Mary Sullivan - Always Emily

An overturned milk crate had a bunch of stuff on top of it.

“I made this for us,” he said. “No one else knows about it.”

She would rather have gone out for ice cream than sit in the woods when it was getting dark, but Justin looked so proud of himself, she smiled.

Crawling in on her hands and knees, she noticed that he had everything—candles, a flashlight, potato chips—and beer. She didn’t drink. She’d already told him that yesterday.

The place smelled like dead leaves and damp earth, but at least the tarp overhead cut the wind.

He crawled in behind her and pulled the tab on a can of beer then sipped the foam that bubbled out. “It’s warm.” He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, handing her the can.

“I don’t drink, Justin.”

“I know, but it’s only one beer. No biggie.”

She sipped it but hated the taste. That put it mildly. He was right. It was warm and tasted like crap. When she handed the can back to him, he guzzled half the contents then belched.

She sat on the blanket not really knowing what to do with her hands or where to put her legs. The space was cozy and her knees kept bumping Justin’s thigh.

Every time they did, it felt as if electricity shot through her. She fidgeted.

“Relax,” he said, reclining onto the pillows at the back of the tent. They looked as if they belonged on somebody’s sofa.

He took her arm and urged her down beside him. She resisted, but his grip was strong. “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to keep you warm.”

She settled her head on his shoulder. It was solid and warm and felt nice.

He unzipped her jacket. When she tensed, he said, “I want see that necklace you always wear. What is the design? Does it have significance in your culture?” he asked, taking it between two fingers.

She was having trouble breathing. His heavy arm rested between her breasts. No boy had ever touched her there. He was strong. An athlete. A basketball player. He said Coach made them lift weights to keep fit.

“It was my mother’s necklace,” she finally answered when she thought her voice might be steady. “She did the beadwork herself. She’s dead now.”

“I know. The beading’s pretty.” He dropped the necklace. “Your name’s pretty, too. Aiyana. Does it mean something in English?”

“Eternal Blossom.”

Justin nodded. “Cool. Maybe I should call you Pretty Flower or Princess Blossom.”

No. She wanted a white name, like Tiffany or Brittany or Madison. Dad had chosen stupid Native American names for her and her sister.

“I’m not a princess. My dad isn’t a chief. I’m nothing.”

Justin smiled and popped the tab on another beer. After drinking a bunch, he set the can aside and wrapped his arm across her shoulders then curled his fingers around the back of her neck, gently urging her head forward. “You’re not nothing. You’re my girlfriend. You’re pretty.”

She knew that wasn’t true, but oh, it felt good that Justin thought she was.

He kissed her and his lips were gentle and sweet even if they did taste like beer. She liked his kiss, but wished he didn’t make it so hard so fast. When he put his tongue in her mouth, the taste of yeasty alcohol overpowered her and it was awful. He pushed his tongue in farther.

His hand touched her breast. It was nice. Sort of. He squeezed and moved his fingers over her nipple. She felt a pull in her belly and lower, excitement and itchiness.

Following the path of that itch, his hand rested on her there, the heel of his palm rubbing her and his fingers pressing the seam of her jeans into her.

He was moving too fast, not giving her time to catch up. Her pulse pounded inside her head. His fingers were at the button of her jeans and pulling down her zipper.

How? What? Wait!

His hand was on her belly inside her underwear. She grasped his wrist, but he kept moving.

His fingers were in her curls, touching her dampness. Stop.

She yanked her head away from his beery kiss.

“Justin, no.” She sounded breathless. Her chest heaved up and down and her breasts kept hitting his body. She put her hands between them and pushed, but he was strong.

Fear became a real thing bouncing around the tent.

“Hey, babe,” Justin said. “We’re just having fun.” He kissed the side of her face, and his hot breath whooshed past her ear.

She grabbed his wrist again, tried to pull his hand out of her pants, but his fingers were inside her.

“Stop!” she cried, her heartbeat as loud as a train engine in her ears.

“What?” Justin sounded frustrated.

“I don’t want to do this.”

“Can’t you feel what you do to me, Princess?” Something hard jutted against her thigh.

“Don’t call me princess.” Her voice shook. “I don’t want you touching me there.”

“You said you wanted to be my girlfriend.”

“I do.”

“This is what girlfriends do, Aiyana.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Grow up.” He pulled his hand out of her pants with a hard flick. It hurt and she winced.

“I can’t believe how ungrateful you are.” He downed the rest of the beer. How many beers made a boy drunk? She didn’t know. She wanted to get out of here, away from him.

“I went to a lot of trouble to make this place for us.” Justin adjusted himself inside his pants. His place didn’t feel safe, not to her, but more like a black hole in the dark woods.

“I want to go home.” Her fingers trembled when she pulled up her zipper, but they shook too much to do up her button. She yanked her jacket down over it. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” she begged. “I don’t want people to think I’m easy.”

He thrust his fingers through his hair. Even messed up it looked good. What she could see of it. There was hardly any light left in the tent.

“Easy,” he scoffed. “That’s a laugh. Find your own damn way home.” With that, he bolted.

Aiyana sat stunned. How could Justin do this? He’d seemed so nice. As though waking from a bad dream, she crawled out. The woods were almost completely dark and foreign. Hostile. Every rattling tree branch, every bush, was a monster coming to get her. Justin must have run up the hill because she couldn’t see or hear him. He’d left her alone in the ravine at nighttime. What kind of person did that? Terrified, she ran up the hill.

The rain started when she was only halfway up, scrambling in the darkness toward the patches of light from the streetlamps flickering through the trees. Something rustled the bushes beside her and she cried out, scrabbling to catch branches to help her up the steep incline.

Her feet slipped and slid in the muck.

Rain streamed down her face, ruining the makeup she’d put on to look good for Justin. At least the rain hid her tears.

She ran home, past their meeting place, and rushed into the house, careful to close the door quietly, even though she ached to throw and break things.

Grandpa was still sleeping. Thank goodness. If he’d woken up and seen her, all hell would have broken loose. She needed to get to her room, where she wanted to hide forever.

She was only halfway up the stairs when Gramps let out his “wakeup” snort and said, “What?” She stopped and tried to calm her runaway heart. He smacked his lips, part of his waking-up routine. She knew he’d be stretching his skinny body every which way to come awake. His spine would make popping sounds.

The sound of the TV turning on followed her up the rest of the stairs. She tiptoed along the hallway and into her room. Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it and let her tears flow.

Justin hadn’t really wanted her. He’d just wanted an easy lay.

What made him think she would be? She didn’t go out with boys. She was quiet at school. Was it because of her heritage?