by Sara Hantz
“What?” Her eyes widen. “I don’t get it. How can you believe you’re a pedophile? Especially when you haven’t done anything like it before?” She shakes her head, a look of disbelief on her face.
I draw in a long breath, trying to ignore the stabbing pains from my cramping gut.
“When I went to visit my dad, he told me he was abused by his dad. And my dad, he… Well, you know all about him. There’s a link. Dad and me, we’re so much alike in every way. However much I hate to admit it. And Dad was the same as his dad. The three of us, out of the same mold. I’ve done the research, and it all adds up. You can put whatever fancy theory on it you like. Social, psychological…even genetic, although that’s yet to be proven…and, in my mind, it points to the fact that, in all probability, I’ll be next.” I thump the bench in frustration, and Summer jumps.
“No,” Summer says, her voice determined. “No. It’s not true. It can’t be. I know you. You’re never gonna be a pedophile. Never. I don’t care about your dad or his dad, or anyone’s dad. It’s not gonna happen to you. It’s not.”
I want to reassure her that everything will be okay. But, of course, I can’t. It’s crazy to even think about it.
I lean forward and cover my head with my hands, staying there for what seems like ages, when, in fact, it’s probably only a minute.
“Summer, listen to me,” I plead after sitting up. “No one believed my dad was capable of what he did. He was a normal guy. The perfect husband, the perfect dad. But he wasn’t. He was driven by disgusting urges that he had no control over. He said himself that he didn’t want to—that he wanted to stop because he knew it was wrong—but he couldn’t control it. It just…came out. And we don’t know when the urges started. It might not have been until he was older. We just don’t know. That’s why, just because I feel normal now, doesn’t mean I will be in the future. And I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Pedophiles can’t be cured. They’re compulsive. They can’t stop.” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard to try and stem the tears that are threatening to fall.
“I don’t buy it,” Summer says adamantly.
It’s like she’s looking for every reason not to believe me, but she’s out of luck. Does she really think that if there was a chance for me not to be affected I wouldn’t grab it with both hands?
“I’ve been researching. It’s all on my laptop. Come back with me now, and I’ll show you.”
“And according to what you’ve found, every single pedophile was abused as a child and all their children will be pedophiles, too?” Summer questions.
“I didn’t say that. That’s just one of the possible factors. I wasn’t abused, and we don’t know if granddad was abused. It’s complicated. It could be down to upbringing and psychological make-up. But also, people who were abused often become abusers. So what I’m saying to you is, based on all this, there’s a good chance of me becoming one, too,” I say clutching vainly at what little semblance of self-control I have. If I lose it now, then so will Summer.
“And the research can’t be wrong?” Summer asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Look, Summer. It’s not been proven like a scientist might prove something. But the facts are that I’m likely to become one. So stop questioning me. Trust that I know what’s likely to happen.”
There’s no point in sugarcoating it. She needs to accept it the same as I have.
“I can’t. If you told me you had unnatural feelings for children, then that’s different. But you said you haven’t. And surely, by your age, you’d know that something was wrong. Right?”
Silence hangs ominously in the air, like we both know the answer to this question is gonna tip the balance one way or the other.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure at what age these things start. Plus, what counts as unnatural?” I ask, my voice breaking. “You know, I love Amy so much, and when I think of her, it’s like she’s the most important person in my life. Especially since Mom’s stopped caring for her like she used to. I feel totally responsible for her. Is that unnatural? Is it?”
The desperation in my voice is mirrored by the desperation in my heart. I feel like there’s no way out. All I want to do is crawl inside myself and hide from this horrendous situation.
“No. No. Your feelings for Amy aren’t unnatural. Of course they’re not.” She glances at me, her eyes pools of emotion. “They’re normal feelings you have for your family, or for someone you love. Especially after what you’ve all been through. There’s nothing disgusting or perverted about them. Nothing at all.”
“Really?” I ask, a glimmer of hope forcing its way through the blackness of my mind.
Summer nods. “Yes, really. What about Dawson? How do you feel about him?”
Just thinking about Dawson sends shivers down my spine. I can’t shake the feeling that something awful has happened to him, and that I could be responsible.
I never used to doubt myself until Dad’s arrest. But now…
“I don’t know. He’s a good kid. I enjoy talking to him. I’ve never, ever had the urge to touch him... But I don’t know what happened last night.”
She lets out a long sigh and pauses for a few moments before speaking. “But surely, if you did do something to Dawson or any boy last night, something you can’t remember, then how come you don’t have any bruises or scratch marks on you? No boy is gonna give up without a fight, is he?”
I glance at my arms and hands, which show no evidence of me having fought with anyone. There are no scratches, no blood, no bruises, nothing under my nails. Though I cleaned them in the shower.
My mind’s in turmoil.
Could she be right?
Chapter Thirty-six
“Summer,” her mom calls, running toward us as we’re just about to walk into my house.
“Yes?” Summer replies.
