There it was. Her body tightened, her muscles taut and ready. Breathing came a bit louder; it couldn’t be helped. Violet was shocked at the viciousness, by the power of her hand in that moment. She came forcefully; it almost hurt. When her body released, she let her feet drop to the floor. Now, her hand lay flat across herself, covering her pulsating loins like a fig leaf. No more. That was all. Her other hand stayed on her face, and the tears stayed too.
Gasps escaped her lips. Her left forearm throbbed with exhaustion. She wasn’t sure how she would ever muster the courage to uncover her face or leave that room.
Part of her hoped and imagined that would be enough. Jeremy would see her, fall desperately in lust and decide it was too dangerous to have her around. Her irresistibility would be too much for him to take, and he would have to let her go.
But nothing happened as she lay there, body clenching and unclenching, waiting for her door to open. He would knock, of course he would, and she’d say, Come in! She wouldn’t cover her breasts or fumble for the blanket. Instead, she would lie there, presenting her skinned body for his viewing.
He wouldn’t touch her. Not today. Not yet. She shivered at the thought. Blood still pumped furiously between her thighs, bursts of warmth ebbing and flowing. Her whole body hummed in anticipation.
Why wasn’t he there yet? Didn’t he know he should go to her? Perhaps to watch was enough for now.
Violet wiped her tears. She tossed her underwear so they caught on the black box, blocking the camera. She did it quickly, so that he couldn’t enjoy one more second of her.
With the camera covered, she was left with the remainder: A young, naked woman alone in a room that was her own but not her own. The full-length mirror caught her eye, presented her as others saw her, in reverse of the way she saw herself.
Turning her head slowly to the left, then to the right, she looked at her ears. She touched the left one gingerly. She hated them. It baffled most people. If they hadn’t seen them, her description made them wonder if her ears were deformed in some way. They were, but only to her.
It started at a birthday party over a decade ago. The birthday girl’s older brother hung around, and all the little girls giggled. He wasn’t even handsome. He was just older and a boy, which had always been a deterrent, but had somehow transformed into something desired.
Looking back, Violet remembered the exaggerated gestures and winks he had given them all. She now thought him pathetic, but in the moment, each girl had pushed the others out of his line of vision. Each girl wanted to be the only one he saw.
He had seen Violet. She had noticed his eyes on her, and her cheeks deepened in colour instantly. The heat rose before she even had a chance to stop it.
“Hey monkey ears,” she heard him say.
Violet looked over at him, eager to see which unfortunate girl he was making fun of. She probably would have even laughed, little bitch.
But the older brother, David was his name, was looking right at her. He tried again.
“You with the monkey ears,” he said right to her face, chin jutting out in her direction, “You’re in the way.”
Violet looked left, right, then finally behind her where David’s mother was standing with the cake and trying to get through.
“Oh,” Violet said embarrassedly. “I’m sorry.” She shuffled to the side and retreated. Little backwards steps until she was far enough to turn and rush into the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and peeked into the mirror. She didn’t want to look. Surely he was joking, her ears were normal.
Tucking her hair behind them, she suddenly realized how monstrous they were. They stuck out like rounded mountains. From then and every day after, she would see only monkey ears.
Soon, she’d almost forgotten where the idea had come from. Violet started to assume she’d realized on her own that her ears looked like elephant flaps, enormous protrusions she would hide behind her hair. Even ponytails would be loosely pulled back with hair covering both ears.
Standing in front of that mirror, in the present, she wondered if someone had deflated them. They didn’t look so big. They jutted out more than average, but there was nothing apelike about them. Violet turned her head back and forth again, amazed at the transformation. Her ears were normal. It occurred to her that she hadn’t been playing attention; she didn’t evaluate herself in the mirror on a daily basis the way she used to. No makeup was in the house; it was another thing she couldn’t bring herself to ask Jeremy for. She’d gotten some lip gloss for Christmas, that had been nice, but she didn’t blacken her eyelashes the way she used to, or rouge her cheeks that turned pink all on their own.
