Dear Diary...
Page 1
Dear Diary…
Dear Diary…Series
Book 2
By L. M. Reed
Copyright L. M. Reed 2009
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The Dear Diary…Series is available on most e-book platforms.
Check out all the books in the Dear Diary…Series by L. M. Reed
The Eyes Have It
Dear Diary…
Finding Mrs. Wright
For Richard or Poorer
One Knight Stand
Take Your Mark
Keeping Count
Christmas Spy
And coming soon…
Judging a Book
Also, check out the Agent Jack Knight spin-off series…
Agent Jack Knight: The Beginning
Agent Jack Knight: China
And coming soon…
Agent Jack Knight: Russia
Dedication
To my daughter Michelle.
I thank God every day for sending you to enrich and bless my life.
You are truly an exceptional child.
I love you more than I can reach.
Acknowledgements
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the three people who have helped me through the entire process of writing and publishing my book: My oldest daughter Autumn for putting together my cover and proofreading my novel over and over, my youngest daughter Michelle whose cute turn of phrase has inspired many of my best scenes and funniest lines, and my spouse Cary whose technical expertise kept my laptop running and kept me from pulling out every last hair on my head.
This novel was definitely a group effort.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
Dear Diary,
Another appointment. I hate summer.
CeeCee
Glancing at my watch, I decided I had a little time to kill before we needed to leave for the appointment. I didn’t want to go, but I had no choice. Mom had been very clear on that point. During the school year, they couldn’t very well pull me out of classes every time Dad had something scheduled, but summer was different.
Not for the first time, I futilely wished for Mark.
Idly, I glanced at my most recent diary entry. Like all of the others, it was short and to the point. I’d begun writing in my diary when I was eight, continuing because I was a creature of habit, plus the fact that it reminded me of a list—a long list of my life’s events—and I lived for lists.
Suddenly curious, I flipped back to the first entry I had ever written and almost laughed out loud…something I hadn’t done in a long time.
Dear diary i am CEECEE i want a puppy not you
I remembered my fury at receiving a silly empty book instead of the puppy I wanted so badly. Mom tried to explain the whole diary concept to me, but it somehow got lost in the translation.
I thought she’d called it a diarrhea, and I had no idea why anyone would want to write to that. Then when Dad suggested that if I didn’t want to write in it I could doodle in it instead…well…the visuals that conjured up in my little eight year old mind weren’t pretty.
Deciding that rereading my diary was as good a way as any to waste time—I hadn’t glanced through my diary since…well, never actually—I turned the page.
I needed a good laugh.
A few pages later, I found an entry that wiped the smile off my face and I no longer felt like laughing. No matter how many years passed, it was unlikely that I would ever find that one amusing.
Dear Diary,
Teacher called me Elsee. I hate 5th grade!!!!!!!
CEECEE
How well I remembered that day…the day kids started calling me Elsie the Cow. I so wished I hadn’t been named Elsee. Anything would have been better than that.
I begged my parents to change my name. I even suggested quite a few possibilities. Heather…I had always liked that name. Michelle was cool, a nice French-sounding name. Susan…now who could find anything to make fun of there? Even Mary, a nice unobtrusive name, would have been preferable.
The list of good names went on and on, but no, I was named after a COW! Actually, technically speaking, I was named after my Scottish grandmother, but in the good old US of A., Elsie was a cow, even if mine was spelled with 2 E’s.
I learned a valuable lesson that first day of 5th grade. From then on, I always made sure I talked to the teachers privately before they got to the part where they called our names out in front of everybody.
In a weirdly reminiscent mood, I continued my sentimental journey. Another entry caught my eye.
Dear Diary
We have to move.
CeeCee
How well I remembered the summer after my eighth grade year.
Dad had been having health issues for a while, and seemed to be getting worse, but no one had a diagnosis for him.
My parents had moved to a small town in West Texas after Mark was born and before I came along. Originally hired as a junior high coach, my dad had managed to work his way up through the ranks to the head high school football-coaching job.
Midland was the closest city so of course that was where Mom ended up taking him when the local doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, merely suggesting that Dad was simply tired and depressed then told him to get more rest and prescribed him some type of anti-depressant. Mom knew better than to believe that.
Even though the doctors in Midland couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him either, at least they ran some tests, and eliminated some possibilities. After that, they suggested we take him to Houston or the Dallas-Fort Worth area for more tests since we wanted to keep to Texas.
After a lot of discussion—my parents always had “heated discussions” not arguments—my Mom finally convinced Dad to quit his teaching/coaching job, which had become too difficult for him to handle.
Meanwhile, Mom began applying for jobs in the Dallas-Fort Worth area to be close to Baylor, which is where my parents decided to try, since the doctors in Midland warned us that it might take quite a while for an actual diagnosis. Mom wanted to stay in Texas to teach because she didn’t have the time or energy to do what was necessary to get teaching credentials in a different state.
