The Fall of Innocence

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  You can grow into it, Ma had told her.

  It would’ve made you look like Wednesday from The Addams Family anyway, Tomás teased.

  But secretly he loved the dress. He loved it more than he thought he should. The way he had always loved Emilia’s Easter dresses, and Christmas dresses, her little purple jumper that Ma matched with a purple headband, and the pastel checkered one with a thin simple bow at the waist that their grandmother had given Emilia for her birthday. He had adored that dress. And now this one. The warm fabric that he knew would feel just this soft when he saw it, the way the black collar looked against his neck.

  Tomás stared at himself in the mirror. Then took off the dress and ran downstairs in his underwear, to his parents’ room. From his mother’s dresser, he took one of the many lipsticks she had and ran back upstairs.

  He locked the door, pulled on it twice even though he could see it was locked, even though no one was home. He tugged at the blinds on his window even though they were already pulled down tight. And then he put on the dress again.

  He uncapped Ma’s lipstick and carefully applied the wine color onto his thin lips.

  The color was thrilling against his skin. It transformed him even more. When Tomás looked in the mirror, he hardly recognized himself. He noticed how the dress fell on his thin body. He closed his eyes and turned, only meaning to take one small turn, but then turning and turning and turning, letting the dizziness set in until he fell to the floor, laughing.

  The hem of the dress grazed his knees. He looked in the mirror and caught another unrecognizable image of himself. And oh, he was beautiful!

  Hello, he said to himself.

  And smiled at the person in the mirror who had been hiding inside him. Who is that?

  How extraordinary to be seen.

  How extraordinary to be free.

  He smiled and smiled at himself.

  How beautiful.

  But suddenly, Tomás grew scared.

  What if that person wouldn’t go back from wherever she came? What if she didn’t go back quietly?

  He didn’t know who that person was.

  Stop, Tomás said.

  Stop, she mocked him.

  Stop! he said again.

  Stop! she repeated.

  He wiped his mouth roughly, staining his hands and arms with the wine tint. He tore at the buttons, let the dress fall, and looked in the mirror again, trying to find himself.

  Where am I?

  Tomás wiped again at his lips, trying to rub out the red that wouldn’t come off. He moved closer, searching for himself in that mirror, somehow knowing he’d never find himself again. The Tomás of before fell into that glass pool and drowned.

  Quickly, he got dressed, hung up Emilia’s dress in her closet again. He returned his mother’s lipstick, neatly lined it up with the rest of the tubes on her dresser.

  And then he stood in front of the mirror again, looking like he’d always looked. But no longer himself. No, not himself. He looked like some kind of shell, some kind of clone. Where had he gone?

  “Young man,” someone said. Tomás turned around and saw an old woman at the register. “Are you okay?”

  Tomás tried to smile. “Yes, sorry,” he said as he rang up her items. He put them in the bag, handed her some change. “Have a good day,” he said automatically.

  “You too, dearie,” she said as she collected her bag. She smiled a thick pink smile, and Tomás wished he could wipe her lips gently and apply a lighter, thinner coat. She walked out, and he leaned against the counter. He stared again at the women on the advertisements around him and thought of the women in his life.

  He wondered if he should be worried about Emilia.

  He wondered what the hell was wrong with Ma.

  And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered what he’d been wondering for as long as he could remember: What is wrong with me?

  Emilia Was Staring at Him

  Emilia was staring at him as they drove home from school. Ian felt her unwavering gaze and finally turned to her and laughed.

  “What?” he said.

  She gave a small smile. “Nothing, I was just thinking. And you know, thanks for the other day. For the museum.” It had been a week since they’d gone. “I don’t know if I actually thanked you for that.”

  “No problem,” he said. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “Being there was . . . so . . .” He glanced over at her, and thought she looked like she was searching for words. “I don’t know, those rooms, all those . . . that one with all the trinkets.” She had a faraway look in her eyes before seeming to come back. “It was amazing. And you,” she said. “You’re . . . you’re just . . . perfect, Ian.” She smiled and looked at him in a way that suddenly made him a little self-conscious.

  He laughed. “No,” he said, trying to shrug off the self-consciousness, trying not to read too much into the look on Emilia’s face, and holding on instead to the idea that in Emilia’s eyes, he was perfect. He felt a nervous warmth in his chest.

  He wondered what made her think of the museum at that very moment. He was afraid to ask because he didn’t want her to start crying like she had the other day. So he just said, “No,” again as they turned into her driveway.

  When they pulled in, Emilia got out, closed the door, and leaned down. “So,” she said. “You gonna come in or not?” Her voice had a teasing tone in it that made Ian laugh and turn off the car. He got out and followed her into the house, and upstairs to her room.

