Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “What’s going on?” I asked her, starting to feel a little afraid.

  “Honey, I hate to tell you this, but it would appear that your menstruation has begun.”

  “What?” I was shocked, since my period had just finished the week previous.

  “Do you have a pad with you?”

  “No, I don’t.” My stomach began to ache with dread.

  Mrs. Cowan hurried into the faculty office and came back, pressing the white bulk into my hand. I went into the bathroom stall with trepidation. Could my period have started again so soon?

  When I got in there, it was obvious the blood was only on the outside of my pants—and had not in any way come from me.

  My first thought was that someone was hurt and had bled on me. I reached out to open the door to inform Mrs. Cowan, but then my mind belatedly started to process information—the amount of blood on me would had to have come from someone severely injured. Even had it come from my menstruation, it could not have bled so profusely so quickly.

  Then I remembered Brad’s grins over my shoulder, all of the kids bumping into me, a feeling of damp on my backside which I had thought was maybe just sweat because of the heat. Mostly I remembered Jessica’s grin. That was when I knew she had done this. I wasn’t sure if it was real blood or something she had concocted, but it really didn’t matter.

  It was the humiliation that mattered—she had wanted it and made sure she accomplished it.

  I’ve never forgotten the complete mortification of the laughter, followed by returning to school the next day and having kids pointing and laughing, having them throw pads and tampons at me as I walked down the halls, walking up to my locker which was plastered with pads stuck on the outside.

  I’d sworn then that I’d never put myself in the position to be degraded like that again, which is why I have avoided all extra-curricular school activities—especially dances. I can’t even think of going to a dance without remembering that day and reliving it.

  It isn’t a story I’m willing to share with Henry, especially on top of the knowledge he now has about the rest of my life. I know he’s probably heard some of the stories about me from his friends, but only a girl can understand the complete humiliation of this one, so I doubt any of the boys really remember it.

  Because I won’t tell him the real reason and don’t have a really good made-up reason not to go other than just to say I don’t want to, he keeps asking me, trying to convince me.

  “It’s our only senior prom, we have to go,” he tells me. I tell him he should go, but with someone else. He has no idea what it costs me to tell him to take someone else, jealousy eating me up, but he refuses anyway—to both my relief and chagrin.

  “My mom will be disappointed if she doesn’t have pictures of us for her scrapbook,” he tells me, and I know she might be a little disappointed, but I also think that part of Emma instinctively feels why I don’t want to go and so would never push it.

  “Claire will be devastated if you don’t wear her dress,” he says, and I have to admit that that’s the one argument that almost sways me. I don’t want her to think I don’t like her dress. Then I think about having her beautiful creation ruined in some prank, and my resolve is strengthened.

  “I really, really want to go with you, and be with you that night,” he tells me, and in the end we compromise.

  I’ll let Claire dress me up in the dress she made me, and do my hair, but Henry will take me somewhere else, away from anywhere the rest of the kids from school might be. Henry seems happy with that compromise, and soon he’s scheming something secret for that night that he won’t tell me about. Claire is told we’re going to the prom and that makes her so happy that I feel guilty about the deception—but not guilty enough to capitulate.

  Every day I have either tutoring or physical therapy, and I’m completely dependent on Henry and his family. My father has returned to his old ways, rarely coming home from work until he’s already spent several hours at the bar drinking. I try to hide it from Henry and Emma especially, but since they’re the two who spend the most time at my house or driving me around, it soon becomes pretty obvious.

  One night, Henry’s bringing me home, and as usual walks me in. We’re saying goodnight when my father returns home, a little earlier than usual. He stumbles in, nearly falling as he passes us. Henry catches him.

  “Whoa, Mr. Mosley, you okay?” he asks, dragging my father upright.

  “Henry, you’re a good boy,” he says, words slurring, patting Henry sloppily on the cheek. Henry glances up at me and I feel my cheeks burning with shame.

  “He’s okay, he just needs to go to bed,” I murmur, hugging my arms around myself, wondering if the floor will open up so I can disappear inside.

  “This happen often?” Henry asks, still steadying my father, who’s now singing a raunchy song that makes my face flame brighter.

  I shrug, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to admit it either.

  “Are you safe here?” Henry asks, a fair question considering what he now knows about how my life had been, but I still feel mortified that he even has to think to ask it.

  “’Course she is,” my father interjects, breaking off in the middle of his song—a small blessing—and tries to stand a little taller. “I lock the doors myself.”

  I roll my eyes. Obviously that isn’t what Henry is referring to.

  “Yes, I am,” I tell him. Henry eyes me dubiously, but then accepts what I say as truth.

  “Okay.” He grabs my father again, who’s leaning precariously. “Mr. Mosley, let’s get you up to bed.”

  “Oh, Henry, no,” I step forward, hand outstretched, horrified at the thought of Henry having to help him like that. “I can do it.”

  “Really?” He sounds doubtful, eyeing my cast meaningfully.

  “Sure,” I try to sound confident, but fail. I’ve never helped him to bed before.

  “Wait here,” Henry says. “I’ll be back.”

