Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

“I’m allergic to cats, remember?” Justine felt itchy just thinking about the fur in Gretchen’s messy brownstone. “I can stay with Clay.”

  Cressida and Miles exchanged a smile.

  “Is Clay blond like his mother?” her mother asked.

  “Dark hair, pale, green eyes.”

  “Sounds divine.”

  The most beautiful boy alive.

  Justine wondered what Clay would think of this house. Her parents had bought the brownstone for three thousand dollars, part of one of the many failed “urban renewal” projects in the blighted city. Cressida had excavated the basement and the first floor to create a double-height space with exposed brick and hanging plants in macramé, adding a river-stone fireplace and a salvaged stained-glass window in reds, greens, and blues. A mixed-up, eclectic mess, but home.

  “Miles?” Cressida asked hopefully.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Your only daughter wants to go to the city for New Year’s to be with her boyfriend. Care to weigh in?”

  Miles peered at Justine over tortoise demi-lunes. “Are you paying your way by posing for his mother?”

  Cressida laughed.

  “Don’t act as if this is all within the budget!” Miles added, closing his paper with a snap.

  Cressida ran her fingers over her forehead.

  “We can’t really give you much more than train fare, but we don’t want you to be in an uncomfortable position,” he continued.

  Justine watched the wheels of her mother’s brain grind forward as she stared into the fire. “We’ll find a way,” Cressida murmured. “We’ll find a way.”

  * * *

  —

  Justine waited for her parents to creep off to bed, but by 10:30 they’d made no sign of shifting from beside the fire. Still drinking, reading, fussing with the logs. She tried to stare them down, willing them to fall sleep. It was no use, they were intractable, and she couldn’t wait any longer to call Clay and deliver the news.

  In the kitchen Justine picked up the phone and dialed. The whir of an answering machine tape responded. “Salutations! You’ve reached Barbara. Actually, you’ve reached her newfangled answering machine. Leave a message. It likes messages.” Justine hung up and slumped down behind the counter, her arms hugging her knees. Maybe Barbara could tell who called. Maybe she was sitting there with Clay right now, staring at the machine, listening.

  Don’t be a fool, Justine admonished herself. He invited you.

  An image of Gerald floated before her, getting out of bed, pulling up his pants, straightening his bow tie. The day he’d told her they had to call the whole thing off. Of course, while she had been between his thighs she hadn’t known it was the last time. He told her he had met someone else, someone his age. It had been inevitable from the get-go. Surely she’d realized that?

  Had Gerald known all along how things would end? Now Justine imagined Clay out at parties with Eve, and that exotic India whatever her name was . . . Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “To think you’ll be in some fancy Fifth Avenue apartment while your parents sit around at Walter’s. Again. To you shall we raise our meager goblet, my darling,” Cressida continued, sloshing her wine.

  “They live in SoHo.”

  Cressida waved her hand into the air. “The details may change, but the reality stays the same. Our child is a child no longer.” Cressida downed the rest of her wine in a gulp.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Days passed and Clay did not call Justine back. Christmas came and went. The Rubins had stayed in New Haven because the heat was better. Miles hated to pay the bills for the cavernous barn in Woodstock.

  It was December 30 when the phone finally rang.

  “I’m really sorry,” Clay said. “I just got your message.”

  Justine paused, processing this information. She had spent the last few days trying desperately to quell the ache in her chest by burying herself in Baudelaire, listening to as much Kate Bush as she could, and wishing she had invited Stanley to come to New Haven with her instead of staying at Griswold.

  “My parents gave me the green light for New Year’s,” she said weakly, even though it was tomorrow.

  “Party’s canceled. We have no heat.”

  She had no clue how that was possible.

  Clay explained that Barbara had had some big moral argument with her landlord and he had turned it off.

  Who has a moral argument with a landlord? Justine wondered, while the relief of hearing his voice, of realizing that his feelings hadn’t changed, slowly seeped into her consciousness.

  “We had to go to the Hamptons.”

  “Oh, that sounds beautiful.” Justine imagined crashing waves, gray beaches, and scrabbly hedges. Clay in a fisherman’s sweater, smelling of damp wool and shampoo.

  “Nah, it’s cold and boring. Nobody’s around this time of year.”

  Justine would have given her firstborn to be at the beach with him. She could see them walking hand in hand across the sand, dipping their toes into the freezing surf, boiling lobsters and cracking their claws by the fire.

  “What’re your plans?” she asked.

  “Char’s home. I haven’t seen her in two years.” Did she escape from the cult or was she allowed to visit? “Barbara’s going to Keith’s,” Clay continued.

  “Who’s Keith?”

  “Family friend. Huge party.” He fell silent. She waited.

  After a long pause he said in a voice that was barely audible, “I miss you.”

  “Me too,” she admitted.

  He did not seem to hear her. His voice was a whisper. “I wish you were here.”

  At the sound of this, Justine closed her eyes, feeling herself dissolve into the phone.

  “I can hear the waves,” she said.

