Jane stood next to her and looked out, too. “You really love him, don’t you?”
“A lot,” Emilia said, without a moment’s hesitation, but wondering why it even mattered to Jane.
“Then don’t make the poor guy explode. He loves you.”
The door opened and the guys came in, the cold and smell of cigarettes surrounding them like a cloud. Anthony pulled Jane to the couch and told Ian to put on the second movie instead. After Ian did so, he settled next to Emilia on the small love seat, where she leaned up against him. He put his arm around her.
As the movie went on, Emilia could see the way Anthony’s hand explored and caressed Jane under the blanket that covered them, like a mouse running up and down the length of her body. Emilia tried to pay attention to the movie, but couldn’t help keeping track of the mouse’s movements.
After a while, Jane whispered something to Anthony and went upstairs. Minutes later, Anthony followed.
The movie was slow, but Ian and Emilia kept watching it, even though her mind was wandering to what Jane and Anthony were doing up there.
Like this.
An image of Jane twirling that red lollipop flashed through Emilia’s mind.
She swept the image aside as Ian began kissing her neck. She kissed him back, trying to push away the sick feeling in her stomach from the smell of cigarettes on his breath.
You really love him, don’t you? Jane’s question echoed in Emilia’s ears.
She wished he hadn’t had that cigarette. She thought she heard a bump coming from upstairs, but she tried to ignore it and bring herself back to the moment with Ian.
Don’t make the poor guy explode.
Jane’s voice whispered in her mind. Images of a space shuttle exploding in the sky filled it, jolting Emilia out of the moment. Her body reacted, and Ian immediately stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
Why had Jane used those words, those exact words? Something in her mind clicked. She stared at Ian.
Explode.
“Have you been talking to Jane about us?”
“What?” Ian looked at Emilia, confused, but then she noticed the stalling as the inner workings of his mind tried to come up with some lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Emilia pulled herself up, forcing him back. She felt sick. Would he do that? Was he so desperate that he would put Jane up to this?
“What don’t you understand? I’m just asking if you’ve talked to her about us.”
She searched for the truth in his eyes, the one she already knew in her heart.
“Oh god . . . you did. You talked to her about us. You told her about me?”
“No, no . . . I didn’t.” He struggled for a moment, but then she saw the resignation. His shoulders slumped; his whole body gave up the lie. He let out a deep breath.
He could still not admit it, she thought. In this moment, it’s still not true.
She almost wished for the lie. She waited for the next word out of his mouth, and then it came, the crushing “Yes” she already knew was coming.
“I’m sorry.”
Emilia closed her eyes. The smell of the cigarette on Ian’s breath that she could still taste, the smell of the house, perfume and leather and popcorn—it all made her sick.
“Oh god . . . ,” Emilia said, realizing what tonight was. “Is that why we’re here? So she could convince me to sleep with you? What the hell, Ian? Even after the other day?”
“No!”
“How much, Ian?”
“What?” he said.
“How much did you tell her? What exactly did you say?”
He shook his head. “I . . . I didn’t . . . ,” he tried. But then he got up and started pacing. “I . . . I don’t even know how we ended up talking about it. We were just talking.” Emilia turned away, unable to even look at him. She imagined him and Jane together, having that conversation. Talking about her and her hang-ups with sex? How she cried the last time? Planning how to fix her after . . . after Jeremy Lance . . . no—someone else!—pulled off all her clothes, beat her, tried to . . .
“It’s just you’ve been so far away lately,” Ian continued. “And I know, Emilia. I understand why you get this way in winter. But something else is up. I just don’t know what it is. Or how to fix it. Or how to help you!” His voice cracked and she thought he sounded like he was going to cry. Any other time, it would have broken her heart to hear Ian like this. But all she could think about now was how he had talked to Jane. Of all people, Jane. And how he must have told her everything.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I feel like I should do something, but I don’t know what. I was just looking for advice, and we started talking . . . and . . . please, Emilia. I’m sorry. You have to believe me.” He looked at her helplessly.
She closed her eyes, tried not to feel so sick as he repeated, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over, and tried to hold her hand. But she couldn’t stand his touch or his smell or his pity.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Emilia . . .”
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to, you have to believe me. I just, before I knew it, we were talking about relationships and I had too much to drink and . . . I was just answering her questions and I knew I should just keep my mouth shut, but she has this way . . .”
“Shut up!” Emilia didn’t want to hear it. “Don’t say one more goddamn thing!”
She didn’t want to imagine him drunk, talking to Jane.
Where had Anthony been? What else had happened?
She didn’t want to imagine the way Jane must have looked at Ian, or the way he might have been mesmerized by her closeness, her lipstick, her smell, or how something about Jane had made him spill his heart out to her. But Emilia imagined it all anyway. And she imagined their bodies close to each other, Jane kissing Ian, promising him something Emilia wouldn’t give him. No, not stupid, tragic, sweet Emilia.
