by Anna Chillon
I looked around. As if the presence of the car illegally parked wasn’t already enough, Simon, with his stance attracted all the students' looks from the first to the fifth year of high school.
We said hi to both the two boys and each went over to our own.
“Hey,” Simon winked, throwing his hair back exposing his clear, grey-blue eyes.
“Hey! Out on the prowl?” I probed.
“We were at the Tech, so we thought we’d come and pick you up.”
He was referring to the Commercial Technical Institute not far from there, attended by Tim until a couple of years ago.
“Nostalgia for the old school?” Zoe exclaimed, but he was all ready to reply with a cold shiver.
“Not on your life!”
“We’re giving hope to those who want to flee, we give them a hand when we can.” With two fingers Simon simulated the gesture of smoking a joint. They had just been out to deal to the kids as they finished their lessons.
“Well done...” I commented. All irony.
Tim put his arm around my friend’s shoulders. “Come with us, beauty?”
She replied to his affection by pressing her side against his. “Why not.”
With a tinkling, he pulled the keys out of his pocket like a trophy.
“Get in, Giada. Your name’s Giada, isn’t it?” He sniggered, cutely rumpling his big nose.
“I can get the bus...”
Simon grabbed my hand. “Give him a little satisfaction, it won’t cost you anything! You just have to sit back in the car and repeat every minute: fuck, what a beautiful car Tim has, it’s so fast, so luxurious, it’s so big Tim, you’re so cool Tim!”
“You can say it loud, my friend. You’d like to have it this big,” Tim replied, grabbing his package through his jeans.
Simon lifted his middle finger hard. “Try it to believe it.” With the other hand he squeezed mine between the general laughter in a way in a way that, coupled with those jokes, made my heart beat faster.
The warden’s whistle blew. She wasn’t the only one whose full attention we held. For the first time in my life, I was stirring up the envy of all the other students, me, the antithesis of school popularity.
We got in the car quickly to get out of the way. Tim at the wheel, Zoe in the front seat, Simon and I behind. I placed my backpack between us, a somewhat ephemeral barrier since he stretched an arm across the seat as if he were sitting in the armchair at home. His fingers brushed my neck, tickling me pleasantly.
Tim turned the music up, a frenzied hammering into my bones. The windows were down, my hair flew out of the elastic flying all over the place and he drove crazily, making me slip right and left on the leather seats. The back seats had no seat belts.
In that chaos, Zoe spoke over the volume of the music, practically yelling, but I didn’t understand a thing. I was surprised to see that without even realizing, Simon had moved my backpack, throwing it against the door and was leaning between the front seats, to change the track on the stereo. Crafty move.
The volume was ear splitting, so to talk to me something without breaking his vocal cords he reached over and spoke into my ear.
“You seem a bit weird.”
“What?” Our mouths were close.
“Nothing.” He tried to kiss me.
I shook for a moment against his mouth, trying to escape and surprising him.
“Something wrong?”
Vincent wouldn’t like it. I was sure. While I was not entirely sure why Vincent, who had not even been decent enough to send me a message, had absolute priority over Simon. The fact that I had lost my virginity with him didn’t mean that I was bound to him forever. We weren’t in the Middle Ages.
Yet that was how I felt and it confused me.
“I'm just worried because my parents don’t want me to get in the car with guys they don’t know.” A ridiculous excuse, however, was helpful in calming him.
“And we’re not even alone,” I added, referring to Zoe and Tim, who were actually only interested in one another.
“You weren’t shy like this before.”
I didn’t enjoy lying to him and I hated Vincent for making me do it, and for making Simon appear so infantile when in reality he wasn’t. He was an older guy, as Zoe said, and more experienced than I was, who was certainly less used to being rejected than having all the willing young girls he wanted.
“In fact I am very shy,” I tried to justify.
“You haven’t changed your mind?”
“What are you talking about, no,” I hurried to object. “I just don’t want to go too fast.” Pathetic.
He stretched his arm over the back and started to play with my hair next to my ear, touched my neck, making me giggle in a way that could’ve made me melt in the seat. We laughed. It was tough, but somehow, with apologies and small concessions, I managed to get out of the car without any disasters, promising to see him again soon.
To avoid my parents seeing me in the BMW, I made Tim drop me a bit further down the road. Walking to the house I passed in front of Vincent's with a grimace stamped on my face. I had a guy like Simon in the palms of my hand and what was I doing? Slithering away like an eel.
“Fuck you!” I shouted at the closed door and the uninhabited walls, checking that nobody heard me. He was at work or anyway or in any other place minding his own business far away from me. “Fuck right off,” I repeated, clenching my fists.
At home I took the blue scarf and tied my ankles. I had to repeat the operation several times before a decent impediment came out of it. I had learned a little about how the knots were tightened. The result was certainly not comparable to the work Vincent had done on my arms, but it was unpleasant enough.
I tried to concentrate on my studies on the bed. Impossible. Every two lines of text the images of Vincent's face that loomed over the same sheets and over me, distracted me from Neoclassicism. It was an inconclusive afternoon, with the prospect of an equally sluggish evening that would be spent getting brainwashed in front of the television.