I was upset—what an understatement—about having to start over in a new place my first year in High School, but what could I say? Dad needed a diagnosis, which we obviously couldn’t get living where we were.
Flipping through the pages of my diary again, I wondered idly if anything good had happened to me over the past few years. Funny how it looked like I only wrote in my diary when I was upset about something. Freud would certainly have had plenty to say about that.
Wait, oh yeah, there was a good entry in my diary sometime during my freshman year at the new school. I thumbed through my diary until I found what I was looking for…an entry I’d written right after Christmas that year.
Interesting, one of the only happy entries, and it was actually longer than the others. I practically babbled when something made me happy. Who knew?
Dear Diary,
Met Coach Miller while I was out running today. Going out for the track team this semester and cross-country next fall.
CeeCee
I ran a lot. Running made me feel free. Dad had taken me jogging with him for as long as I could remember. Even when I was a baby, Mom told me he would put me in a backpack type carrier and take me along with him. As I got older, a
nd he realized I loved running, we never missed a day…until he started getting sick.
I still ran. Every morning and every evening, no matter the weather, found me out running. There was a walking/jogging park not too far from our new house, thankfully, and I felt very safe there…the well-lit park populated just enough to have a secure feel to it.
I had been on the junior high track team back home, but didn’t think I was good enough to be on my new high school’s team because it was so huge…a 5A school.
Coach Miller, the girls’ track coach and a dedicated runner herself, ran across me, no pun intended—or maybe the pun was intended, I’d always had a weird sense of humor—while out training for a marathon. She recognized me from one of her P.E. classes, and asked if I wanted to run with her.
Apparently, she was impressed that I could keep up with the pace she set, and convinced me to be on the team. With our financial situation, it was probably a very good thing that she did. I needed a scholarship in order to help pay for college.
Money was tight for my parents, and I didn't want to have to ask them for anything. That was also why Mark had to work so many hours, even though he was a full-time college student, and didn’t get to come home much.
The next thing I had written still had the ability to make me sick to my stomach. It wasn’t even a week after meeting Coach Miller that my roller coaster of a life headed down again.
Dear Diary,
Dad has MS.
CeeCee
We had a diagnosis: multiple sclerosis. The doctors diagnosed him during the last semester of my freshman year, and although Mom was relieved to finally have a name for what was happening to my dad, it wasn’t good.
I only caught a few of the general details, since I usually tended to stick my fingers in my ears and yell “too much information!” Well, figuratively anyway, literally I would put my headphones on, crank up my music, and proceed to ignore anything and everything going on around me.
I had listened to enough to know that the doctors said he would have remissions—remissions sounded promising—but that each time he redeveloped symptoms he would probably get worse. That sounded not so promising.
We kept waiting for a remission, but he just kept getting worse. Apparently, there were different types of MS, and even then, people within each type could differ greatly.
Eventually, the doctors realized that my dad must have the worst kind, the progressive kind, without any remissions. He wasn’t going to have any of the “ups”. It was fairly rare to be that severe, but, ironically, less likely to cause cognitive problems than some other forms of MS.
The doctors all acted like it was a good thing that dad could still think clearly. I thought it stunk. I personally wouldn’t want to know. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.
CeeCee Wilson…“Queen of Denial”.
By the end of my sophomore year, a wheelchair had become a necessity and by the end of my junior year, Dad could no longer get into or out of the wheelchair without help.
My mom, predictably, refused to think about putting him in a home of any kind. After many fights with our health insurance company Mom was finally able to get them to agree to pay for four visits a day from a home health agency.
The agency sent out some sort of male aide to help mom transfer dad between his bed and wheelchair. There was no way she could do it herself. Even though Dad had lost weight, he was still around 6 feet tall and close to 180 pounds.
The aide also helped with other more personal things, but I didn't even want to think about what those might be.
I guess Mom was finally able to convince the insurance company that paying for a little help would be cheaper than having to put Dad in a home. Dad had always teased her about “never knowing when to quit”. That was Mom in a nutshell.
Anyway, after the aide left in the morning, our neighbor, Mrs. Murray, would come over and sit with dad all day while mom was at work. Mrs. Murray was a very nice lady in her 50s, whose husband had died of cancer a few years before we moved there.
Mom was always apologizing to her for having to leave, but our neighbor would reassure her that she was happy to do whatever she could to help out, that she’d had so many people help her when her husband got sick she was glad to be able to give back a little bit.
Mom showed her how to feed dad through some sort of tube or something under his shirt and Mrs. Murray was all set. I definitely didn’t want to know too many specific details about that.
There were a lot of things I felt I didn't need to know. Thankfully, my mom understood my squeamishness.
Dad’s speech eventually slurred so badly that it was impossible to understand what he was saying, even for Mom, who had been able to decipher his words for longer than anyone else had. At first, my mom was so frustrated that she was on the verge of tears most of the time just trying to understand what my dad was saying.
