hang around for some babyish, virgin sixteen-year-old?
I stand there feeling stupid and alone. I want to put on dry underpants, erase all reminders of him touching me.
No. I want the opposite: I want him to touch me more, to do everything with me, and promise me he’ll never leave.
“Can we talk about this, please?” he finally asks.
I crouch down, and reach in to move an orange slice from one perch to another, needing to be busy doing something, to not look at Max. He had asked to take them out earlier, but I don’t feel like letting them out anymore. I want them to stay safe as long as they can, tucked inside the mesh screen.
I close the Velcro flap again, and a Glasswing crawls up the side. I touch its foot through the mesh thinking it will fly away, but it stays there, looking at me.
“In Costa Rica,” I say, my voice wobbly, “they call Glasswings Espejitos. Spanish for ‘little mirrors.’”
I squint my eyes and stare at its wings, hoping I might see myself there. But I don’t. I can’t. They don’t reflect anything. Even those words are a lie. I’m nowhere to be found these days.
But that’s not true, is it? Max cares about me. That’s what he said.
“I want you, Jailbait.” How many times has he told me that? Isn’t that kind of the same as love?
I should stop stalling, and have sex with him. Run off to California just like Dad did.
“JL?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay.”
In the hallway, a door opens and closes, and the sound of the television drifts to me. At least Mom is leaving me alone.
I turn and look up at him, and he comes over to sit next to me, and rubs away a tear that’s slipped down my cheek.
“No need to be sad,” he says. “We still have time. I have plenty of plans to work out. I bought this bike, did I tell you? Not a dirt bike. The real deal. I want you to see her, feel her, but she’s not road-ready yet. She needs parts. A better engine. I blew all my savings on her, and paying some of Dad’s bills. I’ve got to make more money before I can fix her up and go.” He tips my chin, and looks deep into my eyes. “I really want you to come with me.”
And like that, I’m hit with a new emotion: Excitement. Maybe even hope. I could do it. Leave here and go to California with Max. I’m not sure exactly how, but Dad is still there, so if I wanted to, I could! I could make up some lies, leave out some facts, and go.
Go with him. Even help him to go.
With this thought, a memory, stuck to an idea, darts at the edges of my brain: Mom and Dad, dancing. Celebrating.
And something else.
It hasn’t quite surfaced yet.
And it shouldn’t.
It shouldn’t.
But another drop of anger and it will.
FALL
NINTH GRADE
“We’re goddamned rich, Charlotte; can you believe it? No more late fees and ridiculous interest. We can pay it all off! The credit cards, the leases. Hell, the mortgage! No more money worries, ever again!” He picks her up and spins, but she holds herself stiff.
“Put me down, Tom.”
Dad, still in his rented tuxedo, obliges, but holds her hand, and tries to twirl her out in front of him in her lacy black dress.
“Look how beautiful you are! Beautiful and rich!”
“I said stop.”
He pulls her tight to his chest and kisses the top of her head. “You worry too much. It will all be fine. After this, I never even have to work again.”
“I don’t care.” She turns away from him in her bare feet, revealing the unzipped back of the dress. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she whirls around, angry, her face wet with tears.
“You were okay with this, Char…?” he says, but it’s more like a question. “All of this. We talked about it. And all night you were fine.” He tips her face up. “Drinking champagne, dancing, celebrating. Those assholes from LA couldn’t take their eyes off of you. You know it’s going to be okay.…”
She slaps his hand away, and yanks down her dress, stands there in only her black bra and lacy underwear. I want to back away from the crack in their half-open door, where I’ve been watching, listening, but I’m afraid to make a noise.
“I lied! I faked it!” my mother yells. “You know I’m an excellent faker. I don’t want this.