by Emily Bishop
At no more than ten feet away from Eric, I heard the horrible, bleating sound of my father’s voice, echoing out across the funeral home. I spun toward him, bringing Max behind me. There, in the doorway, was my massive father: his eyes hungry, red, and his hands in fists. The entire town faced him, their regard almost prayerful. This was their fearless leader. The man they would follow to the ends of the earth. It didn’t matter that he’d never been a good man. That he’d always been arrogant, so sure of himself he was unable to see what was good for anyone else.
“What the hell are you doing here, Olivia?” he boomed, stepping toward us.
The funeral home had grown deafeningly quiet, leaving space for only his voice. “I’ve been out looking for you for the past twenty-four fucking hours. And now I find you here. With this traitor. This fucking monster. The man who tried to take the town down with him.” He brought his hands skyward, pointing. “And I know every one of you here agrees with me.”
The townspeople began to mutter, their heads bobbing agreement. One woman, a church-goer who normally sat a few pews away from my father, mother, Max, and I, whispered at me, harshly, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
My father drew closer to us, his cheeks sweaty and shaking. He was drunk. That much was clear. Eric still hadn’t spoken, yet his anger rose like a wave.
This was it. This was the moment it would either all fall apart or bind together.
“It’s over, Dad,” I said, my voice clear. “I’ve had enough.”
Chapter 18
Eric
Twelve Years Earlier
I hadn’t been to school since I’d busted up my hand on that barn house window. Didn’t see the fucking need to. Not with Olivia prepping to fuck the football captain, shaking her little ass around in that cheerleader uniform.
And so I’d spent most afternoons either at the nearby bar, swooping down country roads on my bike and plotting how to make money so I could get the hell out. If I couldn’t have Olivia, I saw no reason to stay.
But it was Saturday. And it was the day of the carnival dance. I awoke before my dad came downstairs and was allowed a few moments of peace before deciding where to hide from him for the day.
I opened the blinds, eyed Olivia’s house down below, the little one-story green property, my secret refuge for the previous ten years. My cock hardened, insistent, remembering the image of her stripping off her shirt and tearing at it. She’d wrapped up my hand with the precision of a much older, much wiser woman. The kind of woman who would care for me. I’d half-expected her to lean down to kiss the wound.
Big tits beneath that little cheerleader sports bra. Nipples that cut through the fabric. My hand found the girth of my cock… How I loved to imagine what she’d do if we were ever stripped bare together. Would she spread her legs for me? Would she let me burrow my tongue into the wet softness I imagined between?
No. No. I couldn’t do this to myself.
She was that asshole Freddy’s girl, now. She would meet her destiny, align herself with the football players and the Cynthias and the fucking Hank-jocks of the world. Spit out a few kids.
I’d long ago learned you had to gauge how people were based on their actions, not what they said they wanted. Saying she wanted to tear out of town, build something in the city? I couldn’t take that as truth.
Lifting myself up from bed, I put on my black jeans and slipped my arms into a white T-shirt. My bedroom was relatively barren, dirty clothes strewn in the corner and a single grunge band poster on the wall. What the fuck did it matter? This had never really been home. Wasn’t sure I knew the concept of the word, anyway.
Strutting down the steps, I flashed my eyes toward my father’s passed-out form on the busted-out leather couch. His head was arched back, forcing a groaning snore from between his lips. My fingers twitched as my mind raced to an image of hurting him. Placing my hand across his throat and pressing down, down, down until he awoke, mid-choke. Would I have the strength to pull back?
I revved out on my bike, cutting toward country roads. Shadows from trees flickered across my cheeks. For a long forty-five minutes, I tore through air and across sand, able to forget, for a moment, that any of this was happening. That I existed. That I’d once wanted so fucking much.
Just after two, my route took me back toward the carnival at the center of town, the Ferris wheel stirring back and forth, its workers down below squabbling and laughing big belly laughs.