I had a hard time watching that—big surprise—so I was very thankful to have been required to read the Count of Monte Cristo for English. There was a man in the book who had a stroke or something, and he used blinks to communicate with people. Who knew you could actually learn something useful in English class?
Mom was certain Dad was still in there, trapped in a useless body, but all there mentally, so she was thrilled when I mentioned what I had read about communicating with blinks. Even though mom was a teacher, her field was home economics; English literature had never been one of her strong points.
She had me bring home a copy of the novel so she could read the relevant parts and spent a lot of time on our computer searching online for whatever she could find about communicating with people like my dad.
Even though he could no longer see very well, he could still blink. It was a slow process, but both of my parents were very relieved to be able to talk to each other again. They were best friends.
I, however, had a hard time being around him. As long as I stayed away, I could just ignore the facts, pretend that none of it existed.
In the beginning, when we had hopes for a remission, I had been able to fool myself into thinking that it would all go away. If we could just wait for him to get over the “down” part, he would return to fairly normal again. Then, who knew when the symptoms would reappear. That was how it worked for most people with MS.
Since that never happened, I had to readjust my strategy. I could no longer convince myself that things were going to improve so I decided that none of it was real. I began avoiding my parents, unwilling to hear or see anything that would force me to accept that everything wasn't normal, that nothing would ever be normal again. I especially avoided being anywhere near Dad…I couldn’t even look at him.
I fixed all my own meals when I was sure they were busy elsewhere, left early to run in the mornings, stayed at school as long as possible, ran in the evenings, and stayed in my room with my door shut and my headphones on when I was at home.
Mom never even noticed, as preoccupied as she was with trying to keep up with everything that she had to do, but the few times that my eyes accidentally met dad's eyes, I knew that he knew exactly what I was doing, and he didn’t like it.
I guess what it boiled down to was that I just couldn’t accept that the man in the wheelchair was really my dad. My dad was a runner, a coach, a PE teacher. He was strong and healthy. He was just so...alive!
That lump of humanity sitting in that wheelchair was not him! It was all a mistake; none of it was really happening to me…to us. Not my dad! It had to be some sort of mistake, or a nightmare. That was it. I just needed to wake up. Not my dad! Things like that happened to other people, not to me, not to my family!
According to the pamphlet my school counselor Mrs. Blackstone had given me, I was in denial…the first stage of the five stages of grief. Her idea of counseling was to hand out a bunch of literature and then dismiss the student with a wave of her hand and a, “Let me kno
w if you have any questions” parting line. In her defense, it wasn’t really her fault. From what I had seen through the years, school counselors were there to test and schedule, which they did very well, not to handle emotionally out of control teenagers.
On a positive note, she had given me a list. I liked lists. They were a nice, neat, orderly way to compartmentalize things.
Although I didn’t want to give up the life I was living in the lovely land of denial, my parents rather forced my hand.
Dear Diary,
Got a handicapped van today; I hate driving it.
CeeCee
Being only eight years old when I began writing in my diary, plus the fact that my participation was extremely sporadic, I never thought about dating any of my entries. Looking back, though, I suppose I could pinpoint fairly accurately the week that anger became my predominant emotion kicking denial to the back burner…the last week of June in between my sophomore and junior years, with three weeks of summer already gone.
I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible, spending most of my time at the library or out running; so much so that even my mom began to notice. There wasn’t much that my parents could do about it, so they just let it slide. The only thing they did require, since it was summer and I was out of school, was for me to drive them to Dad's doctor appointments. I had been excited about having my license…until then.
At first, people from the church where we attended would take turns picking Mom and Dad up and driving them to his appointments. Getting my dad from one place to another was not easy, even before the wheelchair, but once he became so incapacitated that he needed a wheelchair full-time, it became even more difficult.
Having a general idea of our financial situation, the people at church decided to help us out with our dilemma. Since one of the members owned a used car lot, he had connections and managed to find a used handicapped van at a hugely discounted price. The van was 20 years old, had a raised roof, a hydraulic wheelchair lift that came out the side doors and down to the ground, and it was painted a hideously conspicuous shade of bright blue.
I wasn’t sure which I hated worse, driving that thing, or being in an enclosed space with the man in the wheelchair. Hmm, the pamphlet hadn’t said anything about being angry and in denial at the same time. I was beginning to wonder just how accurate that list was.
So that was the week my anger began in earnest. I don't know if that's what started it, but I do know that was when it started.
I hated all of it. I hated my parents for making me participate and I hated them for making me hate them. I hadn’t asked for any of it. I hadn’t signed up for it. I didn't want anything to do with it. That wasn't my life!
People always talked about suffering in silence like it was a very brave and noble thing, but sometimes silence can be very loud and clear. I was sure my parents knew exactly how I felt about having to drive them anywhere. I'd never been an overly vocal person, preferring to keep most of my thoughts to myself, but I knew they could tell what I was thinking, I wanted them to know—my body language was practically screaming it at them—and that was just the start.
