Knowing Jack

by Rachel Curtis

  Mike won’t suspect anything is wrong for at least an hour—since he won’t know how long a cup of tea with an old lady might take.

  There’s no way he’ll figure out where I’ve gotten to.

  So I drive to the lake and park with all the other cars on the grass. I know where everyone will be hanging out.

  There’s loud music, and a few guys have parked pick-up trucks and SUV’s with their lights on, so there’s a large area that’s mostly lit.

  There’s exactly the kind of thing going on that you might expect at a college party.

  It’s been ages since I’ve been to a party like this and, honestly, I’ve never really been into this sort of thing.

  It’s not that I always have to be good and quiet. It’s that I’m always afraid of getting in trouble, and I don’t always feel comfortable in big group settings where the thing to do is be uninhibited.

  I’ve always been very fond of my inhibitions. I keep them around on purpose.

  But here I am, wandering through the chaotic crowd and praying I’ll find Kent.

  People look at me, some in surprise and some in resentment. No one talks to me, and I’m afraid to ask anyone about where Kent is.

  I feel horrible and queasy and mortified and exhausted after the fading adrenalin of the escape from my apartment. But I’m sure—I’m absolutely sure—it’s going to be okay when I find Kent.

  So I wander and I wander some more and I bump into people because a lot of them are high or half-drunk or in various stages of foreplay.

  And, now that I think about it, there’s an obvious way to dull my anxiety and awkwardness. So I grab a beer—they’re being handed out all over the place—and start to chug it.

  I haven’t eaten anything all day, so it doesn’t exactly settle well in my stomach. But it does dull my nervousness.

  I keep wandering, and once I touch a blond guy’s arm, only to realize it isn’t Kent.

  Finally, I see him, leaning against one of the pick-up trucks and talking to a girl.

  A tall, slim, dark-haired girl.

  So my gut drops sickeningly and I find another beer.

  But I’ve come all this way. I’m going to at least find out if Kent is really flirting with this chick before I turn around and head home.

  He may just be killing time and not interested at all. Talking doesn’t mean there’s something more.

  So I make myself go over, and I’m relieved when Kent perks up as soon as he sees me. He completely ignores that other girl and he comes over, saying how glad he is I made it.

  After that, it isn’t so bad. I have two more beers, so nothing really feels bad or hurts or worries me.

  I’m really small and, on an empty stomach, three and a half beers have a profound effect.

  I’m not even sure what’s going on. The night starts to spin, and the air slowly becomes blisteringly hot.

  But Kent seems very nice. Incredibly nice. I seem to be falling all over him, and that’s okay because he’s so nice.

  And Jack doesn’t matter at all. I don’t even remember who Jack is.

  And everyone doesn’t really hate me. They’re all around me and they’re not throwing tomatoes or anything, so that must mean they really like me.

  It all makes perfect sense. I’ve been going about this whole year wrong and making a huge deal over nothing.

  I feel very queasy now, but that doesn’t matter. Kent goes to get me another drink and some other guy appears and wants to take a walk with me. I’ve met this other guy before, although I can’t remember his name, but taking a walk seems a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  Even when we leave the others and the world suddenly grows dark, it still seems like a reasonable thing to do.

  This is me. Being me. Being independent. Not letting Jack control me.

  I can do anything I want. Or even some things I don’t want.

  The guy has his arm around me, and I’m leaning on him—it’s more out of necessity than out of a desire to be close to him, but at least it’s helping me walk.

  There’s a couple on the grass on the edge of the lit area. We almost step on them. They’re making out pretty heavy, and she’s not wearing a top.

  She must be cold. It’s a cool evening. But that’s not the point, I remind myself with impressive acuity.

  The point is it’s nice to make out with a guy. Making out with Jack was very nice.

  No, that’s not right. Making out with Jack should never be the point.

  So we go a little farther than the other couple, and the guy removes his arm. Without the support, my knees buckle and I droop to the grass like a dropped marionette. It might be funny. Maybe I even laugh.

  I’m not sure, but the guy is next to me on the grass then, and then he’s sort of on top of me. He has brown hair and brown eyes and a zit on his left cheekbone. I’m not a snob about skin problems or anything, but the zit really stands out to me. It’s pretty dark, so I don’t know why it’s so noticeable.

  Then he’s really on top of me, and his hands are all over. They’re touching me in places they really shouldn’t. Places only Jack should touch me.

  No, that’s not right either. I can have any man touch me I want. Jack doesn’t have anything to do with it.

  But I don’t actually like the way this guy is touching me. I wish I could remember his name. One of his hands is in between my legs now, over my jeans, and the other is under my shirt, groping at my tits.

  It doesn’t feel good. It feels rather ick. But my mind is so fuzzy I can’t process exactly why.

  He smells bad—like beer and body odor. I don’t like the smell at all. It’s the smell more than the touch that prompts me to push him away.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t push very easily. He’s a lot bigger than me, and he’s really into whatever he’s doing.

  What he’s doing is unfastening my jeans.

  I try to push his hands away, but I don’t seem to have enough coordination. I push him again and start to squirm underneath him, using more than just my hands to get him away. I want his weight and his smell and his gropey hands away from me.

