Goode To Be Bad

by Jasinda Wilder

“I won’t drink like that again,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Don’t promise me, promise yourself.”

  “I want you to know. I realize how scary that must have been for you.”

  “It…wasn’t awesome.”

  I twisted, and it was very difficult indeed to not fall into the easiest thing—his lips, his skin, his muscle and hands, his cock and his heat.

  I managed it, though. Barely. It took all I had, but I managed to pull away, to not touch him, and face the water, letting my thoughts finally—after years of suppression and avoidance and blocking it out—return to the darkness inside me, to the old terrible memories, the deep wounds.

  I dredged it all up, bit by bit. Sat in the old agony, and let it flow over me.

  Knowing I was safe.

  Knowing I was loved.

  Myles

  This time, she wasn’t avoiding me. She was lost, though. In thought, in herself, in memory. I saw her crying and sat near her in case she needed comfort. She held my hand but said nothing and so I let her have the silence of my presence.

  At one point, late in the evening of the first day, she dove off the porch and swam away, and I watched her breaststroke to the sandbar and sit there well past dark, sitting, thinking.

  I was wearing my swim trunks as part of our agreement to wear clothes for the next while, and she’d put on bikini bottoms but no top, which didn’t help my sexual urges, much. I held out though—didn’t touch myself, or her. It was going to be worth the wait.

  She returned to the hut when stars were bright and the moon was brighter, and sat outside for a while. Eventually she came inside and slid into bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my middle and pressing her breasts against my back. I immediately got a monster hard-on that I struggled to ignore. Her hand clung to my belly, low, and I fought the need to feel her hand clasp around me.

  With effort, I ignored it all and fell asleep.

  Day two was more of the same—she spent a while reading a paperback, but I saw her turn the pages only fitfully, her eyes staring off into nothing for long periods of time. I made her an omelet on the propane stove, and she accepted it with a smile, but said nothing.

  Sometime past noon, she swam off again, and I let her go. Her mood was dark, and tense. No longer tearful, she seemed angry, now. When she came back hours later, her eyes were reddened, tear tracks staining her cheeks.

  She sat beside me on the bed, where I was lazing, dozing. “Can we go explore the island? I need to do something besides sit and think.”

  “Sure,” I said. “There’s a little rowboat tied to the back of the hut. Why don’t we put on some clothes and row over?”

  It was hotter on the island, away from the constant cooling breeze we had being right on the water. There was a trail leading inland, and we followed it uphill, winding toward the peak. We finally reached the top, sweating bullets and panting like mad. The view was spectacular, and we could see the little hut down below. We headed back down and found the generator, storeroom, and storm shelter. We checked them out, and by the time we’d seen just about everything there was to see, it was getting late in the day.

  “Ready to go back?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah. I need a shower and something to eat.”

  So, we rowed back and I fixed us food while she showered; she emerged with her hair wet and dripping, naked, eyes red again.

  “Couldn’t see the point in getting a towel wet,” she murmured. “I can just lay out there and air dry.”

  I wanted to ask if she was okay, but it seemed like a dumb question. “You want to eat out there? Or…?”

  She shook her head; seemed to hold her breath, considering her words. “I wouldn’t mind if you sat with me.”

  So we ate out there, sitting side by side on easy chairs, watching the stars come out and the moon slide up overhead, larger than any moon I’d ever seen, full and round and brilliant silver. After a while, the only light on us the stars and moon, I heard her suck in a deep breath.

  “No interrupting, okay? No questions. No comments. Don’t be sympathetic. Just listen, okay? I’ve never spoken of this and it’s going to take all the courage I have to talk about it now. So just…just let me get it all out.”

  “Okay.”

  She reached out a hand—I extended mine and tangled my fingers with hers.

  A long silence ensued and I waited through it.