On Sunday mornings, I flatly refused to go to church. I had been going to church every stinkin’ Sunday since before I could remember…I had done my part, praying hard, hoping against hope, with absolutely no results.
If God was up there, He wasn't listening to me. Ah, finally, somewhere I could direct my anger. It was God's fault. I yelled at God in my mind over and over. How could He do something like that? Was He even up there? Maybe there was no God, no all-powerful supreme being, watching over all of us. Maybe it was a joke, a hoax, and someone was having a laugh at my expense.
Or maybe, if there really was a God, He was the one playing tricks on us. He couldn’t possibly care about any of us or He wouldn’t have let it happen. What kind of God was He, anyway? There was no rhyme or reason to anything in the world He created. The good people got sick and died, and the bad people did whatever they wanted and got away with it.
My anger knew no bounds. Every time I heard someone saying, “God's will be done” or “it's in God's hands” or “God is good,” I felt like throwing, hitting, or kicking something; Any type of explosion would surely help, because keeping everything all bottled up inside of me was excruciating.
The darkness inside of me overwhelmed me, coloring everything. I couldn’t find any light to help me figure out what direction to turn. It all looked the same…black, dark, everything closing in on me. I wanted to scream and cry and…escape. Mostly I yearned for escape; I just couldn’t find an exit. I ran towards every little bit of light and hope, fast and furiously, only to discover it had either disappeared or been an illusion. I had finally given up, lost all hope of ever escaping. I felt trapped…and I was incredibly angry.
My parents decided after a few months of watching me walk around like a thundercloud, that I needed help.
Go figure…
On the surface, I didn't think I was any worse than most other teenagers. I didn’t have any good friends at school, but I kind of hung out with other members of the track team at lunch, and from what I could gather of their behavior towards their parents, I was right on target for being a normal teenager. Sure, I was suddenly grouchy all the time when before I had been pretty easy-going and even-tempered, but grouchy seemed to be a general requirement for a teenager.
Deciding that it was more than just the normal teenage hormonal thing, my parents suggested getting “help,” but I immediately rejected it. After the “first date” incident, they decided to take matters into their own hands, making me an appointment with the counselor without telling me about it—well, mom made the appointment—and then forcing me into going.
A fat lot of good that had done, I thought angrily.
Well, at least I had my pamphlet. I was beginning to doubt the pamphlet’s accuracy, but it was a list, and I loved lists.
Thinking about the “first date” incident sent me once more flipping back thru the diary. I realized I had missed one of my more excited entries—another good one—at the end of my 8th grade year, the summer before I was to start my new school.
Dear Diary,
Mark is going to teach me self-defense. Mom said it was ok.
CeeCee
I smiled slightly as I recalled Mark's concern that I was about to become a freshman in high school while he was leaving home to attend college. He wanted to make sure I could defend myself against any unwanted advances.
He had been taking karate lessons since he was 10 years old, and decided that he would teach me self-defense after promising our parents that he would only teach me how to defend, not attack. They didn't want their little girl to become a killing machine, I suppose.
Of course, they didn't realize once I started learning I would like it so much that I would continue teaching myself with whatever material I could find…dangerous.
I knew I wasn't ever going to need to fight off a passionately inflamed male so it really amused me that anyone would think it was that important for me to know self-defense. However, since I had always wanted to take karate and my parents wouldn't let me, I was determined to learn anything and everything Mark was willing to teach.
It was lots of fun. Mark always made everything fun. I missed him so much.
Thumbing forward thru the pages again, I found the next entry leading up to the “date incident,” another good one. I was on a roll.
Dear Diary,
Craig Telson asked me to the homecoming dance. Just…WOW!
CeeCee
I had my first date the fall of my junior year.
With the District cross-country meet just two weeks away, I’d begun spending extra time in the school weight room. I happened to be lifting weights the day Craig Telson and some of his football buddies were in there pumping iron and talking about the upcomi
ng Homecoming dance the following weekend.
I used to get so excited back home during that time of the year.
The football games were thrilling because Dad would let me stand on the sidelines, as long as I stayed out of trouble, however since Dad’s illness I had avoided anything to do with football like it was the plague.
Lost in my own thoughts while I was bench-pressing, I didn’t notice right away that Craig was suddenly standing next to me. Startled, I almost dropped the bar. He grabbed it, laughing, and helped me steady it again.
“Thanks,” I said a little breathlessly.
“You know you’re supposed to have a spotter, right?” he asked sternly.
“Yeah, but none of the other girls were available.”
I was strangely embarrassed for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, so I tried to avoid his eyes.
“Well, I’m not a girl, but will I do?” he asked confident that I wouldn’t turn him down.
“Th…that’s ok,” I stammered, “I was just finishing up anyway.”
I carefully put the bar back on its stand, got up from the bench, and picked up my backpack.
“Wait…you’re CeeCee right?”
I nodded, having no idea why the senior quarterback of the football team would know my name—even though I paid no attention to football in general, I would have been hard put to find anyone who didn’t know who he was—as I was basically a ‘nobody’.
