Rod hid his face with his arm, rolling his eyes so that only Rosie could see. He pulled on a blue hooded sweatshirt that ruffled his hair, as if someone had slapped it to one side. He asked if she wanted to see his boat. She nodded, heart thumping, glancing at Isabella, who was completely occupied with her card game; she knew Isabella wouldn’t mind.
And then she glanced at Mrs. Leer sitting at the other side of the picnic table. Rod leaned in and whispered, “Trust me: I’ve gone to these parties for years. They’re just going to get more fucked up, no one cares. They’ll forget where you went.” The sun was gone, sky dark with purples, oranges, and reds.
Mrs. Leer had a slight flush from her wine, setting her hand on Rosie’s forearm. “How exciting,” she said, eyes sparkling, when Rosie told her she was going to see Rod’s yacht.
“Careful,” Rod said, taking Rosie’s hand to help her aboard his dinghy. He pulled on the starter, his back to her, arm yanking three times, until the engine sputtered to life. The motor hummed as they made their way from the barbecue, winding around the anchored boats. He asked her to hold the flashlight, even though there was a full moon and the dinghy had a light at the front. She lay on the bow with the flashlight tucked in her arm, a small beam of light bouncing on the water. It was dark and beautiful, the stars blinking. She felt like her insides were on the outside, like the world was wide open.
He killed the motor and they floated, away from the yachts, where the current was a little rougher. He opened a wood panel. Underneath a life preserver was a small bottle. “Un tequila reserva especial,” he said, with a bad accent, twisting the cap off. “Muy especial.” He took a long pull from the bottle, and when he moved it away, his mouth was twisted, and he shook his head as he swallowed.
He handed her the bottle and she took a sip. It tasted like fire and her insides melted. He leaned over and kissed her, his fingers sliding down her forearm to take the bottle. She was lost in the kiss, eyes closed, body swirling, his tongue moving around her mouth, blurring with her mouth. He tasted like salt and tequila, and she felt wetness on her bathing suit bottoms. He pulled away and watched her.
“You’re alone . . .” he said, staring at her broodingly. She wasn’t sure what he meant but was eager to understand; and kissing him she’d felt a connection—a thousand times more than she did with Isabella, Isabella’s parents, and even her own father and B.
“. . . Like me,” he said, looking away and taking another pull from the tequila.
They took turns sipping from the bottle, passing it back and forth. The boat rocked—the current sucked and slapped against the wood—and faint voices from the party carried across the water. There was a soft breeze and the tequila hummed inside her.
“I don’t know who I am,” he said. There was a pause and she watched his face, wondering if he was done, but it turned out he was only mulling things over. He told her that he was a trained paramedic and that he had loved his job, but that his parents were making him go back to law school, now that he was older. He told her stories about dead bodies: how they can still move after death because their synapses continue to fire away. She thought he was authentic because he spoke of death. He said that he once had to lift a lady who had jumped off a building; he held her underneath her armpits, since they were hauling her dead body. Her head fell back and a long audible gasp of air came out of her mouth.
“I was so scared, I dropped her on the ground,” he said.
When he talked about being a paramedic, his voice was animated, but when he talked about himself, his tone was derisive and condescending, especially when he spoke of law school and his family’s business. She thought perhaps this was characteristic of worldly adults.
“Once, before I got kicked out of law school,” he said, shifting on the wood plank seat, “I hated it so much that I got drunk and lay down in the middle of an intersection near the parking lot, just to see if the cars would stop.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, and she laughed even though she wasn’t sure why.
“When people get run over by cars,” he said, ignoring her, “it almost always knocks their bodies clean out of their shoes, no matter how tightly their laces are tied. You can find their shoes at the accident site while their bodies have been dragged or thrown. Sometimes, the shoes are tipped to the side, but there they are.”
Rosie was conscious that she smiled for him, laughed when appropriate, and frowned often. But she didn’t mind, because she was drunk, a wonderful sensation, as if she would never be troubled by anything again.
“And rip currents,” he said. “I’ve seen drowned bodies.” Her father had warned her about rip currents, ocean a lighter color, calmer; she knew not to swim against one, but rather to swim parallel to the shoreline or float until the current moved away.
When they finished the tequila, he tipped his hand over the side of the boat and filled the bottle with seawater, put the cap back on, and then dropped the bottle. It sank into the dark water, softly. He started the motor and drove back, to where they wove between the yachts.
He tied the motorboat to the side of Big Orange and they climbed a ladder to get onboard. She leaned against him because she was losing her balance, and he held her hand while he showed her the kitchen, the dining area, the bedrooms, the living room, ending at the master bedroom. His finger went to his lips, warning her to be quiet, but his eyes laughed. The men she’d seen wearing Big Orange T-shirts slept on a different section of the boat, reserved for staff. The boat rocked, and she wondered if she would be sick. He took his sandals off and she noticed patches of hair on his toes. She took her tennis shoes off without unlacing them, spilling a little sand; she wasn’t wearing socks—her feet cool against the wood floor. She told herself that no matter what, she must try to remain upright.
