Swell

by Rieman Duck, Julie

  “I’m afraid of hurting you… if we do it. I don’t want to ruin what we have, but we’ve gotta do something sooner or later… or… I just can’t handle this.” It was string of words that contradicted one another, confusing the hell out of me and diminishing whatever horniness I had developed on the couch.

  “You’re saying you want to have sex with me, but that you’re afraid if we do, we’ll break up? Or do you mean if we don’t have sex that the same thing will happen?” It was damned if you do, damned if you don’t, but Christian just shook his head.

  “I need a drink.” He stood up, making a beeline for his parents’ liquor cabinet. Yes, they actually had one like you saw in the movies, with mirrored panels, a padded leather bar, a wine chiller and crystal goblets hanging upside down under a light.

  Dr. Rusch must be a drinker, to have that much in his liquor cabinet. Or he kept it around for kicks and giggles, like when he entertained people at Christmas and New Year’s. Or, maybe it was his wife who was the drinker. Christian didn’t seem worried at all about pulling one of their bottles. But I did, my eyes following every step involved in producing a drink, literally “drinking it in” so that I would know what I was doing better the next time it happened.

  Christian reached into the chiller and pulled out a white wine, opened it and poured us two big goblets.

  We sat on the couch downing the wine, the silence between us like ice sheets on the side of a roof waiting to fall with a crash, the eerie quiet promising something risky. The warm, familiar buzz spread to my toes and I knew that soon we’d be talking again. I hoped for it.

  “Isn’t that better?” he asked, putting his goblet down on the table without a coaster.

  “Yes, much better. Thank you.” Then Christian was on top of me again, and we resumed making out like nothing had ever happened, except that wine played an integral role in our ability to connect.

  Jenna was worried that I drank too much. I cited it as a teenage rite of passage. That everyone drank cause it was fun, and I had to find my limits in life. Limits like how much to drink. How far to go with Christian. Whether I would let Hillman make one more smart-ass remark before I hit him over the head with a stiletto.

  Sitting in my room with Jenna, three beers down to her one, I felt a sort of triumph. I won the drinking contest, even though there was none. Proud that I needed more to get me loaded than she did, I opened a fourth can that, to my surprise, she grabbed from me in mid-swig, the goodness of barley and hops spilling out of my mouth.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, slow down. You’re scaring me.”

  “Better give me that back or you’ll know what scary really is,” I said, swiping for my beer. Jenna held it over her head. I would need a stepstool to get it.

  “Look,” she said, keeping the beer high. “You need to calm down about this drinking. You’ve been going out with Christian for just a few weeks and you’re already a lush.”

  I stopped reaching for the beer and crumpled back down on the floor, my mouth open. My breath came and went from my lips.

  “I just really enjoy it, okay? Don’t make decisions for me, Jenna.”

  “I’m worried about you, Beck, that’s all.” She lowered the can, which I grasped and brought to my mouth. Any more of a delay and my buzz would have gone away.

  Later, after Jenna had gone home — after only another half beer — I sat on my bed thinking about what she’d said, and trying to figure out the real reason I liked to drink. First, it was fun, like when you’re a kid and you spin around in an office chair until you can’t stand up. It also drained tension from my body better than sleep or taking a walk. And it made me laugh more. Even though these reasons were good, they didn’t compare to the way drinking made me feel in love, like I was with Christian.

  It brought us together as a couple, and made us equals with every open lid. There was a moment when I could pretend he was watching me drink, clapping at me as I downed this bottle or that one, stolen from my parents. Tonight I had taken it a step further by pimping the booze myself. Self-sufficient drinking. Christian would be proud.

  Chapter 6

  Alone for the first time that night, I tried to regain movement. I’d had a lot to drink before, but this was different, like someone had given me something. I could move my head around and slowly, gratefully, my hand came up to my face, slapping against it for a moment before flopping down on the velvet couch. At least there was movement, but I needed more.

  ≈

  The night we had sex, Christian had threatened to break up with me. We’d gone to the movies, had an argument about whether we were going to do it or not, and then came home to the empty Rusch house, where ticking clocks and windchimes talked to each other in the dark. He’d grabbed a bottle of wine and some cups, and we went upstairs to his bedroom.

  Christian’s room was like the broom closet of the house. Here, the grandest star of the Rusch family lived with barely enough room for a bed and a desk, and a tiny window that looked over the roof and the chimney. Sometimes we crawled out on the roof to drink and talk. But lately, our conversations had gone from his talking about my gorgeous hair and curves to bits and pieces about school, what colleges were courting him, and my jibber-jabber about art school and what I was working on, which was nothing.

  My poor easel had barely been touched since I’d met Christian. During the school year, I was forced to perform the brush strokes and dabs that were building my future career and a solid reputation as an artist. During summer vacation, though, I cared much less, lounging around doing nothing while planning when I’d swipe my next drink. That was my art, the creativity of scheming to commit theft so as to cop a buzz.