I was in a state of vegetative relaxation, abandoned on the couch pillows in the hall and absorbed by the plasma TV lights, when I heard my Dad come back in after putting out the rubbish. That was his only job in the house.
Hearing him exchanging a few words with a familiar voice, I sharply returned to my state of alert. Dad preceded Vincent coming in and my head peered out of the back of the sofa to which I clung with all my strength. The first thing I noticed was that my scratches had almost totally disappeared.
He looked in my direction for a moment, looking past me and fixing his gaze on the television. “The killer is the old man, his reflection is in the mirror at the beginning.”
“What?!” I glanced at the screen and then at him. What a bastard! “Thank you, you saved me the bother of watching this great movie. One of the most famous cult horrors in the world... You’re really kind!”
“It's nothing.” His gaze had already moved over to something that interested him more, such as the picture hanging on the fireplace with a cottage on the flowery hills. Still there, still the same, as it had been for twenty years.
Hearing our usual joking banter, my Dad laughed. “Now, Giada, you know why it's not a good idea to watch a movie with Vince.” Then he resumed the interrupted conversation with his friend, and my secret lover of one, no two, times.
“I was telling you that I organized a wedding at Villa Osseiana, thirteen courses, a catering service for a hundred and twenty guests. Below there’s a room divided into three hallways...” I gradually heard them less and less. They closed themselves into the study with two beers.
I endured about half an hour biting my nails with the gaze fixed on the TV without following the storyline. As soon as my mother went upstairs, I rushed to eavesdrop knowing that I’d already been blamed and punished by Vincent for the same thing once before. With the utmost caution I pressed my ear against the door kneeling on the floor.
Though I had lower
ed the sound a little, I didn’t turn off the TV, so the noise that came from it was an obstacle to my espionage work, but if I pushed my ear well against the wood I could hear what they were saying.
“She really has a lot of mood swings,” Aron's voice was serious.
“It's the age. Don’t you remember how impulsive we were at that age?”
“I'm not sure that it's helpful to take her away from here. She seems happy lately, I'm afraid she'll blame us for ripping her away from Rome.” My Dad was talking about me... me? He was worried about me?
‘Crrrrrac’, a piece of newspaper was assassinated by the paperknife.
“You can’t know how it will go yet. Kids adapt easily to change, more than adults,” Vincent said, just audibly. “You’re her father, she will love you whatever happens. Whatever she becomes, in one way or another, the woman you hope, but you shouldn’t mix your life with hers.”
The sound of a chuckle was heard. “from your mouth it sounds like you’re taking the piss.”
“You can’t use me as an example. My youth traumatized me, it’s logical that I went astray.” From the sarcastic tone it sounded like he didn’t even believe his own words.
“Stop it! I know how convenient it is to use the excuse of your past whenever you want to behave like a son of a bitch. How long has your old Dad been dead? Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet and take some flowers to his grave? Why don’t you take the first step, for God’s sake. He did.”
“He did it too late.”
“It's never too late. Although the past can’t be erased, it only takes a small gesture to redeem yourself. A sincere gesture. Remember that.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Course, I really believe that.”
“It might be me reminding you one day.”
There was another ‘craaac’ and then silence.
“What are you talking about? What’s up?”Aron asked.
I pressed my ear harder still.
All of a sudden the surface I’d been pressed against was missing. The door swung open and I fell spectacularly on my face.
I got a whiff of black leather shoes, polished to a shine. Aron was still sitting on his armchair with the paperknife in his hand, Vincent was the Eiffel Tower above me, tall and made of iron.
“Giaaadaaa,” Dad said, roaring my name.
Oops, made a bit of a booby.
I started to touch the floor beside the shoes. “Have you seen my hairclip? I must have dropped it here somewhere...” I stopped. “No, I bet you haven’t see it.”
“How long have you been eavesdropping for?” Dad was angry, but he was the one who worried me the least.
I raised my head knowing I’d made a massive mistake, and in fact was struck by Vincent's icy gaze, his cheekbones seemed to be protruding more than usual. He tightened his hand on the handle, holding himself back from making the first move that came to mind. Dad couldn’t see his face, but I could. His gaze didn’t promise anything good, yet it was a thousand times better than being ignored my him.
In the end, I gave up the pretence and blushed, without having the courage to stand up. “I’m sorry.”
“How would you feel if your mother and I eavesdropped on your conversations with your friends? It’s not polite.”
“You're right Daddy,” I replied.
“This time we forgive you. But don’t let it happen again: our conversations are private, between adults, not for you to listen to.”Aron forgave me, returning to his good natured expression, but it was obvious that Vincent did not agree.
I couldn’t hear adult talk, but I could be fucked by one. Where’s the equality?.
Vincent grabbed my forearm and pulled me to my feet. I had to swallow the scream so as not to show the force he was using on me.
“Go to your room, Giada.” He stole the line from my father.
At that moment I was overwhelmed by the awareness that day after day, minute by minute, Dad was losing authority over me without realizing that our neighbor was taking over and his domination over me was increasing. Because that’s what it was: that order wouldn’t have seemed more authoritative if it came from my father.
