If I tell this to Nate, he won’t get it. His response will be that he can take care of me, but that’s not what I want. If I’m ever to mean something more to Nate than little Charlotte, the girl he remembers crying because her cupcake was smashed, then I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.
My illness has only accelerated this problem. I suspect that if I let him he’d still be cutting my food ten years from now. But while his hands would be feeding me from his fork, his attention would be wandering. I’d be a needy invalid, and he’d want someone who could walk beside him.
“You’re breaking up the Three Amigos,” he says lightly, but I can hear a faint accusation there. I dread facing Nick tomorrow.
“You’re just mad because you don’t get to leave first. And because you like to tell Nick and me what to do.”
“I resemble that remark,” he quips. Gently, he unwinds himself from my embrace and rises. My heart catches as I fear he’s going to leave. I’m not ready for him to go. I push up on my knees and reach out for him. He towers over me on the side of the bed, a fierce look on his face. Cupping my cheek and chin in one hand, Nathan rubs my face with the back of his little finger. It’s a light caress, but I savor it all the same. “I can’t figure this one out, but I’m not going to argue tonight.”
He pulls me to my feet and then reaches over to pull down the covers. “I’m going to hold you tonight, even though your dad or mom may kill me in the morning, but that’s all we’re going to do.” Was this a warning for me or him?
We lie down together, our sides barely touching in the large bed. He reaches over and links his fingers through mine.
“How long?” he whispers.
“Three weeks. Right after New Year’s.”
His fingers tighten almost painfully on mine for a moment, but I don’t move at all.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says.
I’m not sure what we have left to figure out, but I’m too tired to ask. He’s beside me, and we’re lying together, our hands entwined. It’s enough for now.
11
Nathan
I spend most of the night with one eye open just waiting for Charlotte’s parents to burst through the door, but even with that anxiety hovering around the edges of my consciousness I don’t leave. Charlotte’s hand tucked into mine is more effective than a chain bolted to the floor. I can tell that she is confused by my response to her, and I am as well. These feelings came on so fast, and neither of us are prepared. I had some vague idea Charlotte and I would end up together, but that was in the future. Her being sick, nearly dying has changed things. But we aren’t ready. I’m not ready.
The memory of the last time I had sex flicks through my mind. It’s been a while. Months. I know other guys would either be having sex with other girls or be taking Charlotte up on her offer. Although what she is offering, I’m not sure.
And it’s not like Charlotte and I are dating or even a couple. We’re connected though.
For so long I’ve just taken for granted that she’ll be around when I’m ready for her. And right now she’s too young, and I’m trying hard to push away those physical feelings. Emotional ones are okay, but I feel two inches high whenever I get hard around her.
But going off to another girl?
That seems just as wrong now. Before, yeah, it was easy. The idea of not having sex for some interminable amount of time in the future is bleak. I wonder if I can die from a build up of sperm or if my dick really will fall off if I jerk it too much in the shower. Maybe it would be better if she left. If she was gone, wouldn’t it be easier for me to go without? No temptation around.
I hold myself immobile so I don’t disturb her sleep, but she finally lets go right before dawn. It’s about the time I usually get up and lift weights, so I tell myself it’s okay to leave her. She mumbles something, but I don’t catch it. Leaning over, I tuck the blankets around her and kiss her forehead.
“Naaaate.” She sighs out my name, the word sounding like one long breathy syllable, and it sends shivers down my spine. And I’m hard. Just like that. Adjusting myself, I creep out, glad that the hallway is quiet. All doors are shut, and I can escape into my own home unnoticed. The kitchen is dark except for the range light over the hood.
“You can spend as much time as you like with her before she leaves, but she is leaving.”
My hand is on the doorknob, but my heart is somewhere around my knees. If I had poor bladder control, I would have pissed myself. At least my boner died.
“Jesus Christ, Aunt AnnMarie,” I swear, forgetting myself. In the shadows across the room sits Charlotte’s mother, a mug in her hand and her tablet in front of her on the breakfast table. I hope she didn’t see me tenting my pants earlier. I won’t die from sperm build up. One of Charlotte’s parents will kill me instead. “I d-didn’t see you,” I stammer out.
“No kidding.” I can hear the smirk in her voice. “The fog comes on little cat feet.”
“Huh?”
“Carl Sandberg.” When I show no understanding, she shakes her head. “Schools these days. It’s about the Chicago Harbor! ‘The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.’ You’ve never heard that?”
It rings a faint bell so I nod, but she isn’t buying it. “Come,” she orders. “Sit down.”
I trudge over, my feet slapping heavily against the tiles. She kicks out a chair, and I drop into it.
“Why?” I ask sullenly, feeling like I’m a toddler again and Aunt AM is taking away my favorite toy.
I can feel her looking at me, but the light from the range hood doesn’t extend over here. The only light is from her tablet, which has flickered off. Gone to sleep I guess.
“If Charlotte wanted to go to the Navy Pier, would you take her?”
I know that there is a trap here. I hesitate, and it’s my first mistake. “No,” I say.