Her eyes drifted to her hips. Birthing hips, some would say, although she’d never been able to ask her real mother if it were true. Holly had tiny hips, bones that stuck out of unstretched skin.
But Violet had curves to spare. She ran her hands down the sides of her body and wondered if she could call her figure an hourglass. Was it sexy, or just fleshy? She supposed it depended on the person.
The curved figure in front of her was not one of a little girl. She had only just graduated from high school. She knew little about love and being desired. But those curves, her breasts, her eyes were distinctly those of a woman. Did it happen that quickly, the transition from a girl to beyond it? Would other people notice? Maybe it had happened just now, only after having done something with her body she hated herself for. Was that the reason some people grew up so fast?
With one hand across her breasts and another across her belly, she looked for a long time and wondered if she was beautiful. She’d been told she was.
Violet smiled at the mirror. Was that really what she looked like? A strange, forced smirk was all she could muster. Jeremy wouldn’t be visiting her tonight. She had waited long enough to know, and to be slightly relieved. Too much too soon would be risking it. She needed to seduce him slowly, revealing a bit more of herself each time until he was the one vulnerable to her. In that moment, she felt loaded with power. It coursed from her pores and gushed from her limbs.
Violet hugged herself and turned away from her reflection. She peeled her sheets back and settled down beneath them. Without even the strength to brush her teeth or wash her face, she collapsed into bed, light on, her black underwear still hanging from the box in the corner. The show was over, both the one for Jeremy and the one she had put on, just now, for herself.
24
On February 14, Ben woke up first, Jeremy second, and Violet last. Always last, even though her feet hit the floor before 10 a.m. most mornings.
She smelled something drifting from downstairs. The saturated air had been the culprit, the one who woke her. Something sweet and buttery. Pancakes, maybe French toast. Tousling her hair to discourage the cowlicks, she threw on her purple sweater and headed downstairs. Not a sound escaped from beneath her toes and heel; she walked lightly, like a dancer without poise.
The morning after she made love to the camera, life had continued as normal. Violet kept her head down while talking to Jeremy, but upon peeking up, she found no indication that anything had changed between them. No embarrassment, no awkward bumbling, no drifting of his gaze down to her (hopefully) desirable hips or breasts.
Since then, she had made no other move; hadn’t summoned the courage yet. And, if he hadn’t seen the first time, she didn’t want to waste another unveiling.
Turning into the kitchen, she saw that it was indeed pancakes that were being flipped on the stove.
“What’s this?” she asked with a smile.
“This was supposed to be breakfast in bed,” he said shyly, “but I guess now it’s going to be breakfast in the kitchen.”
Breakfast in bed for her? For Ben too? Part of her wished she could go back in time, stay in bed and wait for him to come knocking, carrying a tray with fresh pancakes. A pot of tea with a tiny jug of milk. A mug, a fork, a knife. Would he have included a fresh flower?
He would have. From the corner of he
r eye, Violet saw Jeremy sweep a blossom into the garbage. It was a swift movement she wasn’t supposed to see. She wondered if he was embarrassed to have been caught in the sweet act.
Sitting on the barstool, Violet asked if she could help.
“Well,” Jeremy said, “You could track down your brother. I have a feeling by the time you find him, breakfast will be ready.”
“Where is he?” she asked, pushing herself up from the stool.
“Outside, with Deedee and Dodo,” Jeremy smiled. Violet was coming around to the imaginary friends, although she hadn’t seen or heard much of them since the family dinner.
Violet rolled her eyes warmly. “I’ll be back, but you might have to set out two empty plates in case I bring home more than just Ben.”
She went out the back door after slipping on her boots and jacket. The frost nipped at her nose and ankles, but it wasn’t a cold winter. Not by northern Ontario standards. It was pleasant and bearable and she could barely see her breath. Her dripping nose didn’t freeze and her throat didn’t burn as she smuggled cold air down it.
