by Amber Smith
“They won’t, though. They don’t even know about—” You, I was going to say, but he interrupts me again.
“You don’t get it,” he continues. “I’m talking about Actual. Criminal. Charges. I could get arrested, go to jail even, I’d lose my basketball scholarship and everything. Everything could get completely fucked up.”
He stops. I watch him take a few shallow breaths, watching me, waiting.
“Well?” he finally says, sweeping his arm in my direction.
“What do you mean, ‘well’?” I ask, my voice as harsh as his.
“I mean, don’t you care?” he yells. Then quieter, “Don’t you care about anything? About me?” His stare pierces me, searching to see if I remember any of what happened yesterday in the stairwell. Of course I remember, but since I’m really good at pretending, I just look right back at him—right through him. My face is a stone. My body is a stone. My heart is a stone.
“No.” That one syllable. The biggest lie. The worst lie.
“What?” he breathes.
“No,” I tell him calmly. “I don’t.” My words like knives destroying everything we had created. “I. Don’t. Care.” I repeat with icy precision.
You would think I just punched him in the face the way he looks at me. But that only lasts for about one, two, three . . . and a half seconds, and then he quickly resumes his anger. “That’s fine—great, actually! That’s great. Because we can never see each other again, I hope you know that, Eden. We can’t—”
“Puh-lease.” I laugh bitterly. “Listen, you know I had fun, but this was pretty much over anyway, don’t you think?” Some other person has taken over my brain and I’m screaming at her to shut up—stop talking now. But if it’s ending anyway, and it is, I can’t let him think he is in charge. I’m in charge, damn it.
His face sort of caves in a little around the edges. He looks so defeated I almost start apologizing, almost start begging him not to leave me, begging because I’m so fucking alone, and I do care about things, about him, especially. But then he straightens himself up and chokes out, “Yeah. Definitely over.”
I leave him in the bathroom. I push through the door effortlessly, walking tall and calm, and he stands there shaking his head at me.
CAELIN AND KEVIN COME home on Christmas Eve. They barrel through the front door struggling with duffel bags and sacks of dirty laundry and backpacks full of schoolwork and textbooks. Mom and Dad falling all over them. “Edy, can you help the boys with their bags?” they both ask me more than once. But I just stand there in the living room, cross my arms, and watch.
It takes a few minutes before the commotion settles, before either of them sees me there. Caelin walks across the room toward me, his arms outstretched, but something stops him in his tracks, and for a split second his smile gives way to a look of confusion as his eyes take me in.
“Edy.” He says it slowly, almost like a question. Not really addressing me, but as if he’s trying to make sure it really is me.
“Ye-es?” I respond, but he just stares.
“No, it’s just—” He forces himself to smile. “You look—” He turns his head to look at our parents, searching. Then back to me. “You just look so . . . so—”
“Beautiful.” Mom chimes in, smiling, even though I’m pretty sure she’s still as freaked out as I am about that slap, which neither of us has mentioned again.
He folds his arms around me stiffly, like he doesn’t want to get too close to my breasts. “You just look so grown up. I mean, how long have I been gone, right?” he says with a laugh, pulling away uncomfortably. He looks at me like he wants to say more, but he just walks off, carrying his bags into his bedroom.
And now Kevin stands before me, five feet away maybe, staring me down. Giving me the secret look he must’ve been perfecting over the past year. The look that is clearly supposed to deflate me—make me shrivel and wilt and retreat. And even though my legs feel flimsy and boneless, like they might give out at any moment, and my heart is racing and my skin feels like it’s on fire, I don’t flinch, I don’t run, don’t back away this time. I want to believe that somewhere beneath that knifelike stare he can see just how much I’ve changed, how different I am from that girl he once knew. I don’t move a muscle, not until he walks away first.
“Okay, Edy!” My mom claps her hands together twice. “We have to get to work here. Grandma and Grandpa will be here in the morning so there won’t be any time tomorrow. We have to get everything that can possibly be done ahead of time, done ahead of time.”