“They’ve found him. Dawson. They’ve found him, and he’s okay. Just a bit tired from being out all night. Thank God. It’s been an awful time, especially for his family.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief, and my legs start to give way. I lean against the wall to steady myself.
“Where did they find him?” I ask.
Dawson’s alive. He’s okay. I didn’t do anything to him. Shit, this has to be the best thing to happen in a long time.
“Downtown at the bus depot. According to his mom, he went there to try and get a ticket to Prescott for the Monster Trucks but couldn’t, and it was late, and he was too scared to go home. One of the drivers found him hiding this morning.”
So it was the Monster Trucks, after all. Whatever. If I hadn’t have been mean to him, it might never have happened.
Even if I’m not like my dad, I’m still responsible for putting kids in danger.
Fuck.
“That’s cool.” I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it’s all that came out of my mouth.
“Thank goodness,” Summer says. “I’m just going in with Jed, I’ll be back later.”
“Okay,” Summer’s mom says before turning and heading back home.
Summer threads her fingers through mine, probably intending to make me feel better. Which I do. I really, really do. Except that it doesn’t change anything. Just because Dawson escaped my clutches this time doesn’t mean it won’t happen to some other child in the future.
“Amy, you go and play. Summer and I have school work to do.” If I say it’s something to do with school, we’ve more of a chance of her leaving us alone. I can’t show Summer my research while Amy is there.
“I want to come,” Amy says, sticking out her bottom lip. “I promise to be quiet.”
“We won’t be long, hon,” says Summer. “Why don’t you find all your Barbies and I’ll be down to play with you very soon.”
She says that now, but how will she feel once she’s looked at all my research?
“Okay,” Amy says, running toward the den, singing.
“Come on, I’ll show you all my research,” I say to Summer before head
ing to the stairs and climbing them two at a time.
I’m not sure why I’m in such a hurry to show her, because she’s gonna hate me.
“I don’t want to see it,” Summer says, following me. “It won’t change my view.”
She perches on the end of my bed with her arms folded, a determined look etched across her face.
“You have to see it. If you don’t, you won’t understand.”
“I understand,” Summer says stubbornly. “I’m not disputing there are all these different factors that could come into play. But I don’t believe that it’s a predetermined thing just because of the similarities between the three of you. Because that makes it sound like it’s definitely genetic. And you said there isn’t valid scientific evidence about that.”
“Not genetic in that there’s a specific gene in us. But if you look at psychological make-up then that’s different. That’s where the similarity between us is. And that’s what predisposes us to certain types of behavior.”
“Bullshit,” she replies.
I stare, open-mouthed. Believe it or not, I’ve never heard potty language from Summer. Ever. She’s always moaned about my language in the past. She says cursing is a cop out for people who can’t think of what to say.
“It’s not bullshit. It’s fact.” I thump the desk for emphasis, and she flinches ever so slightly.
“No, it’s not fact,” she says, turning to face me, a stubborn expression on her face. “You have a choice. We all have choices. Your dad had a choice, and he chose to abuse and kill those poor boys. He could’ve chosen not to. Like he chose not to abuse you.”
Surely she doesn’t believe that Dad made a rational choice before acting the way he did. It’s madness. How could anyone make a decision like that?
“He couldn’t. He couldn’t.” My voice increases in volume the more agitated I become. “It took all his strength to leave me alone, but he couldn’t stop himself with the other boys. He wouldn’t have done it if he could stop. What person in their right mind would choose to give in to such despicable urges if they could choose otherwise?”
I shake my head and walk over to the window, not able to face her and her ridiculous ideas.
“Look,” Summer says, her voice sounding a lot calmer. “You’ve done your research and found that pedophiles were often abused as children. But not all of them were. The same as not everyone who was abused as a child becomes an abuser. So nothing is definite. Which means you have a choice.”
Shit, she’s persistent. So persistent that there’s a tiny, tiny thought in the back of my mind telling me she could be right. But she can’t be. I’ve done the research. She isn’t right. I’m sure of it.
I’m almost sure of it.
Actually, I’m not sure at all.
Could she be right?
Could she really be right?
“Summer, we’re best friends, so of course you’re gonna try and make things right for me. You’ve no idea how much I’m desperate to believe what you’re saying but it’s hard when you look at my research.” I let out a long sigh. Thinking about all this has taken the gloss off of finding Dawson. “It’s pointless sitting here, deliberating.”
“What can I do to convince you?” she pleads.
“Nothing,” I reply.
“Maybe you should get on with your life and forget about it. And know that, if you ever do get any urges, you can fight it. You can go to a therapist. There are special people who deal with that sort of thing. If your dad had gone to one, he might not have behaved the way he did.”
She’s gotta be kidding if she thinks I’m gonna spill my guts to some stranger just so they can sit there and put me into some psychobabble box. No, sir. Not me.
“I don’t believe in therapists.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. If you’re convinced about the direction your future is heading, you need to talk to someone. And, while you’re at it, you can talk about your drinking.”