  He’d been in her room before, but he still always got the same flutter in his stomach when he was there and neither her mother nor her brother were home. When it was just the two of them and they would pretend to be interested in something else before they both ended up kissing on her bed. He looked around for any changes since the last time he’d been there. Sometimes she rearranged the furniture and moved posters around. But everything looked the same and he watched as she opened the window a little and put some peanuts out on the ledge. She always did this, automatically, as soon as she walked into the bedroom. It was technically the attic, which had been split up and made into two bedrooms, hers and Tomás’s. Her ceiling sloped down on one side, where Ian had hit his head more times than he cared to admit. But he loved being there. Where Emilia breathed. Where she slept. Where she flickered her light on and off at night as a way to say good night to him. He could look out his own window and just make out her outline.

  Emilia put on a record and sat on the bed, the record sleeve in her hand, looking at the lyrics they both knew by heart. Ian walked over and sat down next to her, reached for the record sleeve, and started reading the words to the song they were listening to. After a moment, he felt her hand on his, and he turned just as she leaned in to kiss him. He kissed her back urgently, reaching to touch her face.

  “You’re . . . perfect,” she said to him between kisses, as she leaned back and he pressed himself against her. “Just perfect.”

  Ian pulled away. “Don’t say that,” he said to her. Not because he didn’t want to believe it, but because she kept saying it over and over again. It made him feel undeserving. And worse, like she was trying to convince herself of it.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Emilia.” He smiled at her, thought she would smile back at him, but instead Emilia’s face was serious. She stared at him in a way that made him feel like she was trying to read his mind, or tell him something. It scared him, just a little. “Don’t think I’m perfect,” he said to her.

  What was she thinking? He didn’t know because she didn’t say anything. She just looked at him as she reached for the bottom of her sweater and slowly pulled it over her head.

  “You are,” she said. Her bra was light blue with little embroidered flowers that immediately made all the blood in his body rush to his groin. She slipped off one str
ap, then another, and reached around to unclasp the back.

  He stared at her. Beautiful Emilia.

  He wondered if this was actually it, the moment he’d thought of a thousand times. He reached for her and started kissing her again, taking off his shirt, too, so he could feel her body against his. He undid his jeans and could hardly think as he reached for her pants and undid the button, pulled at them, felt her now bare legs around him. He pressed himself against her more. And kissed her a little too hard as their teeth clicked against each other. She said his name softly.

  But he felt her body stiffen. She kept kissing him, but there was tension in her lips, in her whole body. Maybe it was the cold coming in through the slightly open window that made her freeze up. He should close the window. But he wanted her so badly; he’d wanted her for so long. He was afraid if he got up, for even a second, the moment would be gone.

  He forced himself to slow down, trying not to be too anxious, trying not to worry about her mother coming home or what time it was. Trying not to think about anything but Emilia, here, with him, like this, whispering his name over and over. His fingers slipped below the waistband of her underwear.

  “Will you take these off?” he asked. “Please.”

  She nodded but didn’t, and his hands went farther down, to her backside, and then between her legs. She sucked in her breath, startled.

  “Please,” he mumbled again. But she stopped kissing him then. And pushed him off. He looked at her, but she wouldn’t look back.

  He rolled off her; she immediately pulled up the covers. She was shivering. Shaking. Trembling.

  Ian quickly reached past her, to the window above her head, and shut it.

  “Emilia?” he said. But her eyes were closed and she just shook her head.

  He shouldn’t have pushed it so far. He felt guilty and terrible and frustrated.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “No,” she said. “Don’t. I . . . I wanted you to . . .”

  He reached for her hand, but it was so cold. She seemed drained of all the warmth he’d just felt in her body. He pressed her hand against his face, kissed it, tried to kiss warmth back into it.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She had the covers pulled up higher now, and she was tugging her hand away. Ian wanted to wrap himself around her, warm her up, but he knew he couldn’t. He was afraid to touch her too much. He sat next to her in the quiet and heard her trying not to cry.

  “Don’t apologize, please. I don’t want you to apologize.” Her voice was strained, her nose stuffy.

  “Should I go?” he asked. He could only see the back of her head because she was turned toward the wall, but the slight nod was unmistakable.

  “Emilia,” he said. He wanted to tell her he was an idiot. That he should have been more understanding. To please not cry or turn away from him. But he was afraid of what his words would do. And, like this, he was a little afraid of Emilia, too.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, trying to hide the fact that she was crying quietly under the covers. “I’m okay. You can go, really. I’ll . . . call you,” she said.

  Slowly, he got dressed, then stood next to the bed, wanting to kiss her softly goodbye.

  “I love you,” he said finally. He didn’t know what else to say.

  She didn’t answer.

  He walked to the door and opened it. And then, ever so faintly, he thought he heard her whisper, “But you’re perfect.”

  I’m not, he thought as he looked back at Emilia hidden under the covers. Ian stood there and willed the sour taste in his mouth and the nauseating feeling in his stomach to go away. I’m not.

  Finally, he turned and left.

  Emilia Turned into a Bird

  Emilia turned into a bird in third grade. She and Ian were in the same class that year, Mrs. McNary’s class, and one day, when the teacher asked him to hand back a stack of graded papers, he stood at Emilia DeJesus’s desk holding a spelling test with a sticker on it. She’d gotten them all right. He was impressed. And when she looked down at the grade, then up at him, and smiled, he felt like some kind of hero.

