“All of their steaks are good.”
“But are they huge?”
He considers this. “Yeah, they’re pretty big. You might want something like the petite sirloin. My mom used to get that.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
So when the waiter returns, I order the petite sirloin with a salad and Harris goes for a New York strip and the works. I am relieved — money must not be a big concern tonight.
“I feel like this is some kind of celebration,” I say as I sip my soda.
“It is. We are celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“Us.” He holds up his soda glass. “Here’s to us!”
“To us.” I clink my glass against his.
Our dinner is served and I’m not sure if it’s just me, but everything is absolutely perfect. If violins came and played at our table, I wouldn’t even be a bit surprised. That doesn’t happen but as we’re splitting double Dutch chocolate cake for dessert, I feel myself getting lost in Harris’s blue eyes. I truly can’t imagine a better evening — and I have a good imagination!
After dinner Harris drives us to the city park, where we walk all the way around the small manmade lake. While watching the sun setting, I tell him about my favorite places in Oregon and he promises me we’ll go there together someday. I feel like I’m truly in heaven. Really, how could a place in the clouds be any better than right here with Harris?
Finally it’s too dark to see much and we get back into the car. “I brought my guitar,” he tells me as he drives toward home. “I thought maybe I could come up to your place and we could play some more songs together.”
“I … uh … I’m not sure,” I say uncomfortably. I hadn’t counted on this, and the last time I had Harris over, things got a little out of hand. “I, uh, I don’t know exactly when my dad will be home.” Okay, that’s partially true.
“Does it matter?” He laughs. “I mean, I’m not really good yet, but my playing shouldn’t hurt his ears too much.”
Of course, that wasn’t what I meant, but I laugh and say it doesn’t matter. Then I tell him how it was my dad who originally got me hooked on the guitar. “He plays too. In fact, if he gets home while you’re still there, we could have a little jam session.”
“Cool.”
Of course, when we get there, Dad is not home. I don’t expect he’ll be home before midnight. Maybe later. Harris seems fine with my absentee parent, and when he unzips his guitar case, he removes what looks like a bottle in a brown paper bag. “Can I mix you a drink?” he asks with a lopsided grin.
“I, uh, I don’t know.” I feel nervous now. How am I supposed to handle this? I know what my mother would say — something like “get thee behind me, Satan!” — but what do normal people do in this situation? I don’t drink and I don’t think minors should drink.
“Come on,” he urges me. “I’ll just make you a small drink so you can try it. You don’t even have to drink it if you don’t like it. Okay?”
I nod hesitantly. “Okay.”
I go into the living room, nervously pacing. What would my dad say if he walked in right now? Would he be cool? Or would he turn into my mom? It’s not likely I’ll find out tonight.
“Here you go.” Harris hands me what looks like an innocent glass of Coke on the rocks. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” I take a cautious sip and am surprised that it doesn’t taste much different than regular Coke. Sweeter and tangier and a little bit like medicine — a regular Coke would be better. But, really, this isn’t too bad.
Harris and I sit down and play a few songs, and after a while he fills our glasses again. And eventually he stops playing and just listens to me as I finish up an old Beatles song, “Let It Be.” While I’m playing, he comes over and starts massaging my neck … and then I realize he’s kissing my neck … and soon I forget all about my guitar.
...[CHAPTER 11].................
I don’t even remember how we got to my bedroom, but I’m aware we are here now. I’m also aware that the kissing has gotten way more passionate, and the touching and feeling has gone further than I dreamed possible — and I am not comfortable with this.
“That’s enough now, Harris.” I move his hand away and giggle as I hear the slur in my own voice. I sound like someone else.
He laughs too. “Never enough,” he whispers in my ear. “I could never get enough of you, Haley. You are like my dream woman.”
Dream woman? I do like the sound of that. Even so, I move his other hand away and attempt to sit up. “Lemme get up.”
“Easy does it, girl.” He pushes me back down on my bed. “What’s the hurry?”
“I wanna get up.” I try to sit up again.