  “When I was eleven, I decided I wanted to be a musician,” she said. “I asked Mom and Dad for music lessons. They gave me an old acoustic guitar of Dad’s, a library book on guitar for beginners, and told me to try on my own. So I did. I taught myself some basic chords, learned how to play kid stuff like ‘Three Blind Mice’ and ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ and whatever. When I could play six basic songs all the way through without messing up, I gave Mom and Dad a recital. I had it all planned out. I’d even made little recital programs on Dad’s computer. My sisters were all there, and it was a big deal for me. I played my songs without messing up, and when it was over they all clapped and cheered. I felt amazing. I begged my parents for music lessons, and they found me a private music teacher, Mrs. Pruitt. She was about a thousand years old and had hair that was so white it was almost blue, and she could play the most amazing classical pieces on the piano. I didn’t want to play the piano—I wanted to play the guitar. Taylor Swift was just popping up on the scene, getting noticed and stuff, and I wanted to be like her.”

  A long silence.

  “Mom and Dad made me take piano for a year and a half, until I finally went apeshit on them, pitched a tantrum about how I hated piano and that I wanted guitar lessons and singing lessons so I could be like Taylor. I got so mad, you don’t even know. I got grounded for, like, weeks. But when the grounding was finally over they found me another music teacher. Before I started the lessons they sat me down and told me that I had better be one hundred percent serious and committed, because this teacher was one of the most expensive and sought-after private music teachers on the East Coast. John David Henley.”

  “Heard of him,” I muttered.

  “Anyone in the music business has. He’s given vocal lessons to some of the most famous musicians in the world. Very prestigious. And he happened to be only an hour away. I was ecstatic.”

  “They figured music was just a phase, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Probably. We were pretty well off, so they could afford it, but still, it was superexpensive. I remember hearing them argue about it, one night. My dad was like, I could buy a Corvette for what I’m paying that guy, but Mom reminded him that I was so happy, that I’d been serious about this for two years, blah, blah, blah. So, I was thirteen—the same age as Taylor when she got discovered, and I figured I had it made. If she could do it, I could do it, too.” A pause. “The first lesson was amazing. He had me sing a bunch of songs and play the guitar for him, and was like, oh yes, you have a natural gift. I can work with you and help you. If he didn’t think you had the talent, he’d tell your parents it wasn’t worth his time or their money. Lessons with him were ultraexclusive. So, because I had the talent, the lessons began. I had a second lesson, then a third, and soon a month had gone by. Mom would drive me down to New York for my lesson each week and after that first month I really felt I was learning a lot. I practiced all the time at home, and I just loved it.”

  I said nothing as she paused again. Summoning her courage.

  “Shit, this is hard.” She propped her foot on the chair and picked old flaking toenail polish off her toes. “He gave lessons out of his house, a walk-up brownstone. He had a formal waiting room right off the front door; you know how those old brownstones were built—sitting room on one side and dining room on the other, kitchen behind, and bedrooms upstairs. Well, the sitting room was his waiting room. It had dark brown floors polished so you could see your reflection in them. Busts of famous composers sat on the mantel of the fireplace. There was a giant cage with a blue-and-gold macaw in it—Bob Dylan was its name. Antique
furniture, the kind that’s impossible to sit on. Across the hall from the front door was the music room—what in most houses of the type was the dining room. He had a full grand piano in there, several guitars, a harpsichord, and an accordion. He could play like ten instruments, and taught them all. A rare musical genius, I guess. There were window seats in the sitting room and music room, with gauzy white lace curtains. The place seemed like it hadn’t changed in a hundred years, or more. Even the electrical outlets were old. So, I’d sit in the waiting room and wait for my lesson as the previous student finished. Sometimes, there wouldn’t be anyone there, and I’d start right away, other times I’d have to wait twenty minutes or more for my lesson. I had to be on time, but the lessons always started when he felt like it. If a student needed extra drills on something, he’d drill them until they got it right, and everyone else’s lesson would be thrown off schedule. It used to drive my mom crazy.”

  Lexie was silent for a few minutes and I knew she was working up to the real story.

