Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I

by Sharianne Bailey

  Sensing he was again delaying his departure, I remember pushing him out the room, hissing, “Dad you have to go, this is a girls’ room.” He left and I burst into tears just as Megan walked in.

  “Hi Jane. What’s wrong?” She sat on the bed next to me saying: “I know it’s hard to come back to school after a weekend at home, but you’ll get used to it. I promise. I’ll go and make us some nice hot Milo while you unpack. I wonder when Tinkie’s going to arrive?”

  I lay on my bed wishing I could explain my tears to Megan but I just couldn’t let them know what was happening to me at home. It was so embarrassing and it made me feel like a freak. Part of me wanted to ask them if it happened to them as well. Perhaps it happened to all girls when they started ‘menstruating’ as the doctor called it. Maybe it was normal and I was weird to hate it. Still, if it was okay why didn’t they all talk about it? Or were they all as humiliated as me? Surely, surely they couldn’t hate it any less? Could they?

  Dad always said, “It’s my special way of showing you how much I love you,” and that made me feel even guiltier for hating it and him so much.

  Once, after he had satisfied himself with me in the toilets at work, I asked why it was a secret and why I couldn’t tell anyone. He said, “It’s something two people who love one another do to show the other person how each feels.”

  I was unconvinced. Why did you have to do something that hurt and made you feel so bad to show someone you loved them?

  “You do love me don’t you?” Dad had probed. It had been a hard one to answer.

  “Yes… I do … because you’re my dad… but …”

  “Well it’s our special secret then,” he’d said with a wink and a knowing smile. It still felt wrong.

  “But why do you have to do that hurting thing?”

  “Don’t you like it when I touch you and hold you?”

  “No I don’t!” I was in tears again.

  “Why not?” At first he sounded hurt but I could hear annoyance creeping into his tone. “How does it make you feel?”

  “Not nice and sore. Why don’t my friends talk about it? Why is it a big secret if it’s not bad?”

  “I told you before, it’s a special love and it’s private. Just between dads and daughters. You and me. No-one talks about it.”

  Dad had looked at me with big hurt eyes. “You make me very sad when you don’t love me. I love you. That’s why I do what I do to you. Can’t I love you? Can’t Daddy love his big girl like a man should?”

  “But I don’t like ....”

  “And if you do ever tell anyone I will deny it and ... Jane ….” His voice then turned to steel. “I will kill you.” It was not the first time he had given me that warning and he never joked about it!

  Megan returned with the hot Milo and Tinkie arrived with her suitcase. Saskia and Sally also burst into the room. Greeting each other and giggling hysterically, the girls fell onto my bed. At least my memories had a chance to fade for a little while.

  “Tell us about it, Tinkie. What was it like?”

  “What?” giggled Tinkie coyly.

  They tickled her and said, “Tell, tell.”

  “What are you all talking about?” asked Megan.

  “At the 21st on the Blakes’ farm. It was Joey’s 21st and all the farmers were there. Joey’s youngest brother James is sixteen and guess who he had the ‘hots’ for?”

  “Tinkie!” gasped Megan. “Did Jamie finally notice you?”

  Tinkie was blushing and they were all shrieking.

  “And guess what they got up to …?”

  Megan gasped. “What? What did you two do?” Turning to the others she asked, “And how do you girls know?”

  “We were there too and we saw them, all wrapped up in each other’s arms … oh boy it was love at first sight….” gabbled the girls.

  “Did he kiss you?” Megan was thrilled. “Tell us more, tell us more… what did it feel like?”

  Tinkie sat up and spoke conspiratorially. We all leant in to hear.

  “First he looked at me across the punch bowl and smiled. I’m sure my heart stopped beating. Then he poured me a drink ....”

  “What were you wearing?”

  She had to go back to the beginning and describe the hair, nails, make-up and clothes, right from the borrowed lacy push-up bra to the skinny-rib vest and tight fit jeans. Then she built up to the meeting at the punchbowl. She described their hand-holding and their dancing.

