Luciana

by Maggie Wells

  Me: “Why are trees tall?”

  Artie, with a quizzical look: “How tall are the trees on the planet that you are from?”

  Me: “How small are the people on YouTube?”

  Mike, pinching his fingers together and squinting into the camera: “This big.”

  That video got three thousand views.

  I filmed the boys playing tennis, a game in which every other ball was hit over the back fence. Every afternoon we went to the community pool, where I filmed them splashing around and jumping off the diving board.

  Mike: “When do we learn how to breathe underwater?”

  That video got thirty-two hundred views.

  Roxanne wore a tiny string bikini. I thought about filming her as she sashayed around the deck, trying to draw attention to herself but that felt a little exploitative. So, while the boys took their swimming and diving lessons, Roxanne and I sunned ourselves on striped towels that we spread out on the steaming concrete. I was working on an awesome tan—one that I could not wait to show off to all the boys back home in Pittsburgh, assuming I could ever go home again.

  On rainy days, I played Yahtzee and Go Fish with the boys and taught them how to play chopsticks on the upright piano in the upstairs hall. I don’t know why the piano was in the hall. That’s the thing about babysitting—the parents are entrusting you with not only their precious little darlings, but also the intimacy of their quirks and habits.

  Roxanne was always glued to her computer. If her father knew what she was doing on her computer, I am sure he would have banned it as well. But I wasn’t going to tell him that she had posted a profile on OKCupid or that she was chatting with men, some as old as thirty!

  “I have a boyfriend,” Roxanne said into the camera. “His name is Isaac and he said he wants to meet you.”

  “Me?” I asked. “Why would he want to meet me?”

  “He asked me about you and I told him you were really pretty,” she said.

  “Well, that’s kind of creepy,” I said.

  “Can he come over?” Roxanne asked.

  “Have you met this guy?” I asked. “I mean in person?”

  “Last Saturday,” Roxanne said. “Dad dropped me at the mall and Isaac met me there.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “We had sex,” Roxanne said.

  “At the mall?” I asked.

  “No!” Roxanne laughed. “Sex at the mall—how does that even work? No, he took me to his house.”

  “Roxanne, that sounds really dangerous,” I said.

  “Sex?” Roxanne asked. “I love sex. I have sex all the time, back home.”

  That video got one million views.

  At this point, I paused the camera. “Does your mom know?” I asked.

  “No,” Roxanne said. “And don’t you tell her!”

  “I don’t even know your mom,” I said. “How could I tell her anything? How old is this dude, anyway?”

  “Isaac?” Roxanne asked. “He’s twenty. Do you want to meet him?”

  “No, I said. “And I don’t think you should be seeing him, either.”

  “Have you had sex?” Roxanne asked.

  I know what you’re thinking. I was the babysitter, paid the big bucks to protect my young charges. But her question took me by surprise. Should I pretend that I was a virgin to set an example for her? That might make her seem more experienced than me—that could adversely affect our sitter-sat relationship. On the other hand, would admitting that I too “loved sex”—and for probably all the same reasons that she did—be seen as encouraging her risky behavior? Let’s face it—I didn’t give a shit what she did with boys on her own time. She certainly wouldn’t be having any sex on my watch. I decided to deflect the question.

  “Roxanne,” I said. “Sex is a very private thing. It’s not something you go around talking about. Have you ever heard your dad talk about it? Or your mom or your teachers? That’s just something that adults do not do. You are very mature for your age and you should start acting like a grown-up, right?” Okay, so I was laying it on a bit thick. But she took the bait.

  “You think I am mature?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “You have the body of a woman.”

  Roxanne grinned and embraced me in a big hug. “Isaac tells me that I am beautiful,” she said.

  I heard their words in my head: “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Roxanne,” I said, speaking slowly. “Boys will say anything to you to get into your pants. Anything. Let’s face it, boys lie.”

  “You don’t think I’m beautiful?” she asked.

  Okay, now we were getting into some dangerous territory.

  “Give yourself a few years, and I think you have all the signs of growing into a real beauty someday,” I lied. I don’t even know where I came up with a stupid phrase like that. With those buckteeth she would be more likely to grow up looking like a horse.

  FOUR

  UNBEKNOWNST TO ME, ROXANNE HAD TOLD ISAAC TO meet us at the pool the next day. While the boys were in the middle of their swimming lessons, Isaac showed up. He was a tall, wiry, black dude. He stripped off his t-shirt to display his ripped abs and pecs.

  Roxanne jumped up. “Isaac!” she squealed. “You came! Do you want to go in the pool with me?”

  I sat there helplessly as Roxanne jumped into the shallow end and Isaac followed. I watched them frolicking and tackling each other, splashing everyone around them. I had no idea how her bikini bottom managed to cling to her bony ass as she dove after Isaac. But I filmed every second of the action.

  That video only got five-hundred-thousand views.

  Clearly, Roxanne hasn’t thought this through. How is she going to keep the boys from telling their mom?

  Finally they got out of the pool. Roxanne scooted self-consciously into the restroom and Isaac approached our spot on the deck.

