by Lily Foster
Just holding the paper feels therapeutic. Even though the intended recipient will never read the words, writing them lifted a heavy weight. I guess I never really talk to anyone, about anything that’s real anyway. I would never saddle my mother or Tim with my troubles, Mike is far away and dealing with his own shit, and my friends aren’t true friends. But that’s entirely on me. Garth, Sienna, Tyler—they’re good people, it’s just that I’m not in the habit of letting anyone in. Talking to Charlotte through a letter she will never read might be stupid, but it feels good, or more like something I need.
Dear Charlotte,
You don’t understand.
You think I dislike you, but I don’t. You think I hate you for the sins of your brother, but I don’t. You think I look the other way when you’re around because something or someone else has caught my eye, but that’s not how it is.
I noticed you the first week of your freshman year. Mr. Vargas had me acting like some jerkoff ambassador for the new honors program students. Do you even remember that lame speech I made? I remember thinking at the time that it was just another thing I had to do, another chance to impersonate a “young man with strong leadership qualities” for my college applications. It was another small step in my grand plan to get out of this town, this state, this life. But when I looked out into the group of no more than thirty shining stars, over half of them not truly qualified to be in any kind of honors program whatsoever, I saw you perched on the edge of your seat, looking right at me as your pen scratched out notes on your paper. You were taking notes! That made me laugh my ass off because I knew I was just repeating the bullshit standard lines—manage your time, start thinking about college sooner rather than later, take advantage of the test prep courses that Mr. Vargas offers, blah, blah, blah. But you were drinking it all in. You looked so earnest, so damned adorable. At the time, you made me wish I had a little sister or brother to guide and look after.
But this year I noticed you. What a difference a year makes. I saw you messing around on the field with a few of your friends, practicing some dance moves, and I asked someone what your name was. Charlotte, the kid told me. I was thinking to myself that it was a pretty name, it suited you, but then he said your name in full…Charlotte Mason. I’m used to disappointment by now, so I figured this was just fate’s way of kicking me in the ass yet again.
Suddenly you weren’t pretty, you weren’t cute—you were one of them. And I do hate your family. I think your brother, with his nice cars and his expensive clothes, is lower than scum. And from where I sit, your father is no better.
And then there’s you…
When I first saw you working in the diner, I was so angry. I still don’t know why the fuck you work there. You don’t need the money and it’s on the shit side of this county. It’s like you’re slumming or something, and I can’t figure out why. But what I hate about it the most is that the more I watch you, the more I want you. And I can’t have you—it can’t happen. So this is why I act the way I do. The reason I push you away and act like a jackass whenever you’re around.
I want you to know that I hate myself for it, for the way I am around you. And it’s all on me. You’ve done nothing to deserve it—any of it. I am the one who should be saying sorry.
You won’t see this letter, so you’ll never know. You won’t know how sorry I am. You won’t know how I really feel about you. You’ll never know that most nights I drift off to sleep thinking about you, so you’re front and center in my dreams. And in those dreams, my life is entirely different. I don’t have a brother rotting away in prison or a brother who was run out of town because of who he is. I don’t have a mother who can’t afford to buy medicine when her asthma kicks in, or who feels guilty because her sons haven’t seen a dentist or doctor in years. We don’t live in a trailer with unreliable heat and we don’t worry about paying our bills. In my dreams I’m with you and it’s always summer. I am happier than I’ve ever been. I imagine that if I really was with you, that’s what life would be like. But those are dreams, and my reality is what it is.
I see you. I see the sadness that weighs you down too. But I also see you when you dance. When you dance your happiness pours out of you and seeps into everyone watching. I can’t look away when you move. You are everything I imagine a man could want. You’re everything I want but can’t have.
Someday you’re going to be loved by a man who worships you. His sole purpose in life will be to protect you and keep you happy. Me? I’ll be nothing more than a bad memory. I already hate that guy you’re going to fall in love with someday, but at the same time, I’m grateful to him.
You didn’t understand before, but hopefully, now you do.
-Simon
The tap on my window startles me. Mr. Roberts’ face is up against my window. He’s smiling, rubbing his bare hands together to ward off the cold. “Whatcha doing, son? Get inside!”
I take one last look across the street and see that she’s looking right back at me. Can’t happen, I remind myself as I switch the headlights off and take the key from the ignition. I fold the paper and tuck it into the glove compartment.
Shut it down, shut her out.
Charlotte
Instead of taking my usual break outside, I bring my phone to call Daisy. I need something to focus on, a buffer, something to do with my hands and my thoughts. This morning I caught him staring into the diner again, but he turned away the second our eyes met.
She picks up on the first ring and doesn’t even wait for me to say hello. “I had so much fun last night! Oh, and here’s an interesting tidbit…It was a lot more fun without the mind-numbing shots.” Daisy laughs so hard she snorts when she adds, “I even made some new friends because I was actually able to talk this time!”
“Good for you, freak. So how was it, who was there? Give me all the deets.” Was Simon there, was Simon laughing and having a good time, was Simon sucking face with that redhead he was sitting next to in the gym?