“Not yet. We’ve barely gotten started here.” This time he firmly pushes me with both hands.
“But, Harris — I wanna get up. Lemme up.”
He uses one hand to hold me down on the bed. I’m surprised at how strong he is, surprised at the intense expression on his face, like he’s someone else, not my sweet Harris. And then, with a rush of panic, I realize he’s using his other hand to undo his belt.
“What’re you doing?” I struggle to sit up again, but it’s useless.
“Come on,” he says in a husky voice, “you know you want me, Haley. You’ve been begging for this.”
“No.” Maybe it’s adrenaline or just plain fear, but my head is starting to feel clearer. “No, I don’t want to do —”
In the same instant he is on me — pinning me down with the weight of his body and his strength. My arms and legs are too weak. They feel like wet noodles against his power, but I keep telling him, “No! No! No!”
My heart and head pound as I keep trying to push him away from me, telling him again and again that I’m not ready for this, that he’s got it all wrong, that I didn’t ask for this. But he’s not listening and he’s getting rougher. What started out as a kissing session has turned into a real wrestling match, and I can tell he’s enjoying it — and winning.
“Please, stop,” I beg him. “I don’t want this.”
“I knew you were a tigress.” He’s huffing as he pushes and pulls at my dress. “I knew it would be like this. I’ve dreamed of this moment.”
I struggle and fight and plead with him, but it’s useless. Finally I experience a searing pain inside of me — like a knife slicing into me, cutting me in two — and I know it’s too late. He has won.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. Every muscle in my body is tense, stiff as a board as I wait for him to finish. Tears slide down my cheeks and I can taste salty blood in my mouth. I want to scream and cry out and even swear at him, but it’s too late. Instead I bite harder into my lip, focusing on the pain in my mouth instead of the pain down inside of me. And finally, after what seems like an eternity, it’s over. Harris lets out a loud sigh and rolls off me, breathing heavily but not saying a word.
I lie there, wondering what to do. I want to hit him and yell at him and throw him out of my room and my house. I want to kill him! But when I peek out of one eye at him, I’m shocked to see that he’s sleeping peacefully. And he actually looks like his old self. How is that even possible?
I slide off my bed and grab my torn underwear from the floor, then tiptoe out of there and into the bathroom. Locking the door, I sit down on the floor and sob so loudly I think I’ll wake Harris up. But I don’t care. And I wouldn’t even care if Dad came home right now. In fact, I wish he would come home. I would confess everything and tell him what Harris just did to me. And Dad could beat the stuffing out of Harris and I wouldn’t protest a bit.
Thinking these thoughts only makes me cry louder. I am so lost. So confused. So messed up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s all wrong. Why couldn’t I stop him? Why didn’t he listen to me? I’m sobbing so loudly, I can’t believe Harris can’t hear me.
Eventually I feel a wet spot beneath me on the floor, and I assume I’m getting my period. I can’t believe it —
how is that even possible? How is any of this possible? Maybe it’s a nightmare. I stand up and peer at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair is ratty and mussed, I have black mascara streaks down my cheeks, and my lower lip is swollen and bloody. I am a mess. Worse than that, I feel like a mess. I feel soiled and betrayed … damaged.
I move the clothes hamper in front of the door like a barricade, then peel off my dress, noticing that it’s torn in several places. I don’t care — I hate this dress now. I wad it and my underwear into a ball and shove it into the cabinet beneath the sink, pushing it way back into a dark corner. Later I will burn it.
Then I get into the shower, turn the water on as hot as my body can stand, and scrub and scrub and scrub, washing myself until my skin is raw and red. When the hot water begins to turn cool, I turn off the tap and get out. The bathroom is so steamy, I can barely see. I find a towel and wrap it around me, then, still aching inside, I sit on the toilet seat and cry … and cry.