“Please, listen to me . . .”
Emilia put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear his voice.
Don’t let the poor boy explode!
“Take me home,” she said.
“Please, Emilia . . .”
“Take me home,” she repeated.
“Listen to me.”
“Take me fucking home!” she yelled. She wanted to drown out his voice. She wanted him to shut up. She closed her eyes and refused to even turn his way.
Ian got up slowly, and then she heard him mumble something about not being able to find the keys. “Anthony’s got them, from when he got his cigarettes from my car.”
“Go get them.”
“Emilia, please . . .” She could hear the desperate plea in his voice, and it pissed her off even more. She got up and ran upstairs, yelling for Anthony and pounding on the only closed door she could find.
The door swung open and Anthony stood there in his boxers. In the background, Emilia could see Jane in bed, the sheets pulled up to cover her body.
“What the hell is wrong?” he said.
“I need the keys. I need the keys . . . now.”
“I don’t have . . .”
“You do! You have them. Check your clothes.”
“Okay, okay, relax,” he said, his hands up like Emilia might shoot him.
How stupid, she thought. Who do they think I am?
Anthony backed up and went over to his clothes heaped on the floor, and to Emilia’s relief, she heard the jingle of keys.
She felt Ian standing behind her, but she wouldn’t turn around. She couldn’t bear the sight of him. She couldn’t imagine being in the car with him right now.
“Will you take me home?” she asked Anthony when he held the keys out to her.
Anthony looked past her at Ian. “
What’s going on?”
“Anthony,” Emilia said again. “Take me home.”
“Yeah . . . okay,” he said. Quickly he dressed, shoved on his shoes. And the whole time, Jane stayed in bed, watching.
Emilia hoped Ian crawled into it with her. She hoped Jane comforted him. She hoped they fucked.
Emilia shoved past Ian and went outside to wait by the car.
Anthony came out, and soon they were on their way back to her house. After a long time, he finally asked, “What happened?”
She wanted to tell him, but she didn’t know how to explain it. And she could hardly expect him to understand when the two people she hated most right now were people he loved.
“He’s a jerk.”
Anthony waited for more. Emilia stared out the window.
“He talked about shit I didn’t want him to talk about. He told Jane things he shouldn’t have. Like, poor him . . .” And about that day. She was certain of it.
Emilia had only told Ian about it when they were thirteen. Only him. Only once. She’d told him everything she could remember because it came to her so quickly. They’d been sitting at the park, she was on the swings, the weather was just starting to get cold, and she saw a little girl running around, laughing. And a part of Emilia remembered being that way. She said this to Ian without thinking, and how after the attack, she wasn’t like that anymore. She hadn’t spoken about it in years. But that day, the whole thing, the smallest details she could remember, started coming out. She felt like she’d been hypnotized, like she was out of her body and was watching herself recount the whole thing. It was the only time she had talked about it outside Dr. Lisa’s office, the only time she’d told the whole awful story from beginning to end like that. And now Ian had told Jane. He must have. All those things Emilia never wanted to speak about, never wanted anyone to know.
“Oh,” Anthony said in a tone that turned Emilia’s stomach.
“You knew.”
“Sorry,” he said. After a few minutes, he added, “For what it’s worth, he doesn’t go around talking about it.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. He’s never brought it up. It was Jane who told me you guys hadn’t . . .”
Emilia looked back out the window. “Of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Anthony said. “She’s sort of like that. But she’s harmless.”
Emilia shook her head. “You shouldn’t get in the habit of apologizing for her.”
He didn’t say anything and they drove the rest of the way in silence as she tried not to think of Ian, back at Anthony’s. She tried not to think of Jane.
Jane.
Fucking Jane, who could be so free. Who could do whatever she wanted, dance naked under glittering lights and laugh about it, walk around with some naive assurance that nothing bad would ever happen to her. No, not her.
Anthony pulled up in front of Emilia’s house, and as she got out of the car, he said, “He really loves you, you know. Don’t break his heart.”
Emilia shook her head. “Bye, Anthony. Thanks for the ride,” she told him. She never wanted to see any of them again.
You’re Home
“You’re home,” Ma said, standing up from the couch. She looked stricken at the sight of Emilia. She quickly reached for but fumbled with the remote control, and it clattered to the floor. Emilia looked at the television, at the woman on-screen saying that she would never forgive what had been done to her son. That everyone involved should be ashamed.
The name below the angry face on the screen read KATHERINE LANCE, and everything registered in Emilia’s mind just as Ma turned off the television.
“Emilia . . . ,” Ma said.
“Oh my god.”
Ma rushed to her side. “Don’t worry,” she said, wrapping her arms around Emilia.
“How can you say that? How . . .” Emilia’s chest felt crushed. She could hardly breathe as she pulled away from her mother and paced around the living room. Winter break would be over soon. She’d have to go back to school. People would be talking. They’d stare at her like they used to. Like she was some sort of freak, some kind of monster.