“My girlfriend and I split up,” he seemed to assume that I would know him—after all who didn’t—and all about him and his girlfriend, “so I was hoping you would go to the dance with me.”
“The Homecoming Dance…?” I asked in amazement.
“That’s the one,” he replied coolly.
“Um…I’m not a very good dancer,” I hedged, not sure why he was asking me.
Was it just a joke…with me as the punch line? Something he and his buddies could laugh about once I said yes. I wasn’t sure what to do, how to act. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.
“That’s ok. I’m not much into dancing myself. We could have fun together,” he said coaxingly. “Come on, say yes. You know you want to.”
That was the problem, I did want to…badly.
Still, I had grown cynical since the incident with Serena…I quickly shied away from that memory…and I knew there were other girls still available that were a lot more attractive than I was…like pretty much everyone else…so why was he asking me?
Darn it…why did I have to analyze everything to death?
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said reluctantly.
“Please,” he turned to pleading mixed in with the coaxing, “like I said, I just got dumped, and I’m feeling a little low. You seem like a really nice girl, I just thought you could take my mind off of…things.”
I began to feel badly for him, and issued a cautious “okay”. I was determined to control myself; he simply hadn’t wanted to go to the dance alone, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time.
I knew that was all it was, but, despite all of my good intentions, I was excited. I never thought any guy would be interested in someone so very ordinary, especially a guy who was so popular.
My mom was thrilled. She had a few dresses that she used to wear on special occasions with my dad when he was “normal,” and she and I worked every evening for a week, with Dad looking on, to redo one of them…just enough to transform it into something a teenager would wear to a dance.
She was 2 inches shorter, but since the trend was “above the knee,” it was the perfect length, and once Mom adjusted the side seams to accommodate my hips, looked like it had been tailor-made for me. My mom was a genius with a needle and thread, which was a good thing since, with my dad no longer able to work and my brother in college, Mom’s teaching salary was all we had.
Thankfully, we were able to splurge on shoes since my old church shoes no longer fit well. Granted we bought them from a discount store, but I was happy.
The night of the dance was a perfect fall evening. I was so excited and so very nervous. My redone dress had spaghetti straps, a fitted bodice, and a straight skirt with one slit on the right side.
I had a momentary twinge of sadness as I remembered Mom wearing the same dress…the same, yet different. The look in Dad’s eyes as they had rested on her…it was as if no one else existed for him. I felt an unnamed longing, an ache, deep inside of me at the memory.
By the time my mom had my hair curled and helped me with a little bit of her makeup, I didn't even know myself in the mirror. I felt almost pretty. Everything was perfect and wonderful and so very cool!
Craig Telson arrived at the front door promptly at six in order to take me out to eat before the dance at eight. Thankfully, Craig was a good 3 inches taller than I was, because my new shoes had just a little bit of a high heel. I wished I’d had time to break them in, they were a tad uncomfortable, but since it was just one night, I was sure they would be fine.
Craig wore a black tux, and his sandy blonde hair was slicked back and perfect. He wasn't the best looking guy in school, but he was handsome enough in his own way.
His nose was a little bit crooked, probably broken playing football, and he didn't smile much which gave him a rather intense look. I decided that meant that he was very serious and mature for his age.
I was such a good judge of character: NOT!
We rode in a rented limo with two other couples. Craig’s introduction was a tad bit lop-sided. His “This is CeeCee” made it clear to me that I was supposed to know all of the others. If I were a “normal” teenager, I would have. I hated not being “normal”.
By paying close attention, I was able to determine that the two guys’ names were Philip and Mike, and they were on the football team with Craig. Philip was there with Cindy, I was fairly certain I had seen her flitting around school in a cheerleading outfit, and Mike was there with Courtney South. I knew her at once because she and her campaign committee had plastered her face all over the school while running for student body president the previous year.
I didn’t know anything about their backgrounds, but I did know that Craig's parents were wealthy. His father ran the bank where we did all of our banking, so renting a limo was no big deal for Craig. It was a big deal for me.
I had no idea getting into a limo was an art form, and I felt like the klutz of the year. At least they didn’t laugh at me too much when I literally fell in. I watched the other girls get out when we got to the restaurant and tried to copy them, but without much success.
Once in the restaurant, I silently thanked my mom for all of the training she had forced upon me while I was young. I had endlessly complained about having to learn how to set a formal table and what fork to use—after all, who needs more than one—but all of that saved me from major embarrassment.
I could feel the other girls’ eyes on me, watching to see if I would make a mistake and humiliate myself, but unlike in the limo, the restaurant was familiar territory. Craig nodded his head approvingly at me as I chose the correct flatware every time…and I glowed.
After we ate, we headed to the dance. Again, I tried to copy the other girls as they “entered” the limo. As I awkwardly collapsed into my seat once more, I decided I would never be any good at it. I only had the one night to learn, and it was highly unlikely that I would ever get another opportunity to practice.
