should be,” I said, and I could feel my eyes stinging stupidly. I watched his chest as it flittered like a jackrabbit’s, his terribly cut, uneven bangs, his eyes that bulged from his skinny face. “What the hell?” I repeated, louder now.
“Shhh!” he told me, as if it were his parents downstairs. He pumped his hands toward the ground, like he was tamping a fire. “Calm down,” he said.
My blood coursed hotly through me, behind my cheeks, downmy neck, through my cramped-up legs, as if it had turned to lava. “You calm the fuck down,” I said, “you rapist.” Some dark, crushed, nameless thing was propelling the words.
He was so red and flustered-looking, it seemed like he was the one who was going to cry. I’d never talked like that to anyone, certainly not David Nelson, and I felt a quick pang of regret. I had to clench my teeth not to suddenly scream, my jaw trembling with the effort. Chuck would say later that it was because what David had done was assault. That I was a sexual assault victim reacting with perfectly normal and understandable shock. I believed Chuck for a while, relieved to have so easy an answer (and wasn’t that what therapy was for—providing self-satisfying and palatable answers to inexplicable questions?). But it wasn’t that. All David Nelson had done was kiss me. He hadn’t even tried to grab my boobs.
It was that he’d crossed a line, a line which I knew—instantaneously—we couldn’t just cross back from with the hopes that everything would revert to its rightful place. He’d changed things, created a moment after which nothing would be the same. I already had one of those, recently acquired. One was too much. I couldn’t have another. Not now. Not from David Nelson.
I started shaking.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said in a low voice. Then, more shrilly, “I don’t mean I didn’t mean it. I meant it. I didn’t mean it like that.” And finally, terribly, “I’ve been waiting so long.”
I felt my chest sinking into itself like he was sucking the air right out of me.
Dupe,
I thought, suddenly and quickly.
Dupedupe-dupedupedupe.
He stared at me as if he expected something. I could not imagine what. David Nelson was my only friend.
“Shut. Up,” I said, but what I wanted to say was,
You’re making it worse.
“I should go,” he said, scrambling quickly off the bed, grabbinghis books from the desk, his coat and backpack from the floor. He was a blur of motion, nodding fast, picking up his mug, rubbing his hand uselessly over the pop and ice cream that had already seeped through my comforter and sheets, already spread into a brownish stain in my mattress, one that would never wash fully clean, a blob I would spy for years whenever I changed the sheets, the sight of it reminding me of the scooped-out feeling of that night. The meaning would slowly fade, though, and I would eventually come to eye it dispassionately as I snapped clean linens between two fists and spread new sheets over the mattress. From one angle it looked a bit like the storm system on a weather map, from another a mangled butterfly.
“I can clean this up,” David said, crackly-voiced.
I jammed my palms against my eyes. “Just go,” I said. My chest filled back up with air, too fast now, my heart thumping like it could burst. I listened to him stumbling to get his shoes on. To him saying my name. To unintelligible mumbling, a swallowed sentence about
didn’t want to
and
never mind.
To the wriggling of my doorknob. To quick footsteps down the stairs. To my mom saying something and David Nelson saying something back. To the front door opening and closing. To the sound of this house without him—the low buzz of a television barely on, the creak of a couch spring, the hum of a cavernous fridge—noisy with quiet, teeming with it, like a breath held too long, painfully paused and waiting.
He didn’t show up at the Saturday search. I knew he wouldn’t. We’d quickly and instinctively
“Shhh!” he told me, as if it were his parents downstairs. He pumped his hands toward the ground, like he was tamping a fire. “Calm down,” he said.
My blood coursed hotly through me, behind my cheeks, downmy neck, through my cramped-up legs, as if it had turned to lava. “You calm the fuck down,” I said, “you rapist.” Some dark, crushed, nameless thing was propelling the words.
He was so red and flustered-looking, it seemed like he was the one who was going to cry. I’d never talked like that to anyone, certainly not David Nelson, and I felt a quick pang of regret. I had to clench my teeth not to suddenly scream, my jaw trembling with the effort. Chuck would say later that it was because what David had done was assault. That I was a sexual assault victim reacting with perfectly normal and understandable shock. I believed Chuck for a while, relieved to have so easy an answer (and wasn’t that what therapy was for—providing self-satisfying and palatable answers to inexplicable questions?). But it wasn’t that. All David Nelson had done was kiss me. He hadn’t even tried to grab my boobs.
It was that he’d crossed a line, a line which I knew—instantaneously—we couldn’t just cross back from with the hopes that everything would revert to its rightful place. He’d changed things, created a moment after which nothing would be the same. I already had one of those, recently acquired. One was too much. I couldn’t have another. Not now. Not from David Nelson.
I started shaking.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said in a low voice. Then, more shrilly, “I don’t mean I didn’t mean it. I meant it. I didn’t mean it like that.” And finally, terribly, “I’ve been waiting so long.”
I felt my chest sinking into itself like he was sucking the air right out of me.
Dupe,
I thought, suddenly and quickly.
Dupedupe-dupedupedupe.
He stared at me as if he expected something. I could not imagine what. David Nelson was my only friend.
“Shut. Up,” I said, but what I wanted to say was,
You’re making it worse.
“I should go,” he said, scrambling quickly off the bed, grabbinghis books from the desk, his coat and backpack from the floor. He was a blur of motion, nodding fast, picking up his mug, rubbing his hand uselessly over the pop and ice cream that had already seeped through my comforter and sheets, already spread into a brownish stain in my mattress, one that would never wash fully clean, a blob I would spy for years whenever I changed the sheets, the sight of it reminding me of the scooped-out feeling of that night. The meaning would slowly fade, though, and I would eventually come to eye it dispassionately as I snapped clean linens between two fists and spread new sheets over the mattress. From one angle it looked a bit like the storm system on a weather map, from another a mangled butterfly.
“I can clean this up,” David said, crackly-voiced.
I jammed my palms against my eyes. “Just go,” I said. My chest filled back up with air, too fast now, my heart thumping like it could burst. I listened to him stumbling to get his shoes on. To him saying my name. To unintelligible mumbling, a swallowed sentence about
didn’t want to
and
never mind.
To the wriggling of my doorknob. To quick footsteps down the stairs. To my mom saying something and David Nelson saying something back. To the front door opening and closing. To the sound of this house without him—the low buzz of a television barely on, the creak of a couch spring, the hum of a cavernous fridge—noisy with quiet, teeming with it, like a breath held too long, painfully paused and waiting.
He didn’t show up at the Saturday search. I knew he wouldn’t. We’d quickly and instinctively
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