Afterward (19 page)

“When Caroline and I kissed, my body, like … it felt … it … uh…”

I pause. I can't say
erection
in front of Dr. Greenberg. I really can't.

“Your body responded?” he says to the window.

“Yeah,” I say, thankful.

“Okay,” he says.

“But then when it got weird it didn't,” I say. “And when I thought later about kissing her, it didn't either.”

“The way our bodies respond to sexual situations is complicated,” says Dr. Greenberg.

Well that doesn't help me very much. But Dr. Greenberg doesn't say anything else, so I keep talking.

“The thing is…” I pause. I take a deep breath. If I say it, then it's out there and I can't take it back. “When I was with him, sometimes my body responded then, too. Even though I hated what was happening.”

I push myself back into Dr. Greenberg's couch, and I want to evaporate I'm so embarrassed. I'm so thankful Dr. Greenberg isn't sitting across from me.

“This comes up a lot with people who've been the victims of sexual abuse,” Dr. Greenberg says, his voice soft and a little bit sad, even. “Their bodies respond to the abuse, and they get very worried about what it means.”

“So I'm not the only one?”

“No, not at all,” Dr. Greenberg says. My shoulders sink with relief, and suddenly I actually want to talk about this. But I'm not sure about the right words to use.

“But because my body … responded, I … I just…,” I struggle, then give up.

“Let me give you this comparison,” Dr. Greenberg says. “Imagine I burned myself on the stove. I don't want it to hurt, but it does, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Just because I don't want to feel the pain of the burn doesn't mean that my body is going to listen and respond the way I want it to. Even if your body responded to the abuse, even if what happened to you physically felt good sometimes, that doesn't mean it was okay or that you wanted it or that you were somehow complicit in it. You weren't, Ethan. Not at all.”

I exhale. A big, shaky exhale. I work Dr. Greenberg's words over in my mind.

“But I still wonder … I mean … like … if you've worked with other guys who were, you know … molested by guys? And their bodies … responded … or whatever? Do they wonder if that means they're gay?”

The back of Dr. Greenberg's head nods. “Yes,” he answers. “That's a question I get a lot. And the answer is that being molested by someone of the same sex doesn't make you gay.”

“I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being gay or whatever,” I say, blushing again. I know this is the right thing to say. I feel sort of bad about being worried about being gay.

“I know you don't mean anything hurtful,” says Dr. Greenberg. “But just so you know, many men who were molested by other men when they were boys go on to have fulfilling sexual relationships with women.”

The words
fulfilling sexual relationships
make me think about people making out in a room full of candles with terrible jazz music playing. Suddenly, I don't want to talk about any of this anymore.

“This conversation is really exhausting,” I say. “Can we stop for a while?”

“Sure,” says Dr. Greenberg.

“Okay,” I say.

“Should I turn around from the window?” he asks, and it suddenly strikes me as sort of ridiculous that I've been talking to his back this entire time.

“Yeah,” I say.

He turns around and sits back down. “I just realized I really need to wash my windows. They're filthy.”

I grin a little.

“Is that funny?” Dr. Greenberg says, but he's smiling, too.

“Do you ever think how totally weird some of these sessions are?” I ask. “Everything we're talking about and then we're talking about washing windows.”

“Sometimes we need a little humor at just the right time,” Dr. Greenberg says. “Just a pause in the intensity. One time during a very difficult session with a client just when we needed a break, Groovy passed gas. It was so loud and very foul.”

“Jesus!” I say, and Groovy looks up at us like he knows we're talking about him, which makes me actually laugh some.

But then when I stop laughing, I realize that even though I feel better about one thing, I still feel horrible about a million other things.

“I'm still not sure what to do about Caroline,” I say.

Dr. Greenberg nods. “From her actions, it sounds like Caroline is hurting.”

“Yeah,” I say. My mind thinks about Caroline's family and how screwed up it sounds, but I don't let my head go there too much, because it makes me think about Dylan. And thinking too much about Dylan scares me because I don't know what kind of memories it might bring up.