  He knew Emilia, of course. They’d gone to the same school for years and she lived a few houses down. But Ian never really took much notice of her until that day, when she smiled. It was almost a prelude, something that made him feel so warm just then but haunted him later that very night, when she went missing.

  All the mothers were frantic. All the fathers were quiet and angry. Ian’s mother went to Emilia’s house, where police cars were parked in front, their red and blue lights flashing. Kids were told to stay inside, but their faces were pressed against windows, watching. Some eventually opened their front doors, and some trickled out, down their front walkways.

  What happened?

  Nobody can find Emilia DeJesus.

  Ian watched from his bedroom window upstairs. The one that faced the DeJesuses’ house. All he could think of was Emilia’s smile and the sticker on her test earlier that day. The lights flashed, people came and went, in and out of the house. The blue and red grew more alarming as night fell, and Ian wondered the number of horrible things that might be happening to Emilia. He thought of the stories he’d heard at the beginning of the school year, the one of a girl who thought she was being followed on her way to school. And the one of the group of girls who’d been flashed by some man in a coat and sunglasses. How their teachers started warning them of strangers and what they should do if someone, anyone, approaches you. Posters were hung in their classrooms, in the lunchroom and hallways. Families were told to have secret passwords so children wouldn’t go off with a stranger claiming I was sent by your mother to pick you up.

  What’s the password? was all a child had to ask from a distance to be saved from certain harm. Banana. Or apple. Or cuddlebug could save their lives.

  Emilia sat in class, listened to it all with Ian, never knowing, never knowing she had to pay extra attention. But the teachers didn’t tell them what to do if a stranger was there before you realized it, if he didn’t approach you kindly. If you didn’t even have time to scream or make any noise. Or if your mouth was full of blood.

  Now Emilia was missing.

  What good had it done? Ian had wondered. He was sure Emilia was dead. He sat by his window for hours, waiting, worrying, wondering.

  And then suddenly, commotion. Three figures rushed out the front door, momentarily illuminated by the porch lights. Ian watched as Emilia’s mother and father were led by an officer to a police car that made a loud beep, beep! before it raced away. Other cop cars took off behind it, leaving only the dark figures of neighborhood women on the DeJesuses’ front stoop. The eerie figures watched them go, hands over mouths, over beating hearts, arms crossed around their midsections in a way that made them look like they were holding themselves together. They stared for a long time, even after the last car was out of sight, before finally turning to one another, dazed and shaking their heads. Slowly, one by one, they made their separate ways back to their own houses, up their own stoops. They took deep breaths before opening their own doors and going inside to hold their own children.

  Ian, his mother had said from the doorway as he sat on his bed. He looked up as she came over and sat next to him.

  Ian, she said again.

  He was scared of his mother in that moment. Her voice, her whole self seemed unnatural, like she’d been hollowed out. He couldn’t ask. He was afraid.

  They found her. She’s alive, his mother said. Pulled him close to her, and hugged him so hard he thought he heard bones crack. And he felt how she cried as she held him there, tight.

  * * *

  *

  For months after that, Ian kept watch from his window. He’d look at Emilia’s heavy front door, the one she never came out of anymore. And the empty lawn
where she used to play. But he never saw her. He was almost certain all the adults had lied to them about Emilia DeJesus being found. Perhaps she was still missing. Perhaps she was found dead. Emilia’s existence became a mystery that Ian spent hours wondering how he would solve, and then one day, like any other, he caught sight of her.

  The front door at the DeJesus house was open, finally a day hot enough so they couldn’t just keep closing it and staying inside. And he saw Emilia standing behind the screen door. He pressed his face up against his own bedroom window wondering if it was really her. Emilia DeJesus. And then she pushed the screen door open and came out, her mother behind her.

  She was careful on the stoop, looking all around, as if taking in her surroundings for the first time. She looked at the houses of their neighbors and then right at his window. Ian was sure she saw him. She walked over to her front lawn and stared at the sky above. She spread out her arms and turned in slow circles. The sun shone on her. Her mother sat on the stoop, watching. Ian ran downstairs and looked out his kitchen door, which faced Emilia’s house. He went outside and watched her from his stoop until he couldn’t help himself, and slowly began walking in her direction.

  Closer up, she looked different. Her skin paler or grayer than he remembered, her eyes darker. He was almost afraid of her. Except, he wasn’t. This was Emilia. She was alive. And beautiful. And she was looking at him and then circling around him as he stood with his hands in his pockets.

  She stopped suddenly and cocked her head to the side.

  Caw! she whispered.

  Ian looked over at her mother, who’d stood up from where she was sitting on the stoop.

  Emilia, she called. Stop, please, Emilia . . . But Emilia didn’t stop. She cawed some more, and stared at him.

  Ian couldn’t move.