Almost: a love story Part 30

I'm safe. Safe. He said I was safe.

All that I've been holding back-the pain and my fear-washes over me and I start to cry again. "My arm," I say. "I-I'm going to be sick. My arm and my hand-it hurts so much. Please help me get my arm down."

"Stay calm. Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?" His hands move to the knot tying my hand to the bed.

"Jess. I'm Jess Jordan. I'm at the Peterson's house. At a party."

"It's a flipping necktie," he mutters, letting go of my wrist. "I'm going to have to cut the knot off with my knife. Are you okay with that? Can you hold completely still?"

I nod. He pulls out a large, black pocket knife and slices through the knots. My arm flops next to me like it's not part of me anymore. It takes all of my concentration to pull it under the sheet. It's so numb I can only register the weight of it pressing onto my bare chest.

"That looked pretty bad." He holds my gaze. His eyes are scanning my face. I look away and see my clothes heaped in a clump near his feet and my head starts to spin all over again. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Have you been raped?"

"Almost, I think. Almost," I whisper.

"You sure?" His voice lowers. "I'm a.s.suming you weren't tied like that of your own free will?"

"No." I cry harder. My arm is slowly waking up...it's pins and needles. Thousands of them, all at the same time. I groan.

He sniffs at the half-empty gla.s.s beside the bed. "This is pure vodka. How much have you had to drink tonight? Do you remember if you took any pills? Smoked anything?"

"No. No. I drank those lemonade things downstairs. And I didn't feel good. He-a guy-told me if I came up here where it was quiet I'd feel better. He told me that was water. He made me drink it. And then I couldn't move at all." I'm gasping for breath between sobbing. "He made me drink so much of that." I choke. "He...said."

He said I was beautiful.

"Who was it? I need a name. Who brought you up here?"

"I don't know. I thought he was nice."

I lean over and vomit on the carpet. On the officer's shoes.

On my tangled, inside-out new, blue shirt that's crumpled in a heap.

"s.h.i.t!" The officer moves back. "Okay. Okay. Breathe slowly. You're okay. I'm thinking you're a very lucky girl. You're going to be fine. Nothing happened. You're going to be just fine."

He walks into the bathroom and returns with a small, silver wastebasket lined with a pink, powder scented plastic bag and places it under me.

I vomit again-this time all over the wads of tissue at the bottom of the basket until there's nothing left. "I need to go home...but I can't move my legs."

"Okay...hold tight. We're going to get you out of here by ambulance. There's a possibility you've been drugged."

I stare, and stare, and stare at the seash.e.l.ls next to the bed in a crystal bowl.

I make myself believe that if I stare long enough, I might wake up a second time at the beach and none of this night will have been real. This is all just a dream. The room spins all over again.

A dream. A dream. This is all just a dream.

I tell myself this over and over until my voice chanting these words is the only thing I hear. The seash.e.l.ls are the only thing I can see.

A second officer, a woman, enters the room.

She bends next to me, blocking my view of the seash.e.l.ls in the bowl. More questions. I try my best to answer: "Jess Jordan. I'm fourteen. No. Didn't smoke. No needles. No pills. I live on Ridge Road. Number 55. I don't know. He made me drink something. He had brown hair, brown eyes...and he was tall. Really tall, and so strong. Too strong. My Mom is at 443-8763."

The first officer comes close again, his face still apologetic. Sad.

His voice has turned gentle, but he says it again: "She's a very lucky girl. You are a very, very lucky girl."

"You are honey," the woman officer agrees. I close my eyes. "A very lucky girl."

I'm done talking to them.

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky girl. Only...I don't feel very lucky.

The memories wash over me.

My hoodie being unzipped and pulled off.

"It's pretty hot up here to be wearing that," he says, laughing after I'd choked back half of the acid tasting drink he's forced down my throat. He smiles as though he hadn't just been very mean. As though we're friends.

My upper arms ache where he's still gripping me. "There you go. Have just a little more."

He pours it down my throat again. I try to not swallow. My t-shirt front is drenched. I cough, and some goes down my throat. I push at him and try to stand-to run-to hit him, but instead, I fall onto the carpet with a thump.

That makes him laugh. "Whoa there. That's right. Give it a minute to settle in."

He reaches toward me and pulls the hair band out of my ponytail while I'm there-lying on the Peterson's beige carpet.

"Nice," he says, running his hand through my hair and pulling it out around my face.

I try to stop him but my hand is now made of wood. It only moves a few inches and then stops at my hip.

"You're almost there. I'll get you some water," he says.

He smiles and pulls me up, depositing me onto the bed easily as though I'm a rag doll. He's whistling as he walks into the bathroom. Like everything's normal.

I manage to drag myself up and hold onto the bed frame. My eyes are on the door, but I can't move toward it. He returns, but not with what he'd promised. He looks into my eyes as though he's looking for something; but I can no longer register his face, or what he looks like. Where I am...and possibly...even who I am fades away into the buzzing that's filling my head.

All I can see is a swirl of black eyes and a strange, knowing smile that I don't like at all.

He pulls my blue shirt up over my head, then, my cami. My bra comes next.

"No." My voice is only a whisper. My limbs won't move.

He touches me...and I am not able to stop him...and I can no longer see his face...

"I'm going to make you feel really good. And you're going to make me feel really good. It's going to be fun."

