The Goat Children
Page 21
Chapter 28
The hallway smelled like dust balls. The hideous green carpet and faded yellow walls did nothing to help the appeal. When I walked past Michael, he shut the door and threw the single bolt.
A shiver coursed through my spine, but I shook away the sensation. He was being nice and making sure no one broke in and hurt me, nothing creepy. The narrow stairs creaked beneath our feet with mournful wails. A diamond-shaped window provided the only light. I switched my attention forward and blushed as my gaze landed on his butt. It was a nice butt, I decided, watching it shift beneath his tight jeans, the back pockets accentuating its firmness. He opened the sliding glass door at the top.
“That’s a weird door. It looks like something from a patio.” My voice echoed through the empty stairway.
Michael shrugged, shutting it behind me, like the door downstairs. He ran his hand over my arm before stepping into his living room. The wooden floors had no rugs. There was a large maroon couch and a table with a lamp. Across from the couch, a large-screen television sat on a stand.
“You don’t have much,” Crap, that sounded rude.
Michael shrugged, touching my arm again. “I don’t need much. Come into the kitchen and I’ll get you a drink.”
There was a table with four chairs, and other than the counters and refrigerator, nothing. I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, setting my purse on the tabletop.
Michael opened the refrigerator and grabbed two beer bottles. “You like Bud Light?”
“No, I m-mean…” I stammered, “I don’t drink b-b-beer.”
He laughed. “Chill out, babe. I was just offering. When I was your age, I’d have killed for a beer. How about a soda instead, or green tea?”
I wanted to decline, but my mouth felt dry. “I’ll have the green tea. Please.” He handed me a can. “Thank you. I … I never had it in a can before.”
“Huh.” He swung a chair around and dropped into it, leaning against the high back. He popped the lid off his beer and took a swig, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You still cold? You got your coat on.”
I pulled the zipper down with numb fingers and flexed my hand. The skin began to warm. I slid my arms out of the sleeves and spread it over the back of my chair.
Michael set his beer on the table and reached for my can. I watched his long fingers slide through the cap, snapping it open. They were man fingers—far thicker than mine, with stout nails.
“Thanks.” I would have loved cocoa or hot tea, but he’d offered the can, and it seemed wrong to decline it now—especially after he’d opened it. I took a sip. It tasted tangy and delicious. I took a longer sip.
I should call Uncle Jan. Instead, I watched Michael drink his beer. The muscles in his throat tensed and relaxed as he swallowed. His small Adam’s apple bounced.
He set down his beer. “You want to see my library?”
“You have a library in here?”
“Yeah. I collect classics. My grandpa got me into the hobby. Most of my stuff is at my mom’s, but I’ve got a lot here, anyway.” He stood up, and twirled the chair on one of its legs before pushing it into the table.
I stood and realized my boots were dripping snow all over the floor. So were his, but I blushed.
“We should, um, take off our shoes, I guess.”
“Sure, but the floor’s in pretty bad shape already.” He kicked off his sneakers, then drank from his beer while I unlaced my boots and removed them. I set them behind my chair, adding to the puddle dripping off my coat. I grabbed my iced tea and followed him to a small hallway with three doors.
“Bedroom.” He tapped the first door and moved to the second. “Bathroom, and this one,” he turned the knob, “is my library. Voila!”
Beneath the window rested a cluttered desk, complete with a computer and telephone. There was a table with an electric keyboard, and the final wall contained a bookcase. Books piled one atop the other, overflowed corkboard shelves.
I stepped over a pair of plaid boxers, averting my gaze although my cheeks flamed. Most of the books looked like first additions. I sipped the tea while I read the titles on the bindings.
“I get them at book sales.” His breath heated my cheek. I hadn’t realized he was that close.
“Cool.”
“My favorite is that one.” He tapped a blue book. “The complete works of Jane Austen. People usually look at me weird about that. I guess only girls are supposed to read her literature.”