“Ben!” she called, seeing no clear sign of him anywhere. Footprints, yes, but no flash of blue. “Breakfast is ready!”
Only a moment’s pause passed before she heard his booming reply, “COMING!” and another before she saw him bounding towards her. He was, by her count, alone.
“Hey!” she said. “Good morning! Are Deedee and Dodo coming for breakfast?” She didn’t want to be rude.
“Nah, they’re back at home.”
“Oh, okay,” she said as they turned and headed towards the house. “Do you know what Jeremy made for us to eat?” she asked.
“No, what?” But they were already inside, and he saw for himself.
The table was set with a red tablecloth, a rose in a vase at its centre. Perhaps he’d retrieved it from the garbage after all. Wine goblets filled with orange juice sat beside plates heaping with pancakes. Butter and a boat of syrup sat waiting to be dripped over their warm counterparts.
“Whoa!” Ben said, and Violet resisted the urge to say the same. “What’s all this for?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Jeremy said happily with a little shrug that said This is special and This is no big deal all at once. Violet had known the day was coming because she had planned her seduction in tandem, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be on anyone else’s radar but her own.
The three of them sat down in the seat that had become their own; Violet at the head of the table, Jeremy to her left, Ben to her right. The empty chair across from Violet didn’t make her feel as sad as one might think an empty chair would.
“Dig in,” Jeremy said needlessly as Ben dove to be the first one holding the butter.
“This is really nice,” Violet stopped to make sure she said it. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing,” Jeremy said, not meeting her gaze and instead fiddling with his cutlery. “They’re nice and thick, the way you like them.”
She had told him that once, she didn’t know how long ago.
“Good memory,” she said.
Most of the meal was eaten in silence. When they finished, Ben the only one capable of having seconds, Violet announced that she and Ben would clean up since Jeremy did the cooking.
Ben groaned at the same time Jeremy protested. “No, not today. It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said. “I want to do this for you.” He looked right at her as he said it. Not for them, for Ben, just her. Valentine’s Day was a day of romance, after all, and love of all kinds.
“You’re sure?” she asked, knowing he would answer yes, which he did.
After thanking him, she headed upstairs to dress for the day. When she walked into her room, she immediately saw that Jeremy had been in there.
A box of chocolates sat on her bedside table, as well as a card with her name on it. How…? She supposed he had rushed upstairs while she went outside looking for Ben.
Violet was written on the card lightly and so carefully that some of the letters were shaky. She opened the envelope and slid out the card. Classically cheesy, a bouquet of red roses and a heart adorned its front. Be Mine it read, and Violet wondered how literally she was supposed to take that message.
Aren’t we already yours? she thought to herself, and the copper taste of bitterness crept back onto her tongue.
The inside was blank, save for Jeremy’s own words.
Dear Violet, he had written, Roses are red, Violets are blue, But none is as beautiful a Violet as you. Happy Valentine’s Day. Jeremy.
Before his name, he had drawn a little heart. Did that mean love, or was he just using the logo of the holiday? She wasn’t sure, and didn’t know why she cared. His little rhyme was, surprisingly, something she hadn’t heard before. No blushing schoolboy had left her a poem like it on her desk at school or in her mailbox.
Violet didn’t know how she should respond. Jeremy was fond of giving them gifts for any or no occasion, she knew that by now. But something about the card felt different. She quickly snuck into Ben’s room to see if there was anything there for him, and there was. A smaller box of chocolates. No card.
She smiled as she thought about the way Jeremy bumbled and fumbled around his compliments, the modest habit he had of looking away from the television when a particularly racy bit came on, while Violet found her own eyes glued to the scene.