I follow her into the kitchen, dreading the next eight hours of my life. She’s in her manic, deceptively chipper, but just on the verge of a nervous breakdown mode—there’s something about Grandma and Grandpa coming over that always sets her on edge. I watch as she slips into the laundry room and neatly unfolds the stepladder into an A at the front of the junk closet. I know what’s next. She pulls her ancient radio/cassette/CD player out by its handle and sets it on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, Mom, do we have to?” I moan. I can’t take it—cooking all day while listening to Christmas music.
“Yes, we do. It’ll put us in the spirit!”
I get started chopping up insane amounts of celery, onions, and garlic. Next, the butternut squash. Just as I’m in the middle of struggling to cut it into little cubes like Mom wants, the rhythm of her chopping is interrupted. “Oh my God!” she shouts. I nearly cut the tip of my middle finger off.
“What?”
“Goddamn it!” she gasps, “Silent Night” playing softly in the background. “I knew I forgot something. The goddamn cream of tartar—I always forget it! The last thing I want to do right now is fight my way through the grocery store the day before Christmas!”
“Do we really need it?”
“Yes.” She braces herself against the counter and breathes deeply, closing her eyes. “Yes, we do. Okay, new plan. I’m going to run to the store. You keep chopping. And when you’re done with the squash, put it in the big bowl in the cabinet above the fridge. Then, will you do these dishes so they’re not piling up while we’re trying to work?”
She’s already got her jacket on—over her apron—and is slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Caelin!” she yells. “Caelin?”
“Yeah?” I hear him answer, his voice muffled from the other side of the house.
“Can you come in here please?” she calls back, using all her restraint to not flip out and start screaming. “I am not going to yell across this house!” she says under her breath, as she wraps her scarf around her neck in a tight noose. He appears in the kitchen. “What are you two doing right now?” she asks as she pulls on her gloves.
“Nothing. We’re just playing a game. It’s paused. What do you need?”
“Where’s your father?”
“Snoring. On the couch,” he answers.
“Fine. Look, I need you to go into the garage and find a box—it’s labeled ‘Christmas Decor’—it has the nice tablecloth and place mats and centerpiece that we used last year. I’m going to the store. Can anybody think of anything else that we need?”
Caelin and I both shake our heads. And she’s gone.
“Wow,” he says. “She’s freakin’ out early this year. Is it some kind of a record, or what?” He laughs.
“I know, right?” I try to act like things are the way they used to be, but I think we both know they’re just not. “Can you please shut that off?” I ask him, pointing to the radio. He reaches over and flips the dial to off.
“So, what have you been up to?” he asks, leaning against the refrigerator. “Other than growing up too fast. I haven’t heard from you much at all this year.” He smiles at me, crossing his arms while he waits for me to respond. But I know him. And I know it’s a fake smile, an uncomfortable smile.
“Well, I haven’t heard from you much either.” It comes out sounding nastier than I meant.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He frowns.
I start
filling the sink, squeezing in the dish soap like it’s an exact science that requires my undivided concentration.
“Sorry,” he continues, after I don’t say anything. He has to raise his voice over the sound of the water running. “I’ve been unbelievably swamped. This semester’s kicking my ass.”
I just nod. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. It’s okay? It’s not. And it’s not okay that he brought Kevin here—again.
“Okay, well, I guess I’d better go look for that stuff, then.”
“Yeah.”
After I hear the door to the garage close, I shut the faucet off and dip my hands in the hot water. It feels peaceful, somehow, quiet. The music off, the TV on low in the next room, the muffled clanging of the dishes underwater. Then, faintly, I hear footsteps creep up behind me. It’s Kevin—it’s like my body knows before my brain does, my senses heightened, my skin suddenly hot and itchy. Like I’m allergic to him. The proximity of his body to mine causing an actual physical repulsion, like a warning sign, flashing neon lights: DANGER DANGER DANGER. Get away from him, my body tells me. But it’s hard to get away from someone like him.