"No. No. I don't want this. Please," I moan, managing to push his hands off my body and I sit up, but he easily pushes me back down.

"Shh...shhh." That's all he says while he ties my arms to the bed.

The only apology he makes to me is that he's sorry he'd taken too long trying to decide which of Mr. Peterson's neckties he should choose.

Blue. They're blue ties. Both of them.

He peels off my jeans.

G.o.d, how I want to scream because his hands are rough, sc.r.a.ping against my bare skin. I turn my face away from him. My parents and the Petersons are friends. This is their bed. This is their son's party. I'm supposed to be at a sleepover down the street. Not here! Everything is in its place, but I'm not supposed to be here. We snuck out...I'm not supposed to be here. And I want to go home.

Dark wood, dark fireplace, dark furniture, dark eyes on the guy who won't stop touching me.

There's a painting of windswept dunes hung on the far wall.

And beside the bed, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson's bed, are polished, purple-tipped seash.e.l.ls glowing, translucent and fragile in a crystal bowl.

Beside the bed. Beside the bed where I'm being touched and I can't move. Seash.e.l.ls.

His hands work to tug down my underwear. He steps away from me for a second and I think maybe he's going to stop. But the light glints off of his silver belt buckle, and I know enough to understand what's next.

I try to scream again. Move. Nothing works.

A crash and a door slamming into a wall has us both looking to the sound.

Someone is in the room. "You need to stop, right now!"

"What the h.e.l.l? Dude. Get out!"

"The police are heading in. Someone tripped the alarm or something. There's three squad cars outside."

"Seriously? d.a.m.n. Back out of here. I've got time."

"No. No." My voice makes it to the surface, released from the dry leaves that were holding it hostage. "Please, no," I whisper, as my gaze searches for the person connected to the shadow by the door.

His voice cracks when he says, "Stop. Dude. Stop. This is going to blast you off the team in every way. I thought you had a scout coming next week. Just walk away."

"Look at her. She might be worth it. I'm about to explode. She's not even fighting me. She's so messed up."

"That is the doorbell."

"F-ingG.o.dd.a.m.n!" He walks to the window and I can finally breathe in because he's away from me.

I feel some motion returning to my limbs. I want to get my arms free. To run. I pull against the ties, but the exertion exhausts me. The other guy walks nearer.

Mortified, because I'm naked, I close my eyes.

"Dude. She's cut on this arm. What do you mean she isn't fighting you?"

"Well-she wasn't complaining. Maybe I'll ask her to prom. Have a do-over. You know her?"

"Yes-I do. And I recommend you stay the h.e.l.l away from the girl you just tried to rape! You a.s.shole."

A loud crack rings out as a sheet unfolds and floats above me. It hangs suspended in the air for what feels like forever, finally draping over my nakedness.

"You're a brave one, for a ninety-pound newbie. Come on, calm down. Nothing happened."

"p.i.s.s off, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d." The new guy paces around the bed.

"Nothing happened...plus she won't remember. A guy I know gave me some stuff for her to drink. She won't even be able to place my face or yours. Shame to waste it all for nothing, though."

"c.r.a.p! What have you done?"

Hands. Different hands. Shaking. Shaking exactly like mine are shaking.

They pull on the tie holding the arm that hurts the most, but when it won't budge, he moves around the bed to pull at the other. "c.r.a.p! These things are not budging."

"We don't have time. Let's just get out of here."

"Hang on. Your'e going to be okay," he whispers to me. One knot comes free and my hand drops onto the bed.

I can't do anything but cry as he tugs on my other arm. I am not okay. Not. Okay. The new guy is getting upset. Shouting now. Not at me. Maybe for me. I don't know.

"She's practically comatose-we can't just leave her here-not like this. You can bet your a.s.s if she doesn't remember, I'm going to fill in the holes. You are going down! If you think I'm not going to tell, you're delusional."

"Whatever. It will be your word against mine. I didn't do anything. Maybe I can say you did all of this to her. Try to tell on me, and I'll crush your dumb, loser, freshman a.s.s in every way."

"Do your worst, and I'll do mine. You drugged a girl and tried to rape her. Has that registered yet, or have you done this before you f.u.c.king-felon-freak-a.s.shole?"

"Does Coach Williams know you're this much of a squealing cry baby? Let's go. C'mon. Leave her already. I'm not getting caught in this room. She'll be fine. I lost my head. And maybe this was a bad idea. Either way, nothing happened, right? I don't know what I was thinking and I didn't go through with it. Just-come on."

"Help me untie her other arm first."

"If you don't leave with me now, the whole team will have to sit out the next three games. And state. Isn't that why you came in here-to warn me? One for the team?"

"I'm not here for you." He speaks to me then, his voice is low...scared...angry. "You're going to be okay. You're okay. Jess, I'm so sorry. I can't get his knot out. I don't know what to do."

I stare at his anguished, golden green eyes. "I didn't. He made me-"

"Jess...I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Porter. If you don't walk out of here with me, then I'm going to pin this whole scene on you."

"Don't leave me here. Please. Don't leave me here alone," I whisper.

He lets go of my arm and steps back. "I'm sorry, but I-I-you're going to be fine. The police are outside. I'm so sorry..."

Their footsteps fade. The door closes. And I'm alone.