It would be on every news channel. And everyone would know exactly what she’d done.
Ma came over to her again, held her tighter and closer. “Emilia, stop, please. Listen to me. Are you listening? It’s only a small segment, at the end of the news. It’s not a huge story. Probably no one else has even picked it up.”
“Yet,” Emilia said.
Her mother just stared at her.
“People will blame me.”
“Nobody is going to blame you. Not as long as I’m around. We’ll get through this. Together.”
Emilia tried to pull away, but Ma wouldn’t let go. Emilia took a breath and closed her eyes, afraid of everything that might happen. Of how things seemed to get worse when she thought they couldn’t possibly. Of how tight Ma was holding on to her, like she was never going to let go.
“You think they’ll come looking for me? Reporters?”
“I had our name, number, and address unlisted years ago,” Ma whispered into Emilia’s hair. “And if anyone comes near here, near you, I’ll kill them.”
Emilia heard the strange tone of her mother’s voice, and it only scared her more.
* * *
*
That night, all kinds of scenes played in Emilia’s mind. Katherine Lance on the television. Jane and Ian talking. She and Jane talking. Jane licking a lollipop. Jane and reporters watching from somewhere on the playground as Jeremy Lance threw Emilia around, hit her, dragged her like some kind of . . .
No! Not him! Carl Smith. Who is dying. And might still be thrown in jail for what he did.
So many scenes were getting jumbled up in her mind. She felt like she couldn’t keep anything straight. Her head hurt from trying to make sense of it all, and it reminded her of those days after the attack. Of being in this house, with Ma, closed off from the rest of the world. Of lying in bed, day after day, everything hurting. Not knowing if it was day or night. Not knowing if she was at home, or in the hospital, or still on the playground, whenever she woke up.
It had been such a terrible time.
And now here she was again. Cooped up in the house. Afraid and confused. Ma and Dad whispering in other rooms, checking on her every few minutes, peeking out the windows for news vans. The phone ringing and Ma running to answer it when it was only Ian calling to apologize over and over. And Emilia couldn’t even talk to him, because Ma and Dad would hear it all. So she quietly had to tell him to just leave her alone.
Ma was finally allowing her dad to come over, but only because he was now in charge of babysitting Emilia as they waited. And waited.
For something.
Something.
Emilia’s mind flickered with the memory.
The classroom.
Was it real?
Yes, she knew it was.
I already have my something, Emilia thought as the days passed. I have a place to go and be safe. I don’t need to be here, like this.
She hated her father hanging around the house all day, her mother calling every hour but only her father answering in case it was a reporter. And how all day long, she couldn’t even figure out how to talk to her dad. She hated having him around and it confused her. She wanted him here, but she didn’t. Or maybe she liked the version of her father she’d come up with, and he wasn’t that person. A part of her understood that all this time, this man, who kept watch over her now, had preferred to be somewhere else.
* * *
*
“You guys can’t do this,” Emilia said the third afternoon her father was leaving and her mother was coming home.
“Emilia,” her father said. Her mother shot him a look.
“I mean it. It’s fucking ridiculous. I’m not sta
ying locked up like this, in the house all the time.”
“Just until . . . ,” Ma started, but Emilia shook her head.
“No!” She didn’t feel anywhere near as strong as she sounded. But she didn’t want them to know how broken everything felt, how broken she was, how she cried at night when she was sure everyone was asleep, over Ian, over the past, over everything that was happening. How it felt, how it was, too much. How she couldn’t handle it.
No! You can. You’re okay. You have to be okay. Or things will go back to just how they used to be, everyone feeling sorry for you or thinking you’re weird. You will never be normal again.
And to prove her point, Emilia grabbed her coat and left, ignoring how her parents called after her, even as fear and loneliness and guilt closed in around her as soon as she rushed out into that freezing cold.
You have to survive this! she thought, and then she hurried toward the only place no one would find her, the only place that made any of it bearable.
Make it even more spectacular, Emilia told herself as she got closer to the school. With each step she took, she felt like she was leaving everything behind.
Leave it all in the past.
She wouldn’t let herself think of how her parents had looked at her when she left the house. Or how Ian had looked at her the last time she saw him. Or how Carl Smith, or Jeremy Lance, or his mother, or reporters might be trying at this very moment to find her.
Leave it all in the past.
Emilia dropped down through the window, ran up the stairs to the classroom, filling her mind instead with what she could do. What she did have control over. That room. And when she finally got there, she felt everything else slip away.
Make it amazing!
Emilia looked around.
Her mother’s words echoed in her head.
You can have anything you want, Emilia.
Emilia sat in the corner of the room, her knees pulled up to her chest, held tight, and looked at her surroundings.
Yes, she could have anything she wanted. And she wanted this room. She wouldn’t stay home, no matter what. She would make this room more amazing than she ever imagined.
The Fall of Innocence Page 19