  But he just doesn’t move. He’s saying something—it’s slurred and not really coherent, something about how I’ll enjoy it, how I shouldn’t play hard to get when everyone knows I spread my legs for anyone who asks. This would bother me if I were thinking more clearly, but I’m not thinking clearly at all.

  I just want him to get away.

  I get in a better position for leverage and shove him away hard. He gets pushed backward with the force, but not all the way off me. I try to scramble away but he grabs me.

  This time it kind of hurts as my shoulder blade gets jammed against a rock, and for the first time a thread of panic ripples through my foggy brain.

  This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all. He’s trying to pull down my jeans and I can’t seem to stop him. I can’t think clearly enough to do anything except struggle futilely.

  Wait a minute. I remember something. I can scream. There must be other people nearby. Maybe they’ll hear something.

  I open my mouth and make a croaking sound. I’m still clumsily trying to get away.

  I’m truly terrified now, and it’s starting to break through the beer-fog. I try to scream again and make a slightly louder noise.

  I’m suddenly sure it’s not going to be enough. This guy is too drunk to even recognize that I’m trying to get away, and I don’t know if he’d even care if he was sober. It’s like I don’t exist as a person to him—just a thing to be done.

  He’s got my jeans down over my hips now, and my top is torn.

  This isn’t real. It’s not real. It’s not happening…

  Suddenly, the guy’s weight is suddenly torn off me. I have no idea how it happens, how I’m suddenly free, until I stare up and see Jack.

  He’s grabbed the guy and thrown him several feet away. I mean, literally thrown him.

  Now he’s going after the guy again, lifting him up but o
nly to punch him in the gut, so hard I hear the impact.

  I’ve never seen Jack like this before. His face is unbelievable. Unrecognizable. Like he might actually kill this guy—whose name I still don’t remember.

  I try to get up but can’t. I’m at least able to pull up my jeans and pull my top closed over my bra.

  It seems impossible that the party is still going on, just out of sight, not very far away. It’s like that Auden poem that Professor Bitch talked about last week. Something life-changing almost happened—to me—and everyone just goes on about their business, not even realizing the near-disaster.

  Why I’m thinking about Auden, I have no idea. Jack is beating the guy into the dirt, and I’m suddenly terrified for another reason.

  He’s totally out of control, and he might not be able to stop.

  “Jack.” It’s supposed to be an authoritative indication that he should stop pummeling the guy. It’s more of a squeak.

  “Chloe, are you all right?” Kent is suddenly here. I have no idea where he’s been all this time, but I’m glad that someone else is around to help deal with the situation, which has spiraled so far out of control that I don’t know if I can pull it back.

  He helps me to my feet, and I lean against him, merely out of necessity. “Where were you?” I ask. “That guy…that guy tried to…” I don’t finish the sentence because another jolt of fear runs through me. “Jack!” This time, my voices is louder. Still wobbly, though.

  Jack pauses, but doesn’t turn around. He just stands there, his back to me, breathing so heavily I can see it in his shoulders. I see that tension again—the kind I’ve seen in him so many times—and it’s like he’s trying to coil it back to where he’s able to control it.

  I wonder if, one day, the effort to contain it will cause him to simply implode.

  Finally, he turns around. Even in the dark, I can see his face is streaming with sweat and there’s blood on his hands.

  The guy on the ground isn’t moving.

  Kent goes over to check on the guy, giving Jack a wide berth and a decidedly suspicious look.

  “Is he okay?” I ask, my voice breaking. Maybe this proves me heartless, but I don’t give a damn if the guy is okay—except I don’t want Jack to get in trouble for it.

  “Yeah,” Kent says. “I think so.”

  At this, I just crumple. Seriously. My legs don’t hold out and I end up back on the grass, dizzy and confused and sick.

  Kent comes over quickly to help me back up to my feet. I lean on him because I have to. I’m still worried about Jack, who seems like he’s trying so hard to control himself that he can’t even move. “Did he…did he do anything?” Kent asks.

  “No permanent damage.” I don’t even know if this is the truth, but I know what he’s asking. I wasn’t raped, although I might have been. The realization hits me so hard that my stomach churns.

  I breathe deeply and try to figure out what to do.

  “Should I…should I call the police?” Kent asks. He sounds confused and uncertain.

  That makes two of us. “I just want to go home.”

  “I can take you home.”

  “No, you can’t.” That’s Jack, and he sounds almost normal. He doesn’t look normal. There’s still a wild, primitive fire in his eyes. But he can evidently move now, so he must have gotten himself under control. He steps over closer to me. “I’m taking her home. You’re taking care of that.” He gestures toward the beat-up guy

  “Why should—” Kent’s objection is stilled, evidently from seeing the expression on Jack’s face. I can hardly blame him. If Jack was looking at me that way, I’d be shaking in my shoes and do anything he told me.

  Then I stop thinking about Kent entirely.

  There’s something else here. Something important. Something that matters.

  Then I figure it out. What matters is that my insides have been jarred too much and my mind can no longer control them.

  They start to move.