  I watch, dismayed, as Henry half-drags him up the stairs, listening intently to see if Henry is going to need help. Soon, he comes back down the stairs.

  “He’s undressed and in bed,” he tells me nonchalantly, my shame at having him not only witness to this but actually part of it twisting my stomach. “I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Henry, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t take him out and pour drinks down his throat.”

  I can’t say anything; my throat’s jammed with words of apology.

  He sees the look on my face, and pulls me close.

  “Kate, why didn’t you tell me this was a problem again?”

  I shake my head against his chest, still unable to talk.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he scowls.

  “I have to be. This is my home,” I nearly choke on the word, automatically comparing my home to his home.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I know.” I take a deep breath and look at him. “But I promise it’s okay. He doesn’t hurt me. He just doesn’t come home much, and sometimes when he does he’s like that.” I say, looking toward the stairs.

  “I don’t like leaving you here like this,” his voice is urgent with concern. I hug him.

  “It’ll be okay,” I promise him, not at all sure that anything will be okay ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The day of Senior Prom inexorably comes. I have long since lost my cast and most of my limp, and am sporting a few new scars, but nothing extreme that indicates what happened four months earlier to change my life so drastically.

  Claire is thrilled that I’ll be wearing her dress to the prom, and I feel a little guilty again about my dishonesty—but as much as I love her, I’m still not going to give in on this one.

  I let her do my hair in long ringlets, a process which takes almost two hours because she insists that each curl be just perfect. She talks the whole time, telling me all of the latest gossip with her and her friends. I can’t help but c
ompare her breathlessly exciting middle school experience with what had been my own horrifically terrifying experience.

  I even let her put a little mascara and lip gloss on me—she insists I need it for the photos. She makes me promise to do the photos as soon as we arrive before Henry can “kiss your lip gloss off”, as she says with a disgusted tone, while my own face heats in embarrassment. She’s previously extracted a promise from Henry that he won’t kiss me until after the pictures. My guilt mounts when I wonder how we will explain why there aren’t any photos.

  She positions everyone at the bottom of the stairs in the front foyer—my least favorite area of this house—before she lets me come out, adamant that I make an appearance, once again, coming down the stairs when they’re all there, Emma with camera in hand. Claire stands at the top of the stairs so she can monitor everyone’s reactions.

  I’m learning that she has a flair for the dramatic—and I’m her favorite guinea pig.

  I don’t see anyone’s reactions because once I came to the top of the stairs, my eyes go unerringly to Henry and I don’t think I could look away if my life depended on it.

  He stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking taller, broader and more gorgeous than I have ever seen him in his dark tuxedo. He’s combed his hair down, but I know it won’t be long before he mindlessly runs his fingers through it and it’ll be standing up again. I smile and almost laugh as he does it just then, my heart melting at the familiar sight.

  His eyes slowly travel down the length of the dress, then back up again and a slow smile crosses his face. I come to the bottom of the stairs, and he reaches for my hand, leaning down to kiss me like a magnet to steel, neither able to help it’s attraction to the other.

  “Henry, you promised!” Claire’s screech reaches us as she hurries down the stairs.

  “Oh, sorry,” Henry murmurs, pulling away. But the smile on his face and the look in his eyes says he isn’t really sorry at all. I smile back.

  “Here,” Claire says, armed with the lip gloss, as if she had expected Henry to break his word. She reapplies it, everyone laughing at her ire. “You can kiss her all you want later, Henry, but not ‘til after pictures.”

  Henry holds up his hands in surrender, eyes still glued to mine. “Okay, okay, I promise for real this time. I just forgot for a minute.”

  “Eww,” Claire and Amy groan together.

  “Okay, you two, over here,” Emma says, posing us after directing Henry to wipe my shiny gloss from his lips. Photos are taken, everyone telling us how good we look and giving us a hug, before we leave.

  We get into Henry’s car and I turn to him.

  “How long do we need to occupy ourselves before it’s safe to return do you think?”

  “Don’t worry; we’ll be gone long enough.”

  “What do you have up your sleeve?” I ask suspiciously. He laughs and leans over to kiss me, pulling back before his lips touch mine. “Oops, I almost broke my promise again.”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? There won’t be any photos.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  I look at him apprehensively. “Henry, you promised me. No prom.”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeats, “I won’t break my promise to you. But I need you to close your eyes, and don’t open them until I tell you.”

  “Henry…” I warn.

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  “Trust me,” he says, and because I do trust him, more than anyone I know, I close my eyes.

  After a few minutes I feel the car turn off the road onto a dirt road. We don’t drive far before he stops and shuts the engine off.

  “Eyes closed?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, curious now.

  “Okay, stay there.” He opens his door, climbs out and slams it closed. A few seconds later my door opens and he reaches in to help me out.

  “Keep them closed until I say,” he warns. “The ground is bumpy, but I won’t let you fall.”

  He leads me across the uneven ground and I can sense the light changing a little behind my eyelids, getting brighter but not as bright as if we were indoors.

  “Okay,” he says, “You can open.”