The high school gym was decorated so heavily that if I had not known it was the gym, I wouldn't have recognized it. There was a disco ball in the middle of the huge ceiling throwing sparkly lights on all of us, and streamers hanging from the rafters stretched in every direction. Balloons were everywhere.
All of a sudden, I was having visions of a book that I had read about a girl and a prom that hadn’t ended well. When it came out as a movie, I had refused to go see it. The book alone scared me silly.
I shuddered, hoping I wasn’t experiencing psychic vibes.
Craig was every girl’s dream date. He never left my side, except to get me more punch, which I didn't like very much, so I kept pouring it into the trash can whenever he wasn't looking.
He danced with me all night—well swayed is really a more fitting description…I wasn’t much of a dancer—never even looking at another girl, and I was in hog heaven.
We stayed until about eleven, and one of the other guys, I think it was Philip, suggested we all go somewhere and continue the party. I didn't want to leave the dance, but everyone else did, so I finally gave in and agreed.
We ended up at Craig's house and it looked like a mansion to me.
The limo pulled up to the front door and Craig told the driver to wait there. He then led us through the house to the back where there was a swimming pool and hot tub.
Craig, saying he would be right back, disappeared into the house. When I turned around the other four were gone, too.
I heard voices coming from a small building standing just off from the pool area and I realized they were changing into swimsuits. I didn’t know what to do; no one had mentioned bringing a suit.
Glancing around, I noticed a patio table with chairs, so I pulled one out and sat down. It was a little chilly, so I wasn’t surprised when they all came out in white terry cloth robes. I watched them, idly wondering where Craig was, as they reached the edge of the pool and started disrobing.
My face was suddenly red hot with embarrassment. They hadn’t told me to bring a swimsuit because none of them were wearing one!
Quickly averting my face, I heard them getting into the pool, laughing and splashing each other.
About that time, Craig came out of the house. He, too, was dressed in a robe and was pushing a serving cart filled with snacks and beer.
Oh my gosh! I thought panicked, what have I gotten myself into?
Craig was clearly confused when he saw that I was sitting there still fully clothed.
“CeeCee, there’s a robe in there for you, too. Go ahead and change, I’ll wait for you.”
You have got to be kiddin’ me! I thought wildly.
Aloud all I said was, “That’s ok; I’m good.”
Walking over to me, Craig pulled me out of the chair and wrapped his arms around me.
“Come on, CeeCee, loosen up. There is nothing to be embarrassed about…you have an awesome body. That’s the first thing I notice about you in the weight room the other day.”
His hands began roaming freely, and I started to panic.
“No, I can’t,” I refused, trying to stop his hands without much success.
“It’s no big deal, I promise. We won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he assured me.
Hello, what planet are you from? I am uncomfortable just being here, I wanted to scream at him.
Don’t panic, stay calm, I told myself sternly, but I must not have been listening as my alarm grew.
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t,” despite my efforts to stay calm, that last word came out as a squeak.
“We’re just going for a swim,” his voice was coaxing, “What’s wrong with that?”
What…did he want a list?
Number 1: I was already self-conscious enough fully clothed
Number 2: I was raised to believe you “save it for marriage”
Number 3: I wasn’t about to take off my clothes in front of a guy I had only known for a few days even if he wasn’t expecting anything else to happen, which I seriously doubted.
“I just can’t,” I repeated desperately.
I was only verbose in my head. Aloud, I was barely more than monosyllabic.
I could see that he was losing patience.
“How could anyone drink as much punch as you did and still be this uptight?” he asked angrily.
“Punch…?” I asked in confusion. “What about the punch?”
“Oh come on! You can’t be for real. Don’t tell me you didn’t know the punch was spiked. You were downing it like there was no tomorrow.”
I had never tasted alcohol before, so I had no clue that's why I didn't like the punch, but it was clear to me that Craig had known all along exactly what was in it. He obviously, however, had no idea that I had dumped most of it in the trashcan whenever he wasn’t looking, and so expected me to be rip-roaring drunk by that point.
As much as I tried to stop them, tears welled up in my eyes, and threatened to spill over. I suddenly couldn’t talk around the lump in my throat.
Seeing the tears, and misinterpreting them as a sign of weakening, Craig changed his approach. He was nothing if not persistent. His hold on me softened into an innocent hug, smoothing my hair with one hand and gently squeezing my waist with the other, while he reassured me that it was all okay, no big deal; I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do.
After a few seconds, he moved smoothly to neck nibbling, and from there proceeded straight to the zipper in the back of my dress. I had relaxed thinking maybe things could work out after all…more fool me.
As soon as I heard and felt the zipper go, I yelled “NO” and began struggling in earnest, trying to push him away. I’d had enough. I could feel the anger building up inside of me.
This is why I’m here? I fumed silently. His girlfriend dumped him, and he isn’t getting any?
He just wanted to use me. He had no clue about who I was, and couldn’t care less. I just happened to be the right gender and body type. I was nothing to him.