“I think it’s pretty sexy you read it.” The words slipped out. Sexy? Why on Earth had I said that?
He chuckled, and his hand pressed against the small of my back. Then, he stepped away. Breath caught in my throat, and I coughed before taking another drink.
“Your pants are all wet,” he said.
“Yeah. I…fell in the snow.”
“You can’t go around like that.” He turned me around to face him. “I’ve got an old pair of pajama pants with a drawstring. Why don’t you go change into them?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
He held up one hand while he set his beer on a shelf. “Hey, I don’t mean anything by it. After you change, you can call your uncle. In the meantime, you really should change into something dry. You don’t want to catch pneumonia.”
“You can’t catch pneumonia from having wet pants.” I shouldn’t be here.
“Keziah, please.” He set both hands on my shoulders. “It would make me happy if you changed into something dry so you don’t get sick. Trust me, your family will understand under these circumstances.”
I opened my mouth to protest again, but then I thought about if I’d been back in New York City. If Michael were one of Tiffany’s friends, I would have no problem changing into his clothes until my mom came. In fact, it had happened once. Tiffany and I had visited one of her friends when the sky decided to downpour. The friend had lent me a dress.
Of course, Michael was male, and Tiffany’s friend was female, but overall it was the same thing. I shivered, aching for something warm and dry.
“Okay. Thanks.” The can crinkled, and I realized I’d tightened my hand into a fist. I relaxed it and took another drink.
“This way, Kezy.” Michael exaggerated a bow, leading me from his “library” to the bedroom.
The room was dark from the thick blanket spread over the window. There wasn’t a bed, only an air mattress. The closet door stood open, clothing spilling out to spread across the floor. He picked through the items until he came across a pair of red pants.
“The drawstring can go really tight, so they should fit you.” He pressed them into my hand. “I’ll wait outside while you change.”
He left the door open a crack; light from the kitchen spilled into the bedroom. I set the can on the floor and fumbled with the button on my jeans. The zipper was loud in the stillness of the room that smelled of Old Spice.
I pulled the pants down, along with my soggy panties, and stepped into the pajamas, the jersey fabric soft and worn. I tugged the drawstring, and tugged again. The fabric stuck, not wanting to tighten. I swore.
The door creaked and Michael drew a breath. I froze. He stood in the doorway with a dazed expression on his face, almost as if he’d seen something beautiful.
“I…um…it won’t…” My voice trailed off and my hands shook.
Michael pushed the door open the rest of the way. The floorboards creaked as he stepped toward me, framed in the glow of the kitchen light. He stopped when he was so close I could have reached out to touch him.
“I should call my uncle,” I whispered, but my lips didn’t want to move right.
As if in slow motion, I watched his hand ascend toward my face. He cupped my cheek, and I squeezed my eyes shut, breath snaring behind my teeth. This was a dream. I wasn’t the type of girl who got into compromising situations.
“Michael,” I squeaked. “No.”
“Yes.” He used his hand to tip my face up, and his lips pressed against mine.
> They were dry, rough, and then they were wet, moving against mine. He smelled of deodorant and shampoo. His other hand touched my back, sliding to my bottom, and he drew me against him. Something firm and large pressed against my stomach through his jeans.
I had to pull away before things went too far.
His lips parted against mine, and his tongue slid into my mouth. The scent of saliva filled my nostrils. I clung to the drawstrings until my hands hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to push him away.
I wanted to feel anything except anger. I ached to be needed, wanted, worthy.
His lips moved against mine, light kisses falling upon the corners of my mouth. He sucked on my lower lip, nipping it, and chuckled when I gasped.
“Keziah,” His lips moved over my jaw, spreading down to my neck. He licked my collarbone before biting my shoulder through my shirt.
His hands left my body, and he fumbled with the button on his jeans. I stood frozen in place, eyes widening as he dropped his pants. They pooled around his ankles, and his black boxers joined them. I squeezed my eyes shut. No, no, no!
