Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  I hold the two pieces in my hands and take a deep breath. I tie on the top, then yank off the sticker and slip my legs into the bottoms, gasping at how vulnerable all my exposed skin looks. Then I throw on jean shorts and one of my softest old T-shirts, slip my feet into flip-flops, and grab a beach towel from the hall closet. I write a quick note to my parents telling them where I’ll be, and I’m out the door before I can change my mind.

  I’ve always thought it funny that the water park promotes itself as having “America’s First Wave Pool.” Other water parks around the US make the same claim. So who was actually first? And—do you really want your wave pool to be the very first built?

  Ours is huge, with this underwater mechanism that churns up a crashing surf at various intervals, sort of like the ocean if it were on a timer. At least once a summer, a rumor starts up that a kid has gotten stuck in the mechanism. According to Aunt Stella, these suburban legends swirled even when she was a lifeguard, but it’s never actually happened, thank goodness. In another section of the park, there’s an Olympic-size pool with five diving boards at various heights, the top one dubbed “The Suicide.” (No one has ever killed themselves on it, though I’ve seen a few drunk kids come pretty close.) Then there’s the part of the park known as the “beach”—a small patch of sand adjacent to the river, its murky water roped up in a section with a platform you can swim to. At the far end of the park, there’s the waterslide, a set of tubes and tunnels with looping twists and turns that drop into a smaller, oddly warm pool you just know all the little kids pee in.

  The waterslide was where the thing happened that stopped me from going to the water park. It was also the thing that stopped me from going to church, and, I guess, it’s one of those things that really changed the course of my life.

  OK, enough suspense. Thanks for following along. As your reward (though maybe not mine), I will tell you about what happened at the water park, the reason I stopped going there, the reason I bailed on church, and the reason I consider Chassie Dunkirk my nemesis and still am not sure Grant Collins can be trusted.

  Imagine your flashback doodly-doodly-doo music here. I am twelve years old. I have a crush on a boy from our church group, Teddy Scruggs, who moved away a couple of years ago, which is handy, because if I had to see his face, I think I might die or vomit, or die while vomiting. It’s a sticky-hot July Sunday, and after service, the whole group has an outing to the water park. I have on an old swimsuit with Minnie Mouse on it that I’m starting to realize might be embarrassingly babyish, what with the cartoon character and the straps that tie in little pink polka-dot bows at the shoulders. I’m too oblivious to realize I’m supposed to suck in my stomach, however, so it just juts out there, my torso convex rather than concave like the midsections of models. The rest of the girls have on sleek, multicolored one-pieces or, in the case of Chassie, a tiny floral bikini that my mom would say is way too grown-up, even for the sixteen-year-old me. Chassie and Grant are already acting more like adults than kids. Despite the rules, they ride down on the same mat together; they are cool enough for the lifeguards to let this go on. I have heard that they kiss, and more, in the dark tunnel.

  Teddy has a wide, open face and a sly smile that churns up my stomach. Sometimes I think about him before falling asleep at night. He’s been paying attention to me, teasing me, tugging my hair. Then Chassie pulls me aside and whispers in my ear.

  “Hey, Teddy is into you,” she says.

  I don’t know what to say back, so I just grin.

  “Did you hear me?” she says louder. “Teddy likes you. He’s hot. You should go for it.” She starts to walk away, and then she turns back and offers me a warm smile. These are rare from her now, even though we used to be the kind of childhood friends who attended each other’s birthday parties. I have felt her growing away from me, moving in directions I don’t understand. This gesture, though, reminds me of when the old Chassie would split her Hostess CupCake with me at lunch if I’d give her one of the ham-and-cheese biscuits my mom had packed for me. There is friendship in it.

  “What should I do?” I ask her, and she smiles again.

  “Oh, Doris, you’re such a noob. He’s going to ask you if you want to go down the waterslide together. Just say yes.”

  I make up my mind that I will. What do I have to lose?

  At the top of the waterslide, it happens. He’s in front of me in line, with Chassie and Grant ahead of him. “Hey, Doris,” he says quietly. “Wanna do something cool?”