  “Isaac,” I hissed. “Do you see those little kids in the red trunks?” I gestured toward Artie and Mike.

  Isaac nodded.

  “Those guys are Roxanne’s brothers—well, step-brothers, actually,” I said. “They could get you two busted. I need you to pretend that you two just met. You just met at the pool, right?”

  “I’m cool,” Isaac said. “You’ll tell Roxy?”

  “I’ll handle her,” I said. “When the boys finish their lesson, we’ll introduce you as someone we just met, and then I think you need to go sit somewhere else. On the other side of the pool or something.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll take off. Let Roxy know?”

  “Even better idea,” I said.

  “Where’s Isaac?” Roxanne cried when she emerged from the restroom.

  “He said something about work,” I lied. “Where does he work?”

  “Some burger joint downtown,” Roxanne said. “He is a cook.”

  “Well, there must have been some fast-food emergency,” I said. “He had to take off.”

  “I’ll text him.” Roxanne dug in her tote bag for her phone.

  Shit! I forgot to clear the story with him. What if she catches me in a lie?

  She emptied her tote bag on the pool deck. No phone. “Damn!” she cried. Fortunately, she had left her phone at home.

  “Want me to text him?” I suggested. “What’s his number?”

  She actually knew his number by heart.

  I texted Isaac: I told Roxanne that you had to go to work. Cool?

  He responded, OK.

  “I told him you left your phone at home and you’ll text him later,” I said. “He said okay.”

  She stood there, gangly in her skimpy bikini, squinting off into the distance as though she might see him lurking behind the fence or something.

  “Why don’t you practice your underwater swimming and when the boys are done, we’ll go home and I’ll make a snack?” I suggested.

  “All right,” she said with a big sigh.

  I had just gotten out of the water and was
lying in the sun to dry when a shadow loomed over me.

  “Hi,” the shadow spoke.

  I shielded my eyes and squinted up. I looked around for Roxanne. She was in the pool, doing awkward handstands in the shallow end. Where is my camera when I need it?

  “Mind if I sit next to you?” he asked. He proceeded to spread his towel out on the deck and the edges of his towel encroached slightly onto mine. He was wearing a faded blue speedo, which was snug against his junk, and nothing else. I sat up on my elbows and bent my right knee, doing my best to look fetching.

  “I’m Chip,” he said. “You are here every day.”

  I looked at him harder and recognized him. Chip was one of the lifeguards, as well as the boys’ diving instructor. His chest was covered with curly hair that had been bleached blonde from hours in the punishing sun. His torso was toned a deep bronze and his nose was covered in a thick layer of zinc oxide.

  “Mike and Artie, right?” he asked. “Are they your brothers?”

  “I am the babysitter,” I said.

  “You’re the babysitter? Wish I had a hot chick like you sitting me when I was seven! Do you have a name, babysitter?” he asked.

  “Luci,” I said. I had been admiring Chip from afar for weeks, his stocky, muscular torso that he had honed as captain of his high school diving team. I particularly liked filming him as he walked around the deck of the pool, his gaze always fixed on the kids in the water. I loved the way he strutted around the pool; I suspected he knew that all the girls were staring at the curve of his ass, which threatened to burst the seams of the tired old nylon. Most of the day he sat in a deck chair in front of the pool office, his eyes behind dark lenses fixed on the surface of the pool. But every so often, the guards would shift positions and then he would climb the ladder to the guard chair that was bolted to a platform suspended high above the deep end. From there he would yell at the kids to stop horsing around on the diving boards.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be saving lives?” I asked.

  “I’m on a break,” he said. He lay down on his back. “Out late last night, need a nap.” His voice faded. “Wake me up in fifteen minutes?”

  I lay down close to Chip and inhaled his scent of coconut oil, perspiration, and zinc oxide. I set the alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes and closed my eyes. I figured the other lifeguards could keep their eyes on Roxanne and the boys.

  The alarm jolted us both awake.

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “Back to work.” He leapt to his feet athletically and rolled up his towel. “What are you doing Friday night?”

  “Me?” I asked.

  “Want to go to a party?” he asked.

  “Sure!” I said. “Can you pick me up from babysitting? Like six-thirty?”

  Oh my God! The hot lifeguard that I have been lusting over for weeks just asked me out! This could turn out to be the best summer ever!

  FIVE

  ON FRIDAY EVENING, I WAITED AT THE CURB IN FRONT of the Rupczynski house wondering if Chip had forgotten about inviting me. Or maybe he hadn’t really meant it. I was about to get on my bike and head for home when he pulled up in a cherry-red pickup.

  “Sorry I’m late, kid,” he said. “I had to close the pool tonight.” He picked up my bike with one arm and lifted it into the bed of his truck.

  I climbed into the passenger seat and Chip hopped in behind the wheel.

  “The party doesn’t start until nine,” Chip said. “I thought we could go down to the river and hang out. Do you want some?”

  Chip took a hit on a joint and offered it to me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We drove to a secluded spot in a wooded area. Chip turned off the engine and sat staring through the windshield into the distance.

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Dad.

  Where are you?

  I told you I was going to a party. Home by 12.

  Your curfew is at 11.