  When she reached the part where she told us about the people lying on blankets and sleeping bags outside on the lawn counting stars she was interrupted by a girl who said, “Yup – I saw you there.” Turning to the others she added, “They were messing around in the sleeping bag!”

  “Were not!” Tinkie hissed. “We lay down on the sleeping bag, covered ourselves with a rug and … we kissed!” The other girls all shrieked. “First it was just a little peck on the mouth and we counted stars holding hands. Then he did it a bit longer. Then he touched my mouth with his tongue.” She squealed. “My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode. Then… he put his tongue inside my mouth and moved it all around…then in my ears and back in my mouth…”

  “What did it feel like?” giggled Sally, breaking the silence and suspense.

  “Kind of slimy really,” Tinkie answered.

  “Oh gross!” screeched Sally.

  “Yummy,” responded Tinkie.

  “What did you do?” asked Megan.

  “I kissed him back with my tongue in his mouth …”

  “A French kiss! How did it feel?” whispered Saskia, enviously.

  “Amazing. And you start to get …”

  I listened in horror. They liked this!

  “Did he do anymore?”

  “Mmm. Fingering. Under the blanket.”

  “What is fingering?” I whispered.

  “When he touches you inside your pants with his fingers, silly!” whispered Saskia.

  Megan fell back and groaned. “Tinkie you slag!”

  “No I’m not. I’m in love!”

  “What did you do when his fingers were ... you know?” asked Sally.

  “I stared at the stars… and kissed him …”

  “Did you like it?” asked Megan.

  “Wonderful!” she replied dreamily.

  “Did he … you know … do the whole thing?” asked Saskia in awe.

  “No, don’t be crazy!” Horrified, Tinkie interrupted the spell of the moment, throwing a cushion at Saskia. “There were too many people around. That is a very private thing. Besides, we don’t need to. He said that was enough for now. He likes me being a virgin. And it’s safe. I think I’m seeing him again at half term. He said he loves me. And he said he’d write.”

  I was desperately trying to put all this information into some kind of order. Messing around. Fingering. French kisses. Safe. Virgin. Love. Somewhere in my fragmented world these concepts were all supposed to fit. But how? No-one at home ever talked about those sorts of things.

  Then I made the mistake of revealing my ignorance by asking: “What’s … what’s a virgin?”

  A few stifled giggles told me I’d asked something wrong. Surely it wasn’t a bad word because I knew I’d heard about ‘the Virgin Mary’ at Rochelle’s church and at the Convent and here in the school chapel on the weekends, but no-one said what it actually meant. It had to mean something, didn’t it?

  “A virgin is someone who has never had sex before, dummy,” answered Saskia pompously. “Which basically means everyone in this room … except … well, no that’s not true …” I froze.

  “I was going to say ‘except Tinkie’, but actually she is sort of a virgin still,” added Saskia.

  “Well if you keep doing it you won’t be a virgin for long,” chided Sally. “Soon it won’t just be fingers and you’ll be sorry.”

  “I don’t think that she counts as a virgin now. She has already given some of her purity to a guy …” argued Margie, a small girl who read a l
ot and no-one had noticed her come in.

  “Of course she’s still one!” said Saskia. “Sex is sex and they didn’t do it!”

  “Not true! Virginity and purity also count in your heart, you know,” argued Margie. “If someone gets raped and loses their virginity by force, they haven’t lost their purity. They can still be a virgin in their heart. You lose your purity by your thoughts as well as your actions …”

  Of course by this time my brain was in overdrive. Saskia interrupted again. “Oh, Margie shut-up! She is still a virgin. She’s only had fingers in her, not … you know…”

  I knew. Finally I’d started to piece it together and how I wished I didn’t know.

  “Well I don’t care,” said Tinkie. “Your kind of purity is so old-fashioned. I liked what we did and it felt good ….”

