Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  “When’s your birthday?” she asked.

  “April twelfth.”

  “Hmm, Aries, the ram.”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Hotheaded and impulsive.”

  The bartender set down her soda, several cherries submerged in it. She was positive he and the Wanker exchanged a knowing look. How many girls had Mr. Winkler brought here?

  “Don’t be fooled by astrology, Eve. I control my impulses.”

  “Oh, sure you do,” she said, twirling the plastic stirrer in the glass.

  “Speaking of, about that paper . . .”

  That made her smile. He was just being pompous, puffing hot air. And, after all, she thought, looking around at the bar, they were far away from school.

  “Can I have a sip of your cocktail?”

  He pushed the martini toward her. She poked her own straw into the clear liquid, a drop of grenadine unfurling like a plume of blood.

  Once the Wanker had finished the pink cocktail, the maître d’ led them into a small room with a few tables with checkered tablecloths and oil lamps, all of them empty. Their table overlooked the water.

  “Table ten, as requested,” he said, placing menus on the table, bowing slightly, and walking away.

  “Stiff competition at the old moulin,” Eve joked, looking around at the vacant seats as she opened the menu. The names of the dishes were in French, followed by a fleur-de-lis. There were no prices—Eve had seen this before in restaurants. Her father explained that it was good manners. Right, thought Eve, so oblivious female diners could order the chateaubriand, unaware that it was the most expensive thing in the restaurant? Power struggle, even on a menu.

  She was grateful for the translations into English. “What are you having?”

  “The brandade de morue is delicious.”

  “So gloppy. My dad loves it, it’s practically all he ate the whole time we were in Provence.”

  “How come you’re so sophisticated?”

  Eve looked up. Was he making fun of her? “Why, because I’ve been to France?”

  “You continue to surprise me,” Mr. Winkler said, leaning forward. “You quote Baudelaire, Salinger, you’re well read, well traveled. Unusual for a girl of your age.”

  The flickering flame of the oil lamp danced on his chin. She watched it.

  “You don’t like me without a beard.”

  “No, I do! It’s just that you look so much younger!” Almost appropriate for me, she thought. This made her even more anxious.

  Mr. Winkler stroked his chin self-consciously. “I’m not that much older than you, you know.” Had he grown the beard on purpose to make himself look more mature? And had he shaved it off tonight so that they would look less conspicuously like teacher and student?

  “I think I’ll have the steak frites.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Really rare.”

  The waiter appeared. The Wanker drained his martini and ordered another round.

  “You actually drink vodka with food?”

  “Gin. Why, is that déclassé?”

  “Totally. You have so much to learn.” She giggled, and sat more comfortably in her chair.

  “We can teach each other.” He put his hand briefly over hers. She felt goose bumps spread up her arm. “Tell me about yourself, Eve,” he said.

  “Let’s see.” She unfolded her napkin in her lap. “Born August fourth, that’s Leo. German Jewish family.” She wasn’t sure why she had mentioned that, maybe because of her mother’s endless digressions into their family’s heritage, how long they had been in the States, how her great-great-grandfather had been in Taft’s cabinet, how his brother had started this department store . . .

  He gestured for her to continue.

  “I went to Beaverton, as you know, and hated it from day one. Uptight maiden-aunt teachers trying to punish me because I was smart. Every time I’d raise my hand they’d ignore me on purpose, even if I was the only one who knew the answer.” Eve paused, realizing that she was close to launching into an uncontrolled rant: how much she hated her brother, her mother and father’s rules, her mother’s obsession with art, her mother’s social climbing, her father’s hairy butt. How she missed them and the safety of home so terribly.

  “This must be boring for you.”

  “I’m hanging on every word! Please.”

  “My parents are so strict that I might as well be from a family of Mormons.” His eyes moved to her chest. Eve pretended not to notice. “None of it’s done me any good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s the point of all that education if it makes you hate ninety-nine percent of the universe?”

  “I’m not following.”

  Eve swept her hand in the air. “Who are these people at Griswold? They’re profoundly boring, preppy, and bland. On Halloween they’ll probably come to my room to borrow clothes.”

  He laughed. “Such drama! Eve, you’re sophisticated, not a freak. Don’t conflate them.”

  “It’s a metaphor! Nobody’s read a book over a hundred pages long or seen a foreign film. The only fun they have is getting totally wasted on whatever they can find.”

  “So you felt like a misfit at home because you were a late bloomer and you disliked the rigidity of your school. Then you leave your cosmopolitan existence for a new place, which disappoints you because the students are from less urbane backgrounds than your own. That is not exactly a tragedy.”

  “And they dress like they popped out of Little House on the Prairie!”

  Mr. Winkler laughed out loud. “Can’t you get beyond fashion?”

  “Fashion and style are not the same thing.”

  “A lot of your fellow students are very intelligent. I grade their papers, I know. And a lot of them have faced difficulties at home that they take pains to conceal.” He lowered his voice. “I admit none of them come close to you in terms of worldliness, looks, or, um, sex appeal.”