Tyler, Skylar, blah, blah, blah…Zach someone or other puking on the coffee table, blah, blah, blah…Sarah Beele has the best clothes and is the coolest girl ever, blah¸blah, blah. No mention of Simon.
“Charlotte, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I go for some fake enthusiasm. “So, the party sounds like it was great!”
“You weren’t even listening, were you?” Daisy isn’t mad, I don’t think. By now she’s used to my nonsense, to the distance. “I was asking if you want to go to the mall with me and Sarah later.”
“Can I let you know after work?”
“Sure, no pressure, whatever, let me know…We’re leaving at four.”
Girlfriends, who knew?
I decided after I got off the phone with Daisy that I need to seriously work on being a better friend. And I needed a distraction to get my mind off the moody jerk across the street, the one who was loading shrubs into the back of a small pickup truck for some lady while her teenage daughter attempted to make small talk. I felt like yelling over to her: Good luck, honey.
“Simon Wade is the hottest boy in the senior class. And no prom date, can you believe it?”
So much for a distraction.
Daisy leans across the table and grabs a fry from Sarah’s tray. “I heard a few girls asked him but he turned them down flat.”
“Shocker,” I say to no one in particular.
“I think the surly thing works for him.” Sarah looks positively dreamy-eyed. “I could put up with his grouchy attitude. I’d love to have a session with him.”
“A session?” It takes some effort to keep the contempt from my voice.
Daisy looks at me as if I’m clueless. “A make-out session.”
Sarah’s oblivious. “Yeah, I just know that boy can kiss.”
“Nope.” Daisy scrunches her nose. “Simon’s too dark for me.”
“The dark ones are the most fun.”
“And you would know this how?” Daisy teases back at Sarah.
&
nbsp; “School is going to be such a drag when this class graduates. Think of the juniors.” Sarah holds up her hand and starts naming boys, one for each finger, while rattling off their bad traits. “And the girls…No one’s going to take me under their wing the way Skylar has.”
Daisy reaches across the table and takes Sarah’s hand in a comforting gesture. These two are pretty chummy all of a sudden. And while a part of me feels like a third wheel, I have to admit there’s something I like about Sarah. She’s light and goofy, just like Daisy. The easy way they navigate the world is something I envy.
“Defect to the dance team,” I offer, wanting to add something, anything to the conversation.
“Yes!” Daisy leans in and grabs me around the shoulders. “Best idea ever, Charlotte!”
Sarah shakes her head. “Like hell. Cheering is easy compared to those dance routines.” She looks to me. “You’re amazing. I’d look like a bumbling idiot next to you.”
“You mean you’d look like me?” Daisy teases.
“Ohmigod, no Daisy! You’re really good too!”
Sarah laughs so hard, the soda she just sipped shoots out of her nose.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte
I’ve never been a big fan of daylight savings, but I flat out object to the asinine ritual in the springtime when I’m deprived an hour of much needed sleep. The one upside, longer days, means nothing to me right now. No different from yesterday, it’s pitch-black outside when I start my day. I console myself as I drive the deserted streets on my way to work, thinking I’m in for an easy morning. God willing, some of the regulars won’t remember to set their clocks forward, so the breakfast rush won’t start as early.
A girl can dream.
I run through the routine in my mind as I exit the car and walk towards the back entrance: start the coffee, fill the creamers, top off the bowls filled with single-serving packs of butter, jam and syrup.
I don’t hear footsteps on gravel until the exact moment his filthy hand clamps over my mouth and my right arm is wrenched behind my back.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmurs, all soft-spoken and kind as he turns and walks us back in the direction of my car. He jerks my arm back again, making it feel as if it’s going to separate from my shoulder when I try in vain to kick at him. “Open the door,” he commands, voice low and menacing. My free hand shakes violently as I rifle through the contents of my bag feeling for the keys. “Open it,” he whispers encouragement, switching tack again, using a tone meant to persuade and deceive me. He wants me to believe the awful thing that’s happening isn’t actually happening.
“Get offa her!”
My face slams into the door as the man’s body is hit from behind. The attack is weak, though, merely knocking the man off balance rather than taking him down.
“Get inside!” Rudy yells as the man throws him to the ground.
I stand frozen. Rudy flails, kicking and throwing his hands out in a feeble attempt to land a blow, but he’s no match. Skin and bones beneath his dirty parka, a cast-off so large that the sleeves hang low and confine his hands, he retreats, clumsy, scurrying back in a crab-like crawl as the man comes after him. Rudy curls in on himself as the man kicks his boot into Rudy’s face over and over and over again.
No, no, no.
I scream and rush him from behind, swinging my bag like a machete in one hand and striking the back of his head with my keys in the other.
“Bitch!” he spits out.
When he reaches for my keys, I throw them as far as I can. Don’t ever let them get you into a car—I remember hearing that during some self-defense segment on a talk show once. And now I’m going to pay for my disobedience. Wrenching both hands behind my back, he pushes me towards the brick wall at the back entrance. I open my mouth to scream but no sound comes out. I picture our cook, Denny, with Metallica blasting as he preps the kitchen, and I know I have another twenty minutes before any of the other waitresses show up.
“You stuck up bitch,” he growls in my ear.