  I silently thank Chassie for preparing me for this.

  “What is it?” I ask, playing like I don’t know.

  “I’ll go first, and I’ll wait in the tunnel for you. When you see me, you get off your mat and onto mine. Tag-team waterslide. It’s really fun.”

  “That’s against the rules, though,” I say, pointing to the sign posted right in front of us. “We could get hurt.”

  “I won’t let you get hurt,” he says. And I leave it at that, because this is way more exciting than anything I’ve ever done, and it seems like Teddy Scruggs might really like me.

  Grant and Chassie go first. A few seconds later, Teddy flops onto his mat and turns back to wave at me. “See ya,” he says, and he’s gone. I pause, but the lifeguard pushes me on: “Don’t hold up the line!” he lectures, so I sit on my mat and go.

  My ears are full of the sound of water rushing by, strange echoes that seem to come from all around me. I start to enjoy the way I am being moved on this mat by powers other than my own, the lapping of the pleasantly lukewarm water at my sides. Then, suddenly, I am no longer moving. Teddy Scruggs is in the tunnel, where he has stretched his legs and arms out wide in an abrupt curve and stopped himself to wait for me.

  “Hi!” I say in surprise, and he says, “Hi,” and then his mat is partly on top of mine, and he’s on top of me, kissing me, his hand down the top of my Minnie Mouse bathing suit. I struggle underneath him because this does not feel right at all. I say, “Stop!” but he keeps going.

  “I know you like me,” he says. “Chassie told me.”

  I try to wriggle away, but there’s nowhere to go, and he is stronger than me, his boy-grip on my wrists. I try to scream, but it comes out “Mmmfhhhfrrr” because he’s kissing me again and grabbing different parts of my body, and we’re moving down the tunnel. After what feels like ages, we finally pop out of the end, face-to-face with Grant and Chassie, who are standing knee-deep in the water, watching. I am so embarrassed, as if it’s me, not him, who has done something wrong.

  Chassie starts laughing, and I realize my swimsuit top is halfway down; he’s ripped one of the babyish bows in half. I hold the swimsuit up to my chest and try to run out of the water, which, have you ever tried to run in water? It’s slow-motion hell, especially when all you want to do is get away.

  Grant says to Teddy, “Scruggs, your technique needs improvement,” and Teddy laughs and says to Grant, “Naw, she liked it. She’ll be back for more.”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. After I drag myself out of the water, not looking back, I run to the bathroom, where I throw up once, then again. When I compose myself enough to emerge, I find our church youth-group director, Mrs. Stokes, and tell her I need to go home, something bad happened. Instead of listening to my side of the story, she launches into a talk about appropriateness in the eyes of the lord. “Teddy told me everything,” she says as everyone watches. “This is an embarrassment to our group, young lady. I don’t know what got into you, cajoling that boy to go down the waterslide with you!” She eyes my swimsuit—which I’m holding up with one hand—suspiciously, as if Minnie Mouse, with her peppy stance and cute gloves, were some kind of temptress. “We women must behave as God intended.”

  I am too scared to say a word to defend myself. What if this was my fault? I did break the rules. I’m terrified I’ll cry, and that will make everything even worse. What I wish I could do now is go back in time and shout this: Why don’t boys get blamed or held accountable when they
put their hands on girls’ bodies? Why are girls the ones who have to look or act a certain way so they don’t “entice” the boys? Aren’t boys capable of doing the right thing, even if a girl is wearing a swimsuit, or leggings, or a crop top … even RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM? And if they’re not, why do we let those boys out of the house?

  Instead of uttering any of that, I throw up a third time, right on the ground next to Mrs. Stokes’s polished toenails, and she looks down, purses her lips, and—get this—rolls her eyes, as if I’m puking for attention. “You should have your parents come and get you,” she tells me. Beyond her I see Teddy and Grant and Chassie staring at me. I know I’ll never forget their faces.