He pushed my shirt up to my shoulders and slid his palms across my breasts.
“We can’t fool around right now.” I forced myself to step away, and I stared at the doorway, unable to look at him.
“Keziah,” he moaned.
My name sounded like magic on his lips. His lips… I really wanted to taste them again. Longing pooled in my belly, rippling through my limbs until my nerves jumped. My legs trembled.
He released me to pull off his shirt, then his undershirt. Muscles defined across his arms and torso. My hands had a will of their own as they traced his abdomen to count each dip in his six-pack abs.
This was unreal.
“You don’t want me,” I whispered. “I’m just a little girl.”
“I want to make love to you.”
“Michael,” I rasped. “Michael, wait, listen to me, please. I’m…I’m a virgin.”
He sucked on my lips harder. “That’s okay, I’ll be gentle. I’ve had virgins before. You don’t have to worry.”
The blatant way he stated he’d been with other women made me step back again. I wanted to ask him how old he was the first time he’d had sex, but the words dried on my tongue.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have any STDs. I’ve checked.” His hands slid over my arms to cup my elbows, drawing me nearer. “Let me take away all the pain. I can help you forget.”
Pain. Forget. I allowed him to kiss me, but my mind whirled in other directions. My mother’s voice nagged my conscience: “Do only what I’d want you to do.”
I leaned against Michael. Yes, please, make me forget. Make me feel normal.
Make me feel loved.
He dropped to his haunches on his inflatable mattress bed and yanking me down. I stumbled, landing on my bottom. The mattress shifted, th material thicker than I’d expected. Michael knelt beside me, gripping my shoulders to push me onto my back.
I turned my head away, gasping. “Michael, wait! I’ve always wanted to…to wait…until…until I got…married.” The words blurted forth, enflaming my cheeks. I wanted my wedding night to be more than a new chapter in my life’s story, a stepping-stone. Something to share with the man of my dreams.
My parents— No, I cringed, not my parents. My mother and uncle. They never discussed sex with me. It was one of those unwritten rules, like not running around naked or eating poison.
“Shh.” Michael pressed his finger over my lips.
Maybe he thought about marriage too. Maybe there was something about me that gripped his attention. He might think of me as the one for him.
“I’m sorry.” I wiggled away from him. “I want to wait until we’ve at least been on a few dates.”
“Aw, babe, you know we can’t date. It would be too weird. I’m done with college and you’re still in high school.”
He didn’t think of me as the one. I stood up to grab my sopping jeans.
“Keziah—”
“No.”
****
I am fourteen years old. A boy moves into the apartment below ours. His name is Chris, he is fifteen, and he goes to public high school. I take Phebe down to the lobby with me every afternoon to people watch, but I really want to wait for Chris to come home. He always says hi. Once, the three of us bought doughnuts from a vendor, even though Phebe and I aren’t supposed to leave the building before our parents come home.
After a month, I gather my courage. “Will you go out with me?”
My parents and I have never discussed dating, but Chris lives near us, so I’m sure it will be okay.
He rubs his short red hair. “I’m sorry, Kez, but I can’t. It would be too weird.”
My face stings as though he slapped me. “How would that be weird?” My voice rises too shrilly, and the concierge glances at us.
“Because you already live here with me.” Chris wanders to the elevator, leaving me alone with Phebe.
When Mama comes home, I meet her at the door. “Chris doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
“That’s too bad.” She puts her coat on its hook.
I wonder if she remembers who Chris is.
“Can I call Oma and talk to her?” I’m not allowed to call long-distance without Mama or Dad.
“Oh, honey, Oma doesn’t care about things like that.” Mama fills the teakettle with water from the faucet. “You’ll make other friends.”
“But we’ve been here for years, and I only know Tiffany and Chris.” I hate the tears that threaten my eyes. “Chris hates me now.”