  “They never stop,” Clay said flatly.

  “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  For a moment he did not respond, and she listened to the consistent crash in the background.

  “When I’m out here it starts to drive me nuts.”

  What was causing this unhappiness? Clay was in his beach house with his cool mom. It was incomprehensible.

  Justine imagined, by contrast, how Stanley must be feeling, trapped at Griswold, having his holiday ham or whatever with Tibbets and her family. What did he do all day at school with nobody around? Even the library was closed. Sit at the smoker? Wander into Wormley and talk to the toothless guy in the deli?

  “I need to see you,” Clay continued, sounding bleaker than she had ever heard him sound.

  “It’s only a week.” Walking on the beach in winter, strolling the streets of Paris, all of that would come true one day when they were older. Right now she didn’t have the money. “I wish I could visit.”

  “Yeah, me too. See you in a week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bye.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  January

  Eve watched Mr. Winkler turn to the class.

  “Lovely to see you so refreshed after such a long break.” His gaze flicked across Eve’s face. “Has anyone ever been to Salem, Mass.?”

  Tierney raised her hand, her hair in Bo Derek cornrows.

  “Enlighten us, Miss Worthington.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Mr. Winkler’s eyes flashed. “Any connection between Salem and Nathaniel Hawthorne that might be lurking in the recesses of your gray matter?”

  “Uh, no,” said Tierney, adjusting the rope bracelet on her arm. “I went to Salem for a crew race with my dad when we were looking at boarding schools.”

  “And?”

  “So what, I’ve been there,” Tierney said casually.

  The teacher paced. “Salem is the birthplace of Nathaniel Hawthorne.” He stopped and turned, rising onto the bal
ls of his feet. “It is also one of the most important New England towns from the Puritan period. And Hawthorne is, arguably, the most influential American writer to describe that time in history.”

  Damon’s arm went up in the air.

  “A raised hand, Mr. White, congratulations!”

  Damon scratched his buzz cut. “Isn’t Salem haunted? Where all those witches were burned at the stake?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Winkler’s heels sank back to the floor. “Salem is the site of those famous witch trials, and legends about hauntings continue to this day.”

  Justine passed Eve a mimeographed sheet.

  ENGLISH 10-01 MR. R. WINKLER OFFICE HOURS: M 4–6

  THE SCARLET LETTER, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

  ASSIGNMENT 1: ORAL REPORT

  Damon White/Justine Rubin

  “Evil in The Scarlet Letter”

  Irene Huntington/William Comerford

  “The Role of Nature”

  Eve Straus/Tierney Worthington

  “Sin and Knowledge”

  Jenny Lake/Alison Smith

  “Night and Day”

  Clayton Bradley/Christina Porter

  “Identity and Society”

  Mona Harris/Kevin Adams

  “Pearl”

  Each team will have 10 minutes to present, and the presentations will span two classes, allowing time for discussion in between. A portion of your grade will be based on your ability to work with another student.

  Everyone was talking at once. Sin and knowledge? Eve thought. Across the classroom Tierney was looking ill.

  “Silence!” Mr. Winkler cleared his throat. “Once you crack the book, these themes will become clear. We have more than a month to go over them. I’m available during office hours, and I’ll be prepared to discuss any issues you may have. Issues relating to the project, that is.”

  Tierney had her hand up.

  “Yes, Miss Worthington?”

  “Your office hours are at the same time as my volleyball practice,” she said.

  “Volleyball?”

  “I’m captain. First sophomore in twenty years,” she added proudly.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment. I coach soccer; you should go out for it in the spring. Speak to me after class and we’ll arrange another time.”

  * * *

  —

  There was a hard rime on the footbridge, coating the planks in a treacherous layer. Eve paused for a moment and zipped her jacket all the way up. She gazed into the forest beside the footbridge. The branches had a glaze of ice on them, as if melted sugar had been poured from a giant ladle. Birdsong rang through the wintry tangle, and she saw a flit of wings.

  “Wait up!” Tierney called.

  Eve turned, watching Tierney’s new cornrows bobbing as she jogged toward her. “What are we going to do?” Tierney panted in a cloud of steam.

  Eve frowned at Tierney’s fresh-off-the-beach tan. “Let’s see, read the book?”

  “I mean, when should we get together and start?” Tierney’s blue parka had a polo player stitched over the breast.

  “Why not start by reading as much as we can. It will probably take me at least two weeks. That gives us a bunch of time after.”

  Eve knew Tierney could take months to read it. This was going to be a nightmare. Had Mr. Winkler assigned her a thick-skulled partner on purpose?

  “I’ll have a head start anyway, since I just got invited to tea at his house,” Tierney smirked.

  Ah ha, thought Eve, he’d moved on. The Wanker’s new love interest was standing before her.

  “Make sure to find out how to get an A.”

  Tierney nodded, looking conspiratorial, then tossed her hair with a clack of plastic beads. Tender scalp shone between the rows.

  “You’ve heard the rumors,” Tierney said.

  Eve couldn’t think what to say.