I only had time to squint my eyes slightly, in a dense surrender of emotion, before Vincent pushed me back abruptly and left me staggering.
“Good night,” Dad concluded as the door closed in my face.
“Goodnight,” I whispered to the door, trying to think of a reason not to cry.
Later, still awake late, I was browsing the pages of an art history volume, testing how sharp the pages were on my fingertips. It turned out they were very, and the cuts it made burned like flames.
A message arrived on my mobile.
“I thought I’d been clear.”
It was him: Vincent. I was happy about the message, less about the content.
My left index slid along the edge of the page making me cry out with the delicate sharp pain. I waited for blood to appear and I took it to my mouth while I typed the answer with my right. I typed and deleted it several times before deciding on how to answer.
“You've been here. You've clearly ignored me and I don’t like it.”
I sent it and after a few seconds another message came.
“Would you prefer to tell Aron?”
“No. But... why are you behaving like this?”
“You've already answered for yourself.” He had told me that with Adele and Aaron at home we would have to keep a distance if we wanted to keep the secret, I just hadn’t paid much attention at the time.
“But if I was alone at home? Would you come?”
“I would come and make you face the wall in punishment. Good night.”
That was enough, there was no changing his mind. I had to thank the heavens that I wasn’t his daughter.
“Bully.”
I waited for a long time, but no answer came and I was getting anxious. I was hot. I was in a flap, which stopped me from sleeping, my brain brooding and my legs rubbing the sheets incessantly. I clung to the pillow, rubbing against it but nothing could give me relief. I couldn’t find peace in my thoughts, rubbing, or fast moving fingers. Not after I’d experienced a real man in flesh and blood.
Chapter 8
I knew exactly what the best thing to do was: tell Vincent to not even try to raise a finger to me, go out with Simon and have sex with him, so much sex that it cancelled out what ‘Daddy's Friend’ had done to me.
Instead, what I did was tell Simon that my Mum and Dad hadn’t given me permission to go out with him as we’d hoped, because of my bad grades that week. In fact, I had only got a six in biology and I hadn’t made any effort for our date to become a reality. I lied to him because I felt that I wouldn’t be able to be intimate with him when every fibre in my body wanted to feel Vincent against it. I can’t have been well, there was no other explanation.
Simon was annoyed, and initially suggested we escaped late at night, and then gave in and accepted, hoping his patience would be rewarded.
Damn it, I didn’t imagine that telling lies was so tiring and complicated. Between one lie and another, served to friends and served to myself, the weekend seemed like it was never going to arrive. This time my parents left a day later; they stayed home Friday and left on Saturday morning, finally leaving me at the mercy of whatever our neighbor decided to do.
I didn’t know if and when he would turn up; after my last message ‘radio silence’ came into effect, so coming back after school, I was quite surprised to find him in the lounge.
I saw him as soon as I closed the front door. He was sitting on the stairs in the shade with a Tennents dangling in his hand. He was waiting for me.
He put the bottle on the step, got up and came to meet me with long strides, freshly-trimmed goatee, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows... all ready.
“Hi,” a genuine smile enlightened me. I was grateful to see him, and wanted contact with him, of any kind.
Instead of contact t
here was a sudden clash. Vincent snatched the backpack off my shoulder and threw it on the floor. With cold gestures he turned me to face the wall as he’d threatened to do in the message and hit me with two good smacks on the arse. My jeans took some of the blow, but he was full of anger and it was impossible not to scream.
He hurried, without giving me the time to fight back: Holding my arm folded behind my back he loosened and pulled my jeans down together with my panties. Another smack came straight on my naked buttocks with a snap.
“Ow! Why?” I yelled.
“You know why,” he grumbled.
“I've already said sorry! Sorry!”
I imagined it was the punishment for eavesdropping on his talk with Dad, at least that was the official excuse, but there was a wrath in that violent slap on my little buttocks, which couldn’t only be because of that. He punished me for a whole week of frustration of having been forced to remain in the shadows, lying to my father as he would never have wanted to. He punished me and himself through me, for who knows how many other things; that was what I perceived.
He relaxed against my back, caging me between himself and the wall, mute. It seemed to me that there were two walls and the one I had behind me was as impenetrable as the one in front, made of bricks. I had no idea what he was brooding about, certainly nothing cheerful.
I turned rubbing against him until I had his throat against the tip of my nose. I was trembling from the sensation caused by the slaps on my buttocks and for what they had triggered inside me. I felt electric, my body was a conductor and he was the current that through which those slaps had moved into me.
It was the first time I’d ever been smacked.
“My Dad has never spanked me.”
Vincent didn’t give me any space. He laid his rough hand against my throat and kissed me on my head deeply breathing in the smell of my hair.
“I know,” he said in the end. “It’s not his style.” He slid his arm across until the whole forearm was pushing my neck holding my head against the wall. He pressed harder under my chin, raising my gaze as he lowered over my face. “The fact is, you deserved it, baby. And they will not be the last if you carry on like this.” his big nose rubbed against my own in an affectionate gesture. “How do you feel now?”