My Beating Teenage Heart

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  I see Breckon and Jules move upstairs to her room after they finish in the kitchen. I see Jules hold him tight and I see Breckon kiss her lips like she’s the most precious person in all the world. I hear the joy in their whispers, and a live demonstration of naked skin, shifting positions and relentless craving unfolds while I open and close my eyes, ashamed at myself for looking but unwilling to entirely stop feeding the compulsion.

  If I knew Breckon and Jules in the living world and somehow spied them together like this they’d know because I wouldn’t be able to look at them in the same way again.

  I’ve never seen Breckon more in the moment and I’m happy for him, like when I watched him with his friends at Denny’s, but what I feel is more complex than that. Watching Breckon and Jules floods me with a jealousy for what I’ll never have. The discovery runs deeper still, triggering an old Ashlyn melancholy, restoring secrets I would rather have left forgotten.

  Intimacy. Its boundless potential and its warped, manipulative opposite.

  I remember.

  I remember what happened after Farlain Lake—all the good and bad things up to and including the day I wanted to subtract from my memory: the surprise birthday party my father threw for my mother and how she was so happy she kissed him on the lips in front of all of us, her palm pressed into his chest; the second-grade teacher, Ms. Peltier, who I worshipped as though she were a deity; the rabbit Celeste and I convinced my mother to buy us—we called him Honeysuckle and he died after just three and a half weeks, leaving us to wonder whether we’d failed him somehow.

  But the thing itself, that memory doesn’t hurt anymore, not the Ashlyn who I am now. It’s the Ashlyn I was then who I wish I could’ve protected. Was anyone there for me that day like I’m here for Breckon now? Did they watch and try to warn me?

  I don’t remember sensing anyone else with me. Just a feeling of rising dread, like a bad smell that makes you want to turn your back and walk away but he won’t let you. He knows you sense it but he talks smart, smarter than you because you’re so young and you suddenly know that although no one’s hurt you before, that’s now a real possibility. You didn’t think about being safe or not safe because you just were and now that’s over.

  It began with Garrett and what seemed like a cold, but then he began having trouble breathing and my mother took him to the hospital, leaving Celeste and me with my dad. My father called around to try to find someone who could one Cewatch us for a while so he could be with my mother and Garrett at the hospital. Celeste had a friend named Daisy who lived a few blocks away and her mother said she would be happy to babysit us for a few hours while my father went to see about Garrett.

  I’d been to Daisy’s house once before. Her mother’s name was Bernie and she wanted everyone to call her that instead of Mrs. Hobson. The Hobson house was full of clutter but it was clean clutter and the place smelled like soup mixed with room deodorizer just like it had the last time I’d been there. The Hobsons had two budgies that lived in a cage in the kitchen and looked the colorful way I imagined all birds looked in fabulous places I’d never been, like South America or Australia. I liked the way the pretty budgies sang and the funny way they’d bob their heads sometimes but mostly it was boring at the Hobsons’ house. Celeste had Daisy to play with but I didn’t have any of my usual books or toys to keep me occupied, and Daisy’s little brother Aidan was teething and kept wobbling over to me to try to bite my leg.

  “Bite him back,” Bernie said with a big smile. “Then he won’t do it again.”

  But of course I couldn’t bite a baby and I think I probably just looked at Bernie like she was a bit crazy, which made her laugh and ask if I wanted to watch American Idol with her.

  Mr. Hobson was away on a business trip and so it was just the five of us—Bernie, Aidan the baby, me, Celeste and Daisy—and I kept thinking, while I watched people dance and sing, about how Garrett had wailed when a nurse had taken his blood at the doctor’s office and that he would probably wail even more at the hospital. After the show my father called and told Bernie that Garrett had suffered an asthma attack but was doing better and that he would come to pick us up in about an hour while my mother stayed with Garrett.

  Bernie went to tell Daisy and Celeste that we’d be leaving soon and Daisy said that they hadn’t had a chance to play on the trampoline in the backyard yet. “Well, hurry up then,” Bernie said. “You have an hour or so before Celeste’s dad gets here.”