  “I didn’t notice this until much, much later, but within a month or so of beginning lessons with him, he never scheduled anyone right before or after me. I’d walk in and he’d be ready for our lesson. Our time would be over, and Mom might be running late, and we’d play a song together or just talk. He was easy to talk to, Mr. Henley.” I heard her swallow. “Six months went by. I was getting really, really good. I could play some pretty advanced classical pieces on the guitar, and some modern stuff. My voice was getting stronger, and my technique and breathing and all that, my throat voice instead of my head voice. And…and one day, I had to pee during our lesson. That was a big no-no. Students weren’t allowed any distractions. I held it as long as I could, but I had to go. So he let me—and the only bathrooms were upstairs. He told me the best bathroom to use was in his bedroom. I just had to pee, so I didn’t think about it. When I came out, he was in the bedroom and the door was closed.”

  My heart clenched. “Fuck.”

  Her voice was tiny and soft—like the girl she’d been. “I wasn’t sure what was going on or what he was doing. But he was there, and in front of the door, and said maybe the lesson could wait. He had something else he wanted to show me. He said—he said I was a special student, and…and there were things we could do that would help him teach me even better. I was wearing a little skirt, knee-length, denim. A T-shirt. Nothing special, nothing revealing. I’d never even held a boy’s hand. He…he put his hand under my skirt and touched me over my underwear. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared and confused to speak, and he was so close all I could smell was his cologne and his wool sweater. He touched me, and I said nothing, did nothing. And…and then he put his finger inside me. And I could feel something happening to him. To his pants. Didn’t know what it meant. I just knew he was touching me and it felt wrong, but I just…I had no voice. No words.” I dared not even breathe. “He told me I was his favorite student. And that we had a special relationship. Special to us. Only for us. No one needed to know, not even my parents.”

  A long, long silence. A sniffle.

  “Mom picked me up, and I pretended I was fine. I didn’t know how to tell her. And he’d told me not to. He’d told me before that he could make me famous, and he could make me like Taylor. He knew people. He said to just do what he told me and he could help me. And I just…I wanted to be a famous musician. So I didn’t tell Mom, and certainly not Dad or my sisters. Plus, I had promised them that having music lessons was not just a phase, that I was serious, and I knew Dad especially would be mad.

  “Charlie was busy being the golden oldest child getting straight A’s in everything, and Cassie studied dance at this prestigious dance academy which was the same day and time as my music lesson in New York. So when I got in the car, Cassie was there too, and talking a mile a minute about plie this and arabesque that and she was going to be lead next year and she had a solo and blah blah blah. How could I tell Mom what had happened? I couldn’t. And my younger sisters were just little kids, and if Mom wasn’t driving us to lessons she was taking them to soccer or book club or Poppy’s art tutor. She was always busy. I wanted to tell her. I was scared and it had felt wrong and it made me feel gross, but there was just never a moment to be alone with her.

  “And then it was the next lesson. He acted like nothing had happened. And then we began our work for the day, but Mom was late. She was usually late picking me up because Cassie’s teachers were sticklers for students leaving on time, so Mom always picked her up first and I was always waiting.”

  I desperately wanted to comfort her—she sounded so sad and so broken.

  She just squeezed my hand as hard as she could, as if to reassure herself that I was here, beside her, and that she was here with me.

  “So, after a few minutes he asked me if I’d told anyone about our special lesson. I just shook my head, and he was like, good, because if anyone found out it would be very bad, and mostly for me. And he wanted to make me a famous musician, but if I told anyone, he wouldn’t be able to do that. And then he touched me again.” She faltered. “Then he said it would be better to have our special lesson upstairs. I knew he was going to do something I wouldn’t like, but I—I went along anyway. I don’t know why. I was so scared—I hadn’t told Mom what had happened last week and now it was happening again. Mom would never believe me now. Why didn’t I say something, right? I know it doesn’t make any sense explaining it now, but back then, it felt like I had no choice. He made me take off my skirt. And my underwear. And he touched me again.”

  Another heavy silence.

  A sniffle.