The unrest in her stomach reminded her of something she’d felt before, and somehow, Damien’s face appeared in her mind. The one who had eventually broken her heart as her mouth swelled too large for her to protest
Before all that though, things had been good. As good as a young girl thinks it can get when she doesn’t know better. They had been in love, the kind where you feel woozy when your foreheads and noses touch. Violet’s lips had automatically reached out to him in those moments, starved for something they were only just beginning to know.
The first time she received an I love you from someone she loved too had come from Damien. They had sat by the lake together, their legs dangling off a rock overlooking the water.
Without a word, Damien had gotten up and walked to the water’s edge, leaned over, and picked up a handful of wet sand.
“Oh, no way!” she had said, sure there was about to be a mud fight while she wore one of her favourite dresses. But instead, he walked back slowly towards her. He stopped and plopped the sand onto her foot without warning. As soon as he did, he turned away, bent down, and did it again. Violet had no idea what he was doing, but tried desperately to keep her foot still so that the wet mound wouldn’t slip off.
After his last handful, Damien began to rub her foot, smoothing out the sullied sand until flat and even. He shaved off the excess until the mud was perfectly moulded to the top of her foot.
“What are you doing?” she asked quietly with a smile, not really caring if he answered or not. He didn’t, only grinned back as he carved a heart in the middle of the canvas he had created. He dug his finger in with such patience and care, held her foot as if it was the most important thing. When the heart was complete, Violet thought hers might burst. She resisted the urge to blurt out her love.
Next he carved an “I,” right above the heart. It could’ve been a line, she wasn’t sure. Then he wrote a “U” right underneath the heart. And then she knew. It was a real heart, and it was the real thing.
“I love you, Violet Wrigley.”
For once, he looked nervous. “I love you too,” she said happily. “I really do.”
They sat on that rock for awhile, and when they finally rose to leave, Violet hesitated. In just the shake of a limb, her first “I love you” would be erased like an Etch-a-Sketch. She had no camera to take a picture. It was so fragile, this love business.
“Come on, let’s go. I don’t mind,” he assured her.
Not wanting to seem too sentimental, she shook her foot. Cleared it off except for the stray couple hundred grains that stayed glued to her skin. The I love you was gone. In rea
l life, the I love you would last another four months.
She had lost her virginity at his house, after school one afternoon when no one else was home. They huddled in his room, his door recklessly open, daring anyone to come home and interrupt. They lay in his single bed with bright green sheets. A little boy’s bed. They had fumbled for each other and Violet noticed that their breathing was a lot louder than normal; that their kisses became a desperate mashing of lips, a constant clash of teeth and tongues. Clothing came off bit by bit, her taking off her own, him taking off his.
Damien’s hands shook as he ripped open the plastic wrapping he’d pulled from his wallet, and Violet was relieved to see this was new to him as well. He put it on carefully as she lay there, nervous and dehydrated.
Their attempt was almost comical, slamming into each other like bumper cars. Violet kept her ears open, tried to tune out Damien’s grunts. Twice, she could have sworn she heard a key in the lock, or maybe that was what she said to get him to ease up, to relieve her body of being smashed against like a ship beaching on the sand. It ended unsuccessfully when Violet muttered a defeated, “Okay,” which wasn’t obvious enough for a boy having sex for the first time. She repeated it, louder. When that still didn’t work, a firm “Stop!” was what it took. But he listened, collapsed beside her in a fit of deep breaths and repeated exclamations of “Wow” that somehow left Violet feeling smug and successful. She tried to keep her mind off her throbbing body. It felt like she had rug burn, or like someone had rubbed sand all over her insides, again. She felt raw and heavy, trying desperately to erase the feeling of the sand. Tears filled her eyes. Damien looked at her and said (quite romantically), “Shit, what’d I do?”
Sex with Jeremy would be something similar to that experience, Violet feared. He wouldn’t know his way around her body; she would have to try desperately to match his stride. But she was getting ahead of herself. Jeremy had given no real indication he was interested. She feared that if she brought up the idea, he would run away screaming. It had to happen organically.
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