The Pact (24 page)

“Okay,” she said, spreading her arms. “Push me off, so we'll be even.” Chris lunged, rolling Em onto her back as she laughed and kicked her heels against his shins. They tickled and squirmed the same way Emily remembered them doing as children, like puppies intent on catching each other's tails. And then all of a sudden Chris's hands stilled over her breasts and his mouth hung over hers in the space of a breath. “Say Uncle,” he whispered, and gently squeezed.

“Unc-” Emily said, and then his tongue filled her mouth and his hands swept her from collarbone to hip, a completely different kind of game. She closed her eyes, listening to Chris's breathing and the throaty call of that owl.

Just as quickly as it had begun, Chris levered himself off her. He hauled Emily to a sitting position and chastely settled his arm around her. “I think,”

he said, “that's enough of that.”

Emily turned to him, mouth agape. “All of a sudden you can wait?” In the dark, his teeth were very bright. "Now that there's a light at the

end of the tunnel, I can," he said.

He slid his arm down to her waist. Emily shivered, and tried to convince

herself that it was from the cold.

They lay on the wooden plank floor of the carousel, watching the stars spin through the tangle of carved tails and hooves. They were touching at the shoulders, the elbows, the hips, all spots that seemed to burn. Chris covered her hand with his own, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. He leaned up on an elbow. “What?”

She shook her head, her throat painfully tight. “I can't just sit here and wait for it to happen,” she said. “I want to get it over with.”

Chris's eyes widened. “It's not an execution, you know,” he said.

“Says you,” Emily muttered.

Chris laughed and sat up. “Well,” he said. “What if we just talk for a little while, and see what happens?”

“Talk,” Emily snorted, as if the very concept of that leading straight to sex was unthinkable. “What are we supposed to talk about?”

“I don't know. How about the time we watched the dogs going at it?” Emily giggled. “I forgot about that,” she said. “Mrs. Morton's poodle and the springer spaniel from Fieldcrest Lane.” She felt Chris's fingers slip between her own, and speaking suddenly became a little easier. “I didn't think the poodle would be able to get on top of her.” Chris smiled. “Looked funny, didn't it?” Then he laughed.

“What?”

“I was thinking fair's fair-we should find those dogs,” he said, “and let them watch us.” She thought of the long, stringy penis of the poodle, sliding out of the bigger spaniel and slapping between its prancing legs. Whatever she and Chris were about to do couldn't be any more awkward than that. Chris's arm snaked over her shoulders. “Better?”

“Yeah,” she admitted, turning her face into the hollow beneath his arm. He smelled of sweet deodorant, sweat, and excitement.

“How about,” he said, tipping up her face, “I just kiss you?”

“Just kiss,” she said.

“For now. Don't think about the other.”

Emily smiled against his lips. “Oh, right.”

Chris's mouth curved with hers. “Humor me.” He traced the line of her lips with his tongue, then trailed his kisses down her neck. She felt his hands shake as they came up beneath her shirt, and this made her feel better than anything else: the knowledge that Chris, too, was nervous. Then, in that way time has during adolescence of going both far too quickly and entirely too slow, Emily realized her clothes were off, her skin prickled with tiny goosebumps. She watched Chris roll a condom onto himself, and was surprised that she found him beautiful, not strange or ugly. She let Chris come down on top of her, his chest burning against hers, his body neatly set between her legs.

“Do you think,” she whispered, panicked, “it will hurt?” That stopped him. “I don't know,” he said. “I think it's supposed to, a little.” He rolled to Emily's side and stroked his hand over her hip, preoccupied. “What's the matter?” Emily asked.

“Nothing,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It's just that I forgot that part.”

“I'm sure it's not too bad,” Emily said. “I don't think anyone's ever died of it.” What am I doing? she thought wildly. Why am I urging him on?

Chris smiled and brushed the hair off her forehead. “If I could keep it from hurting you, I would,” he said. “I wish I was the one who'd feel it.”

Emily touched his forearm. “That's very sweet,” she said.

“It's not sweet,” Chris said, “it's selfish. I know that I can stand a little bit of pain. But I don't think I'll be able to watch yours.”

Emily reached between his legs and wrapped her fingers around Chris, making him gasp. He rolled onto her and shifted his weight to his elbows. “If it hurts,” he said, “pinch me. So we're in it together.”

She felt him touching her, felt something wet that she realized came from herself, and then he was stretching her and stopping. She had a fleeting vision of the thousand-piece puzzles they'd done as children, how Chris had a tendency to try to jam pieces in where they would never comfortably fit.

“Em,” he said, sweat standing out on his brow. “Do you want to do this?” He would stop, she realized, if she shook her head. But she considered that what she wanted and what Chris wanted were inextricably tangled, and knew that he wanted this more than anything. At her slight nod, Chris pushed himself gently inside her.

It hurt for a moment, and she dug her fingernails into his back. Then it wasn't so bad anymore. It felt odd, stretched from the inside out, but not painful. She felt her hips wobble as Chris began to push and moan, faster and faster, scooting her back a few inches on the planks of the carousel floor. When he cried out, she was staring wide-eyed at the bare underbelly of a horse, aware for the first time that it had not been painted all over.

Chris rolled off her, chest heaving. “Oh, God,” he said, sprawled on his back. “I think I'm dead.” A moment later he gathered her close. “I love you,” he whispered, touching his finger to her temples.

“But I made you cry.”

She shook her head, only realizing now that tears were still streaming. “You made me ...” Her voice trailed off, and she left it like that.