At that moment, every stinking life-changing event that had ever happened to me, the unfairness of it all, just overwhelmed me, and I wanted to hurt someone. No, correction; I wanted to hurt Craig. He represented every helpless, frustrated, out of control feeling that I had experienced over the last two years.
Someone should pay; Craig would do.
In my defense, I did try to give him fair warning that I would have to hurt him, but he just laughed.
He was holding my body too tightly against his to be able to use any of the fairly innocuous things that Mark had taught me, like stomping on his foot with my heel, or kneeing him in the groin so I had to resort to more violent methods.
At least, that was what I told myself anyway…the stark truth was that those were way too tame for the way I was feeling by that point.
Leaning my upper body as far away from him as possible, I felt the sudden urge to break something, which I did.
Craig was definitely a free bleeder. In my defense, it really did look like he had already broken his nose at least one other time, most likely playing football, so it wasn't like any great shock to his system or to his looks to have it broken again.
I left him, holding his bloody nose, and calling me all manner of names, out by the swimming pool.
Running through the house, holding my partially unzipped dress up with both hands, I only had one conscious thought; I have to get out of here. If the other two decided to help Craig, I would never be able to fight them all off. I made the front door, yanked it open, and headed down the driveway. I could feel the stare of the chauffeur as I sped past him.
The straight skirt of my dress was hindering my stride, it only had a small slit up one side so, at the end of the driveway, I decided to risk stopping to fix the problem.
Since the guys were all in their birthday suits, immediate pursuit seemed highly unlikely. I managed to zip up my dress and grabbing the two pieces of material on each side of the slit, I pulled it apart viciously.
That should do it, I thought with satisfaction.
I seriously pondered taking off my shoes, the heels were starting to annoy, but I was afraid I would step on something dangerous in the dark.
What I wouldn’t give for a pair of running shoes right about now; I thought wistfully.
It took me about an hour to find my way home.
My parents were in their bedroom when I arrived, and Mom got to the bedroom door just as I was heading upstairs. I waved and whispered “Night” just loud enough for her to hear. I knew she would want to know everything, but I was in no shape to talk to anyone.
I was safe once I reached my room, and gave way to the shaking and crying that I had valiantly fought off on the long trip home. Dad was usually asleep by ten, and Mom never left him alone, so I knew no one would be coming to check on me.
I decided against telling them anything, thinking that Craig would never admit that a girl had injured him, but the next entry reminded me of why that had been a poor decision.
Dear Diary,
Craig’s parents called.
CeeCee
CeeCee Wilson: The Friendless and Dateless Wonder!
I sounded like a freak show at the circus. I felt like one, too. You would think that people would understand that a girl should defend herself when being assaulted, however, the story that circulated around school made me into the villain instead of the victim.
Apparently, I was young, innocent, scared, and had, in a blind panic, broken Craig’s nose when he tried to kiss me goodnight. That was news to me.
It made perfect sense that no one would believe me, given the facts:
1. He was the star quarterback of the football team.
2. It was five against one, since his friends backed his version of the story.
3. He was the one that ended up with a profusely bleeding nose.
My major mistake was in not telling my parents right away, thinking I could spare them. Craig’s parents had no such inhibitions. The threatening phone call that followed made it clear to Mom that they were considering pressing charges and possibly even a civil suit.
If I had told Mom and Dad my version of the events that night right away I might have stood a chance of them believing me but, with my track record, they would assume that I had let my anger outweigh my common sense, and was too ashamed to own up to it.
Arguing with them about it wasn’t going to get us anywhere, but I was fully committed to making sure that Craig and his parents weren’t going to get away with making me into a criminal, or suing my parents. I wasn’t going to take that lying down…pun definitely intended.
After agonizing for a couple of days over what to do, I decided I would confront Craig in the cafeteria in front of as many witnesses as possible. I made no secret of my destination…straight for Craig’s table. I knew exactly where he would be, the same table he and his cronies always occupied at lunch.
As I made my way over to him, I could hear the murmurs beginning; I ignored them. I had already heard it all: Amazon woman, She-Ra Princess of Power, Wonder Woman…they weren’t even very original.
Stopping directly in front Craig, daring him to maintain eye contact, I leaned over, placed both hands on the table between us and came straight to the point.
“My legal advisor suggested that I demand a polygraph, you know what that is right, a lie detector test, if your parents continue to pursue their current course of action.”
I paused a little, presumably for dramatic effect, but in reality it was because I needed to take a deep breath in order to remain calm. I had decided to use every highfalutin’ phrase I had ever seen, heard or read to make myself more convincing.
“We have absolutely no doubts about who will pass that test and who will fail it. I would think about that very carefully if I were you. Right now, I’m the only one that knows you and your ‘witnesses’ for the liars that you are, but after that test…” I straightened, and added, “Well, I think you get the picture.”