“Oma already dislikes New York City. Don’t give her more to hate.” Mama puts the kettle on the stove. “Would you like peppermint tea or chamomile?”
“Neither,” I grumble. Maybe Mama is right. Oma does hate the city, so she probably wouldn’t want to discuss Chris.
I don’t call her.
Chapter 29
As I opened the door, Michael folded his hand over mine on the knob. “Keziah? Really, if she doesn’t let you in, or your uncle doesn’t do anything, or whatever, you can come back. I don’t want you outdoors.”
I’d sleep under a car before I came back here. “Okay.” I jogged down the stairs and out into the night. Once the snow struck my red cheeks, I allowed the tears to flow. I couldn’t call Uncle Jan. I couldn’t face him after what had happened with Michael.
I couldn’t face Oma, either, but I’d noticed something through Michael’s kitchen window to solve the issue.
I ran around Oma’s garage to the gate. Snow and ice covered the chain-link fence, but I grabbed the top and hoisted myself over, using my feet for purchase. The metal bit into my skin; I gritted my teeth and dropped into the snow on the other side. I fought my way to Oma’s apple tree.
The branches rested on the roof of the enclosed back porch. I had never been athletic, had never tried to climb a tree, but I jumped to grip the lowest branch. Holding on, I walked my feet up the trunk of the tree, swung them over, and sat up. I grabbed the next branch and swung onto that one. If I fell, I would land in snow knee-high.
The branches higher up the tree were thinner, breakable. I crawled across a branch still relatively thick. I slid my legs along, holding my breath. The edge of the roof drew near, covered in snow, but I grabbed the edge, launching myself off the branch.
The snow slipped down my collar to nip my skin. I scrambled and clawed, fighting my way up the slope of the roof, all so white and pure.
I felt dirty and horrid after making out with Michael. At least the cold took my mind away from that shame.
When I got to the top of the sloping roof, I paused. That dormer window led to the attic, but the other window opened into the bedroom Mama and I had shared when we stayed over.
The lock on that window was broken, and it didn’t meet the windowsill right, so Mama had stuffed a rag into the bottom. My hands shook as I opened my purse. I pulled out a pen and shoved it under the window, working it against t
he sill. It dented the wood, but the window moved a little. Good, it wasn’t frozen shut.
The window lifted enough for me to fit my fingers into the crack. I stood, bracing my feet against the roof, and lifted the window higher. I pushed the rag away and tossed my purse in, then lay down on my stomach to squeeze inside. The sill pressed into my belly and ribs, but I curled my fingers into claws, grabbing the desk inside. My legs kicked without effect into the snow, so I used my arms.
My elbow struck the desk, and my shoulder bumped the lamp. I fell over, my hip striking the floor.
The full moon reflected off the snow to brighten the room, but I turned on the lamp anyway. The fake orange glow illuminated the boxes Oma left on the floor. At least they weren’t in front of the window. That would have really hurt if I’d landed on them.
I closed the window and scowled, kicking a box. Snores came from downstairs.
“Good for you.” Why doesn’t she care about me? I couldn’t even ask Oma that question because my grandmother wouldn’t know. She didn’t make sense.
I peeled off my wet clothes and threw them in a corner. In the dresser drawers, I found Oma’s old clothes. I pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with a picture of a cat.
“You and your stupid Goat Children.” I pulled back the blankets on the upstairs bed and huddled into them, turned my face to the pillow, and wept.
I didn’t cry from the pain in my heart or the tingles as my fingers returned to life.
I wept because the Oma, who had once been my loving grandmother, was gone forever.
****
In the morning, Oma was her usual self, relying on me to get her dentures brushed and breakfast laid out. I gave her clothes to wear, and like always, she didn’t acted grateful.
At school, Meg asked, “Is everything okay at home?”
“Oma was really mad.” I unwrapped a stick of mint gum, Meg’s peace offering.
“But everything is okay?”