  It was a warm Saturday night in May and Bernie took Aidan out into the backyard and played in the sandbox with him while Daisy, Celeste and I jumped on the trampoline. Celeste and Daisy could flip all the way over because they’d had more practice than me, but I was getting better with every minute and I had it in my head—now that I knew Garrett was going to be okay and that I didn’t have to worry about him anymore—that I wanted to do a backflip before I left. The thing was that I really had to pee too and maybe I’d be able to concentrate better once I had, so I told Daisy and Celeste that I was going to the bathroom.

  I walked through the sliding glass door into the kitchen and then down the hall to the bathroom. It was quiet in the house and the funny smell of it was in my nostrils, reminding me that I was in a strange place, but I went to the bathroom and washed my hands afterwards, careful not to leave the towel crumpled up like my mom sometimes complained I did at home. Back out in the hallway, with my hands clean and bladder empty, a teenage boy I’d never seen before eyed me up. He was wearing a jean jacket and gray track pants and had a pimple on his chin but he wasn’t ugly; he just looked ordinary.

  “So who are you?” he asked.

  “Ashlyn,” I said. “Bernie’s babysitting us. My brother went to the hospital.” I didn’t know that Aidan and Daisy had an older brother, but he was white like them, had dirty-blond hair like Daisy and he was in their house, I figured they must have been related.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the boy who still hadn’t given me his name asked.

  “He had a cold and then he couldn’t breathe,” I said because I couldn’t remember precisely what Bernie had repeated to me after getting off the phone with my father. “But he’s getting better.”

  The boy nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. That’s what they do there—fix people.” He was standing in the middle of the hallway, not moving, and I didn’t move either because there wasn’t much room to get by him and anyway, he was still talking. “Hey, is Celeste your sister?”

  I nodded. “She’s with Daisy on the trampoline.”

  The boy flicked his messy blond hair off his face and smiled. “You look like her, but prettier.”

  Celeste was prettier, I knew that and didn’t like hearing him say otherwise.

  “I’m serious,” the guy said. “And I bet you’re more fun too. She seems kind of stuck-up.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I just wanted him to move so I could go back to the trampoline.

  “And I mean, a trampoline, that’s such kid stuff,” he continued. “I’m surprised she would bother with that.” He leaned his arm up against the wall, still blocking the hallway. “Do you think you’re too old for the trampoline?” He stared at the front of my pink hoodie, where there was nothing to see, and then my jeans.

  “No.” I tried to speak loudly but my voice wouldn’t project and fell flat. “I’m just a kid. I’m only eight.” I said my age clearer than anything else so he wouldn’t miss it.

  “Some kids are old for their age.” He smiled again. “I was always old for my age.”

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Fifteen,” he said, his smile growing.

  “Fifteen is old,” I told him, because if he was old for his age and I was only eight, nothing creepy could be happening like I sensed, in the pit of my stomach, that it might be.

  “Yeah? So I seem old to you?” He’d stopped smiling and stepped closer. “It’s funny because you don’t seem that young to me—like, you seem like you would know things, if you know w
hat I mean.”

  I didn’t know. But I knew it wasn’t good. I shook my head and repeated myself. “I’m only eight. ”

  “You’re just fine the way you are,” he said, so near to me now that I thought to run. But just as the thought popped into my head it must’ve popped into his because he wrapped one of his hands around my arm and squeezed, sort of like he was only kidding. “See, look at these muscles. I bet you’re really strong for eight. You want to see mine?”

  I shook my head again. He was still holding my arm. I thought of Callum and how he would never hold my arm like that. No one had ever held my arm like that. So tight, like he wasn’t being careful not to hurt me.

  “No?” he said. “How come?”

  My voice dried up. His eyes glistened as he looked down at me.

  “You’re so cute,” he continued. “Do you know that? Do guys tell you that?”