  Eve felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Here was a real man, not a milquetoast like David. Mr. Winkler, no, Bob, admired Eve frankly and openly. He could teach her what to do. So what if she hadn’t been past second base? She had sex appeal. Was it so shameful to admit inexperience? Her heart was pounding, she could almost hear it over the rush of the river.

  “So,” he said, after the waiter set down their food, “for a few years you have to suffer with Tierney and her crowd. Big deal. You have your whole life ahead of you! And like that river, life moves on.”

  She sawed into her steak, but suddenly she wasn’t very hungry.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Mr. Winkler said.

  “The only person I’m afraid of is right here.” Eve pointed to her chest and let her finger linger on her sternum, sensuously, she hoped.

  She vowed to enjoy it when he took off her bra and not to be too self-conscious.

  “Eat your brandade, Bob.”

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  As Clay walked with Justine toward the arts center, she kept glancing around at the other students, wondering what they’d think seeing the two of them together. But nobody blinked an eye. Maybe everyone didn’t know what Bruce had done?

  WarGames had just opened. She had no clue how Griswold had gotten a copy.

  “It’s because of Bruce’s father,” Clay explained. “He’s a Hollywood hotshot. He gets the films while the movie is still in theaters.”

  Justine hadn’t even known that Bruce was from the West Coast. Whatever. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Bruce.

  But Clay continued to describe the vicious divorce Bruce’s parents were going through back in Los Angeles. “His father sawed the dining table in half. Then he changed the security code on their front gate and his mom retaliated by drowning thei
r dog in the swimming pool. The usual awfulness.”

  Justine thought that this was exactly the type of sensational story Bruce would brag about. He had probably made it up. She wondered whether she should tell Clay about Stanley’s theory, and then thought about their bet. She didn’t know if it was a bet she wanted to win or lose.

  They entered the art center’s limestone lobby. On the wall was a plaque: “To Papa. Pereunt et Imputantur. Barbara and Philip Bradley, A.D. 1974.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The hours perish and are reckoned to our account.”

  “Speak English.”

  “No matter what, we have to pay for the passing of time. It was on a sundial at my grandparents’ house. Cheerful, no?”

  * * *

  —

  A horde of kids surged into the theater through the double doors, and she caught sight of Bruce, his arm around Christina, who was giggling.

  “Fuck,” Justine muttered.

  “Ignore him.”

  As they passed, Bruce leaned over and whispered in Christina’s ear. Justine didn’t think it was possible, but against the pale lobby walls he looked more handsome than ever. The world was so unfair. Surely there was a portrait of him somewhere, in some attic, leering and covered in zits, getting uglier with every passing day.

  Clay and Justine walked into the theater. There were almost no seats left, and they had to sit in the front row. When the lights went down, Justine sat perfectly still, not daring to brush Clay’s arm.

  They slipped out a side exit when it was over.

  “Smoker?” she suggested.

  Clay opened his jacket to reveal a bottle of gin. “Better. Skeets.”

  As they walked across the footbridge, images from the movie flitted across Justine’s brain. She was terrified of nuclear war, and these days it was on every television. It seemed like a bunch of politicians were sitting behind desks in the government about to flip a switch and then the whole planet would be toast.

  These dark trees, the waving ferns, the furry woodland creatures huddled in dens for warmth, all of the vibrant, pulsing rhythm of life. Annihilated in a stroke.

  “Do you think that could actually happen,” she asked Clay, “that someone could cause total world destruction in a few seconds?”

  “With how nuts the Russians are? It could happen tomorrow.” His voice was toneless, matter-of-fact.

  All of this gone, she thought, imagining incineration, burned trunks, smoke rising into the sky.

  They reached the path that led through the woods.

  They walked for a minute. It was silent except for the crunch of twigs beneath their feet.

  “Would you push the button if you could?” Clay asked.

  “And kill everyone on the planet? Of course not!”

  Clay was quiet. He stared at the path.

  “Wait, you would?”

  She could see him nodding through the darkness.

  “The only thing wrong with the world is people,” he explained. “Hit the button and poof! Detonate. A chance to start again.”

  “But what about your family, your friends?”

  “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  She wanted to laugh, but he sounded almost serious.

  They emerged into the clearing. The field was empty, encircled by a fortress of trees. Wind whipped through the grass. The clouds had been blown aside and stars glittered above. They were alone here. Alone in the world.

  “It’s like a giant playpen,” Justine said, and twirled around.

  The trees watched from all sides.

  “It is, kind of, but don’t you ever feel trapped here sometimes?” Clay looked around. “Like, I feel as though any moment the circle will get tighter and tighter, closing in on us, till we can’t breathe.”

  “Hand over the gin; you’re freaking me out,” she said.

  They sat on the cold ground, and Clay handed her the bottle.

  She took a big swig and shuddered as the liquid tumbled down her throat, fierce and pungent.

  “Ugh, gross!”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Tell me about your sister.”

  “You mean about the cult?”