  “He’d never dare. Come on! My parents have given this place a ton of money!”

  Eve was silent.

  Tierney’s eyes widened. “Did he try anything with you?”

  For a moment Eve thought of confessing, but Tierney wasn’t worth it. And after all, nothing had happened.

  “Of course not!” Eve scoffed, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks.

  Tierney leaned in. Eve could smell her perfume, Anaïs Anaïs. “Between us,” Tierney whispered, “I’ve heard he does actually do things with students. But only the ones the administration would never believe. You know . . .”

  All Eve could do was nod.

  “I’ll fill you in on what I learn tonight. Glad we’re on the same team. Ta-ta!” Tierney turned and walked down the footbridge.

  Eve watched her go. Tierney’s affability wasn’t fooling her, the girl was just hoping Eve would do all the work.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Eve knocked on Mr. Winkler’s door just before supper.

  He opened it and grinned. “I hoped you might stop by.”

  “Is it a bad time?” It occurred to her that another girl might be there. She peered past him but could see no one.

  “Not at all! I’m glad to see you. Come in,” he said, standing aside in mock chivalry.

  She entered and he took her coat.

  “Can I offer you something?” he asked.

  “What’s available?” She looked up at him.

  “Anything your heart desires,” he said, and his eyes swept over her, taking her in. Eve relaxed a bit; Tierney or not, he was still interested.

  “Bourbon?”

  “Coming right up.”

  He walked into the kitchen. The portrait of the old headmaster stared down at her from above the mantel. A log shifted and sparks flew up the chimney.

  Mr. Winkler handed her the drink and she sat on the sofa. He was only a few inches away.

  “What an ordeal you’ve been through,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She took a slug of bourbon. It burned her throat.

  They looked at each other.

  As if in slow motion, her teacher reached out and gently took the glass from her hand. He set it on the table, where one of the ice cubes fell onto the other with a clink. Eve was frozen in a film still, but Mr. Winkler was moving, leaning toward her.

  And then he was kissing her. She couldn’t believe it, it was actually happening. In a moment she started to kiss him back, hoping she was doing it right. Eve was aware of her teacher’s hand on her back, the smell of wood smoke, his corduroy knee. He was excellent, she thought, smooth, this must be the way a man kissed. How had she waited so long?

  Her teacher’s hand moved under her shirt, across her bra, his fingers cool from the glass as he caressed the nylon. Eve kept her eyes tightly shut. Mr. Winkler eased her onto her back, leaning his weight against her side.

  His fingers slipped beneath her waistband. She tensed.

  “Hush,” he whispered, like a lullaby at bedtime. His hand on her hip bone, across her stomach, then into her underpants. Eve willed herself not to move, not to act like this was unusual. Should she be doing something to him? His fingers were inside her. She tried to focus on the kissing, keep things up there, but as he kept at it she stopped caring, she couldn’t worry anymore. Eve’s head fell back, lips apart, but at the last moment she covered her mouth and masked her cry as a cough.

  Mr. Winkler pulled his hand out of her pants, looking gratified. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

  Eve could not trust her voice.

  “This isn’t safe,” Mr. Winkler said. “We need to meet at night.”

  She tried to speak normally. “I have a radio slot on Friday night from ten to midnight.”

  The night she had permission to be out past curfew. They’d have plenty of time. Justine cou
ld host solo next week and would understand, probably even applaud. She’d have to lie to David, tell him Eve wasn’t feeling well.

  “Brilliant,” Mr. Winkler agreed. “But it will have to be in two weeks. This Friday I have a dinner and a concert.”

  He could go out at night and do whatever he wanted. She imagined him in a theater with red velvet seats and a classical string quartet on stage.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “You’re so sweet to ask. No, I don’t, not at the moment.” He stroked her cheek softly with the back of his finger.

  “Great, then the following Friday.”

  “It’s a date.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. Surely, this was okay. Surely, she didn’t need to be afraid of a man who would kiss her like that.

  Eve walked to Londry in a daze. She had hidden two more of her mom’s pills in a vial in her bag. Maybe she would take one now, just to prolong her bliss.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  That evening, Justine headed to Clay’s dorm. It had started to snow, the second big storm of the season. “I need to see you,” he had said on the phone. Words she had replayed over and over in her head. She floated up the steps and down the hall in a haze of happy anticipation.

  Clay’s door was ajar, the desk lamp the only illumination.

  There he was, leaning back in his chair, cradling a football. He was smiling broadly. She almost didn’t want him to see her; he was so lovely when no one was looking. Then he threw the ball and Justine pushed open the door farther to see Bruce catch it. He was reclining on Clay’s bed as if he were at some Roman banquet.

  Clay’s chair legs landed on the floor with a bang.

  Bruce aimed the football. He’s not going to throw it at me. But it left his hand, whizzed past her ear, and flew down the hall.

  “Nice catch, Gypsy,” Bruce said.

  “Shut up,” Clay warned.

  “Sorry, I just . . .” Justine mumbled.