“My drinking? I don’t have problems with my drinking.” I shake my head in frustration, yet for some reason it’s starting to feel really awesome that Summer’s acting all motherly over me. It seems like forever since we were like this, even though it’s only been a couple of weeks. The longest weeks of my life.
“That’s a matter of opinion. You totally blacked out last night. Do you really think that’s normal?”
There’s no point in lying, because I’ve already had my concerns over blacking out and what it could mean. But that doesn’t mean I have a problem with drinking. It just means that, this one time, I took it too far.
“No, I guess not. But I had good reason. My drinking only started after Dad got arrested.”
I’m not dependent. And I definitely don’t have an addictive personality. Apart from being a bit OCD, but that doesn’t automatically mean I can’t control the amount of alcohol I consume. If anything, it would make me far stricter with myself.
“You mean you can choose not to drink if you want to?” Summer asks, her lips turning up slightly into a tiny smile.
“Yes. Anytime,” I answer defiantly.
“Thank you. I rest my case.” Her smile vanishes and, instead, a smug expression crosses her face.
“What are you talking about?” I roll my eyes in frustration.
“If you can choose whether to drink or not, then you can choose whether to become a pedophile,” she says, becoming more serious.
Okay, so Summer’s view is simplistic, naïve, and obviously flawed. And if you approach a pedophile and ask what he thinks, you can imagine his response. But the thing is that I sort of get what she means.
I can’t just assume that, because Dad and his dad were pedophiles, I’m automatically gonna be one. Yes, the research shows my chances of becoming one are higher than for someone without my background, but that doesn’t mean it’s a given. And I can’t live my life thinking it is.
Thinking rationally, I’ve always been able to differentiate between my feelings for Summer, Dawson and Amy. It’s never been an issue, apart from me trying to make it one.
“You could be right,” I say to Summer. “Maybe I do have a choice. I can choose to reject what I previously accepted: that, in all probability, I’m going to become a pedophile.”
Summer’s expression goes from cautious to happy in the blink of an eye. Her eyes sparkle, and I get this overwhelming desire to fling my arms around her. But I won’t. I want to, but it’s not the time or the place. Because if I did, I don’t think I could stop myself from kissing her. I can’t risk spoiling our relationship within three seconds of it going back to how it used to be.
“So what does that mean?” she asks.
I wish I knew. Because, right now, I’m not sure. At least, I’m not sure I can put it into words. With one crazy sentence, I’ve just turned my world on its head. And I’m struggling to know how to deal with it.
It’s like, suddenly, I’m accepting my life can be normal. Well, some of it. Because Mom’s still not like she used to be. And there’s always gonna be Foster, or someone like him, at school. But maybe I can deal with it better. Understand that Mom is dealing with things in the only way she can. And when I’m at school, not react so badly when Foster gets in my face. Well, try not to, because he can be such an asswipe.
And, you know, if I go back to my old self, perhaps I won’t be regarded as such an outsider. I haven’t thought this before, but part of the way I’ve been treated could’ve been down to how I’ve acted toward everyone. Preempted their behavior before it’s even happened.
I draw in a long breath. As weird as it sounds, suddenly the whole world seems a cooler place to be.
“I think it means I get a life.”
A laugh escapes my lips. Could I sound any more like someone on daytime TV? Even if I do mean it.
“I’m so happy for you,” Summer says, throwing her arms around me and squeezing.
I draw back from her slightly and stare into her eyes. There’s a look, something I can’t
put into words, and, without doing my usual over thinking everything, I pluck up the courage and kiss her on the lips.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Remember, I can’t pick Amy up any day this week,” I say to Mom when she walks into the kitchen.
“Okay,” she replies, glancing at me.
I’d kind of hoped that, with things looking better for me, Mom would change, too. But why would she? It’s not like her life has changed for the better like mine has. I love getting up every morning now, knowing that, soon, I’ll be seeing Summer.
But it’s Amy I feel most sorry for. My gut wrenches every time I watch her seek affection from Mom, and she gets very little in return, not many cuddles or smiles. Summer and I both try to make up for it, and I think it helps, but who knows what’s going to happen when Amy gets older? It could totally screw her up emotionally.
“Hey, Jed.” Summer’s voice coming from the garage cuts across my thoughts.
Since we officially started dating last week, I give her a ride to school every morning.
“In here,” I reply.
She saunters into the kitchen, smiles at me and then at Mom. “Hi, Mrs. F.”
“Hello, Summer,” Mom says, not looking up from making herself a coffee.
“I’ll just go and say goodbye to Amy, and then we’ll go,” I say. Summer follows me out of the kitchen.
“I was thinking about auditioning for the school play. What do you think? Will you, too?” Summer asks, the excitement in her voice so endearing.
“Me in the school play? There’s no way I’d be even allowed to audition, let alone actually get a part.” I laugh.
Even before all this happened, I kept well clear of anything on a stage, after the time when I was in third grade and got stage fright. Which Summer knows all about, because she was there.