It's JUST a dare, she had told herself that day, and she'd pushed open the door of the men's bathroom in McDonald's, To her surprise it was exactly like the ladies' room, except for the two urinals on the wall, and the fact that it was more smelly. There was someone in the other stall; Emily could see his legs. Paralyzed by embarrassment-what if he noticed that her shoes were those of a nine-year-old girl?-she stayed rooted in front of the sink. There was a flush, and then the door to the stall opened. The Creep stood there, his clothes smelling of grease and disinfectant.

“Well,” he said. “What have we here?”

Emily felt her legs trembling. “1-I must have gone in the wrong one,” she stuttered. She whirled, heading for the door, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, his voice curling tike smoke about her, pulling her closer. “How do you know it's the wrong one?”

He pushed her up against the door, barring anyone else's entrance. Holding her hands over her head, he slid his hand up her shirt. “No titties,” he said. “Might be a man.” Then he slipped his hand under the elastic of her shorts and rubbed his fingers between her clamped legs. “Don't feel no prick either, though,” he said. He leaned forward, so close that she could smell his breath. “Gotta make sure,” he said, and he jammed his finger inside her.

Panic was a shroud around her, stiffening her body and filling her mouth so that even though she screamed in her mind, no sound came from her throat. Just as quickly as the man had grabbed her, he let her go. Emily fell to the brown tile floor as he left, feeling the burn of disinfectant from his hands inside her. She was sick on the floor, then stood and rinsed her mouth. She straightened her clothing and walked back to the table, where Chris was waiting for her.

“Ssh,” CHRIS SAID, holding her against his chest. “You were screaming.” She was still naked, and so was Chris, his erection stirring again against her hip. She shoved away from him, huddling into a ball. “I fell asleep,” she said, her voice unsteady.

“Oh,” Chris said, smiling softly. “Sorry things got so boring.”

“It's not that,” Emily explained.

“I know. Just come here and sit with me.” He held out his hand, un-threatening, and Emily crawled onto his lap, trying to believe it was perfectly okay to do this although neither of them was wearing a stitch of clothing.

She felt Chris's hands on her, laying her down against the cool wooden planks again. When she tried to roll away, he held her, and she whimpered. “I know you're sore,” he said. “I just want to look at you. I was in a hurry before.”

He touched her breasts with his eyes, and then his fingers. He ran circles around her nipples, bit her collarbone. He let his hands pray their way down her belly, her hips, and then he parted her and stroked one finger over the folds. Trembling, she tried to kick him away, but he held her ankles.

“No,” he said. “Just let me look at you.”

She felt his mouth make a damp mark on her navel, then slip downward. “You're perfect,” he pronounced, and she blanched, knowing now that nothing could be farther from the truth. “Don't move,” he said, his words vibrating between her legs, and by then she was sobbing. He immediately reared up, alarmed. “What's the matter? Did I hurt you?” She shook her head, sending tears flying. “I don't want to stay still. I don't want to stay still.” She wrapped her arms around Chris, and her legs, and without intending it felt him slip into her again, a tight and startling fit.

“I love you,” Chris mouthed, already past coherence.

Emily turned her face away. “Don't,” she answered.

December 1997

Gus wondered if Chris missed making decisions.

Staring down at the bright feast of fruits at the supermarket, sitting shoulder to shoulder like a rainbow of soldiers, she couldn't help comparing the serviceable russets and grays of the Grafton County Correctional Facility to the unintended beauty of the grocery store. The options were staggering-should she pick the tangerines, the green Granny Smith apples, the smooth-cheeked tomatoes? A choice at every turn-the complete antithesis of being told to eat this, to walk here, to shower now.

She reached toward the Clementines. They were Chris's favorite, and she would have loved to bring him some the following Tuesday . . . but was that even allowed? She imagined one of those burly blue-suited men splitting the fruit into sections to check for razor blades, much as Gus herself had mashed Chris's Halloween candy when he was a child, looking for pins. Except she had been searching out of love. The officers would be searching out of duty.

Gus opened the bag and spilled the Clementines back onto their pile.

Can you believe it?

In that household?

Gus turned around, pushing her cart toward the array of lettuce, but all she saw were several Bainbridge biddies doing their weekly shopping.

Well, I believe it. 1 saw the boy once, and he was . . .

Did you know the father won some medical honor?

Gus clenched her hands on the grip of the shopping cart. Steeling herself, she wheeled toward the women who'd busied themselves sniffing melons. “Pardon me,” Gus said, baring her teeth in a tight smile. “Did you have something you wanted to say to me, directly?”

“Oh, no,” one of the women said, shaking her head.

“Well, I would,” her companion announced. “I think when a child that young commits a crime as horrible as this one, you have to lay the blame at the feet of the parents. After all, he'd have to learn that behavior somewhere.”

“Unless he's just a bad seed,” the first woman murmured.

Gus gaped at them. “Do you mind telling me,” she said softly, “why this is any concern of yours?”

“When it happens in our town, it becomes our problem. Come along, Anne,” the second woman said, and they sailed into an adjoining aisle.

With high color spotting her cheeks, Gus left her partially filled shopping cart and headed out of the store. It was only because she had to jostle past a mother with twins at the checkout that she even noticed the newspapers on the stand. Folded to reveal its headline banner, the Grafton County Gazette screamed MURDER IN A SMALL TOWN, PART II. And in much smaller print:

“Evidence Mounts Against High School Scholar-Athlete Jailed for Killing Girlfriend.” Gus focused on the headline again. PART II, it said. What had happened to PART I?