  His other hand reached down to hold me in place too, his right hand clamped to my left arm and his left hand locked around my right. Nobody’s supposed to touch you if you don’t want them to. Nobody. He wasn’t touching me in a secret place but he still shouldn’t touch me, I knew that.

  “Leave me alone,” I said hoarsely.

  “So you think you’re too good for me or something?” he said, sarcasm spreading across his face. “Are you a snob like your sister?”

  He bent his head and shoulders down so his face was level with mine. “I’m not going to hurt you—I just want a kiss. Look.” He pressed his lips quickly to mine like it was nothing. “See? It doesn’t hurt. But hey …” His voice and face softened. “Just open your mouth for a second and it’ll be better, like when older people do it.”

  My heart was thumping fast and I’d lost my voice again.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he whispered, growing impatient. He put his thumb up to my bottom lip and eased it open. I suppose I could’ve tried to shout then—or at any point so far—but I was so stunned that the things you were supposed to do when someone tried to touch you leaked out of my head.

  So I did what he asked, opening my mouth just a little wider, and he kissed me again but not like the first time. His tongue dove into my mouth, pushing at my own tongue, darting wildly around between my teeth like he was looking for something and was in a rush to find it. I didn’t kiss him back, but at first I didn’t stop him either. I was frozen inside and out. Then his hand reached swiftly up inside my pink hoodie and felt my chest. One hand. That meant he was only holding me with one hand too and I thawed instantly, wrenching myself away from him with every bit of strength I had. Free, I ran.

  But he was fifteen and his legs were longer. He caught up to me outside the kitchen, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me back towards him. “It was just a kiss,& jued instant#x201D; he said breathlessly. “It wasn’t anything bad. You don’t have to tell anyone.”

  I was quiet, my breath paused, the oxygen stagnant in my lungs. I’d seen my father hug my mother like this, his arms wrapped around her from behind. That’s the way we were standing then, his left hand snapping on to his right, keeping me enclosed between them.

  “I could’ve done anything to you,” he told me. “And I didn’t. I could’ve put my hand over your mouth so you couldn’t scream, but I didn’t. Your sister would’ve screamed. You know what that means?” He wasn’t really asking and he kept going, answering the question for himself. “You wanted me to kiss you. You’re the kind of girl who knows things early.”

  A lump was working its way up my throat because of the things he was saying about me. The words felt as bad and wrong as the kiss and they made me think of Callum. Had I had a crush on him like my sister said that night at the cottage? Was I wrong to have wanted to be friends with him so badly? Was I the kind of girl who knew things?

  I screamed long and loud. Mostly because I was scared but in part because I couldn’t bear the awfulness of what he was saying. He released me as soon as I opened my mouth and in my mind that made him more right: I could’ve stopped him earlier, but hadn’t.

  I stumbled into the kitchen. Celeste reached me first, Daisy four steps behind her and then Bernie holding Aidan. “What happened?” Celeste asked, her eyes filled with fear. “Are you okay?”

  I hadn’t turned around yet; I didn’t want to see him.

  “Her brother,” I said, pointing at Daisy. I was sobbing as I spoke. “He grabbed me.”

  Daisy looked confused. “Aidan was outside with us.”

  “No, no, not him.” I’m sure the fact that I was crying made it harder to understand me, but Bernie, dazed, handed Aidan to Daisy and rushed off down the hallway. I heard a door bang open as though she was searching for the boy.

  While she was gone, Celeste, who hadn’t grasped what I meant although Bernie clearly had, repeated, “Are you okay? What do you mean someone grabbed you?”

  Soon Bernie returned, but without the boy. Her face was very pale and long and she looked at Daisy and Celeste and said, “I want you two to sit right here with Aidan for me while I talk to Ashlyn in the living room.”

  “Ashlyn, honey,” she said, “come with me.”

  I don’t know why she’d picked up on what I meant right away—maybe it was the stricken look on my face. We sat in the living room together and she asked me, in a voice laced with worry, to explain exactly what had happened.