  I was sitting on Christian, his tiny twin bed groaning under our weight. He had just started feeling me up, placing his hands on my breasts and into my pants. I did the same, and it was like a science experiment, finally meeting and greeting the body parts I’d only seen in diagrams. Christian told me he’d had sex before, but it was hard to believe given that it had taken him so long to even go anywhere near my parts. When he finally did, his hands felt awkward and almost like my own, fumbling through unfamiliar movements. Experienced or not, we both liked what we were doing, and that’s how we ended up naked in the broom closet.

  He was on top of me and tried to get inside. When it didn’t work he jumped off and sat on the floor, angry. I was ready to go, even though I wasn’t sure about what I was doing. I consoled Christian on the floor, taking him into my arms and telling him it would be fine.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeated before I told him I was horny and that we should try again, right there on the floor.

  There’s something gritty and real about doing things on a rug. It promises to burn your knees and elbows if you rub against it too much, and it’s also great for getting your footing. So it was there, on that shaggy rug where Christian and I finally figured it out. I prayed for no rug burns on my butt. It hurt at first, like a stabbing pain that kept going, going, going. He remained above my body, not kissing me or doing anything else except moving back and forth. There was no ecstasy, no rippling heat through my groin or cries of delight like the movies. Nope. It was just irritation from inside-out, and when Christian finished he hopped back onto the bed and poured himself another drink. Even something as important and serious as sex was sandwiched between what really mattered to him.

  We eventually dressed and drove to the top of the city — a hill so high that we could view the lights and ocean from Long Beach to San Diego. Christian had brought a quilt, wrapping it around both of us, hugging me from behind as we looked over the land.

  “I love you so much,” he promised in my ear, rubbing his hands over my stomach and tucking them into my waistband. We made-out as the moon went from harvest phase to high and bright in the sky, an owl flying by to take notice of the fools below who had nothing in common except endless containers of glass and metal filled with diversion.

  /////

 
; As I moved closer to Christian’s inner circle, I learned how to behave and fit into the scheme of things. By partying, I was able to connect with Allison, Kayla and Audrey, three girls I suspected had been with Christian at one time or another. They latched onto me like leeches, sucking information out like who my parents were and what they did, where I lived, what I wanted to do after high school, and why I thought Christian was the one for me.

  “You’re young. There’s plenty of time to get it right, Rebecca,” said Kayla, an extremely petite blond with pencil legs and no ass. When I first met her I thought she was a midget, but she was actually just above the height range for that.

  “Has he told you he loves you?” asked Allison, also blonde but taller than Kayla, with a generous line of flesh between her pressed boobs, a gold cross necklace sinking deep into the abyss.

  “Yes, he has. A couple of times.” Ever since we did it in his room, Christian couldn’t stop saying how much he loved me.

  “That’s what he tells the girls after sex.” She pulled the necklace from her cleavage and rearranged it on her freckled chest. My face turned hot and I imagined it looked purple, even though nobody could probably see it because the sun had set on Christian’s pool deck. Allison’s tone was all-knowing, as if she personally knew Christian’s girlfriend routine, and felt pissy because of it.

  The last thing I wanted to do was socialize with such patronizing girls, but I knew they were part of Christian’s social life and I would have to make my own entry into their circle.

  I had an easier time around the boys. They probably looked at me like a piece of meat belonging to Christian, but at least I had my identity in that. The guys from the library now talked to me like I was their buddy.

  Being that everyone was now my “friend,” I had more phone calls and drop-ins than I knew what to do with. One day, Allison stopped by my house and offered to take me to lunch.

  “My treat,” she chimed, looking completely innocent and honest when she suggested we go to In-N-Out Burger.

  “I really need to work on this project…” I thought about the blank canvas in my room, the tubes of oil paint still capped and the brushes dry. There was no painting, let alone a sketch of what I had in mind for the Allan Gerry Art Extravaganza, a small contest held by a group of old ladies who went around promoting art and culture in the community. The prize was a gift certificate to the art store, which was somewhat motivating, but not as much as seeing Christian and having a drink with him.

  “We need to talk,” she said, a hint of you need to do this or you’re out in her eyes. In an instant, my mind conjured up reasons why we should talk, and I blanked out most of them because I didn’t want to get my fears up.

  With great reluctance, I took off with her to lunch, afraid that she would judge me and mess with my mind. If she even thought of bringing up whatever it was she wanted to talk about before I ate, I would have to bolt or do something drastic, like hide in the bathroom and then sneak out behind a large customer. But no, Allison was a tormentor, waiting until we had our meal in front of us, half-eaten, to spill the beans.

  “Beck, there’s something important I think you should know.” She continued to eat her French fries at a casual pace, as if the topic she was about to speak of didn’t phase her. My own food was a lump in my throat about to come up.

  “What is it?” I slurped at my shake to wash the food down.

  “Christian… he has some problems. Serious ones.” She was one of those people who beat around the bush in order to delay pain.

  “Like what?”

  “He’s an alcoholic, and you’re not the only girl he’s seeing right now.”

  That pretty much sealed the deal on which way my food was headed. A hot chill ran up my spine and over the top of my head, spilling onto my face and cheeks. There was no way to hide my growing rage.

  “What? What do you mean he’s seeing someone else?” I demanded, ignoring the part about Christian being an alcoholic. How much he drank wasn’t as important as whether he was two-timing me or not.

