“What’re you wearing?”

Posted: 2011 in Post: 10.4
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Saturday, March 31, 12:21 p.m.

The first thing I do when I get inside my house is open the drapes. I glance outside. Jack’s battered Saab is parked across from my home. He’s smoking a cigarette. Even from this distance, I can tell that he’s staring at me intently.

I settle onto my couch where I’m clearly visible to him, take out my cell phone and check my voicemail. I discover a message from Lucy. I listen to it and immediately begin to panic.

“Katherine? It’s Lucy. Could I talk to you a minute? I’m still at Grandma’s. Christopher did a very bad thing last night…to me. I want to go to confession. Could you drive me? Or I’ll just take the bus.”

I dial her cell phone number. She answers on the second ring.

“Katherine?” she says in a voice that’s flatter than usual, as well as wobbly and as thin as tissue paper. “Can I talk to you?”

“Yes, yes, of course! What happened? Are you okay? What did he do to you?” I say.

She inhales wetly.

“Something bad,” she says.

“Did you go to his apartment last night?” I say.

“No.”

“He didn’t come to the nursing home, did he?” I say.

“No.”

“But you met him somewhere? And he raped you?” I say.

“No,” she says.

“Well, what happened, then?” I say.

She inhales again and lets out a soggy sigh.

“He called me. Last night. Really late,” she says.

“And?” I say.

If she tells me he broke up with her or some such teenage irrelevance, I will reach through the phone and smack her but good for scaring me.

“He said stuff to me,” she replies.

“Stuff? What? You mean sex stuff?” I demand impatiently.

“Yeah,” she says.

She sounds like she’s crying. I lose a bit of my righteous anger. She’s only fifteen, after all. Her first heavy breathing pervert call: I’m feeling so nostalgic right now!

“He was probably drunk,” I say. “Don’t take it personally.”

“He was drunk!” she sobs. “Drunk on beer fed to him by the Evil One. They’d been watching some dirty movie. He told me.”

satan beer

“Well, that’s gross and all, but I wouldn’t get too worked up about it,” I say. “Perhaps you ought to find some friends your own age. And gender.”

She doesn’t answer, unless the snuffling sobs that are just barely audible through the phone can be considered an answer.

“Was it totally dirty or something, what he said?” I inquire. I imagine that nineteen-year-old wannabe priest Christopher can conjure some truly obscene scenarios to describe in slurred tones late at night.

“No,” she says.

“Then why are you so upset?” I say.

Then it dawns on me.

“You said dirty stuff back to him, didn’t you?” I say.

Virginal wannabe nun Lucy openly sobs.

“Y—y—yeah,” she hiccups. “I wanna go to confession! I’m despoiled!”

“You’re not despoiled,” I say.

“I’m on the bus right now,” she says.

My heart stops.

“Lucy. Get off the bus. Get off now!”

She lets out another little sob and hangs up on me.

I run to the window and look out. Jack’s yellow Saab is gone. I dial his cell phone number. It rings and rings, then finally sends me to voicemail. I hang up and grab my purse.

 

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