I paused at it for a long moment, watching as another worker painted a five-foot-tall sign, which read “DANCE FLOOR,” in magenta lettering. My stomach stirred, picturing Freddy holding Olivia’s light form against him. I imagined him bringing his lips to her ear, muttering something about “getting the hell out of here…”
The rushing anger against my ears made me dizzy. I left my bike in its parking slot and walked across the street, toward the Burger Shack. I flipped through the bills in my back pocket and drew out a five—enough for a milkshake and a slobbery burger—and ordered at the counter from the snot-faced kid from my history class. Michael.
“Here you go,” he said, passing the tray of food across the counter. “Have a Shack-a-Licious Day.”
“Do they make you say that?” I asked.
Michael swallowed harshly, slipping his tongue along his braces. “It’s just so I can save up for an Xbox.”
“I get it man. You do what you can to pay the bills,” I said, echoing out the words I’d heard at the dive bar down the road over the past few days. My shoulders slumped forward, like the bones of a much older man, and I slid toward the far edge of the Burger Shack patio, taking refuge with my burger.
My eyes scanned the horizon, watching the town ripple out beyond me. There was an electricity to the air. An expectation for the night. The carnival night was the biggest of the year—surging with nostalgia for much of the town, and pregnant with promise for those of us in the midst of our youth.
I heard him before I saw him. That jock voice, coming from the other side of the Burger Shack.
“Yeah, man. I mean, it wasn’t like she would have ever said no to me, anyway. A girl like that? She’s a goody two-shoes, whatever, but I think I can change her. I mean, that’s how these girls get during carnival season, am I right? They get wild. Ready to spread ‘em wide…”
It was Freddy. Freddy the quarterback. My fists clenched so tightly I destroyed the rest of my burger, wrapping it into its wrapper and tossing it into the trash. I held myself still, waiting, as Freddy’s friend answered.
It was Hank.
“Well, think I got a good chance with Cynthia tonight?” he asked Freddy. “I mean, I’ve gotten so close with her a hundred times, seems like. But then she always makes these little dog eyes at me. Like she’s scared, or like I don’t like her, or fuck. I don’t know. I don’t get these women, man.”
“Whatever, Cynthia’s an easy game,” Freddy said, almost interrupting. “Can I get a triple-burger with a chocolate shake, dude?” he called to Michael, sounding haughty. “Or are you just going to sit back there fucking with your braces?”
Rage spun up in me. Why the hell did Freddy think he could jump around this town, saying whatever the hell he wanted? But I held tight, listening to the exchange between Michael and Freddy, Michael and Hank. When Freddy had the burger between his massive hands—gripping it like a football—he continued.
“Like I said, Cynthia’s fine. It’s Olivia I gotta worry about. She ain’t so easy to please, which is why I want her so bad. A conquest.”
“Right,” Hank said, ever the agreeable one. “You gotta make her know she can’t fuck around with you. You’ll take whatever you want.”
“You always get it, Hank,” Freddy said, almost mocking him. “It’s like you take the words right out of my mouth.”
I jumped up from my picnic table, unable to control myself a moment more. My hands in fists, and my stomach stirring with burger, I made up my mind to tear across the patio and slam my hand into Freddy�
�s skull.
I would tell him Olivia was no fucking conquest. She was the woman I loved, the woman I would protect, if she let me. This felt like a test. The first line of defense.
As I strutted across the patio, my eyes swept across the grey window to the front of the Burger Shack. Scrawny Michael leaned over the counter, passing Hank his milkshake. But as he did it, his fingers dropped the milkshake glass. Icy milky glossy shit flew onto the countertop and onto both Freddy and Hank. Hank guffawed with surprise, but Freddy reacted far differently. He shoved his hand through the window, grabbed Michael’s collar, and brought his little head through the window.
“What the hell did you do?” he screeched, his face dripping with milkshake. “Clean us up! Clean us the hell up right now!”
Michael tried to dart away, but Freddy held strong. His thin arm snaked toward the napkins, trying to reach. His tongue tried to find strength, but was lolling around in his mouth, unable to articulate anything. Across the road, a police car halted and the officer craned his neck out his window. He called to Freddy—someone he surely knew, since Freddy was more or less celebrity in this town.
“Hey, Freddy? Let the kid go!” the officer said. He strutted from the side of the car, leaving the door open. No one gave a shit, not anywhere in this fucking town.