  Justine nodded. She handed Clay the bottle of gin. He took a swig.

  “It was a couple of years ago. We were in Hawaii with Barbara, and this guy walked up to us on the beach, playing some kind of flute. He was totally hot for Char.” Clay tilted the gin into his mouth. “Barbara was thrilled, saying Char was having an awakening. It was fucking pathetic.” Clay handed Justine the bottle. “After a few days Char followed the guy to some farm in the hills with no electricity. Bunch of freaks. Call themselves Children of Gaia. Barbara gets letters sometimes.”

  Clay fell silent.

  Justine had never had a sibling and didn’t know what the loss of one would feel like. But maybe it made pushing the button that much easier.

  She took another gulp and lay down flat in the grass, staring up.

  “Look, Orion’s belt,” she said, pointing.

  Clay propped himself on his arm. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his body. The stars shone above, and he pointed toward the horizon. “And that’s my sign, Scorpio.”

  She handed him back the bottle.

  “Barbara’s obsessed with astrology.” He took a deep swig and winced as he knocked it back.

  She sat up slightly, the stars beginning to dance in front of her eyes. She really could not hold her liquor. But with Clay she could be drunk and not worry.

  “Is Scorpio good with Capricorn?”

  “Dunno.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered her the bottle again.

  “I’m crazy drunk already, you?” she said.

  “Me too.” Clay laughed.

  Justine took an unsteady sip and handed Clay the bottle, and flopped onto her back on the grass. She gazed up at Clay’s face, he smiled down at her, and the stars rotated behind his dark head. She pulled him down and kissed him. His mouth was cold and tangy with booze. The field spun. They were the earth’s axis. He kissed her back, and she wondered if this had been the idea all along.

  Suddenly she didn’t feel so hot.

  “Shit,” Justine said, pulling back from the kiss. Getting up unsteadily she staggered toward the trees. Branches scratched her face as she tripped over roots. Doubling over, she vomited.

  Clay was there, hand on her back as she heaved.

  She stood up, panting, bracing herself against a trunk.

  He stroked her hair.

  She leaned over and, for the second time in a week, threw up again.

  Clay rubbed her back.

  Justine stared down at the pool of puke in the weeds. She really hadn’t had that much to drink, had she?

  Her head pounded. She leaned against Clay, her cheek hot on his cold parka.

  “Hate gin,” she muttered.

  Clay chucked the bottle into the darkness. It broke with a crash.

  “Something’s wrong with that stuff,” he said. “A bad shipment or something.”

  He put an arm around her. “Let’s head back,” he said.

  They wove through the woods. Justine prayed that she wouldn’t get busted. If she could just make it into Claverly, past the common room, up the carpeted steps, up the ladder of the bunk bed, and under the covers, she’d be safe.

  They arrived, and Clay held open the dorm’s front door.

  She only remembered snippets: the hallway lights glaring, a Celtics game on, a fuzz of raucous hollers, and flowered wallpaper. Clay supporting her up the hallway steps, her room quiet and dark. Crumpling on Tierney’s bed, she looked up at him. “Stay.”

  “Sleep,” he said, stroking her hair gently off her forehead.

  “Stay
.”

  “Okay, a few minutes.”

  She lay on his lap, and he ran his fingers softly through her hair. As she relaxed, the gin seeped into her body; she was spinning, falling, grabbing for branches. The branches were arms, Justine reached for them, desperately grabbing for handholds, speeding past. One caught her and yanked her with a jolt. Her eyes flew open. She was in Tierney’s bed. Clay was gone.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  Mr. Winkler walked Eve home from The Mill. In another world, where they were just a man and a girl, he would put his arm around her. Past his threshold, the door shut behind them, he would abandon his self-control and tear her clothes off, fucking her on the sofa before they even made it to the bedroom. Then he’d do it again, more slowly the second time.

  “I ate way, way too much,” she said, clutching her stomach. “I can hardly breathe.”

  “It’s you who leaves me breathless.”

  Eve was certain he had used that line before, but she didn’t mind. “You know, in Kenya, lions don’t eat for weeks and then when they kill a gazelle or an eland, they gorge themselves until they literally can’t move. They lie on their sides with these huge bellies, panting with their tongues hanging out.”

  “I’d like to see an imitation.”

  She stopped and stuck out her tongue.

  His voice deepened. “Looks like pleasure.”

  “Oh shush.”

  They kept walking. Eve paused at the edge of his porch, in the penumbra of the overhead light. Anyone could see them where they stood.

  “Thanks for supper. I won’t eat for days.”

  She waited. His breath was visible in the cold air. He took her hand in his.

  In a moment he would pull her toward him into a kiss. She was about to close her eyes when he released her.

  “Good night, Eve.” He smiled.

  She swallowed. “Good night, Mr. Winkler.”

  FIFTEEN

  Monday morning the Wanker strode in and set his briefcase on the desk. Justine did a double take. He had shaved his beard, revealing the firm curve of his jaw. Justine shot Eve a look of surprise, but Eve stared ahead in silence.