  “Christian is, how do I say it, loose? Last year, he was seeing three girls at the same time, until one of them showed up at school with a bruise on her face. She said he’d hit her during a blackout.” She swirled a fry in catsup and ate it, nonchalant about the whole thing. I could have sworn she was talking about herself.

  “That’s pretty serious, Allison. Do you know who he’s seeing?”

  “Of course it’s serious, but I thought it was even more important that I tell you so you could make your own decisions. Just be on the lookout for competition.” I’d stopped eating by then, but Allison polished-off her combo, grabbed her keys and started for the door. I followed.

  “So, if you’re with Christian and he’s drinking too much, watch out, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” I was preoccupied with her accusation that Christian had smacked a girl.

  Later on, I told Jenna just to get things off my chest. She thought Allison was bullshitting, just to get back at Christian for something.

  “She’s a jealous bitch. I bet she tried to go for him and when he said ‘no-ho’ she made it up.”

  In spite of the doubts I had about Allison’s story, I was careful to watch Christian when we got together over beers at the beach. The sun had set and we were stretched out on a damp towel, feeling the afterglow of the sun.

  “Christian, how many girls have you dated?” I asked, sitting up on one arm to look at him, his body a perfect arrow aimed at the ocean.

  He smiled. “A few. But nobody like you, Beck.”

  “Have you ever dated more than one girl at a time?”

  Now he was sitting up, giving me a look. “I don’t remember. Why are you asking me that?”

  I rolled onto my back and sighed, poking my finger into my bellybutton. “I just heard a rumor, that’s all.”

  “A lot of the girls tell rumors. Don’t listen to them, cause they’re full of shit,” he said, a growl coming from his clenched teeth. He took a sip from the bottle he’d hidden inside a t-shirt and laid back down. It was the end of that discussion.

  Chapter 7

  The voices grew louder and then they were in front of the couch. Three guys, one with bright red hair — Hillman. He wore black jeans, no shirt, and had a can of something in his hand, as well as a satisfied smile on his face. He poked at me with his can hand.

  “Dude, she’s fucked-up. Did you give her something?”

  “Just a little G, if you know what I mean,” laughed the tall figure, his dark hair cut into a buzz. I didn’t recognize him, but then again it was hard to really see who anyone was because my eyes felt like they’d been grazed with sandpaper.

  “She’ll be good for awhile. Let’s go downstairs… I’ve got some great indica,” said Hillman, the only one I recognized because of the hair. Then they were gone. I opened my eyes again, just slits, and prayed to God for the strength to take the plastic wrap off my wrists so I could get the hell away from them.

  ≈

  I assumed that because Christian and I had sex once, that we would do it again. Wasn’t that what couples in love did? But I was wrong. After a single night, Christian never put his hands under my shirt again, let alone down my pants.

  My mom and her sister were always discussing men and sex. I ignored their chatter for the most part, but one saying stuck in my mind:

  “When the farmer gets the milk, he’s satisfied and thinks it’s time to sell the cow for beef.” I realized they meant that girls who give away the prize of sexual conquest are given away.

  “I’m the cow,” I mused as I washed dishes one evening. I was waiting for my parents to settle on the couch so I could sneak a drink. It was too easy now to steal and pimp alcohol, but so was turning to it when I needed to get lost. If I was the cow, I was going to be a drunk one.

  Christian still took me out every weekend. There were always more parties to attend, more beers to drink and more weird behavior and comments from his gallery of
friends. Hillman irked me most of all. There were moments when I felt his eyes burning into me, and I pretended not to notice. He would follow me to the bathroom, and then continue going as if he’d been headed somewhere else. And he teased me with off-color remarks and gushing commentary about my appearance. Just like by the pool, when he’d stroked his stomach and I watched, Hillman wanted my attention. He was hard to ignore.

  Devin the man-cheerleader and Audrey, who could have been his/her girlfriend for all I knew, were hosting a keg party at her house. I’d wandered into the yard after Christian went about his way ignoring me. The lush tropical landscape was a contrast to the dandelions and crab grass of my own yard. Thinking I was alone, I started twirling under a lantern, my mind in a fog and wanting to forget that Christian wasn’t touching me. As I tried to stop thinking about Christian’s sudden lack of physical interest, I thought my prayers had been answered when an arm wrapped around my waist.

  “How come you never talk to me, Beck?” Hillman pulled me close and pressed his body against mine. He continued to twirl me around, making me dizzier with each passing spin.

  “I talk to you,” I said, trying to stop the ride. His grip tightened, his hips now crushing into mine. I could feel him through his jeans, pushed against my thigh. His fingers pressed into my skin with ease, like I was a ripe peach.

  “Let me go!”

  “Why should I let you go? It’s nice here.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Christian’s an open guy, if you know what I mean.” He brought his face against my neck and inhaled my scent. I struggled to free my arms.

  The giggle of female voices came around the trees, and Hillman let go of me so fast that I fell onto the grass. He put his hands in his pockets to hide the erection and took off.

  “Are you drunk already, Rebecca?” Devin and Audrey sang.