As he approached, Freddy slowly released Michael, spitting words only the four of us could hear. “You better watch yourself.” As if that meant anything. As if it hadn’t been an accident.
But the officer arrived in seconds and stood in front of Freddy and Hank in this dominant, hands-on-his-hips manner. He eyed them fiercely and said, “All right, looks like you boys have it all worked out. Nothing for me to see here. Right?”
“Right, officer,” Freddy said, his voice syrupy and sweet. “That’s absolutely right.”
The officer twisted his head toward the road and his eyes found the carnival. “You better run on home, then. Let little Michael here do the rest of his job. Can’t do it for him. And I know for a fact you boys got a carnival tonight you’re prepping for. Old Hank here has some stubble he could shave off, don’t you, Hank?”
Hank chuckled, looking at Freddy with an anxious look in his eyes. Freddy stepped toward the road, hollering back at the cop. “Thanks for your understanding, officer,” he said, shrugging. “You know we’re just a little hot-headed around here. The end of the school year. And all that excitement. No one remembers it quite like you do.”
“Sure thing,” the officer said, remaining at the window of the Burger Shack, watching them go. “That’s a sure thing indeed.”
It wasn’t time for Freddy and I, not yet. So I fumbled toward the side of the Burger Shack, walking back toward my bike. The May sunlight beat on my shoulders, and sweat soaked my neck. It would be a long fucking afternoon. But I resolved I had to go to the carnival, if only to warm Olivia about Freddy. If only to tell her what a piece of dirt he truly was.
She deserved to know. And I had to save her.
Chapter 19
Olivia
Twelve Years Earlier
Cynthia smacked her gum in the locker room, slipping her hair into a high ponytail. Her hips, curvy above her larger thighs, swayed back and forth. I could hardly hear her words over the buzzing of my brain. Every moment of the day felt charged with anxiety, a reminder that tonight was the carnival.
Tonight, Freddy would pick me up in his suit, place me into the passenger seat of his car, and drive me over to the dance. I would wear my cheerleader outfit for the cheer performance before changing into my burgundy dress. But I hated that I wouldn’t have Eric by my side.
“I’m so freakin’ jealous,” Cynthia sighed at me, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “I mean, Hank’s great and all. But I was eyeing Freddy’s shoulders the other day. He’s the kind of guy who could take care of you, if you know what I mean. After he bangs your brains out in his truck.”
I balked, stepping back from the mirror. “I really don’t think it’s the night for me,” I told Cynthia.
“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” Cynthia said, whipping around and giving me the onceover with those scathing eyes. For the fifteenth time that week, I wondered why on earth we were friends. “You’re a pretty girl. He’s going to want to bang you. And then, you’ll just have to pray he doesn’t choose to throw you away.” She took a mighty step toward me, gripping my left hand and holding it aloft. “In fact, if you’re careful, you might have a ring on this finger by the end of summer. Imagine it, Olivia. The two of us in little houses downtown, next-door neighbors, our babies playing in the sandbox while we drink wine coolers…”
“Yeah. Sounds great,” I heard myself say. Cynthia wasn’t entirely aware of my sarcasm. I hadn’t told her much about my plot to get out of Randall, to take refuge at the Raleigh university. To build something in the gaping hole that was my current, small-town brain. But instead of explaining, I stretched my smile wide and adjusted the curls on my ponytail. “It’s going to be one hell of a ride.”
“Here’s hoping that weirdo kid, Eric, doesn’t show up to screw things up,” Cynthia said, jutting in the last words. “I know he likes you, Olivia, and we all get high off of that feeling. Of being wanted.”
Cynthia stepped toward me once more, so that her lips were only two or three inches from mine. Her breath was hot, cascading down my neck.
“But if he shows up tonight, know that Freddy will try to get rid of him. He’s seen the way Eric looks at you. And it’s just his instincts. He wants to protect you.”
I couldn’t possibly explain to Cynthia that the only person on the planet who’d ever protected me, thus far, was Eric himself. Couldn’t describe all we’d gone through, as children and pre-teens and now pre-adults—each hiding, quivering, in my bed upstairs while my parents moved around down below. Hungry for me to be the girl I couldn’t be.