I’m wedged between him and the wall, my face pressed up against the brick. One of his large hands has both of mine trapped, his fingernails digging into my wrists. His breath is wet and heavy on my neck as he unfastens his belt. His weight shifts as he works his zipper.
I hear myself whimper, hear him uttering his filth, but the sounds are distant. I’m floating away from here.
Cold air hits my back once his crushing weight is off me and I fall to the ground.
“You piece of shit!” The man is on the ground now, his arms covering his face to block the repeated blows. “I’ll fucking kill you, Rudy!”
Simon lifts the man’s head and slams it into the ground once, twice, and then rains blows down on his midsection. Slumped against the wall, I listen, dazed, as the man moans like a wounded animal.
“Rudy.”
Simon looks to me, breathing heavy. He stands but then pauses, turning once to land a parting kick to the man’s side. “Rudy’s never gonna hurt you again,” he says softly, reaching down to pick me up off the ground.
“No! Rudy…He, he…I think he killed Rudy!”
Simon turns back to the man on the ground, nudging the bloodied face with his boot, taking him in. His eyes go wide when he turns back to me. “What happened?”
“Rudy…Rudy tried to help me, but, but he, he—”
“Okay, shh, shh.” He pulls me in close, smoothing my hair. “I’ve got you. I’ll help Rudy.”
He opens the back door of the diner. “Call 911,” he yells to Denny while ushering me inside to a booth.
As Simon turns to leave, I dig my fingernails into his arm. “He wasn’t attacking me.”
“What?”
“Please, tell them he was assaulting Rudy and I tried to stop him. That’s all.”
“Charlotte, you need to get checked out.”
“No!” I have to make him understand. “He didn’t do it. You stopped him. If-if-if you tell, I…You cannot tell.” I bat the tears away, composing myself as best I can. “I’m fine, I swear it.”
He looks me over from head to toe, pausing to assess that my clothes are still in place. He nods reluctantly as the approaching sirens get louder.
“Stay here…I’ll make sure Rudy tells them the same.” I nod in agreement and Simon runs back outside.
I stand on wobbly legs and make it into the bathroom just in time to throw up. I want to hide in the stall, stay crouched down on the cold tile floor, want to lean my head against the porcelain and cry, but I will myself to get up. Wetting a few scratchy paper towels from the dispenser, I scrub my hands and face, then rinse my mouth. Checking my face in the mirror, I note that aside from a scrape on my cheek that can be hidden with concealer, I look all right. He knocks and comes in as I’m putting my hair up with trembling hands.
“They took Rudy to the hospital.” I nod, unable to speak for fear of crying. “I’m sorry…I just assumed it was him. He’s a junkie.” He jams his battered hands into his pockets, shaking his head. “The police want to speak to you.”
I breathe deep, trying to mask the panicky feeling that’s taking hold. “Why?”
He looks away. “Guess to confirm what I just told them…That the guy was beating on Rudy, you intervened, and when he turned on you I showed up.”
“Okay.”
When I don’t move, he opens the door and gently takes my elbow to lead me out. “I think I saw your bag outside. Want me to go grab it?”
“Yeah, thanks Simon.”
I’m grateful that I don’t personally know the police officer they sent to question me. It’s all quick, matter of fact. He seems to buy my version of events. He asks about Simon twice, though, which makes me angry. He finally backs off when I repeat, “He was on his way to work, just like me. I’m grateful he showed up when he did.”
When I ask how Rudy is, the police officer tells me he was unconscious when they took him away in the ambulance. “And that man?”
“He�
��s in pretty bad shape too, but he’s in custody. Don’t worry about him coming around here again.”
“Thank you, officer.”
Simon comes over with my bag. “I think I got most of it.”
With the way I was swinging that bag, I imagine that money, makeup and tampons were probably strewn all about the parking lot. On a normal day I might have been embarrassed, but today I don’t possess the energy give one flip.
“I can tell Mr. Roberts I’ll be late if you want me to drive you home.”
“No, I’m working.”
The police officer gets up to go. “Is there anything else you need from us?” Simon asks.
“No, son.” He shakes Simon’s hand. “Sounds like you did good here today, real good. There’s been a string of assaults on women in Maconsville,” the officer says as he eyes me. “This guy fits the description, tattoo and all. If either of you are needed to testify, I have your information. I’ll be in touch.”
Simon slumps into the seat across from me. Two or three customers are clustered up by the register, looking over at us as they get the play by play from Denny. “Maybe you shouldn’t work today, Charlotte.”
I reach over absently and touch the cut skin on his right hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t work.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it gently. “Why didn’t you tell the truth?”
Looking away, I keep my voice to a whisper. “Is there any point in having the whole damn county know that I was almost sexually assaulted? I’d be nothing but a sordid tale for the gossips.”
“I get that.”
“And I’d have to quit this job...I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Why would I have to quit, or why would I want to keep working here?” I ask, attempting to joke. Simon smiles. He should do that more often. “My father would make me quit.”
“I can understand that.”
“My alternative is answering phones at the dealership working alongside his playboy bunny of a girlfriend.” I shake my head, standing up. “Not happening.”