“Rosie,” he said huskily and he slid his hand under her shirt and bathing suit top. He leaned into her, her back against the wall. His body was dark and strong, his breathing heavy. The wall seemed to be moving, and then she was pulled to the floor, the back of her head hitting the ground, the ceiling vibrating in a jolt of light. He tugged down her shorts and her bathing suit bottoms. When he spread her legs, instantly she knew that he was going to have sex with her, and she was terrified; but she couldn’t control it, like a child being slammed down by a wave. A heat moved inside her, a ripping sensation, and she wanted to explain that this wasn’t what she wanted, even if she had wanted to see what came next. “Please,” she said, “no, oh God, oh please.” In time with his knee knocking against the wood, her head thumped against the wall.
When it was over, she went to the bathroom where she put herself through the motions of urinating—a horrible stinging, a small amount of blood coiling in the toilet bowl; she gently wiped toilet paper against the moist numbness (not looking at the toilet paper)—afterwards washing her face and hands. She thought briefly of her father and B, but she felt as separate and distant from her parents as she’d ever imagined. She listened momentarily to the beating of blood in her eardrums, but avoided her face in the mirror. When she walked back to the bedroom, she bumped into the wall. She had the sensation that her body was made of vapor, that Rod could put his hand right through her.
They climbed back on the motorboat to make their way to shore. The lights from the party were twinkling in the distance. She tilted her head back and the sky spun: stars whirled and the full moon swayed. Her throat was slippery, and she knew that if the sky did not stop sliding, she would be sick.
She leaned against the side of the boat, vomiting beer, tequila, potato salad, half of a cheeseburger. Afterwards, nothing left in her stomach, she used a life preserver for a pillow, and an oar pressed against her back. Her entire body was damp with sweat, and she wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. When she saw that he was watching her, she looked away, dunking her hand in the ocean to wash it. She watched the water break around her wrist and a light from the boat flickered across the current. Weariness sank into her, filled her with a
deadening weight, and she heard herself making a whimpering noise.
When the boat bumped softly against the dock, he killed the motor, held on to a rope, and jumped ashore, the boat dipping with the loss of his weight. The front end swung around before he was able to secure it. There was a space between the dock and the water looked black. The motorboat wobbled; the dock swayed; there was an instant—as she jumped—when she thought she could make it, but then she was in the water. She was scared and she gasped, but she didn’t scream, even though she thought of eels and sharks.
He held his hand out, and she grabbed hold of his forearm. He pulled her to the dock and she felt the pinch of a splinter in her knee. They looked at each other and she said something about being cold, but her words were garbled and sounded like they were coming from far away. The water was dripping off her and she was shivering.
The coldness sobered her like hard slaps, along with the vomiting, so that she felt it when he pulled her in the bushes near the old pier and took off her clothes. Between the leaves, in and out of focus, she saw the red fire pits from the party, so she closed her eyes. When she listened closely, she heard laughter. He moved on top of her, his breath on her neck. Because she was wet, the dirt stuck to her legs and back. She bit the tip of her tongue, tasted blood; a rock scraped against her back.
His body clenched and he fell on top of her with all his weight as if he’d been shot dead. At first, she thought he might have fallen asleep, but then she realized he was only catching his breath. She squirmed underneath him, feeling disgrace and disappointment, the cold reality of humiliation. This was sex?
“Sorry,” he said, and moved to give her room. She wiped the dirt from her legs with her shirt, and he handed her his sweatshirt. It was long, reaching her knees. She couldn’t comprehend what was happening. For a second, she couldn’t even remember where she was and had to wait for the word “Catalina” to come to her. And then the word wouldn’t leave: Catalina, Catalina, Catalina.
He drove her in the dinghy back to The Golden Eagle and she could sense him climbing onboard after her. She took a shower in the trickling hot water from the showerhead, hoping that he would leave. There was a cut on her back from the rock, and she tried to reach it with the small oval of soap. And while she showered, she let herself evaporate into a nonreality, a tolerable disbelief. She changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt in the bathroom flooded with steam. She brushed her teeth three times, the back of her head tender from where she’d hit it on the floor, tiny scratches on her arms from the thornbush leaves. When she opened the door, she saw that he was still there, and that he’d put her wet clothes in a plastic bag. She had the sensation of not being able to keep her eyes open while reading. He gave her a questioning look when she handed him his sweatshirt.
“Let’s get you to sleep,” he said.
She was lying in bed with her eyes closed and could feel him staring down at her. Finally, she heard his footsteps moving across the floor. His motorboat started and she listened as the motor faded. She wanted sleep to temporarily black out her existence.
She stayed in bed the next morning. Isabella couldn’t get her to do anything. She was a wet blanket, a party pooper—no fun. Mrs. Leer came into the bedroom.
“You need to get up,” she said. “You can’t sleep all day. We’re going water-skiing.”
When she did get up, she refused to wear her red bikini. Instead, she wore her jeans. The insides of her thighs were bruised.
That night, Rosie and Isabella ate dinner at the dining table on the boat with Isabella’s parents. Mrs. Leer had made Tater Tots and scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, Isabella’s favorite meal. There wasn’t much talk, and the silverware clanked against the plates. The cut on Rosie’s tongue was swollen, making it difficult to chew. Isabella drenched her food in ketchup and Mrs. Leer gave her daughter a disdainful look.
