Anne puts her hands over her ears, as if she can still hear it. "What did you do?" I ask.
"I looked down at the broken dishes and I saw a big steak knife. I think he saw me look at it too," Anne continued. "I wanted to kill him for touching me like that. I still feel so filthy."
"What did he do?" I ask, but Anne takes awhile to answer, as if she's still living it.
"Nothing," she says, a tone of surprise in her voice. "He just looked at me, and suddenly he didn't look like this big, powerful friend of my father's. He didn't look like anything at all."
"Did you tell your dad about this?" I asked.
"No. I don't think he would believe me, anyway," she says. "Mr. Wallace is a friend of his, almost like a brother. I could stand up to him, but my father . . . no this is something that I can never tell him. I didn't really quit. I'm just not going back anymore, no matter what."
"But if you told him the truth?" I countered. "Wouldn't your dad—"
"He would think it was my fault, he would blame me," Anne continued. "Ever since I told him about Tommy, he's on me all the time, calling me terrible names."
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"I'm never going back there," Anne says strongly. "I don't care if I have to dig ditches, mop up shit, or anything else, I'm not letting someone touch me like that. I don't care what happens to me, I'm not going to let anybody do something like that to me."
My insides are twisting and my feet are restless. "Aren't you afraid of what he'll do?"
"Who? My father? Mr. Wallace?" Anne's voice is dripping with disgust.
"I don't know, just afraid?" I say softly.
Anne gets up, then turns away from me. "Christy, don't you get it?"
"Get what?"
"It doesn't matter if I'm afraid. Because if I let him touch me, then there's no me: there's only him, and his power over me. I won't let anyone control my life like that, not my dad and certainly not him," Anne says.
"What if you tell your dad?" I ask.
"Maybe he'll slap me again," she says, then sighs. "Or maybe, he'll just blame you."
"Blame me?" I say over the sound of Anne's growing sobs.
"Christy, I'm sorry, forget that I said that. I'm just really upset," she replies quickly.
"What do you mean?"
"My dad's acting really strange. He's ordering me to stop hanging with you," Anne says, her words racing faster and louder than the cars below zooming into the dusky horizon.
"He's always wanted that. What's new?"
"Just the other day, he told me that he didn't want me to be friends with you anymore. He said you were a bad influence. He said you were . . . ," but again Anne won't finish her sentence.
"He said I was what?" I snap back.
"Nothing, just forget it," Anne says, then looks away from me. I grab her hands, something I've never done before. I pull her toward me, my thumbs pressing into her palms.
"He thinks you're a bad influence on me. He said his daughter wasn't going to end up like you," Anne says as she watches my face collapse.
"What does that mean?" I ask, wondering if I really want to know the answer.
"We were fighting about Tommy, about how much time I spend with him, and what he thinks we're doing. The same fight we've had over and over, but this was different. I've never seen him so angry, so out of control. He's not the only man in my life, and he hates that. Hates that."
"But what did he say about me? End up like me. What does that mean?" I ask.
"I can't say it. He shouldn't have said it. He told me not to repeat it." Anne's hurting.
"Say what?" I shout over the cars passing below.
"My dad called you a whore and a slut."
I don't know what death will feel like, but I bet it's something like I feel right now.
"He told me to stop hanging around with that 'slut,'" Anne says, avoiding my eyes.
"Why would he say that?" I ask, looking through the wires to the pavement below. I know he's never liked me, but I'm trying to figure out why he would say those words in particular.
"I don't know why," Anne says softly. "But I can tell you when he said it."
"When?" And I know before she even answers. I will hate her father forever.
"Right after he gave you your physical," Anne says. Another truck rumbles underneath, the bridge shakes, but it doesn't break and send me into the fiery furnace of hell, where I belong.
I can't breathe in a single molecule of air. "What else did he tell you about my physical?"
"Nothing, he's a doctor. But from his tone of voice and that name he called you, he knows something," she says. "You're not a slut. You're a virgin. Why would he say that?"
"I don't know," I say, knowing I'm unable to sort out all the lies in my life.
"He must have found something in your physical to make him think that you're having sex," Anne says. "Why else would he suddenly start calling you such a horrible name? What's going on?"
"It's none of your business or his." I get ready to run away, but she grabs my arm.
"Why won't you talk with me about this," she whispers. "Why won't you ever talk—"
"Shut up!" I shout at her, then cover my own ears, wishing I could cover my body.
"What's going on?" Anne's shouting. "You swore that Glen didn't touch you, right?"
"I told you that, I told everyone that!" I say nothing more, to save Glen's secret.
"Who are you having sex with? Have you and Terrell?" she asks, but I shake my head.
"None of this is your business, Anne. I don't want to talk about this!" I shout.
"Whenever I bring up sex, you never want to talk about it. Why is that?" Anne continues. "How long have we known each other? Why won't you share things with me? Christy, I'm your friend. You can trust me. There's nothing that you could say that—"
"Enough," I say, throwing my hands over my ears, and screaming over the noise below.
"Who is it?" Anne asks.
My mouth is sealed, but my body quivers with fear and rage.
