ache, then lay back for a while on the soft hummock of grass near the willow. I daydreamed of my other family, the imaginary one with boring parents, and seven siblings, four boys and three girls. The day was hot. I could taste salty sweat on my upper lip, and as I lay there, I watched dark, swollen clouds build in the sky. When I heard the first low rumble of thunder, I stood, brushed grass from the back of my legs, and returned to the house.
The thunderstorm pelted Monk’s for a dark hour. My mother drank gin and pulled things from the oven, telling the Russian how perfect the storm was—how she couldn’t ask for a better sound track to her party—although I could tell she was upset. When guests began to arrive the skies were blue again, the only evidence of the storm the cleanness of the air, and the steady dripping from the swollen gutters. I passed appetizers to people I’d never seen before, then snuck away to my room, bringing two cold Pop-Tarts with me for my dinner.
I ate in my room, and tried to read. I had taken a paperback from my mother’s stack of books by her side of the bed. It was called Damage, by Josephine Hart, and I’d heard her talking about how she didn’t like it, how it was just trash dressed up as something literary. It made me want to read it, but I didn’t really like it either. It was about an Englishman, like my father, who was having sex with his son’s girlfriend. I hated everyone in it. I gave up and pulled a Nancy Drew from my shelf. Number ten: The Password to Larkspur Lane. I knew I was too old to be reading Nancy Drew but it was by far my favorite. I fell asleep while reading it.
I woke to the sound of my bedroom door being opened. Light fell in from the hallway and I could hear loud rock music coming from downstairs. I was curled on my side, a single sheet pulled up to my waist, facing the door. I cracked open my eyes and could see Chet standing in the doorframe. The light was coming from behind him, but he was easy to identify because of the beard, and the dark-framed glasses, an edge of which had caught the yellow light from the hall. He swayed a little, like a tree in a strong wind. I didn’t move, in the hopes that he would go away. Maybe I wasn’t who he was looking for, even though I knew I was. I considered screaming, or trying to run from the room, but there was a steady thump of bass and drum throughout the house and I didn’t think anyone would hear me. And then Chet would kill me for sure. So I closed my eyes, hoping he would go away, and with my eyes closed, I heard him step into the room, quietly shut the door behind him.
I decided to keep my eyes shut, pretend I was asleep. My heart beat in my chest like a jumping bean, but I kept my breathing regular. In through my nose and out through my mouth.
I listened as Chet took a few steps forward. I knew he was standing right over me. I could hear his own breath, ragged and wet, and I could smell him. The fruity, musty smell, mixed with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol.
“Lily,” he said, in a loud whisper.
I didn’t move.
He leaned in closer. Said my name again, a little quieter this time.
I pretended I was in a deep sleep, and couldn’t hear a thing. I pulled my knees up a little tighter to my body, moving the way I thought a sleeping person would move. I knew what he was doing in my room, and I knew what he wanted. He was going to have sex with me. But as far as I knew that was only something he could do if I was awake, so I planned on staying asleep, no matter what he did.
I heard the creak of his knees and the rustle of his jeans, then smelled the sour, beery smell of his breath. He had crouched down beside me. The song from downstairs—its thumping bass—stopped, and another song, that sounded the same, started up again. I heard the sound of a zipper being slowly unzipped, one tiny, metallic pluck at a time, then a rhythmic sound, like