  OK, Dad. 11!

  We’re leaving early tomorrow for Batavia.

  I know!

  “Who is that?” Chip asked.

  “My dad,” I said. “My aunt died.”

  “Do you need to go?” Chip said.

  “Her funeral is tomorrow,” I said. “In Illinois. He wants me home by eleven o’clock.”

  “No problem,” Chip said.

  Chip took my hand and we walked along the Sac and Fox trail, dodging horse riders, bikers, and joggers. Can you believe it? I was actually thinking about Rox and the boys—wondering if I could bring them here—a little diversion from our usual routine of park and pool.

  “This is really nice,” I said.

  “There is a little place up here,” he said. He led me to a spot a little bit off of the trail, a patch of grass that was surrounded by brush and hidden from the path.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said.

  He spread out a blanket and offered me a flask.

  “Thirsty?” he asked.

  I took the flask and sniffed.

  “Vodka?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do you like vodka?”

  “Who doesn’t?” I said. I took a big gulp. The burning in my throat quickly became a sensation of warmth that spread down through my neck and shoulders.

  Chip grinned in approval.

  He pushed me down onto the blanket and pressed his body onto mine. He still smelled like the pool. He held me down with all of his weight and pressed his lips to mine. I melted into him.

  With one hand, he pulled a sheet out of his backpack and spread it over us. There really wasn’t much in the way of foreplay. He took off my clothes and then he took off his clothes. He offered me some weed. I said okay. He offered me some more vodka. I sipped it and kind of liked it. He offered me some pills. That seemed a little scary, so I told him no, thanks. Then he buried his face in between my legs. I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do. He lapped at me like a dog at his water bowl. It was not that it was unpleasant, exactly, but frankly, I got a little bored. Okay, I thought. I hope this is doing something for you, because it’s not doing anything for me.

  At some point he decided that he was ready or I was ready or something. He made me get on top of him and all I could think of was that scene in Lolita. Yes, I read literature!

  I woke up shivering, naked under the sheet. The stars were out. Chip was passed out next to me, snoring gently.

  I pulled my clothes on quietly. He hadn’t moved so I poked Chip on the shoulder. He moaned.

  “Psst,” I hissed. “Wake up!”

  Chip came to and pulled his pants on.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  I checked my phone. “Nine-thirty,” I said.

  “Do you still want to go to the party?” Chip asked.

  “Okay,” I said. “But, remember I need to be home by eleven.”

  “Right,” Chip said.

  We walked back to his truck. I fixed my makeup in the rearview mirror.

  “That was my first time,” I lied. I always said that, although the boys back home didn’t seem to believe me anymore. I assumed that word had spread.

  “Geez,” Chip said. “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” I said.

  “Geez,” Chip said again. “It sure seemed like you knew what you were doing.”

  The party was loud. A crowd of drunken college kids played beer pong in the dining room, shouting over the music blaring from the sound system, while others smoked pot in the backyard. I went off in search of the bathroom and when I returned, Chip had disappeared. I perched on the arm of the sofa and considered my alternatives. I whipped out my iPhone and started filming the party. It wasn’t long before some dude approached with an extra cup in his hand.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said, oblivious to the camera.

  “Do I know you?” I asked. I accepted the plastic cup and sniffed. “What is this?”

  “It’s called a boilermaker,” he said. “Taste it. It’s good.”

  I
took a tentative sip. It tasted bitter. What did he take me for, a fool? I’d heard all the stories of girls being drugged at parties. I made obvious glances over his shoulder.

  “Are you looking for someone?” he asked. As soon as he turned his head I dumped the contents of the cup into the crack between the sofa cushions.

  He turned his attention back to me and leaned over me. His breath was hot and acrid. His sweat smelled like day-old beer. He grabbed my breasts and clawed at my buttons.

  “Hey, take it easy,” I cried. “Don’t rip my blouse.”

  “I bet you got great tits,” he slurred. “Let me see.”

  I pushed him hard and he staggered backward.

  “Bitch!” He lunged at me but I dodged away and he crashed into a floor lamp, knocking it over.

  Some guy rushed over. “Hey, dude,” he said. “Don’t trash the place!”

  That video got two million views. My audience was growing.

  I took advantage of the chaos to escape to the front porch. Chip was sitting on a bench making out with some girl. His hands were inside her shirt.

  “Chip,” I said. “Can you give me a ride home?”

  Chip looked up at me. His eyes were slits.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll call a cab.”

  Dad was already asleep and I tiptoed through the apartment, skirted the stupid raised platform, and crawled into bed.

  SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING, I CHECKED THE CALENDAR ON MY phone and counted the days since I had entered an X indicating twenty-eight days. Shit! My period is two weeks late!

  Dad was in the kitchen making breakfast. As soon as the smell of eggs and bacon wafted into the air, I had to rush to the bathroom. There wasn’t much in my stomach to throw up. My mouth tasted sour afterwards and the smell of my own bile made me retch again. When there was nothing left inside of me, I splashed cold water onto my face and smothered myself in a washcloth. I brushed my teeth and stared into the mirror. Damn it! I have to walk right past the kitchen to get to my room.