  I call home in tears, and I’m lucky enough to get Aunt Stella, who’s been living with us since moving back home after a year of working in New York City. “I’ll be right there, honey,” she says, but it’s not until I see her, storming toward me with rage in her eyes over how I’ve been treated, that I start to feel like I can breathe again. She hugs me and wraps a towel around me, and then gets me a ginger ale and tells me to wait for her by the picnic tables. Then she marches over to Mrs. Stokes and starts talking fast and low. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mrs. Stokes keeps trying to interrupt, and Aunt Stella is not having it.

  Finally, Aunt Stella returns, grabs my hand, and says, “Let’s go!” Her face is flushed and sweaty. “This town,” she says, shaking her head. “It never changes.”

  “What did you say to her?” I ask.

  “That was for adult ears only,” she tells me. “I’ll explain when you’re old enough, I promise.”

  “Do I have to go back?” I ask. “Do I have to see Teddy Scruggs again?”

  “No.” She grabs my hand and holds it, squeezing hard.

  When we pull into the driveway at home, my parents are outside waiting for us. My mom’s got her hands on her hips and that look on her face that says, This is not acceptable. My dad, as usual, is going along with my mom.

  “What did you do?” my mom yells at Stel as we get out of the car.

  My aunt is unapologetic. “Something that should have happened a long time ago. I told Priscilla Stokes that Doris was quitting youth group.”

  “I beg to differ,” says my mom, who is now as flushed and sweaty as her sister. For two people who share genetic makeup, they sure act like polar opposites. “I just got a call from the church saying that you used profanities while speaking to Mrs. Stokes. And that Doris had broken the rules at a youth-group outing. It is not in your purview to quit youth group for Doris—or to make other decisions for her, may I remind you.”

  “It’s just wrong, Anne,” says Stella. “Doris was assaulted by a boy on the waterslide. Instead of listening to her side of the story, Priscilla took the boy’s side and blamed Doris for causing all the trouble! Priscilla has always been a hypocrite, even when she was a teenager. I can’t believe they made her the youth-group director. Those poor kids. It’s irresponsible is what it is. It’s religious abuse!”

  I’m dying to know what Mrs. Stokes did back in high school, but it doesn’t seem the time to ask.

  My mom turns to me. “Is this true?” she asks. “About what happened?”

  I nod.

  “Are you OK?” she asks.

  I nod again, wondering if I am. “But he touched me. He ripped my swimsuit.”

  She wraps her arms around me.

  “I don’t think she should have to give up going to church,” my dad says in a rare intervention into Mom–Stella drama. “The boy did wrong, not Doris.”

  “How do you expect her to go there and have to look at the face of the boy who groped her, who, by the way, smirked at us the entire time we were in the park?” asks Stella. “Teddy Scruggs is a little shit!”

  “Language, Stella! I’ll have a talk with the Scruggs family,” my mom says. “You’ve done enough.”

  I notice that old Mrs. Peachtree, who lives across the street, is staring at us from her front window, and my mom sees, too. “Let’s all go inside,” she says. “We don’t need to get the neighbors involved.”

  Stella sniffs. “The neighbors might as well know the truth, too. Keeping all this stuff secret never helped anybody. You know that as well as I do.”

  I want to ask what she means, but I’m quickly shushed. Mom tells me to go take a long bath, that I’ll feel better after that, and that I can use her bubbles. I know this is so the adults can talk privately, but I do what she says—even if the conversation they’re having is about me and I should probably get a say in it. The bathroom isn’t too far from the kitchen, and I try my best to listen in on their conversation, but all I can hear are muffled voices, and at one point, something that sounds like crying. I can’t tell who it is, though. When I come out, all strawberry smelling and fresh, Mom and Stella are cooking dinner together and seem at ease, at least, for them. There are no visible tearstains. Dad’s on the couch watching some show recapping the greatest moments in Alabama football. I sit down next to him, and he pats me on the knee.

  “Watch here, Dori,” he says, using his nickname for me. “This is from the Sugar Bowl in 1993. I was at that game! The move this guy’s about to do is called ‘The Strip.’ It’s a classic!” I swear there’s nothing that makes him happier than this.