"Tell me!" Anne shouts, but I'm just shaking my head like it was detached from my body.
"Christy, damn you, talk to me!" Anne shouts louder still. I turn to face her. Tears fill both our eyes, but no words emerge from my throat.
"I can't," I mumble.
She slaps me across the face, like she's trying to wake me from a nightmare. "Tell me!"
I look her in the eyes, then turn away as another truck rumbles underneath. The bridge shakes, and I feel like I'm about to vomit.
"Tell me," Anne whispers now. We're beyond exhaustion and frustration.
"I am, I am," I say, too upset to form longer words.
"I am what?" she asks, and I finally answer.
"I am eleven years old; Ryan is fourteen. I'm small and weak; he's big and strong."
first, last, and every time in between
I am eleven years old; Ryan is fourteen. I'm small and weak; he's big and strong.
You do the math.
I'm twelve years old; Ryan is fifteen. He protects himself even as he hurts me.
You taste the bitter irony.
I'm thirteen years old; Ryan is sixteen. Mitchell's too small and afraid. Robert is on the streets, and Mama is working third shift. Ryan and I are alone in the house.
You figurethe schedule.
I'm fourteen; Ryan is seventeen. Robert is in prison, and so am I.
You figurethe justice.
I'm fifteen years old; Ryan is eighteen. He's a man now by law; I'm a woman by force.
You guess my sentence.
I'm sixteen years old; Ryan is nineteen.
I'm old enough to drive, but I can't break free from this chain that binds me.
I'm seventeen years old; Ryan is twenty.
My past is my present and therefore it must be my future.
I'm eighteen years old; Ryan is twenty-one. I'm an adult without a childhood.
I have no dreams; I have no plans. I have only thi
s shame and this pain.
I'm going to be nineteen; Ryan will be twenty-two.
My life will never be mine until I take it back from him.
34
evening, may 5, senior year
"Breezy, is Ryan at home?"
Bree points toward his room, then goes back to cutting out paper dolls. I got a blood promise from Anne never to tell anyone, in particular her parents or Tommy, the ugly truth of my ugly life. And then I cried, just like that little girl on the bus the other day. But Anne, unlike Mama or the mother on the bus, was there for me.
"Breezy, I need a favor from you," I say, trying to stay as calm as possible, but that's impossible; I feel like a circus tightrope walker performing outside during a tornado.
"Anything," she says, and reaches her hands out to me. I pick her up and hold her close, wrapping myself around her, trying to imagine what it would have been like to have this layer of protection in my life.
"It's such a nice spring night, why don't you go outside and play," I say.
"Okay," she says, picking up the paper doll book and scissors.
"But you need to leave those things here," I say, taking the scissors from her. I reach into the corner and hand her a jump rope. "Start without me, but I'll be right out. If I don't come out of the house in ten minutes, go to the corner store, and call Mitchell at work or call Tommy."
"Why?" she asks, but I ignore the question as I write out both phone numbers on a piece of paper, then give her a couple of quarters. "Just do this for me, okay, Breezy?"
She hugs me again and takes off running outside into a beautiful spring evening. She'll be jumping rope, feeling light and carefree, like a child should. Just like I should have.
I pace in the living room, and it feels right: I feel alive. The muscles in my legs are straining, my arms are shaking, but my eyes are clear. I walk downstairs toward the darkness of Ryan's room. Even through the closed door, I hear the bass booming through the headphones, and his singing. He's feeling light and carefree, like a child does. A feeling that he stole from me.
The door's locked: I pound on it so hard, my right hand starts to bleed. The blood trickles slowly onto the floor: a red spot in the middle of the floor, just like the one eight years ago in the middle of the sheets.
"Who the hell is it?" Ryan shouts.
"Your little girl," I say, as I choke back the acidlike vomit rumbling in my stomach.
It takes him a minute or two to open the door. He unlocks it, but doesn't open up. I wait a moment, take a deep breath, and take a giant step inside.
"Is dinner ready?" he asks, not even looking at me. Instead, he's putting his clothes on.
"Fix your own dinner!" I shout at him.
"What is your—" he says, turning around. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the glint of the scissors.
"Ryan, I swear if you ever touch me again, I'll use these on you," I say, showing him the sharp blade. Bree's used these to cut paper dolls, enjoying her childhood; I'm going to use them to regain mine.
"You won't do shit, you ugly bitch," he says, taking a step toward me.
"Try me," I shout back at him, loud enough for the dead to hear.
He takes another step closer, smiling. He pulls down his old-school black-and-silver Oakland Raiders T-shirt, exposing his throat. "Go ahead, try it, I dare you."
He sees the scissors in my hand as I speak. "Listen to what I'm saying to you. If you ever touch me again, I promise I'll use these." It's a promise I'll keep not to him, but to myself.
"Try it," he takes another step closer. "I'll take them out of your hand before you—"
"No, you won't."
"Why's that?" he says, but he's standing still.
"Because I'll do it like you do it to me: when you're half asleep."
"No way you're cutting my throat, bitch," he says.
This time, I take a step closer and point the scissors at his neck for just a second, and then slowly, point them at his crotch. "I'll cut it off if you use it on me again."
