Pretending to Dance (39 page)

“Yes, I think so. I hated Nora by then, and—”

“Why did you hate her?”

I tried to think of a reason that wasn't the truth. “She was just so cold,” I lie. “And I told her I wanted to live with Amalia, but Nora said she would fight it. That Amalia had been accused of neglecting me when I was two and there was no way a court would take me away from Nora and let me live with Amalia.”

“Wow,” Aidan says again. “I'm sorry this was so rough on you, babe. So you were cut off from Amalia?”

I'd cut
myself
off. How could I explain that to Aidan without telling him everything? I was starting to get tangled up in my story.

“I was mad at her, too,” I say simply. “I was just in a bad place and angry with everyone and I wanted to get away from them.” I hated to remember that time in my life. I'd been too young to run away for real after Daddy died—where could I go?—so I ran away inside my head, where I was alone with the extraordinary pain of my father's absence. He'd been my life. The person I could talk to about anything. The person I knew loved me no matter what. For the rest of that horrible summer, I locked myself in my room, refusing to talk to anyone.

“So, my cousin Dani was going to this boarding school called Virginia Dare,” I say, “and I told Nora I wanted to go there, too. I had to get away from the Ridge. And she agreed. She was probably glad to get rid of me once my father was gone.” I wince. I'm not sure if that's the truth. “Dani went home from our boarding school on occasional weekends or holidays,” I say, “but I almost never returned to Morrison Ridge once I left. I spent holidays and summer vacations with school friends and their families, and Nora never fought me on my plans to stay away, although Amalia would call me at school and plead with me to come see her. Daddy had left money that became mine when I turned eighteen, and as soon as I graduated, I moved here to San Diego with a girlfriend. And you know the rest of the story. I went to college. Met Jordan. Got engaged. Got unengaged. Met you, which is the best thing that ever happened to—”

“Molly,” he says. “I still don't understand. So Nora was cold. Why didn't you try to work things out with her? And with your birth mother? This doesn't sound like you, babe. I don't get why you would just cut your family out of your life like that.”

I start to cry. Of course he doesn't understand. I've given him the muddied abridged version of my childhood and it makes no sense.

“There's more to this, isn't there?” he says. “What is it you're not telling me? Were you abused there? Is that it?”

I shake my head. “I'm afraid of what you'll do if I tell you,” I say.

“Molly … I love you. Do you think I'd leave you? I will never do anything to hurt you.”

I move away from him on the sectional so I can see his face. Pulling the afghan more tightly over my shoulders, I fold my arms around my legs, scrunching myself into a protective ball. He watches me and I know I have to trust him. If I don't tell him the truth now, the past will always be between us, a wall of lies that will ruin us.

I pull one of my arms from beneath the afghan and reach for his hand. He holds it on his knee. Studies my face. And I look into his warm eyes and gather my courage.

“Nora killed my father,” I say simply, and it's the last simple thing I will say for a while.

 

54

Morrison Ridge

On the night I was to meet Chris at the springhouse, Russell drove me to Nanny's shortly before seven. I was glad that we left the house before anyone had arrived for the family meeting. I didn't want to have to make small talk with my relatives tonight. Russell and I were both really quiet in the van, and I worried that he knew I was up to something. I was seriously paranoid tonight. There was no way he could know, yet I kept waiting for a lecture that never came, and I was relieved when he turned into Nanny's circular driveway. “I'll pick you up in the morning,” he said, as I opened the van door.

“I can walk, thanks.” I grabbed my backpack from the floor of the van. Shutting the door, I headed up the walkway to the house.

“Nanny?” I called, once I'd let myself in through the unlocked front door. The house was so quiet and still, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel beneath the head of the buck. I headed up the hallway toward the back door, thinking my grandmother must be outside. But when I passed the library, I saw her. She sat in a wingback chair by the library window, a book open on her lap.

“Nanny?” I said.

She was slow to turn her head toward me as I walked into the room.