  I open my eyes. In front of me is a scene out of a movie. Henry has led me to the clearing in the little forest that stands between our houses. He has built a fire—the source of the light—and has set up a table set for two, complete with candles and folded napkins. There are even clear Christmas lights twinkling from the trees. He walks away from me and pushes a button on the stereo, starting music—the same music they might be listening to at the prom right now.

  He looks back at me, smiling, but I can read the uncertainty in his face, unsure of my reaction. I walk over to him, reaching up to twine my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss.

  “You made me my own prom!” I exclaim. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

  “Claire’s gonna be really ticked,” he says with a smile, kissing me again, obliterating the gloss.

  “What were you going to do? Take a picture of us in the trees and tell her it was a woodsy theme?” I tease.

  “Even better,” he says, leading me over to a backdrop half-hidden in the trees that I hadn’t seen before. He flips a switch and a bright photographers light comes on, lighting it as well as if it were indoors.

  “How in the world…?”

  “Corey’s girlfriend Amber painted the backdrop for the prom, so I asked her to do another for me.”

  “How did you get electricity in the middle of all these trees?” I ask, staring at the bright light.

  “Generator down the hill there,” he says, pointing.

  “Clever,” I murmur.

  “And this way, Clair will never know that we were anywhere but the prom.”

  “Oh no,” I laugh, placing my fingers over my now-bare lips. Henry grins, sticking his hand in his pocket and coming up with the tube of lip gloss.

  “She knows us too well,” he says, “So she put it into my pocket before we left.”

  “Then let’s get that picture taken so we don’t have to worry about it anymore.” I laugh. “But who’s going to take our picture?”

  “I’ll bet one of our waiters will do it,” he says slyly.

  “Waiters?” I question, brows furrowed in confusion. I hear another car pulling up and he smiles.

  “There they are,” he says. Emma and Dr. Jamison come into the clearing, dressed in jeans and white shirts and wearing aprons. I laugh at the sight.

  Emma takes our picture, and I then wipe the gloss off, glad to have my lips unfettered again. Emma and Henry had spent the day making us a meal, which was packed in the Jamison’s trunk and which they now serve to us at the candlelit table.

  When we’re finished eating, they clear away all of the food and dishes but leave the table set up for us. They also leave a box with all the makings of s’mores in it, and some beach chairs set around the fire. Emma tells Henry to leave everything and later they’ll come back and clean it up. Then they leave us alone.

  “Wanna dance?” Henry asks.

  “I don’t really know how,” I tell him.

  “Me neither. Let’s fake it together.”

  “Okay,” I smile, and he leads me out near the fire, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close for a slow dance, even though the music isn’t slow at all.

  “You look really beautiful tonight,” he tells me.

  “This is a really great dress Claire made,” I agree.

  “Yeah, the dress is nice, too, but I meant you.” He places his hand along the side of my face, caressing my cheek with his thumb. “But then, you always look beautiful to me.”

  And then he’s kissing me as we move to a music of our own.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind this? Not going out in public while you’re all dressed up? Most girls want to be seen then.”

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed; I’m not like most girls.”

  “I’ve noticed. That’s w
hat I like about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You don’t ever play games, make me guess what it is you want, or what you’re thinking. You’re not afraid of getting dirty, you don’t worry about if your hair looks just right, or get angry about having your prom in the woods.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure if those are good things are not. “Should I care about those things?”

  “No,” he laughs, “Please no. I love you just the way you are.”

  I lean my head against his chest, content to be here, just like this. Even if soon we we’ll be apart—reality tries to intrude but I push it away. At least for tonight, I’m not going to think about anything else but just being here, with Henry, and feeling happy.

  I hear another car pull up and feel Henry stiffen, but assuming it’s just Emma and Dr. Jamison returning, I ignore it.

  “Hey, Henry, you didn’t tell us this was where the party is,” a voice calls, and I feel my joy shatter. I turn and see Corey, Brock and Kaden with their dates coming through the trees. I relax again; these guys are alright, though I would have preferred being alone with Henry.

  And then I see Jessica. She’s with Ian, who’s just now emerging from the dark. I freeze in horror, my insides turning to liquid fear at the sight, thoughts of my last dance with her rushing back. This is almost a duplicate of my last dance; from me being with the cutest, most popular boy in school, to the fact that I have brazenly worn makeup and have curls in my hair, and am dressed in white.

  Henry feels the change in me and looks down, confusion in his eyes as they search my pale face. For one second, I felt a keen, crushing ache in my heart that Henry would be a part of Jessica’s cruelty, that he would set all of this up to hurt me. Even as my body reacts to this hurt by pulling away from Henry, my mind is already rejecting it. I trust him.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, tightening his hold on my waist. I let him pull me back in, pressing myself closer as I nod.

  “I don’t know how they found us, I didn’t tell anyone—” Then his face falls. “It must have been Amber. She came here today to set up the backdrop. I’ll make them go away.” He starts to move away from me and I hold tighter. I know that Henry already spends too much time with me and not enough with his friends, and I don’t want to be the cause of anymore of that.