Читать книгу The Prized Girl - Amy K. Green - Страница 15

I HAD ONE great love in my life. His name was Mark, and I met him when I was thirteen years old. We shared our first kiss when I was fourteen and it was messy. I didn’t know what I was doing; he did. I just tried to keep up. When he pulled away, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I’d never seen a movie where the heroine finally kisses her hero and then projectile vomits. We were special.

As long as we were together, Mark never made me puke again. The first time he reached inside my underwear, I definitely experienced some nausea, but it didn’t last. I’ve tried for years to pretend that my time with Mark was anything but perfect, to move on, to chalk it up as typical first love. I was a teenager, for Christ’s sake. How could it have been real?

It’s hard to explain how he opened me up. I had spent years perfecting my curt-little-bitch demeanor after my mother’s suicide, something my father, in particular, did not enjoy. I was distant and I was difficult. I didn’t even know what I wanted most of the time.

The other girls in my class were equally into Mark and soon forgot about me and my drama. We were at that age when a hot guy, especially one who wouldn’t give you the time of day, was infinitely more interesting than anyone else. I could have shown up with both of my arms missing and the conversation still would have been, “What kind of music do you think he likes?”

I had one class with Mark every day from 10 to 11:15, and it became the only hour of my day that mattered. I watched the other girls fawn over him and I was jealous, but I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t a fawner. The grown woman in me is extremely proud of that little girl, but trust me, at the time, I hated my defiant self. How would Mark ever register my existence?

Well, he did. Slowly over the course of the year, he began to notice the girl who wasn’t noticing him, or so he thought. He chose me. We became infatuated with each other, but we were both too stubborn to say anything.

After nine months of purposefully standing close to each other, brushing against each other when we could, I committed the ultimate feminist sin. I failed a test on purpose and pretended I needed a tutor. Mark was amazing at math. I was a fourteen-year-old girl attracted to a guy’s math ability. That’s how messed up I was. And what’s worse, it worked. Those after-school meetings allowed us the opportunity to finally give in.

It didn’t take long, alone, both of us leaning over the same textbook. Things were happening in my body that I thought I might have to see a doctor about. Puberty, holy shit. Two weeks after my first tutor session, Mark kissed me, and I puked.

The next four years were a perfect blur. When I looked back, I couldn’t even remember things chronologically. All I had were moments that fired at me, unrelenting, until I had to lie down on the floor, close my eyes, and breathe like I was about to give birth.

That didn’t happen as much anymore. I was too numb to let myself feel like that. It had been eight years since the day Mark ended it. He wanted me to go out and experience what life was like without him, to find myself, to be sure of what I wanted. I will never forget the day; it was my eighteenth birthday. Mark Renkin was thirty-two.

If I had to label it, Mark was a pedophile; it was statutory rape. That fucking depressed me. I didn’t like to think about it that way. Pedophiles were gross bald skeeves in vans who raped little kids. Mark played soccer and looked like he could be in commercials. I had tits and pubes already. I’d seen enough TV to know real pedophiles lose interest once that stuff happens. I could tell myself whatever I wanted, but when my almost-fourteen-year-old sister was found raped, I thought of Mark.

He was never violent with me, but when people started asking, “Do you know any grown men who would want to have sex with a child?” I did.

IT WAS A SMALL TOWN. I saw Mark way more than I wanted to, but after years of trying to exchange pleasantries, we had stopped speaking. As soon as I saw him anywhere, I would immediately turn around, walk away, and count to thirty before I could stop and reenter the world.

I hadn’t exchanged a single word with Mark in five years as I approached his front door. He still lived in the same modest house on Sanford Hill that I used to visit for hours after school. It was within a half mile from my own home at the time, but the woods provided enough seclusion for me to feel like I was a world away from my family.

We would sit on his wooden porch swing most nights in the fall. It was my favorite season. He would sit all the way to the right, and I would take up the rest of the swing, leaning against his shoulder. I would cover myself in a warm patchwork blanket and throw a loose corner over Mark’s knees, my arm over his waist, my hand tucked behind his far side.

The swing was still there, but had suffered during the eight winters. The wood was splintered in several spots, and it wavered in the fall breeze as I ascended the steps onto his front porch. The days were growing shorter, and daylight was already scarce by five. I raced over to avoid arriving during the darkness. An afternoon visit somehow seemed more manageable to my psyche.

I stood in front of the door and recited my mantra under my breath: “His loss. His loss. His loss.” It was my depressing chant to create false self-esteem. It had started years ago as a long self-affirming speech that over time was abbreviated to a sort of slogan. I knocked, three solid knocks that stung my knuckles.

I heard movement inside the house, and my heart sank, my pep talk a waste. I wasn’t ready for this. It was too late to run. I could hide, but my car was in the driveway. I heard the lock turning and I thought of my sister. This was about her. I was the only one who would know to ask him these questions. It was not a time to be selfish. This man had made me selfish for eight years.

The door opened and there he stood. Just a man. His green eyes were tired, there was gray in his hair, but otherwise he was just as I’d left him. He squinted at me as if he didn’t believe it.

“Hi,” I said.

He took his arm from the door and shifted his stance. “Virginia,” he stated the obvious. “Hi.”

I waited to be invited in. I ran a million scenarios in my head, but they always started with him inviting me in.