“Hi, dear,” she said.

I leaned over to kiss her cheek. Her hair smelled as though she hadn't washed it in a few days. It hung limply against her cheeks instead of in her usual bouncy bob. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“Tired,” she said, tipping her head back so that her blue eyes met mine. “I'm just very tired lately.”

I barely heard her response to my question. My mind was not in this room. “Want to watch a movie?” I asked. It was a few minutes before seven. If we watched a two-hour movie, I could pretend to go to bed about nine-thirty and maybe that would inspire her to go to bed, too. Then I could be out the door by ten. It would be perfect.

“Did anyone arrive at your house yet?” Nanny asked, as though I hadn't said a word about a movie.

“Not yet.” I sat down in the only other comfortable chair in the library and hugged my backpack to my chest, where the squirrels continued to run around inside my rib cage. “Did you hear what I said about a movie?” I asked. “Do you want to watch one?”

She looked down at the book in her lap again as though she hadn't heard me.

“Or would you rather just read?” I asked, growing frustrated.

“I suppose a movie,” she said finally. “You can pick one out. I don't care what we watch.”

Neither did I, really. But I was glad she'd finally made a decision, and I got up to find a movie that ran two hours or less.

*   *   *

Sitting on the sofa, we watched
Dial M for Murder,
or rather, the movie played on the TV while I kept an eye on the clock on the mantel, imagining my escape from Nanny's house. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that it took me a while to realize Nanny was staring into space rather than at the TV screen. She was obviously troubled tonight, most likely about Uncle Trevor and the family meeting, and I knew I should ask her what she was thinking. “Draw her out,” Daddy would say. But I didn't have the energy tonight for anyone but myself.

The movie had a half hour to go when Nanny turned to look at me. “I'm so tired tonight, Molly,” she said. “Do you mind if I go to bed? I hate to leave you alone but—”

“No, that's okay,” I said quickly, wondering how I got so lucky. “I'm fine. I'll just watch the end of this and then read in bed for a while.”

“Thank you, dear.” She held on to the arm of the sofa as she stood up and her first couple of steps seemed tentative. She seemed a thousand years old tonight.

Once I heard her bedroom door squeak shut, I sat nervously on the sofa, waiting for the movie to be over. The last half hour seemed to stretch into eternity. Once it ended, I turned the TV off, then walked down the hall and pressed my ear against Nanny's door, hoping to hear her gentle snoring. Instead, I heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. I stood still, unsure what to do. I should knock on her door. I should sit on her bed and comfort her. But she'd gone to bed, so she obviously wanted to be alone. I convinced myself of that as I walked down the hall to the guest room.

I stayed in the guest room until quarter to ten, sitting rigidly in the dark, my backpack over my shoulder, wishing I had my palm stone in my pocket. Then I got up and went into the hall and put my ear against Nanny's door again. All was quiet inside.

I left the house by the back door since I was less likely to wake her that way. I waited until I reached the road before turning on my flashlight and then I walked as fast as I could toward the springhouse. I passed the lane that led to Amalia's house. The forest was full of unearthly animal sounds that rose above the buzz of the cicadas. Something was definitely being killed out there tonight. I shuddered.

I finally reached the turnoff to the springhouse. The path was completely covered by a tangle of ivy and weeds now that we were deep into summer, but I was still able to separate it from the rest of the forest floor as I walked, and soon I saw lights burning in the windows of the springhouse.
Oh my God
. He was there! This was really happening!

I took off my glasses, dropping them into the outside pocket of my backpack. Then I forced open the door and there he was, standing in the middle of the room, grinning at me. “You made it,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

I felt suddenly shy—just a little—but he walked toward me, slid my backpack from my shoulders and set it gently on the floor. Then he put his arms around me and simply hugged me. It was so nice. Nicer than if he'd grabbed me and kissed me, which is what I'd been expecting in my fantasy of this moment. But this was better. So much better. He cared about
me,
not just about having sex with me.