“I can see why Caroline would want to reach out to you,” says Dr. Greenberg. “But sometimes when we're going through something difficult, we become reckless without meaning to be. And we can hurt others.”

“Yeah,” I say. Caroline told me in her text I was the only friend she had. Sometimes I wonder if that's the truth for me, too. I mean, Jesse still comes over once in a while and we just play video games and barely talk. But it's not like how it is—was—with Caroline.

Soon our time is up, and Dr. Greenberg walks me out. On the way home, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. But I can't stop thinking about Caroline, so I open them again and count the brightly colored billboards for churches and truck stops and lawyers who specialize in personal injury.

When we get home, I get out of the car and pause in the driveway. I glance at the garage, the door shut tight, my drums trapped behind it. I imagine Caroline zipping up on her bike, her ponytail flying behind her head like Superman's cape, ready to play. I can almost feel my drumsticks in my hands. I can almost hear the sloppy whine of her Fender getting in tune.

“I'm going to play some video games,” I tell my mom, and I head inside the house. Soon I'm numbed out with a plastic controller stuck in my hands, the blips and beeps riding in and out of my ears like bugs on some mindless journey.

 

CAROLINE—238 DAYS AFTERWARD

Either the attendance clerk must have grown a brain or someone at Dove Lake High got wise to me, but after a week off I'm back at school. Back at the dull, beige grind of graffiti-covered desks and teacher handouts and lockers slamming shut over and over again.

My vacation was nice while it lasted.

I had to start back at school, but I quit Jackson Family Farm. I was probably going to be fired anyway after missing three shifts in a row, but when I called Enrique to tell him I wasn't coming back, it kind of sounded like he felt sorry for me. Maybe I was just imagining it.

So today, after my third day of in-school suspension (my punishment for skipping), I bike over to the frozen yogurt place in the same strip mall as the Tom Thumb because they have a
HELP
WANTED
sign in their window. When I walk in, I see this guy named Jesse who's a year younger than me working the counter.

“Hey,” he says. There's no one else in here but us. I stare at the sign above Jesse's head.

NEW FLAVOR EXPLOSION! SUPER CHOCOLICIOUS MINT FREEEZ!

“Do you really explode when you eat that kind?” I say, motioning at the sign.

“I don't actually consume this stuff,” Jesse says, rolling his eyes. But he kind of grins when he says it.

“I'm here for an application,” I say. “I saw the sign in the window.”

Jesse nods and heads in the back and then comes out with a piece of paper.

“Most places let you apply online, but when I called, the owner said I had to come in,” I say, taking the paper and sitting down at one of the sticky tables so I can fill it out.

“Yeah, the boss is sort of old school, but she's cool,” Jesse says. “Hey, you're Caroline, right? You're a junior?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I'm not sure if he knows me because of what happened with Dylan or because it's Dove Lake, and knowing people you've never actually talked to before isn't all that weird.

“I'm Jesse,” he says.

“Yeah, I thought so,” I say. “You're a sophomore?”

He nods.

“So working here's not so bad?”

“Honestly, no. It's pretty easy and you can have two cups of free frozen yogurt on each shift. But I've heard the sugar-free stuff gives you diarrhea.”

“Gross,” I say, wrinkling up my nose. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.” He laughs and so do I. I leave my application with him and say goodbye, then bike home and head inside my empty house. As I shut the front door, my phone buzzes, and even though I know it's stupid, I can't help but think maybe it's Ethan. But it's only Jesse from the frozen yogurt place.

“Hey, I just gave your application to Jana, and she says can you start tomorrow? She wants you Tuesdays and Thursdays after school until close and Saturdays 10 to 6.”

“That was fast,” I say.

“Well, you're the only one who's applied, so…”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. I can start tomorrow.”

“Okay, cool. I'll tell her.”

Jesse's voice is cute. He's pretty cute in the face, too, I admit, but his voice is even cuter. Like all buttery and breathy and dreamy and soft.