Before I can even turn my head to look, I feel his thick hands wind around my waist, feel his body pressing up against my back. And then his voice, his breath in my ear, whispers, “Lookin’ good, Edy.” Then he moves his hands down over the front of my jeans, then up over the front of my shirt, then all over all of me, his mouth open against my neck.
“Stop,” I breathe. “Stop it!” I pull my hot soapy hands out of the water, but I can’t stop him. He has me pinned against the sink. And his hands can do whatever they want. I consider pulling the paring knife I used to chop the garlic out of the water and plunging it into his heart. But he finally lets go, backing away while he looks me up and down. Smiling, he says, “Is this for my benefit?”
I should’ve killed him, I should’ve done a million things to him, but instead my shaking voice just asks, “Is what?” But he doesn’t answer, just keeps smirking and looking, up and down, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Clearly, I had gotten too bold. Forgotten the extent of him. He was letting me know. Then he walks away silently, just as he came in, leaving me properly terrified.
At 1:17 in the morning, officially Christmas day, I wake up to the sound of metal rattling. My heart racing because he’s there to do it again, I’m convinced. It’s him clanging at the doorknob.
“Edy?” he whispers.
“Who’s there?” I choke out.
“Cae. Come on, Edy, let me in,” he whisper-shouts.
I walk up to the door and press my ear against the wood. “Are you alone?” I finally ask.
“Am I alone? Yeah.”
I unlock and open the door just enough to see that it is really my brother, and that he really is alone. “What?”
“I have to talk to you,” he whispers. “You gonna let me in?”
I move aside, closing the door behind him.
“What, are you sleeping on the floor?” he asks, stepping over my sleeping bag.
“It’s my back,” I lie.
As he sits down on the edge of the bed, it howls. I feel my insides tighten. “Edy, sit,” he tells me, patting the empty space next to him. I pull up my desk chair instead.
“What?” I sigh, crossing my arms while I stare at him.
“Edy, me and Kevin, we went out with some of the guys tonight.” He pauses like I’m supposed to say something. “Some of the guys we used to play ball with.” Pauses again, waiting for some reaction on my part. “Some of them are seniors now?”
I can see where the conversation is heading, but I’m going to make him say it—say every word. “Yeah, and . . . ?”
“Okay. And some of them were saying things. About you, I mean. Lies, of course. But I just wanted to make sure nobody’s been, I don’t know, like, harassing you or something?” he says uncertainly.
“Why, what did they say?”
He opens his mouth but starts laughing. “I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. I mean, it’s crazy, it’s so stupid. They said—they were saying that there’re all these rumors about you being some kind of”—he stops himself, and then mumbles—“slut, or whatever. But look, don’t worry, I stuck up for you. You know, I told them you aren’t like that.” He shakes his head back and forth, still smiling at the absurdity of it. “Christ, I mean, you don’t even know Joshua Miller, do you?”
“Yeah, I know him,” I answer.
“What?” he says, his voice unsteady.
“I know him pretty well, actually.” I grin.
The color drains from his face, and then returns abruptly. He laughs again. “Oh God, you’re kidding! You’re kidding. Jesus, you scared the shit out of me for a second there.” He continues laughing nervously as he studies my face.
I don’t laugh, don’t crack a smile. Blank.
“Wait. You are fucking with me, right?”
I just stare straight at him—no emotion, no regret.
His smile fades then. “Please tell me you’re joking, Eeds. Please,” he begs, hoping this is another one of those times when he just doesn’t get it.
I shake my head, shrug. No big deal.
And silence.
A lot of silence.
I don’t mind. In fact, I’m really beginning to like the silence. It’s become my ally. Things happen in silence. If you don’t let it get to you, it can make you stronger; it can be your shield, impenetrable.