“You definitely have a thing for the New Kids and Johnny Depp, I see,” he said, and I buried my head against his shoulder, embarrassed. I knew I should have taken the posters down before he got here.

“They're from last year,” I said. A white lie. They
were
from last year, but I'd only moved them from my bedroom to the springhouse this past June.

“Not a big deal,” he said, running his hands down my sides. “We all still have stuff from our childhoods.”

“What do you have?” I asked, while he nuzzled my neck. “From your childhood, I mean?” I needed to talk a while. I wasn't ready for him to touch me all over again.

He leaned away from me, grinning, his dimples flashing. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

“No.” I wished I had my stone! I tried to grin back. “I'm really curious about what you have from your childhood.”

“Mostly
Star Wars
stuff.” He held me close, his hands pressed flat against my back. He kissed me lightly. So lightly, I shivered. I wanted more. “Action figures,” he said. “That sort of thing.”

“Mm,” I said to let him know I'd heard him. I was done talking about our childhoods. He kissed me again, more seriously this time. It was as good as the last time when we were at Stacy's house. He was such an amazing kisser. Not that I had anyone else to compare him to.

After a minute, he started lifting my shirt over my head, but I caught his hands.

“We have to turn out the light,” I said, pulling away from him to switch off the floor lamp. “Anyone outside can see in.”

“Who'd be way out here?” He led me over to the bed in the darkness. We lay down together on top of the thin brown bedspread and he kissed me some more. He started to pull off my shirt again, and this time I let him, laughing when the collar got stuck on my ear. He unhooked my bra, but he barely touched my breasts before reaching down to slide off my shorts. When I was down to my bikini underpants, he took my hand and put it on the snap of his jeans. I unsnapped them, but I couldn't get the zipper down, my hands were shaking so hard, and he had to help me. Then he pulled off his jeans and his shorts—oh my God, I couldn't believe how quickly this was happening! Suddenly he was naked next to me. He took my hand and wrapped it around his penis. It was bigger than I'd expected. A hundred times bigger than a tampon. It would never fit inside me. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with my hand around him, but he showed me and his penis only seemed to grow bigger and harder beneath my fingers.

“You're making me crazy,” he whispered in my ear. His hand had slipped inside my underpants, and he was touching me, but I couldn't concentrate on the feeling, I was so nervous.

“Chris?” I whispered back.

“What?” It sounded like it was hard for him to get the word out.

“I don't think … I think I'm too small and you're too big.” I felt unbelievably embarrassed and was glad the light was off.

He laughed, and I felt him slide a finger inside me. “You're not too small,” he said. “There's no such thing as too small. It might hurt this time because it's the first time, but it'll be better the next time. And you are so ready.” He knelt next to me and slipped off my underpants, then moved on top of me, spreading my legs apart with his own. “I'll go as slow as I can, okay?” he said.

“The Trojan thing!” I said.

“Oh yeah. Shit. Sorry.” He leaned down from the bed and found his jeans in the darkness. I heard him tear open the package. Then he was back on me and I felt him pushing into me and it
did
hurt. I let out a yelp and dug my nails into his shoulders, and then it was over. Three seconds. Just like that. His body fell against mine and I remembered Stacy telling me,
It sucked the first time.
But even with that warning, I'd expected something more. He hadn't even said he loved me. This hardly felt worth all the deception.

He rolled off me and leaned over the side of the bed and I heard him rummaging around in his clothes. Then he lit a match, the flame catching the blue-gray of his eyes as he held it to a joint. “The postcoital smoke,” he said, handing the joint to me.

“What's that mean?” I asked. “Post … what you said.”

“It means ‘after sex.'” He took the joint back from me. “It's so cool that you have this place,” he said, his voice tight with smoke. “We could have parties here.”

“Well … that's probably not a great idea.” I pictured his friends parking down at the entrance to the Ridge. Walking up the loop road. My relatives might drive by and see them and know something was up.