  “Doesn’t mean it was a good thing to do,” countered Margie. “I want to be pure in mind and body when I marry!”

  “Your loss,” Tinkie tossed back and the conversation continued amidst much giggling and whispering.

  Chapter 8

  “Then Amnon hated her with intense hatred.

  In fact he hated her more than he had loved her…

  …and Tamar lived in Absolom’s house

  a desolate woman.”

  2 Samuel 13:15, 20

  Slowly I unpacked my clothes as I listened to the chatter. They were all so excited about Tinkie’s new boyfriend and her new experiences with him. They talked as if this sort of discovery was amazing, forbidden and yet desirable! Some wanted to experience these things now. Some wanted to wait for marriage. With the exception of Tinkie, it also sounded like none of them had ever participated in anything like this before.

  Slowly, I sensed myself sinking into further emotional anarchy at the horrible realization that I, the one who knew so little, was the one who had done so much! The sickening truth was that I was the only one who was not a virgin. I was the one who had already had a man do “you know” to me. Worse – the man was my father and he’d said that all dads do this to their daughters!

  I started to boil with confused rage. My eyes filled with tears again and as the girls talked, I pretended to page through Tinkie’s Teen magazine, keeping my back to them, humiliated lest they should look into my face and somehow know.

  Unfortunately, they eventually did turn the conversation onto me. “Jane are you still crying about your Dad?”

  My heart missed a beat. What did they mean?

  “She’s such a cry-baby,” stated Tinkie. “She bawled before she went home because she thought she might be getting sick. Now she’s blubbing because she’s back.”

  “I’m not blubbing… I’ve got something in my eye!”

  “You are blubbing!”

  “Not!” I argued unconvincingly.

  “Well I don’t understand it,” said Sally. “You seemed to love it here before we all went home. Now you’re all tearful again. It’s really time to grow up, Jane.”

  “Oh shut up Miss Maturity, what do you know anyway?” I retorted blowing my nose.

  “More than you!”

  “And I am not interested in your tears,” added Tinkie spitefully. “You can go home next Friday again, just give us some peace and quiet right now so we can talk about Jamie and me .…”

  “Tinkie! Don’t be so horrible!” said Megan. “She can’t help it if she feels homesick.”

  “I’m not homesick,” I retorted angrily. “I hate going home. My Dad is harsh and my stepmother is really cruel. She only wants to spend time with the babies and she leaves me out all the time….”

  “Your Dad’s not harsh!” gasped Tinkie. “He babies you every time he’s here. You don’t know what harsh is! Gee, my Dad would thrash me if he knew what Jamie and I got up to!”

  “Well, I heard that Kylie Walter’s dad thrashed her with a belt for being a smart-ass. He left her bruises that lasted for weeks!”

  “It’s true,” said Megan. “Once in the sixth grade, she couldn’t even swim in the inter-school gala because of all the marks. Matron Phelps said it would be bad for the school image. That was when we were in Hillmore Primary School.”

  “What happened to her dad?” asked Sally.

  “I don’t really know,” answered Megan. “I guess her mother chucked him out. Her mother lives with a new boyfriend now.”

  “That was lucky!” said Sally.

  “Maybe not,” said Megan. “Kylie told me he’s all over her and she hates him too.”

  “I wonder why. He looked quite nice when he came to school,” said Sally.

  “Well looks can be a lie,” I shouted. “Maybe you would also hate it if he was touching you all the time.”

  “Who said he was touching her?” asked Sally.

  “Megan did!” I answered.

  I remember my face starting to burn as Megan entered the discussion and in a way, saved me.

  “Yes that is what I meant! It does happen,” said Megan. “My Mom is a social worker and she says sometimes girls get touched by their fathers and step-fathers, but not in a nice way. It’s called abuse! But if it is true she should tell someone.”

  “Maybe she’s too scared,” I answered without thinking. “Maybe he said he’ll kill her if she tells.”

  They all looked at me.

  “You should write books,” said Tinkie mocking me. “You have such a wild imagination!”