  “Uh oh,” I say, putting a hand on my stomach.

  “What’s the matter?” This isn’t the brightest of questions, but Kent has been drinking too and it’s been a very disorienting few minutes.

  “She’s going to be sick. Hopefully, on you.”

  I already know Jack is here, right near us, but his voice still surprises me so much that I jump. I literally jump. And that’s definitely not good for my insides.

  “You shut up,” is what I tell him. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  Now, I’m well aware that this doesn’t sound very grateful, when he just saved me from something I don’t even want to think about. But it’s hard to feel grateful for anything when you feel like I do right now.

  My stomach heaves.

  “Oh, princess,” Jack murmurs as I lean over and vomit on the grass.

  He holds me and holds my hair, and it’s not a bit fun, I’ve got to tell you.

  I do feel a little clearer after I’m done, although I’m so unstable on my feet I can’t even stand up.

  Jack holds me up, holds me against him, and I burrow my face into his shirt.

  No one in the world feels like Jack, even when you’re drunk. And even when he’s just beat some other guy into pulp.

  His arm tightens around me and then he says something I don’t understand. “I don’t know what you were planning by bringing her here tonight, but whatever it was isn’t going to happen.” His voice is hard and cold, and I’ve never heard it like that before.

  “What?” I say, pulling my face out of his shirt to blink up at him.

  He looks down and cups my cheek in his hand. “I wasn’t talking to you, Chloe.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m more confused than ever, the adrenalin clarity from before fading into an alcohol-induced haze. I have no idea what’s going on, but at least I don’t seem to be involved in it anymore.

  “I wasn’t planning anything.” That sounds like Kent. “Do you think I wanted this to happen?”

  “I have no idea what you wanted. But you can just forget anything you want that’s connected to her.”

  Even my blurry mind recognizes the low voice as a threat. I shiver in response.

  “Can I take you home now, princess?” Jack asks, his voice so different that I hardly recognize it.

  “Yes. Please take me home.”

  We start to leave but, when we pass that couple who were making out nearby, Jack jerks away and reaches down to take something out of the guy’s hand.

  Many blinks later, I realize that it’s the guy’s phone. I have no idea what Jack is doing as he’s messing with it.

  “Hey, that’s mine. You have no right to erase that.” That’s the guy-part of the couple.

  “If you think I give a fuck about your rights, then you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve deleted the video. If you’re smart, you’ll forget this whole thing ever occurred.”

  I have no idea what video he’s talking about, but I don’t really care. When Jack starts walking again, he takes me with him because his arm is around my waist.

  I keep falling though, since my legs aren’t working very well and I can’t see much in the dark.

  So eventually he picks me up and carries me.

  That’s not so bad. Not really bad at all.

  ***

  I don’t remember much of the ride back. I might have passed out a little. In my defense, it was just a little.

  The next thing I know I’m blinking up at Jack, as he’s leaning into the passenger seat trying to get me up.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him, with more confidence than is entirely warranted. “I can walk.”

  “There’s no reason you have to walk.” He gets me out of my seatbelt and then lifts me into his arms.

  He’s cradling me, and I wrap my arms around his neck, nuzzling his shoulder.

  “You don’t have to carry me,” I say. “I’m too heavy.”

  “You’re not heavy at all. You’re tiny.”

  “Nothing wrong with b
eing tiny.”

  “I know nothing is wrong with it. You’re perfect.”

  “No, I’m not. I almost…I almost…”

  “I know what almost happened, princess.” His voice is strange and gravelly.

  “It doesn’t even feel real.”

  “It was real. I’m sorry I didn’t get there earlier.”

  “You got there in time. It wasn’t your fault. It’s my fault.”

  “It is not your fault. Don’t ever say that.”

  “I was stupid.”

  “Stupidity doesn’t mean you deserve for something like that to happen. Don’t you ever think it does”

  “Okay.” I’m too tired and blurry to think it through anyway. “Plus, I threw up in front of you and Kent and everyone.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “It was pretty bad.”

  “It wasn’t bad at all.” He’s in the building and walking up the stairs now.

  “Well, it wasn’t good.”

  “No, it wasn’t good.”

  “I just wanted to have fun and be normal and not be controlled all the time.”

  “I know, princess.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No. I’m not mad.” He lets out a long sigh as he closes the front door to my apartment with his back and keeps walking toward the bedroom. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” I try to think about this for a long time—to no avail. Nothing makes any sense at all. “I’m the one who threw up.”

  “You drank too much. It happens.”

  “Three beers shouldn’t make you so drunk. It’s kind of pitiful.”

  “You’re tiny. And I bet you haven’t eaten.”

  “True.”

  By now, we’ve reached my bedroom, and he eases me down. I try to pull him down with me since I like so much how he feels.

  He resists, and I whimper with disappointment. “I want you to come to bed with me.” Maybe he hasn’t realized what I’m trying to do. Might as well tell him.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But I want you.” I cling to his neck resiliently, despite his attempts to pull my arms away.

  “I want you too. You have no idea how much. But you’re not in a fit state to make that kind of decision. And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, Chloe. Not even me.”