“Can I come in?”

He looked over his shoulder into the house. It was more a gesture than an actual attempt to see anything. He looked back at me, uneasy. “Why don’t we talk out here?” He motioned to the swing, and I felt sick, not that I would throw up but that I might never eat again as long as I live.

I nodded. Power was everything. In that moment, I was Jenny’s great crusader, not a damaged old lover. I took a seat on the left side without thinking. It was muscle memory, I guess. He sat on the right, and we both worked to create as much space between us as possible.

“What’s going on, Ginny?” he asked. I hated when he called me that and he knew it. At least, I thought he knew it. I couldn’t remember if I had ever told him I didn’t like it. In love, I let a lot of things go.

“I …” Crap, I didn’t know where to start. “I … You know about my sister, Jenny?” I barely phrased a question.

“Oh my God, yes, I’m so sorry. I was surprised to see you. I wasn’t even thinking. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you know her?”

“I had her in class this year, but she was quiet and the semester just started. Hunter knew her better than I did.”

Fucking Hunter Willoughby. I hadn’t even thought about it. That’s why I couldn’t go in the house. He was dating fucking Hunter Willoughby. I overheard the news one day about a year ago while I was microwaving a Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit at the gas station. I had abandoned the sandwich and sprinted to my car. I scoured every detail of her limited social media presence until three in the morning. There was no evidence of Mark. It was new. It was fresh. It wasn’t serious. It wouldn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even true. I told myself a lot of things so that I could continue to function.

Hunter was a senior when I was a sophomore. She was some kind of rich, white, small-town goth. She wore thick black eyeliner under her from-a-box black hair dye and drew anarchy symbols with a Sharpie all over her jeans and backpack. She ran with a small group of other seniors who looked down on everyone else because they had transcended to some higher plane of not giving a shit. Mark and I used to make fun of them all the time. I contemplated reminding him of it. Hunter went away to college and came back like she had gone through some sort of Banana Republic brain remapping. The return of her natural blonde hair must have had a memory-wipe effect on Mark. If he forgot all that shit about her, how much had he forgotten about me?

I was spiraling. I couldn’t afford to fixate on his relationship. To go there. I was at his doorstep for a reason. “They think they caught the guy,” I said for a reaction. It wasn’t even true.

Mark’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s great. I didn’t hear anything.”

“They haven’t announced it yet, so keep your trap shut,” I joked, then regretted it. It just came out. I wanted so badly to be cold.

“Is it the guy on the news? The pedophile from the pageants?” He threw the “pedophile” word around a little too easily.

“Yeah, but I’m not so sure. Things don’t add up.” Why was I talking so much?

“So, you’re on the case now?” His sarcasm was insulting. He was trying to assert dominance. To put me in my place. The place I had gladly filled for him in the past.

“She’s my sister, and if I think the killer is still out there, I’m not just going to sit around. Is that OK with you?”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “Of course. It just, I don’t know, doesn’t seem like you.”

“Because you know me so well?”

“I’m not trying to be combative. Why did you even come here?”

“Because she was thirteen, Mark. She was thirteen and she was raped.” I let my voice waver slightly on the word “raped.”

Mark stared forward for a beat, as if trying to follow my logic and make the connection. “What are you trying to say?” His voice lowered, serious, no longer cordial.

“I’m not saying anything. I just know teen girls are your type and maybe you knew Jenny more than you’re saying.”

Mark jumped to his feet, the force causing the swing to jerk me harshly back and forth. He turned to me, one hand in the air to conduct as he spoke. “You’re insane. That’s what this is about? You think I’m some pedophile? Is that really what you think? That I preyed on you? That I prey on and rape little girls?”

I had hit a chord for sure, but I didn’t know what it meant. I looked away. I wanted him to keep talking. I didn’t know if my motivation was for Jenny or myself. I figured it could be for both of us.

He did a slow spin to compose himself, then came back to the swing, stopping the jerking with his feet. He faced me and grabbed my hand, disarming me immediately.

“Ginny, I’m not a monster. I loved you. You have to know that. We were together for four years. You know me.” He stared into my deprived eyes.

Show no reaction, I told myself. I pulled my hand away with just the right speed to prove I was unaffected, a lie.

“I have a girlfriend. She’s thirty. I wasn’t with anyone else after you. You have to believe me. I never even spoke to Jenny outside of class.”

I did believe him. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t a take-no-nonsense cop, or a hard-as-nails private investigator. I was a useless, floundering girl who, at twenty-six, still didn’t refer to herself as a woman. He was the man I had spent my formative years admiring wholeheartedly.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said as I stood. I was gentle. The swing barely moved. My face was showing my entire hand.

“It’s OK. It was nice to see you, to talk to you, even given the circumstances.” He smiled, and I hated him.

“Yeah,” I said, which was more in the affirmative than I would have liked.

I stepped away, and he grabbed my wrist, turning me back. “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m here if you need me.”

I pulled my hand back and walked to my car. He would be there on our swing if I needed him. He would be there, waiting for me to run to him for support, to remind him that after eight years, I still needed him. I couldn’t be that person. I had to be strong. If he wanted to feel needed, Hunter Willoughby could do it. I had bigger fish to fry. I was solving a fucking murder.