“How do you stop her? Physically restrain her? And if she tells you that it is fine and that her doctor has okayed it, do you call her a liar?” The questions come rapid fire, and I can’t process them all at once. “You eventually give in because you love her and you think she must know, after this most recent episode put her in the hospital, that she can’t keep hiding her weakness.”
I nod slowly at this assessment, but I’m uncertain. Would I keep Charlotte from doing something she said she was safe to do? Charlotte can talk me into anything, and if she said that it was safe I’d believe her. My tongue is still frozen by doubt. Aunt AM continues on, using my silence against me.
“And if she had an episode, a seizure or passed out, would you blame yourself?” I nod again because anything else would be an obvious lie. “We want to prevent that from happening. Where you’re blaming yourself and Charlotte avoids placing all of you in a bad situation.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Six, maybe nine months. We hope to be back before her junior year starts.”
I’m glad now that we can’t see each other because what I’m feeling right now is something like relief. I shouldn’t feel that way, but it’s like Charlotte’s absence will give me time to sort out everything.
“Before May 21st?”
As she raises one eyebrow, I fight hard not to flush under her knowing gaze. Yes, I am counting down the days until Charlotte turns sixteen.
With a small smile, she responds, “Maybe before her 16th birthday. It depends on how hard Charlotte works at getting better. Does she do everything her doctors ask, or does she try to hide her symptoms and pretend she isn’t as sick as she is?”
“Okay,” I say. I mean, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. AnnMarie gets to her feet and gives me a hug. Standing up, I return her embrace, already feeling a hundred times better.
“It’s the right thing for all of us,” she murmurs to me.
“Thanks. I get it.” I’m nearly at the connecting door when she calls out.
“Don’t let Bo know you are marking when Charlotte turn
s sixteen, or you might not live to see your next birthday.”
Because I am a stupid and reckless shit I give her a salute and a grin. She mock tosses her tablet at me, and I disappear down the hall. My cocky belief that all will work itself out reasserts itself. Six months? Nothing can happen that would affect us in six months. By then Charlotte won’t be so young. Sixteen is perfect. Six months is perfect.
12
Charlotte
There are different colors and sizes, and I’m a little stumped by the choices I have. ”Where does your sister get all these?” I ask Greta. She’s on my old gymnastics team and a fellow North Prep sophomore. We’ve been friends for a while, although not close. It’s been hard to make friends with girls as I’ve gotten older due to the Jackson brothers, because the boys, rather than me, are the main attraction. Greta has expressed interest in Nick which is why I picked her to come over instead of someone else, someone who might like Nate.
“I think when you go to college they’re in your welcome packet.” She runs her fingers through the pile, messing them up, and then she re-sorts them. Greta has a lot of nervous energy. One of her extremities—an arm or foot—has to constantly be in motion. I’m too weak for nerves these days. I only have the energy for doing.
“I can’t wait.” But really I’m not even sure if that’s a truthful statement. College was once a foregone conclusion. Nick and I had talked about it often—arguing about whether I would go to Notre Dame where he hoped to get a football scholarship. Nate, now that I think about it, never participated in those discussions. I’ve lived so much in the moment with the future this nebulous forward mass that was simply full of opportunity, hopes, and dreams. Was being the key word now. My future is still nebulous but the shape of it has changed, and I don’t like looking at it anymore.
“I know. Me either.”
She picks up a gold foil one and one that is lime green. I can’t imagine putting one of these on Nathan and definitely not a lime green one. I pluck the gold foiled one out of her hands. “I’ll take this one.”
“The green one tastes like lemon-lime,” she sings.
I make a face and stick the gold one under my pillow. We chat a little while longer until Dad comes by and says that the car is ready to take Greta home.
As I’m getting ready for bed, it occurs to me that I should have had Greta bring over something sexy to wear. I have nothing that might stir a boy’s interest. My bras are plain and so are my underwear, and what’s not plain is rather juvenile.
Perhaps I could filch something from Mom. I creep out of my bedroom and down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. Their door is closed, but I hear their voices which means there is no way I can get inside. Turning I start to head back to my room when I hear my name and then Nathan’s. Instead of leaving, I draw closer and press my ear to the door.
“Aren’t we just saying ‘Sure, Nate, come and defile our angel all you want. In fact, let me buy you the condoms. Need any help slipping them on?’” It is Dad, sounding surly and gruff, a pretty unusual state for him. He’s always easy-going with Mom and me. I make a sad face for him. I hate that my daddy is sad because of me, but does he really think I’m never ever going to have sex? That sounds pretty dismal. How would I ever have kids? How would they have grandkids?
“If her current medical regime wouldn’t have made birth control contraindicated, I would have put her on the pill.” Mom’s voice is farther away, and I can barely make out her words. My guess is she’s standing in the adjacent bathroom and Dad is sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace in their bedroom. He’s probably drinking Scotch or something amber in color. I’ve learned that anything darker than, say, a Mountain Dew is going to make me sick.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, sunshine. “
Mom laughs. “Didn’t we make the decision together that we’d rather have Charlotte experience safe sex than explore it with strangers without protection?”
“Sure, but we made that decision when she was eight and still called me Daddy unironically. I thought I had a good twenty years before she’d start thinking about sex.”