  I told her precisely what I remembered and then I told my parents and a policewoman who came to our house. The boy was Bernie’s nephew Dylan. His mother had di moifyed two years earlier and he’d been having run-ins with his father and was staying with his aunt and uncle temporarily. He’d fled when I screamed but didn’t have anywhere else to stay and had called Bernie early the next morning. During the course of the investigation the police found out that Dylan had grabbed another friend of Daisy’s when she’d slept over two weeks earlier, squeezing her butt and swiping one hand across her chest as he’d passed her in the hallway. She’d kept quiet about it at first but I was relieved when I found out I wasn’t the only one.

  My father took what happened to me the hardest. For months I felt as though he was trying to chase the sadness from his eyes when he looked at me. I think that look—and what Dylan said about me being a girl who knew things—were worse than the kiss and Dylan touching me. My parents sent me to a child therapist, sort of like Eva (who made sure that I understood that Dylan kissing me had nothing to do with anything being wrong with me and everything to do with him and his own problems) and according to my mom, Dylan got sent for treatment too and had to go live with his grandmother two hours away.

  For a long time I felt anxious being around most older boys or men and would clam up around them and stand with my arms crossed in front of me, thinking about how I’d get away if I had to. The feeling faded bit by bit but, as far as I can see into my past, left me with a sharpened awareness of possible danger.

  Unfortunately, when I saw Callum again at the cottage, only two and a half months after Dylan had stopped me in the hall, the bad feelings were still fresh. I didn’t play with him anymore unless we were all playing together; I tagged along with Celeste and Ellie or hovered around my parents. At first Callum didn’t understand and then I think he assumed I’d just stopped liking him and didn’t bother asking me to play cards or go swimming with him because he’d figured out I’d only make an excuse and say no.

  It’s funny how one thing—seeing Breckon and Jules together—has unlocked so much inside me. There are still years of my life that I can’t remember but I feel the memories surfacing more quickly now, the details of my daily life and the lives of those around me slotting neatly back into place.

  I remember hoping, when I began to feel more like my old self during the following winter, that I could make my aloofness up to Callum the next time we were at Farlain Lake. I thought it would take a lot of effort on my part but that it was within the realm of possibility. But the next time didn’t come. My dad’s friend ran into money trouble and sold the cottage, making that third year
at the lake our last. By the time I saw my cousin again we seemed to have evolved into two whole new people who had never sat by a lake together playing cards in the dark.

  I’m not mad or afraid of Dylan anymore—from here nothing scares me—but it still bothers me that my younger self didn’t get the summer she could’ve had when she was eight because of him. And I wonder, even now from the afterlife where maybe it shouldn’t matter because what’s past is past, whether Callum thought about the times we had at our second year at the lake when he heard the news about me.

  I hope he did.

  I am what people mean when they say &henhouldn“ashes to ashes, dust to dust” and “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” and I can’t, for one second, stop longing for my body, my life, Mom, Dad, Celeste, Garrett, my grandparents, the taste of orange ice cream on the tip of my tongue and every single person I have ever loved.

  fourteen

  breckon

  Afterwards Jules heats up the pasta and we fill the tub and sit in the bath forking ravioli into our mouths and tearing off pieces of bread. Jules likes the water so steamy hot that I usually end up with sweat on my forehead when we take a bath together. “It’s a bath,” she always says when I complain. “It’s supposed to be hot.”

  My line: “Not so hot that you need to take a cold shower after it.”

  Jules (rolling her eyes but smiling): “The way you like it I’m surprised you don’t catch a chill. I’d need a sweater in water that cold.”

  Tonight we do our usual routine about the bath temperature and Jules compromises and adds enough cold water to stop me from overheating. While we eat and soak Jules talks about the musical theater program in Toronto she’s thinking of doing this summer. When I tell her it sounds like a good idea she asks, “What about you and Boleyn’s? I don’t hear you mention it anymore.”

  We used to hang out there every few weeks and I thought I’d be spending lots of time there this summer, both playing music and listening. I never kidded myself that I was a rock star in the making but for a while strumming a guitar made me feel more in touch with something I can’t explain—life, the universe, whatever you want to call it.