  At that moment the evening dinner bell rang out and everyone charged downstairs for the highlight of the boarding school day. Food!

  I slept restlessly that night but was so glad to be back at school. The weeks continued to pass in a flurry of busyness which I loved. The other girls objected to homework but I found solace in the activity and the chance to be creative even if I wasn’t very good at it.

  I managed to occupy myself every day with school sports and I went to every club I could fit into my timetable. I was often teased for being oversensitive and for crying easily, always feeling something of an outcast. Well, I was different from the other girls. I had shameful secrets. But it was still better than being at home waiting for Dad’s touching.

  The girls continued to think the tears were because I was homesick, so I let them believe that. However I became a master at finding ways to stay at school every possible weekend. No matter how bad the teasing became or how cruel Tinkie could be, it was still better than home.

  One Thursday evening, when I went downstairs to make my agreed phone call to Dad, Matron called me into her office.

  “Jane, I thought you liked boarding school?” It was a question.

  “I do!” I answered, a little shaken at her irritable tone.

  “Well then, why all the tears? You cry at the drop of a hat. Every time someone looks at you sideways you ‘drizz’. Either you’re ill or you are being a bit of a cry-baby. You cannot go on and on like this you know! You’re already fourteen years old!”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.” My eyes were filling again.

  “Jane!” Matron’s severe attitude had a gentler edge. “Is there something wrong? Here at school … or at home?”

  “No, Matron,” I lied without even thinking.

  “Well then I want you to try to cheer up. You don’t go home very often, and if you are so homesick you should do less sport and go home more often!”

  I panicked. “It’s … it’s not that. Actually, I don’t get on very well with my stepmother. She is selfish and … and I miss my real mother so much. But she never phones or writes to me. She only writes to my brother.”

  “I’m sure she writes to you sometimes.”

  “No! Never! I haven’t even seen her since I was in the sixth grade!”

  I was hopeless at stemming my tears so Matron passed me a tissue and I thought of telling her about my father. I really wanted to tell someone about it. But he’d already said he would say I was a liar and he would hurt me. I was so afraid of that side of him.

  “Well Jane, up at the school, you have to try to cry less,
” said Matron. “Your teachers asked me to talk to you; to find out if something is wrong, because they notice you are tearful so often. I spoke to your dad a few nights ago. He said perhaps sending you to boarding school was a mistake. Maybe you should tell him how your stepmother makes you feel.”

  In that moment my heart sank. Matron had talked to Dad! Their conspiracy continued so I couldn’t possibly tell her.

  I made my Thursday duty call home and as usual, my dad dissected my week’s activities with a fine scalpel, searching for any chink in his ‘good-guy’ armour. Every Thursday I would face the same barrage of questions.

  “Have you told anyone our secret?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Are you free to come home this weekend?”

  “No Dad, I have sport … No Dad, I am on tuck-shop duty ... No Dad, I have detention … No Dad, I am on manual labour … No Dad, we’re practising for the musical ....”

  I used whatever ploy I could. If I wasn’t picked for the hockey or swimming team that week, I volunteered for tuck-shop or garden duty and failing that I would make sure I was punished and gated; or I would offer to do someone else’s punishment for them. The girls paid me with a couple of coins or a chocolate bar but really I was the one getting the favour.

  Well this particular call, Dad decided to tackle me about being so weepy. “Matron says you’re a cry-baby and you’re homesick all the time. Why don’t you come home more often then, my Baby?”

  “I’m busy Dad. You said I have to work hard and I am.”

  “Yes but you don’t have to do all that sport, do you? Daddy misses you.”

  “Well I like it,” I answered, “And I’m good at it so I get chosen for teams.”

  “Well it seems like you also get too many punishments.”

  “Sorry Dad.” I said and silently added, “Not! But it’s way more fun than what you do to me at home.”

  His tone was changing because he wasn’t getting his own way and he began lecturing me about the crying.