  “Wow,” I say, watching a guy rip a ball from another player and run down the field only to be tackled. “Interesting.” I stay and watch a little longer, because even if I will never understand why he cares so much about what brawny guys wearing tight pants and shoulder pads do on the football field, he’s my dad and I love him, and I feel safe next to him. When I’ve had enough, I get up and help set the table for dinner. It’s not until we’re slicing into the pie for dessert that my mom tells me I can take some time off from church, for a while, if I want, while they get things straightened out.

  “This is your own decision, though,” she says. She gives my aunt a look, but Stella only smiles calmly.

  I imagine walking into church, everybody’s eyes on me, or Teddy Scruggs getting me alone and trying to do what he did again—or worse. I think of Chassie, laughing at me, and the disgusted look on Grant’s face. I picture Mrs. Stokes. What she thinks goodness is isn’t what I think it is. It isn’t what goodness should be. Something in me churns, and I’m not sure I can eat my pie.

  “I want to take a break,” I say.

  My mom’s mouth turns down, and her forehead wrinkle creases deep. My dad seems like he’s about to say something, but instead he just coughs abruptly. Neither of them fights me.

  “Want whipped cream, honey?” asks Aunt Stella.

  I nod, and she squirts a shot of Reddi-wip onto my pie. I take a big bite. It tastes great.

  * * *

  That night, Stella comes into my room after my parents have said good night, each of them hugging me an extra-long time. She sits at the side of my bed, and she touches my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I want you to know you can always come to me if you have a problem,” she says. “Whatever it is. I will listen to and support you, and we will figure it out. Even—especially—if it’s something you’re afraid to talk to your mom and dad about. I will always believe you and do my best to help.”

  “Was someone crying earlier?” I ask her. “When I was taking a bath and you were talking? And what did you mean about Mrs. Stokes always being a hypocrite?”

  “I’ll explain all that to you someday soon,” she says.

  “Why not now?” I ask.

  “It’s better if you’re a little older. It’s some pretty grown-up stuff.” She rubs my shoulder. “I know, that’s the worst, making you wait to hear the truth. Just know … sometimes people in authority positions don’t do the right thing, not in the slightest. A lot of things aren’t very fair, honey. But the most important thing you can do is be strong and not worry about what everyone else says or does. You do you.”

  “How, though?” I ask. “How can I go back to school?”

  “You walk in there,
and you hold your head high, and you show them what you’re made of,” she tells me. “It’s hard to be brave. But every time you do it, it gets a little bit easier.”

  At school I got called Dor-pukus, which isn’t even a pun or a funny joke. Teddy would stare at me in the halls, and sometimes make faces, but I steered clear of him, and by the end of eighth grade, he’d moved away. Chassie alternated between ignoring me and smiling at me knowingly. Grant avoided me entirely. Every once in a while, my parents would get after me about going to church again. I’d fight them, or Aunt Stella would fight them for me. Eventually it seemed like they’d dropped it. I couldn’t believe they’d just forget, but I wasn’t going to bring it up if they weren’t.

  For a while it seemed like the waterslide incident was all I thought about, and then, like all memories, it started to fade. I threw the Minnie Mouse swimsuit away, got new ones, got older. But a memory like that never goes away entirely, and as I turn my Honda into the big parking lot that runs along the entire front of “America’s First Wave Pool,” everything that happened that day feels achingly clear.

  18

  Grant

  At 10:30 last night, I shoved a couple of pillows under my covers—the oldest trick in the book—and climbed out my window, my backpack strapped on tight. I swung my legs around one of the hardiest upper tree branches and maneuvered my way down, muscles aching, because even though I’m digging through boxes every day at work, it’s hardly the exercise I’m used to. I miss running and lifting weights, even if I don’t really miss playing football. Having it gone, you’d think, would mean something, but what I long for isn’t the game, it’s feeling my muscles and my brain connecting and orchestrating this complex action that seems so simple if done right. And it’s who I am when I’m doing that. Someone.