Really, Dad? When I was thirty? I stop making my sad face for him. Now I’m frowning.
“Would you really not want your baby girl to enjoy sex, Bo? That’s your wish for her?”
“I feel like this is a trick question. Like there’s no right answer.”
I hear him shift on the sofa and then footsteps. Mom’s voice is louder, clearer now. She’s joined him on the sofa. “I’m not ready for her to grow up either, but I don’t see how we stop it, and I’d rather she learn about stuff from someone like Nathan who’d gnaw off his own arm before he hurt her than some other stupid North Prep punk.”
“When you put it like that . . .” Dad sounds reluctant, but he’s obviously given up the fight. I grin to myself.
“Besides it’s only for a short while, and I put the fear of God into Nate this morning.”
“You did? Because I worked him over last night with the whole ‘I trust you not to betray the goodwill of your aunt and me.’”
There’s a slapping of hands as if they’ve just high-five each other. My parents. Gah.
“We make such a good team,” says my mom.
“I know,” Dad says smugly. “Now swing your leg over here, sunshine, and let’s practice some of our other team moves. Like the one where you—” His voice is abruptly cut off, and there aren’t any more words, just noises that gross me out.
Wrinkling my nose, I straighten up only to run into a Nate-sized wall. He places a hand over my mouth to stifle a yelp of surprise and then winks at me, slowly dragging me down the hall to my bedroom.
“So your parents still get it on regularly?” He grins.
Inside my room, I flop onto the bed and try to shut out the visual. “Gross, Nate. Really.”
“Why’s that gross you out? How do you think you were born?”
“Do you really want to think about your parents having sex?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m thinking about it every day, but don’t you think that it’s cool that they’re so into each other even after all this time? I mean, yeah, it’s not like I want to watch my dad chase my mom around the living room every night, but it makes me glad that they still work for each other years after they met. Don’t you want that?”
I do, and I know who I want it with.
He nudges me over and climbs onto the bed next to me. Plumping the pillow his hand brushes something and it crackles. Oh no, the condom. Nate sits up and pulls it out.
“What’s this” His face looks hard.
“A condom?”
“I know, but why do you have it under your pillow?”
I make a pffft noise. “Why do you think?”
There’s nothing for me to do but brazen it out.
“Who gave this to you?” His hand crumples the condom making me worry about the integrity of the rubber.
Reaching over, I pluck it from his hand and try to smooth it out, a little perturbed he’s jumping to some crazy assumptions and ruining my plans. “I think you ruined it.”
He takes it from me and throws it across the room. “I didn’t ruin it, and you’re not going to need it.”
“Geesh, Nathan, you’re as bad as my dad.” I lean up on one elbow to stare at him, acutely conscious that I’m wearing an old snoopy T-shirt and some sweatpants. I get cold really easily these days. I’m unsexy and frail and probably the last thing that Nathan wants. These past weeks the attention he’s given me has probably all been out of pity. Fine then, I’ll use the damn condom with someone else. I drop onto my back and start rifling through all the North Prep guys that might help me out. I’ll ask Nick tomorrow. He’d make a face, but ultimately he’d help me.
Nathan runs a hand through his hair and falls back on the bed. “It’s not like that.”
Not like what? I think. I burst out, “Is it because I’m too thin? My port is too ugly?”
“Do you re
ally think I’m that shallow?” He looms over me now, his big body like a plank of wood. Stiff, straight, and hard.
“What is your problem then?” I yell at him.
He slaps a hand over my mouth to stifle the noise. Sitting up, he drags me over to sit on the edge of the bed, and then he drops to his haunches between my legs. He lays his head sideways so that one cheek rests against my knee. It’s the most intimate position I’ve ever had with a boy, and it’s setting my heart racing. He kisses the scar I got on my knee when I dragged myself over the carpet in the television room, not realizing that Nick had left his Leatherman tool open. I’d cut myself, and then Nick and I were afraid to tell anyone so it got infected and healed badly. Nick got a whooping and so did I. Nate was mad at both of us for a week and hid Nick’s pocket knife. I’m not sure if Nick has ever gotten his original one back, although one of our dads’ friends gifted him a new one a couple of years ago.
“You’re beautiful, Charlotte. With your soft hair and your port and your scars, you’re everything I would want in a girl. Don’t you believe differently.” He turns his head again, so I can see his brown velvet eyes staring straight at me.
I believe.
He kisses up a little higher, to the top of my thigh. “I love your laugh. Your willingness to put up with the Jackson boys’ shit constantly. Your endless optimism. No one has your spirit.”
He rises and pushes me backward on the bed so that I’m caged on either side by his muscular arms. Why, Nate, you haven’t been skipping arm day, have you? I think ridiculously because I’m nervous and excited and I’m trying not to squeal.
He is going to kiss me. His face comes closer, and I lick my lips in anticipation. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for my whole short life. This is why I have to keep living so that I can remember this event over and over and over. Slowly his lips brush mine. I want to keep my eyes open, but they are dragged down as if there is a string attached to my lips.
“I just want to take things slow. Make them right for you. Do you trust me?”
The Charlotte Chronicles Page 6