“Do you work tomorrow, too?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says. “I'll show you the ropes.”

“Okay. Just make sure to point out the sugar-free stuff.”

“No doubt.”

I hang up and throw my backpack on the floor before flopping down on my bed.

Even if he is a sophomore, Jesse is cute.

As soon as I have the thought, I roll my eyes at myself. Jesse seems a lot more together than Jason, but the truth is when it comes to guys I'm pretty sure I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe I need to stop thinking about whether boys are cute or not. Maybe I just need to get a job at this yogurt place and start doing my homework and be normal for a while. If only I could figure out what exactly normal is.

I hear the front door open and the heavy-footed sounds of my dad coming in. Since he moved back last week it's been the usual: moments of relative peace interrupted by fights late at night and frowny scowls and uncomfortable silences, their meanings as thick as milkshakes.

I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom trying to think about what I need to do to get my shit together. Calm down about Jesse. Maybe put forth some effort on a homework assignment for once. Keep practicing guitar in case Ethan wants to be my friend again. A moment later the front door opens again, followed by the yelps and shrieks of Dylan crying. My stomach sinks, and I wonder if Dylan's freak out will be enough to make my dad turn around and move out again. Whether he stays or goes doesn't matter to me, but I wish he would just pick one and stick to it.

“Caroline, will you help, please!” My mom's voice is strained. On edge.

I don't want to go out there. I'm the worst sister on Earth. The worst person, actually. Because at this moment I would rather hide in here all night and go to bed starving than go out there.

But I think about my little brother and I force myself to get up and go down the hall into the kitchen where Dylan is flapping his arms over and over, which is something he does when he's trying to calm himself down. He's making little squeaky noises and his face is twisted up in pain and worry.

“Damn, damn, piece of cake,” he's saying. “Piece of cake, damn, damn.” This again.

My dad is sitting at the kitchen table, still in his work shirt and jeans, watching it all like we're a movie and he's just part of the audience.

“Dilly, Dilly, Dill Pickle,” I say, crossing the kitchen floor to stand near him. If Dylan's really upset, like he is right now, like he is so much lately, he doesn't want anyone to touch him. He moves away from me, flapping his arms and scrunching up his face so hard I know it has to hurt.

“I stopped to get some pizza for dinner, and he just started melting down by the cash register,” my mom says, sliding a greasy cardboard box onto the kitchen counter along with her purse and car keys. “I almost left without our food.”

I can see my dad's body slump with frustration. “Pizza, Mindy?” he says. “There's seventy-five dollars in the checking account until next week.”

My mom acts like my dad hasn't said anything. As if he's still gone the way he was most of last week. She just pushes past me and starts getting stuff out of the refrigerator to make a salad. Frustration burns inside. It would be nice if she at least appreciated me for helping.

“Dill Pickle,” I say, touching him gently on the shoulder, “let's go watch
Jeopardy!
, okay?”

He scowls and flaps some more.

“
Jeopardy!
, Dill Pickle.
Jeopardy!”

This is enough to get him to stop flapping. And after a little more pleading on my part, he heads down the hallway toward my parents' bedroom.

“Thanks so much for your help,” I remark to my dad as I walk past him, my voice sugary sweet. He shoots a don't-mess-with-me look, but we both know there's not enough energy behind it to matter.

Dylan crawls onto my mom and dad's bed, and I find the
Jeopardy!
episode he loves so much. When the opening song flickers on, he scoots to the edge of the bed, his sweet, light eyes fixated on the action, his little boy face finally relaxing into something of a smile.

Down the hall, I hear the hum of one of my parents' fights starting to build, and I shut the door so Dylan and I don't have to hear it.

I can't take much more of this back and forth between my parents. My dad is worse but even my mom acts selfishly sometimes. It's like she cares more about getting the last word in with my father than making this house a halfway tolerable place to live. I wish she'd just kick my dad out.