“Ha. You’re always stuck in your own head,” Cynthia said, rolling her eyes. Slapping her hands on my shoulders, she shook me slightly, still smacking that gum. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Run home. Wait for our dates to pick us up. Once you see Freddy, I know you won’t have a single hesitation about all of this. It’s your destiny.”
I walked the mile or so home dragging my feet. I felt as though a giant weight sat atop my shoulders pushing me toward the pavement. My pompoms flapped sadly at my sides, swishing against my skin. Why had I wanted to be a cheerleader? What had it all been for?
My father was waiting for me on the front porch, wearing cargo pants and a polo shirt. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he looked at me with eagle eyes. I stopped at the top step and I waited, knowing he’d prepared some kind of speech for me. Something that would, for him, carry such weight.
His eyes burned into mine. “Olivia,” he began.
“Dad,” I returned, trying to eliminate the snark I was so hungry to deliver him.
“This is a special night for you, you know. The carnival dance is a big one. It’s where your mother and I finally got together, our senior year.”
I had heard the story more than twenty-five times, I was sure. I lifted my poms against my chest and waited, arms crossed. I felt as though my father was trying to ship me off to marriage. To deliver me in whatever glorious, wife-like form he could, for Freddy. To the left, at Eric’s house, I could hear the television blaring. Old Isaac Holzman was surely within, tweaking the antennae, grumbling. Eric’s bike was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t seen him in days, and his absence strained at my heart, making it feel hollow. Minutes ticked away, without purpose.
“I think Freddy boy is a real nice boy,” my father continued. “A real good person.”
“I know, Dad,” I said. “I know.”
“When’s he coming by?”
“Probably whenever he feels like it,” I said, unable to resist.
“What?” my father demanded, his voice growing sharp. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean, Dad, that he’s not considerate about
other people’s time,” I said, stomping up the last step and bolting through the door. My mother was hunched over on the couch, stringing together a floral embroidery. I wanted to toss a throw pillow at her, demand what else she could have done with her life.
I strutted down the hallway, seething, and I brought the burgundy tulle dress from the closet, sweeping it across my arms. The fabric itched in an almost violent way, drawing invisible scratches across my skin. I would bring it with me, don it mid-way through the carnival. I imagined it dragging across the pavement of the dance floor, sparkling before growing dirty. Would someone tell Eric how beautiful I looked? Would he ever know?
My father was calling for me once more in a voice I knew was more for someone else. “Olivia! I think you’ll want to get out here! I think it’s time!”
I cut back toward the porch, my dress along my arm. My mother’s eyes flickered up once, as if she was a prisoner in a cell. From the front room, I watched as Freddy slid out from his pickup truck and began to strut toward the porch. He waved his hand toward my father, exchanging southern pleasantries.
“Hey there, sir,” he said, clapping his hand into my father’s. They shook, two men with incredible respect. One, a pillar in his community. The other, a pillar of strength and agility and youth and good looks.
“Freddy, looking well yourself. Looking well. Olivia’s just out.”
I pressed my hand against the door, gazing out at Freddy and my father. I hesitated, unsure how the rules of their world worked, then stepped onto the porch. Freddy reached toward me and pressed his lips against my cheek. My skin burned in response.
“You look absolutely stunning. And all the better, I’m sure, once you can change out of that uniform,” Freddy told me, his voice jocular. “Boy, I’m the luckiest man at this carnival dance.”
“Sure,” I said, not quite certain if I was the one speaking, or if these words belonged to someone else. I found myself slipping my arm through his, allowing him to guide me toward the pickup. My father spewed words behind us. Something about, “See you guys up there! Can’t wait for the show!” and, “Drive safe!” All words that seemed to simmer with expectation about what this affair meant for our family. I so wanted to turn back, to holler that this meant nothing. That I was meant to be on the arm of someone else. But I held my tongue, blinking up at Freddy—certainly the “generic version” of an American football player. A man most girls would be proud to have drive them to the dance.