Why did this happen? How did this happen? I ask myself these questions again and again. Was it the alcohol? Did it change Harris into someone else? Or did I really send Harris the wrong signals? Or is he just like that, taking what he wants no matter what the other person says? I run all these questions and more through my head over and over, so many times that I feel dizzy and sick, like I just got off a bad carnival ride. And then I throw up.
For some reason I feel a little better after vomiting. I’m glad that the dinner Harris bought me and the drinks he fixed me are all being flushed down the toilet. I wish I could flush this whole night down the toilet too. If only …
I’m so tired that my whole body aches, and now I’m shivering, but I’m afraid to leave this bathroom, afraid to see Harris again, afraid of what I’ll say … and even afraid of what he’ll say. Will he try to make it seem like nothing happened, or will he think I’m a baby because I reacted so badly? What am I supposed to do with all this? And what if Dad comes home? I’m not sure I want him to beat up Harris now — what good would it do? And I certainly don’t want to be discovered like this, hiding out in the bathroom with no clothes.
So, still wrapped in a towel, I quietly open the door. I listen intently, but hearing nothing, I creep to my bedroom door that is still partly opened. I peek inside my room and find that Harris is gone. His clothes and shoes are gone too. I go into my closet and pull on some warm-ups and consider staying there until morning, but after a while, I decide that’s ridiculous.
So I tiptoe out to the living room to discover that his guitar is gone, as well as the bottle that contained the alcohol he poured into our drinks. Finding the front door unlocked, I realize Harris has let himself out. I quickly lock the door and clean up the glasses and all signs of what happened here tonight. Then I hurry back to my bedroom and climb into bed. It’s almost two o’clock and I’m too tired to think, too tired to figure anything out…. All I want is to sleep … to escape this. I want to wake up in the morning to find out that it’s all just a dream — a very disturbing dream.
……….
I wake up early the next morning, and at first I can’t fully remember what happened last night — then it hits me like a landslide. I’m buried beneath so many feelings I can’t even sort them out, let alone understand them or deal with them.
With my heart pounding as hard as if I’ve just swum twenty laps, I start pacing in my room, bouncing back and forth between hostile rage and humiliating shame and everything in between. First I blame Harris … and then myself … and then my parents … and then I start all over again. I am so confused.
I feel desperate, like I need to figure this thing out, need to do something to fix it, need to make it go away. I think about Harris so hard my head hurts. Or maybe it’s the drinks from last night that are making my head hurt. I go to my phone, checking to see if he’s texted me. I’m not surprised to find he hasn’t, but I am surprised at how devastated I am. Then I’m disgusted that I am so pathetic that I care enough to cry.
I slip down the hallway to the kitchen and pour myself a tall glass of orange juice, which I take back to my room and slowly drink. I can tell by Dad’s keys on the table by the front door that he’s home. Probably sleeping in. I want to take another long, hot shower but don’t want to disturb Dad. Instead, I go down to the pool and swim laps.
The chilly water is shocking at first, but then it’s soothing, and the coolness on my head makes the throbbing inside lighten up some. I swim and swim, trying to block out everything except the feeling of my arms and legs moving freely through the water, the sound of the water splashing, the smell of chlorine, and the rhythm of my breathing. Finally I’m so tired that my arms and legs feel like there are weights attached, and I drag myself out of the water and wrap up in my towel and just sit there in the morning sun. But it’s not as warm out here as it looks and soon I’m shivering.
I go back inside where it’s still quiet, and I take another steaming hot shower, scrubbing my skin so vigorously that I look like a boiled lobster when I finally step out. Like last night, the bathroom is so steamed up I can barely see. I dry off and go back to my room, climb into my bed, and fall asleep.
It’s past noon when I wake up. The first thing I do is check my phone. Harris is still silent. I consider texting him but have no idea what to say. A part of me wants to lash out at him, call him names, demand to know why he did that. But another part of me wants to crawl back to him, say I’m sorry for making such a fuss, and ask him if he’s picking me up for school tomorrow. Of course, I despise that part of me — that wimpy, pathetic girl who would lower herself to that place just to please a guy. What have I become?
