will.”
I stood there, halfway between wanting to cry and wanting to run. It would only make the punishment sweeter for him if I made him work for it. Screw him.
“I won’t.”
“You will!”
“I can’t wear a swimsuit because of the bruises!” I blurted out.
He paused, the belt dangling from his hand, and I couldn’t even hear him breathe.
Yeah.
That was why I quit swimming. My face wasn’t the only thing we had to worry about people seeing. My back, my arms, my thighs… People weren’t stupid, Martin.
I almost wanted to look up, to see what—if anything—played across his face. Worry, maybe? Guilt?
Whatever he felt, he had to know we weren’t coming back from this. It was real now. No matter the apologies, the presents, the smiles or hugs, I would never forget what he did to me.
So why stop now, right, Martin?
Darting out, he grabbed my wrist, growling as he threw me into the table. I squeezed my eyes shut as I bent in half over the top, my palms and forehead meeting the top.
And when the first strike came down, I fought the tears.
But I couldn’t fight the cries coming up from my throat as the strap landed again and again. He was angry now and going harder than normal. It hurt.
He wouldn’t fight the issue again, though. He knew I was right.
I couldn’t wear a swimsuit.
After he left, I laid there for a moment, shaking with the pain slicing through my back.
God, just make it stop.
I whimpered as I shifted, thankful that I hadn’t cried out, and I reached over, picking up my cell phone and turning it to see my grandmother still asleep on the screen.
Tears hung at the rims of my eyes.
She was lucid less and less, so it was getting easier to hide this shit from her. Thank God.
His shower ran upstairs, and he wouldn’t be back down for a long time. Tomorrow, we’d wake up, pass each other silently before heading to work and school, and he’d be home early in the afternoon, being the one to make us dinner for a change. He’d be gentle and quiet and then start some topic of discussion at the table about touring a college that I was interested in, which he normally wouldn’t indulge and had no intention of indulging in by the time the weekend road trip was set to happen. I might be able to breathe for a week before I knew the novelty of our “wonderful sibling relationship” would wear off, and he was primed to relapse again.
Like an addict.
Like a disease.
But now, I didn’t know. This week had been bad. There had been less breathing room in between now and last time.
In a daze, I found my glasses and slowly cleaned up the mess we’d made, finished the dishes, and put all the leftovers away before turning off the light and grabbing my bag.
I slipped my phone into the satchel, but as I rounded the stairs and took the first step up, I stopped.
She was still asleep. Maybe for the rest of the night. I could watch her on my phone from anywhere.
I shouldn’t leave, though. My back hurt, my hair was a mess, and I still hadn’t changed out of my uniform.
But instead of going up to finish my homework, I backed away, as if on autopilot. Picking up my shoes, I slipped out the door and ran, not even stopping to put on my sneakers. The rain pummeled my hair, my clothes, and my legs, my bare feet splashing through rain on the sidewalk as I raced back up the street, around the corner, and toward the village.
I didn’t care that I’d left her window open. She loved the rain. Let her hear it.
I didn’t care that my bag and books and homework were probably getting soaked.
I made another right and saw the glow of the square ahead and stopped running, finally able to breathe. I drew in breath after breath, the cool air in my lungs and the rain plastering my clothes to my skin almost making me smile.
The marquee to the movie theater shone ahead, and I knew before I could read the words that they were having an all-night monster marathon. Kong, Frankenstein, Killer Ants, The Fly…
During October, the theater was only ever closed between eight in the morning and noon for cleaning and restocking, showing new releases and old favorites the other twenty hours of the day in celebration. Sort of a month-long horror fest.
Jogging up to the ticket booth, I slipped on my shoes, now soaked with my shoestrings dangling, and reached into my bag, pulling out some cash.
“Just give me the all-night pass,” I told the girl, slipping her a wrinkled ten through the little hole.
I wouldn’t be here all night, but I could be here as long as I liked, at least.
Grabbing my ticket, I hurried inside the door and passed the concession stand, heading upstairs to theater three.
Walking fast, I opened the doors, keeping an eye around me in case my brother found out I’d left and followed, and then I slipped off my bag as I made my way down the aisle. Some animal screeched onscreen, and quickly, I dropped into a seat, looking around to make sure I was safe.
Not only was I safe, but I was alone. There was no one in here, except me.
I relaxed a little.
It was a weeknight and a school night. Made sense that the place would be empty. It was weird that they still ran the film even if no one bought a ticket, though.
I set my bag on the floor and reached inside, thankful that the contents were still dry, and pulled out my phone, checking on my grandmother again.
She still laid in the dark, on her bed, the monitor in the room beeping steadily and raising no alarms. Sometimes I worried about leaving her alone with Martin, but he really didn’t care to deal with her more than he had to.
I clutched the phone in my hand and sat back in the seat, wincing at the pain I forgot was there as I looked up at the screen and saw Godzilla.
A small smile turned up the corners of my lips.
I like Godzilla.
And before I knew it, I had popcorn and sat there staring at the screen, my eyes attached to every frame as my brother faded away, school faded away, Will Grayson faded away, and lit class faded away.
Because Godzilla was great.
And Lolita hurt my head.