I allowed myself a small smug smile. Craig might have had enough confidence in his own ability to pass a polygraph, but I seriously doubted he would want to place his suddenly precariously balanced future in the hands of someone else, especially someone as ditzy as Cindy the Cheerleader.
Turning away, I walked as calmly and slowly as I could manage over to the vending machines, picked out something to eat and drink, having absolutely no idea what I was buying, made my way over to an empty table, and proceeded to force myself to eat every bite.
I was glad I’d thought to buy a drink, because in order to get the food past the lump in my throat, I had to wash it all down with copious amounts of liquid.
I needed to appear totally under control in order for my plan to work. It had to work. I had a legal advisor all right, but it wasn’t a lawyer; my ‘legal advisor’ was a book. Story of my life, I’d read about it in a book. Sticking to books was probably the safest way for me to live.
It was a monstrously huge bluff but thankfully, it worked. I wasn’t sure which part of what I said convinced Craig to give up or what exactly he told his parents in order to stop the lawsuits, but I honestly didn’t care. Craig was a jerk. I planned to forget he even existed.
The next week made forgetting him extremely difficult. For the first time since I could remember, I had to cut back on my running schedule. The blisters I had developed from running in my new high heels made any type of movement extremely painful. Our district cross-country meet was the following weekend and, needless to say, I didn’t perform well. Stupid football jock!
The next entry almost made everything else worth it…almost.
Dear Diary,
Felicia Howell is my new best friend.
CeeCee
One positive thing resulted from the incident; Felicia Howell and I became good friends…best friends…because of it. That was a very good thing, since no one else at school would even talk to me any longer. As I was sitting alone that day, trying to force down the vending machine “food,” Felicia simply sat down at my table and introduced herself.
She, too, had been burned by Craig. The year before, because she had rejected Craig’s “advances,” he and his buddies had spread rumors that she was “easy” with hints of prostitution involved. It had escalated to the point where the administration had become involved. Due to the pressure from the other cheerleaders’ parents, Felicia finally quit the cheerleading squad.
UGH! Slamming my diary shut disgustedly, I jumped up from my chair and stalked over to the window. I stared blankly at the street below. Life was so stinkin’ unfair. The good got shafted, and the bad…
Where is the justice? I sighed.
Why did I continually insist on searching for explanations, desperate that everything should make sense, when obviously nothing did?
Felicia was so good for me. She never dwelt on things if she could help it. Even though she was upset about her predicament, it made me angrier than it did her. That wasn’t unusual…I was the angriest person on the planet.
We were total opposites in most ways: Vivacious vs. solemn, outgoing vs. loner, optimist vs. pessimist, trusting vs. cynical, beautiful name vs. cow name.
Felicia, now that was a name.
It was no wonder that she usually had a smile on her face. She loved life, always looking on the “bright side”. She was beautiful on the outside, also. She had the naturally blonde hair that I had always wanted, the beautiful blue eyes, and, ever since she was fifteen years old, the hourglass figure; definitely blessed in ways I never would be.
At 5’5” she wasn't too short, or too tall…she was just right and with such nice even features even her freckles were cute. Truly, having her for a best friend was the one bright spot in my life.
Felicia insisted that there were things about me that she envied, but I couldn’t see it, assuming she was just saying that to cheer me up. There were so many things that I hated…like my height. She was always trying to make me feel better about that telling me I could be a model, what a laugh, but at 5’8,” the only positive thing I could say about it was I would always be able to see who was going bald before anyone else did. Speaking of hair, or the lack thereof, I was pretty much gypped there, too. There wasn’t much I could do with my thic
k, straight brown hair other than put it in a ponytail 24/7, which was exactly what I did.
I had my dad's nose, which of course looked great on him, on me, not so much. It was a very nice, straight, narrow nose; there was just too much of it. Between my nose and my height, the phrase looking down my nose at someone took on a whole new meaning. I was also very tired of the nicknames I seemed to have attracted ever since I had hit my growing spurt in junior high, like string bean and stick woman.
My one redeeming quality…my eyes….they were bright green, almost peridot, my birthstone, and my lashes were very thick and dark, which were the only things of which Felicia could possibly be jealous.
Being blonde, her lashes were very light in color, and she was never without her mascara close by, lamenting her “washed out” look. I would never need any, not that I ever wore makeup, except that one time… as it seemed like such a waste of time to put it on and have it all melt off when I was out running.
Sighing heavily as I drug myself back to the present, I walked back over to my desk, pulled out the right hand drawer, and put my diary back in its customary place.
I missed Felicia terribly. Every summer she and her parents took the whole summer off to have a family vacation. Her dad was an author and her mom an artist so they were on their own schedule. She wouldn’t be back until the week before school was to start…our senior year.
Big whoop I thought sarcastically.
My parents were probably ready and waiting for me downstairs. I hated Dad’s doctor appointments.
Picking up my key ring, I locked the desk drawer. I couldn’t stall any longer…time to leave.
Resignedly, I turned around, picked up my backpack, and headed to the stairs.