Rosie didn’t want to watch Isabella try to please her mother anymore. She was angry with Isabella and didn’t know why. Isabella sensed it and left her alone. The four of them were going to play Spades—the girls against Mr. and Mrs. Leer—but the sound of Mr. Leer shuffling the cards made Rosie sleepy. Mrs. Leer complained that they would be left with an odd number, but Rosie excused herself and went to bed anyway.
Isabella was asleep next to Rosie, snoring softly, her body warm. The boat made creaking noises; the ocean lapped. Rosie’s hands were outside the blanket and she stared around her. She’d gone to bed early, only to wake up—alert—with everyone asleep. She moved her tongue to the side of her mouth, touched the cut against her teeth. The ocean made wavy shadows on the walls. The moon was still very full; the night had a lit-up darkness.
She heard the hum of a motorboat, and that was when she knew: Rod didn’t get enough the first and second time and he wanted more. She sat up in bed, her motion waking Isabella.
“What is it?” Isabella asked, rising to a sitting position. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned.
There was a thump against the boat and steps above them coming closer.
“Dad,” Isabella called. “Dad. There’s someone on the boat.”
They heard Mr. Leer getting out of bed, cursing.
Then they heard voices:
“What are you doing, Rod?” Mr. Leer: angry, exasperated, inconvenienced.
“I’m here for Rosie.” He was drunk, slurring his words.
“Rod. She’s fourteen.” She was fifteen, the same age as his daughter.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re going to have to leave, Rod. This looks bad.”
Mrs. Leer’s voice joined—“What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”
“I’m here for Rosie.”
“Oh, Rod. You’re drunk.” Mrs. Leer’s voice was sympathetic.
Rod began crying—they could hear him. Isabella’s eyes widened.
“Jesus,” Mr. Leer said.
There was a shuffling sound. She knew that Rod was trying to get past Mr. Leer, but Mr. Leer was blocking him. They heard more shuffling. Someone fell.
More weeping, childlike.
“Rosie,” Rod said. “Rosie.”
Isabella’s eyes searched her face. She could hear Rod moving.
There was a hand pressed on the window between the curtains, like a pink sea urchin. Then she saw Rod’s face, but it was quick, a flash of one eye, frantic. She didn’t think he saw her.
She could see him rising, his leg between the parting of the curtains. He kicked the side of the boat softly. Thump.
She heard stumbling footsteps. He was getting back into his motorboat—she could feel it. The engine sputtered, the sound of the motorboat faded.
Rosie went to Maritime Church with her father two Sundays later. She sat in the pew and watched the Perry Como-like pastor. The church offered a brand of Christianity where monetary success was considered a good thing, brought on by Jesus’ favor. During the service, she had the urge to shout, Okay, Jesus died for my sins! Can we move on to something else? And she knew this was very wrong. She saw Kristen Johnson standing in the front row of the choir, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
When Rosie was a child, her father would hold her hand and squeeze a certain number of times, and she would squeeze back the same number. She would concentrate because sometimes he would squeeze up to twenty times and she wanted to get the number right. No one else knew, and it would make her think he was paying attention to her, that they had a connection, and that she was special.
She remembered this as she let him hold her hand. His hand was moist and they rose. He began singing with the others, the words on a screen for everyone to follow, his eyes brimming with tears of faith or joy or whatever it was that he felt, whatever it was that she was unable to grasp. To her, he looked naïve.
All I need is You
All I need is You Lord Jesus
Is You Lord Jesus
She sang out of an inherent desire to please her father, to make their estrangement bear
able, but her body was hot with shame, holding on to secrets, aware that more would follow. Her father looked at her—he was proud, misty-eyed—mistaking her emotion as inspired by the church service. But she was mourning their relationship, aware that she was lost to him, that even as he stood there holding her hand and watching her, she was strangely invisible.
Many times after, she imagined accidental meetings with Rod—in restaurants, at the beach—their shared looks of shame, because she would confront him about what had happened; he was the only one who knew. But she had a feeling that she would never see him again. He had left her with a surreptitious desire, a longing for danger, a readiness and need.
She would comprehend that she had been defrauded of dignity, and her anger would rise, but she would direct it at herself. She would feel the futility of any attempt to articulate her sadness or to salvage her innocence—most of all the impossibility of finding her place in the world; and these times scared her the most, leading as they did, to periods of inconsolable loneliness and grief.
Winter Formal: A Night of Magic
ROSIE SAT AGAINST the chainlink fence, legs crossed, hands pressing down her tennis skirt, hiding her tennis underwear with the blue trim. She was watching Christine Polmer play Heather McNamara. The yellow tennis ball—as it flew across the net—made an oblong, moving shadow.
The women on the next court also watched Christine Polmer play Heather McNamara, in between points of their own comparably dull tennis match, because that’s what happened when Chris played tennis. Parents and spectators sat in the stands, rapt with attention, now and then audibly sighing. It was a beautiful thing. Chris’s forehand was a graceful stroke, like the flap of a wing.
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