“I can’t—Edy, what are you even . . . thinking?” he accuses, tapping his index finger against his temple. “I’m gone for a year and all of a sudden you’re—I can’t believe—you’re just a kid, for Christ’s sake!”
“A kid?” I snort. “Um, hardly.”
“No. Eden, you can’t do this.”
“Oh, really? Who are you to tell me what I can’t do?” I challenge.
“I’m your brother, okay—that’s who! I mean, do you have any idea what they’re saying about you?” he whispers, pointing his thumb at my bedroom door as if all the guys who were calling me a whore were packed into our living room like sardines, just on the other side of my bedroom wall.
“I don’t care,” I lie.
“No,” he declares, as if his no changes things. “This isn’t you, Edy,” he says, waving his hand over me. “No, no.” He repeats as if his no is the definitive end to all things about me that don’t fit with his idea of who I’m supposed to be.
“Maybe it is,” I tell him. He looks like he doesn’t understand. “Me,” I clarify. “How would you know? You’ve been gone.”
Sidestepping that question, he just goes on to make more demands. “Look. You’re absolutely not seeing him again—Miller. He’s too old for you, I mean it, Edy. You’re fourteen; he’s eighteen. That’s four years apart. Think about it, that would almost be like you and Kev—”
“Just stop, all right!” I can’t possibly let him finish that sentence. “First of all, I’m fifteen now. And second, I’m not seeing him again anyway, but that’s only because I don’t want to.” Lie. “But I’ll see whoever I want and I’ll do whatever I want with them and I don’t need to ask your damn permission!”
“You know they’re just using you, right?” he blurts out. “I mean, you can’t be that blind to think that they actually—”
“No one is using me! You have no idea what you’re talking about. No one’s using me, Cae. No one.”
“Edy, come on, of course they are. I’m only telling you this because I care, okay? They prey on girls like you. Edy, you have to—”
“Girls like me? Please, tell me, genius, what am I like?”
“Naive and innocent—stupid—that’s what they look for, okay. They’ll just chew you up and spit you out. You have no idea. They just throw you away when they’re done with you. I should know, Edy, I’ve seen them do it a million times. Those guys, they don’t care. Do you really think they give a shit about you? ’Cause they don’t!”
“It wasn�
�t like that. Josh wasn’t like—” But I stop myself. “What makes you think I even want them to give a shit about me? What makes you think I’m not using them, huh?” Not that there had been anyone other than Josh yet, but that’s completely beside my point right now.
He screws up his face like I’m trying to explain nuclear physics to him or something. “Using them for what?”
I turn his patented you’re-the-stupidest-person-on-the-face-of-the-earth tone back on him: “Um, isn’t it kind of obvious, Caelin?”
That shuts him up. He shakes his head slightly, as if he could erase the images from his mind, like an Etch A Sketch. “Look,” he finally says, “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but I do know that you’re going to get yourself into trouble if you keep this up.”
“Get out of my room now, please,” I tell him, totally calm.
“Promise me, Edy, you’re at least being safe. You have made them use—”
“Caelin, please, I’m not a complete moron.”
“I’m just worried about you, Edy,” he says in this oh-so-very-concerned tone.
His sincerity ignites a tiny fire in my rib cage. “Oh, now you’re worried?” It spreads to my vital organs, engulfing my heart and lungs in thick black smoke. “Wow, well, isn’t this just a great time to start worrying about me,” I hear myself growl. “Thanks a lot, but that really doesn’t do me any good now!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But I’ve said too much. “Just worry about yourself.” It takes everything I have within me to not add “asshole” to the end of every sentence I say to him. “Mind your own business.” Asshole. “I can take care of myself, okay?” Asshole. “Leave. Go. Now!”
He throws his hands up and stands to leave. He turns around at my door, looking so far away, and says firmly, definitively, “You know, I don’t even recognize you anymore.”
And then he’s gone.
I shut the door behind him, lock, unlock, lock, and pull.
“HEY,” A GUY’S VOICE whispers in my ear, “I hear you’re real dirty.”