"I'll kill you," he sneers as he backs away toward the drawer where he keeps the Glock.
"You try, Ryan, but I swear to God, I will kill you too." I'm screaming louder than I thought possible. "I will leave here right now and I'll call the police. They can haul your ass to prison and then maybe you'll get some of what you've been giving me, you fucking baby raper!"
"I don't believe you." But since he responds with words, not deeds, I know he does.
"This is over between us." I jab the scissors in his direction.
"You crazy, ugly bitch," Ryan says, never looking at me. "I should have killed you."
"You can't kill me, Ryan." I smile. "You can't kill someone who's already dead."
Another step backward for him. "You're full of shit."
"Try me," I say, my muscles almost exploding, since I've finally found my strength.
"Who the fuck do you think you are!" he shouts, even as he sits down on his bed, looking, for the first time ever, small, afraid, weak, and totally pathetic. "You'll do what I say."
"No!" I shout loud enough for Ms. Chapman to hear sitting at her desk miles away.
35
yearly morning, may 16,
senior year
"Anne, wake up."
"What time is it?" Anne says. I imagine her confusion on the other end of the phone.
"Almost time to graduate," I say, not wanting her to know I've woken her up on a Monday before 7:00 a.m. For the past two weeks, I've slept the soundest I have in years—in the living room with my mother six feet away and a pair of scissors tucked under my pillow. Ryan's only slept at home one night, and on that night, he walked right past me.
"You're crazy!" Anne says. Obviously she's looked at the time.
"Can you pick me up a little early today?" I ask. I'm so used to not sleeping well, I don't know what to do with all this energy.
"I gotta fess up to you, Speedy," Anne says. It sounds like she's fighting off a yawn.
"What's going on?" I ask. It's strange to be talking with Anne this early in the morning over the phone. But after her father's outburst, even if I wasn't banned from Anne's house, I wouldn't want to be there. He had no right to call me those nasty names that I don't deserve.
"I can't drive us to school or anywhere for that matter," Anne says.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because of quitting my job," Anne says.
"But you told your dad about your boss and why you quit, right?" I counter.
"I tried, but he wouldn't listen to me. I told you he wouldn't listen."
"But what does that have to do with not driving?"
"That's my punishment, that's my father's answer," she says. "He wins this battle."
"That is so unfair," I offer.
"Just like him telling me either I break up with Tommy or I kiss Northwestern good-bye."
"So, you already told me the two of you are running away after graduation, right?"
There's a long pause. If Anne were across from me now, I'd bet she'd hide her eyes.
Anne breaks the silence, and my heart at the same time. "I want to be a doctor."
"Tommy loves you," I remind her, not that Tommy has come out and told me that.
"I know, but face it, Christy, we would probably break up anyway, so . . . "
She lets it hang and I take it. "If not now, then when?"
"You don't hate me, do you?" she asks.
"No, I just think it's sad," I say. When Anne doesn't answer, I realize sad doesn't come close to describing her mood. We hang up, and immediately I call Terrell's cell phone.
"Morning, Christy," Terrell says pushing through a yawn.
"Can you come pick me up?" I ask. I usually just meet Terrell at the bridge in the morning.
There's a pause. Any pause after I ask someone to do something for me is a long pause.
"It's okay if you can't." I break the silence.
"Don't worry. This summer we'll get in the Grand Am and
drive until the wheels fall off," Terrell says, then laughs. I think about sitting next to him, speeding down the highway, and make my old sound of laughing and crying in a single noise.
"Can you believe we're almost done with school?" He sounds more excited than I do, although not as well rested. I'm catching up it seems on eight years' worth of peaceful sleep.
"Just one of a thousand steps," I whisper, connecting my present to my past without pain.
"Get off that phone and do this laundry!" Mama shouts at me as she walks into the kitchen.
"Fine," I mutter, then say good-bye to Terrell. Mama coughs. The noise cuts through me.
"I'm going to get my numbers before work," Mama says, and soon afterward disappears.
I start sorting stuff into laundry loads. I pass over the stuff from Ryan's room. He can stew in his own filth. Instead, I start on the stuff from Bree's room. I can hear Mitchell joking with Bree as they eat breakfast in the other room, but she's not laughing. I expect her clothes, towels, and sheets are going to be pretty dirty. But what I find is worse than that.
I see it.
The stain on the faded Shrek sheets from my niece's bed.
My ten-and-a-half-year-old niece's sheets.
I know exactly what it is even from a distance.
I bring my nose closer just to make sure.
The smell of it will always cling to me, and the sheet.
I remember how it began for me.
Bree's just about the right age for Ryan.
Almost the same age I was.
And I know.
And I know it has started.
And I know what comes next.
And I know I drove him there.
36
morning, may 16, senior year
"Remember when you gave me that book Speak to read?"
Ms. Chapman looks up from the pile of papers she's grading and motions for me to come in. I've run all the way to school, but she's gotten me in such great physical shape, my breathing's not heavy, despite the heavy stone I'm dragging with me. I close the door loudly behind me.
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