  “My shirt. Everything. He locked the bedroom door. I remember my heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and my throat was…just closed. Hot, tight. I couldn’t have made a sound if I had tried. I was naked, and no one had seen me naked since I was a little girl, and that was my parents. I was shy, back then and I didn’t like even changing for gym class, and now there I was, naked in front of this grown man who had touched my privates. He…said we were going to have another special lesson, and I had to stay very quiet and do exactly what he told me. He made me lie down on his bed, and…pose for him. He took pictures with a—one of those cameras that print the picture…what are they called?”

  “Polaroids.”

  “Yeah, a Polaroid. He showed it to me, and said I was so beautiful.” Her voice was…wet, and thick. Hesitant. “He stood next to the bed and took off all his clothes. I’d never even seen Dad all the way naked, so that in itself was a shock, but then he grabbed my hand and put it on his dick. It was already hard, but when he made me touch it, it got even harder. So big, so…ugh. Horrible. Thick, hairy. Wrinkly. He wasn’t young. But clearly still…vigorous.” A shudder, a gagging sound. “So, uh. Yeah. He climbed up on the bed, and knelt over top of me, said this was going to hurt a little, and then he put it in me. I could tell even then he was trying to be gentle but he was too excited. Gentle didn’t last long.” A broken whisper now. “It hurt. So much. And then he started…the only way to put it is he fucked me. I couldn’t make a sound—I didn’t know what was happening and it hurt and I was terrified and it was just…so fucking wrong. But I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t even speak. I never said no. I let it happen. That’s how I felt, then, and for years later. Deep down, I still believe I let it happen. I should have said something or done something. If I’d said no, please stop, please don’t…would he have…would he have not raped me? I didn’t say anything, but that’s what it was…rape.”

  A long, dark, ugly, vicious silence.

  “I wish that was the whole story. Touched a couple times, fucked once, and then I got the courage to stop it.” A bitter, hateful laugh. “Nope. Not by a long shot. He…it took him a long time. He was breathing heavily and…and I realize now that he could get it up but had trouble keeping it up. So he…he stopped. Knelt over me. Made me—” She broke for a moment, unable to continue. “He forced my jaw open with his fingers and put it in my mouth. Came in my mouth. I reme
mber that moment more clearly and vividly than any other—that first time. It tasted sour and so bitter. There was so much I couldn’t swallow it all, and I couldn’t breathe. And he wouldn’t stop. He just kept whispering, yeah baby, you like that don’t you. Take it, baby. Take it all, sweetheart.” A pause. “Thus my aversion to pet names, baby and sweetheart specifically. Those were his words for me. From then on, I was never Lexie to him, I was sweetheart. And when he was fucking me, it was baby.”

  She was curled up on the chair in a tiny ball; she’d yanked her hand away and had her arms wrapped around her shins, rocking. Whispering. I had to strain to hear.

  “The abuse didn’t stop. And I couldn’t tell. He told me if I told anyone, I would get arrested and go to jail. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but it was scary enough of an idea that it worked. He told me it was our secret and if I told anyone, our special relationship would be over and he couldn’t help me be famous anymore, and no one would believe me anyway. All true, I now realize. Just the truth, only twisted so it seemed like a threat.” A ragged whimper of a sob. “Every week. For years.

  “I withdrew, socially and emotionally. I was already shy, and that only made that worse. I never left my room. I stayed in my room every moment I could, playing, practicing. I was so good, back then. I really was. He was an amazing teacher, truly. He could get the best out of you, he could make you play and sing with a passion you didn’t even know you had. I think I thought if I was good enough, I’d get discovered somehow and whisked away, and the abuse would stop, and I’d never see him again. But it never did. He’d fuck me, until he was ready to finish and then he’d come in my mouth. Thus my aversion to that. But he never used a condom. Never. Probably part of why he did things that way. Obviously, knocking up his teenage student would put a damper on things, so he was very, very careful. He never even got close to coming inside me.”

  Pause. A choked sound.

  “Except once. The last time. I was seventeen. I was getting too old for him, I now realize. His sweet spot was thirteen to sixteen. Most of his female students were in that range, and I always wondered how many he did this to.” A breath, a sob. “So, I was seventeen, musically talented. I was applying to colleges, but figuring I’d leave for Nashville the day I graduated.