My Beating Teenage Heart (17 page)

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 what 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.

That’s done with and not something I want to talk about but because this is Jules I stroke her leg and say, “I can’t get into playing anymore.”

“It’ll come back to you.” Her hands skim the water, creating slow-motion waves around us. Then she lays her wet head against my chest and we’re both quiet, Jules closing her eyes as though we could stay in the moment for hours.

We feel as close as two people can be and the pain that’s always with me hasn’t stopped but it’s not in control of me. I wish I didn’t have to go back to the real world but we can’t be in the bath together when her folks get home. Soon enough we’re drying ourselves off, putting ourselves back together and, by the time Jules’s parents return at 9:15, we’re sitting in front of the TV conscientiously doing econ homework together.

Mr. and Mrs. Pacquette look happy, like they had a nice night out, and Jules is all smiles because of the earlier mattress gymnastics. I think even I look pretty relaxed. I feel better than I have in weeks—not great but better, stronger—and when I get home I decide this is the night to quit the sleeping pills cold turkey.