Just the same, I resist the urge to send a message of any kind. My treatment for Harris will be silence. Let him wonder. Maybe he’ll think about what he did and feel guilty. Maybe he’ll apologize to me. Maybe he’ll send me flowers.
When I leave my room, the house is quiet, and I can tell that Dad’s been up and made coffee. Then I notice a note on the fridge, saying he’s gone to meet Estelle for breakfast and to call him if I want to do anything with them today. Naturally, I don’t call. I really don’t want to see anyone today. I just want to hide out and hope things will get better. But how can they?
I wish, I wish, I wish … that I had someone to talk to. Someone to make sense of this mess I’ve made of my life, someone who could tell me what to do, how to clean this thing up. But I can think of no one. Mom would scorn me and say, “I told you so.” My “best friend” from my other school (a friend from church) would be so disappointed in me that she’d probably sound just like my mom. My brother … well, he can’t even sort out his own life. I wonder if Dad would understand, but I just cannot imagine telling him about what happened. He’d probably feel worried and guilty and confused, he’d wonder what had become of our “let’s be grown-ups” pact, and he might even want to send me home to Mom.
Although when I consider going back home to Mom, I’m not nearly as opposed to it as I was before. In a way it would be a relief. Except for the way she would treat me. I don’t think I could endure that. It’s bad enough that I hate myself for what happened (and Harris, too) but to endure my mom’s judgment, sermons, and restrictions on top of everything else … well, I don’t think I can handle that much hatred.
As the afternoon wears on, I get extremely worried about facing Dad. What if he looks at me and knows? Every time I see myself in the mirror, it feels like everything that happened last night is written across my face. Besides the swollen bruised lip, I can see it in my eyes, in the strained expression. How can I possibly hide all this pain? I make up a story about how I hurt my lip. While swimming laps this morning, I ran into the edge of the pool. I actually did that once and I think I can make it believable. As for the rest of me, I’ll have to figure it out as I go.
I continue checking my phone off and on all day. Harris has not made a peep. I try to imagine what he’s doing right now. Is he thinking about me? Does he have regret? Guilt? Fear?
Would he be worried that I told my dad? What if my dad did something totally insane like calling the police? I’ve heard of cases like that. Although I honestly don’t know what the police could do. After all, I invited Harris up here. I willingly engaged in underage drinking. I let him kiss me. I must’ve let him lead me to my room since I do not remember balking.
In all reality, I’m sure I would end up looking just as responsible for last night as Harris. Besides, how humiliating would it be to have to tell a stranger about everything, to answer personal questions … and then what if the whole thing became public? I would never want to show my face again. Even now, I’m not sure I can go to school tomorrow. Maybe I should just call my mom, confess everything, and take the punishment that will go with it.
When my phone rings midafternoon, I leap from where I’ve been vegging in front of the TV to get it. But it’s not Harris.It’s Dad.
“Estelle and I plan to catch a matinee. You want to come? We can swing by and get you.”
“No thanks,” I say brightly. “I’ve got homework.”
“Okay. But remember what they say about all work and no play.”
I force a laugh. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m not turning into a workaholic.”
We make a little more small talk, but finally and to my relief, Dad says he better go. I let out a long sigh as I close my phone. Step one in tricking Dad into believing I’m perfectly fine. I pick up the remote and flip through the TV channels, searching for something — anything — to block out my thoughts … and the gnawing pain inside.
Finally I settle on a glitzy old movie from the sixties called That Touch of Mink that’s just beginning. It stars Doris Day and Cary Grant, and in the beginning it seems like a sweet, simple story about a woman who falls in love with a very rich man. But as I watch, I realize it’s really about a whole lot more, and as it progresses I can’t believe it — Cary Grant’s character expects Doris Day to have sex with him just because he bought her a bunch of stuff and took her on a trip. But she, like me, has been saving herself for marriage. It’s touch and go there for a while, and sometimes I almost laugh, but eventually it ends happily when Cary Grant marries her.
Damaged Page 9
