Then Anthony started going slower, making these sounds that almost scared me—and he pulled out. I’d never seen an erect penis before, not even when he put it in me. When he came on my belly—the weird jerk and pulse of his cock, the thick white stuff spattering all over my skin—I jumped. It seemed like the grossest, most horrible thing anybody could ever do.
“There.” Anthony smiled. “See, when the guy comes on you, you can’t get pregnant. Bet you’re glad I did that, huh?”
I nodded. Like I was glad about any of this. But all I could think about was the horror of getting pregnant. Then everybody would know, and I didn’t want anybody to know.
Anthony grabbed a paper towel left over from our earlier snacking and wiped off my belly, like it was soda he’d spilled on the coffee table. Then he sat up and tucked himself in, straightened his shirt. I pulled my tee back down; it was long enough to cover my hips. As much as I wanted my underwear and leggings back on, I couldn’t see how to put them on without flashing him, and I thought if that happened he might start again.
“You’re a pretty, pretty girl, Vivienne. And now you know it.” Anthony grinned, like we’d had a wonderful time. I guess he did. “This is our little secret, right?”
Numbly, I nodded.
He winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Chloe. Wouldn’t want to start a catfight.”
Then he went back to watching the last bit of Titanic. I sat there, huddled on the far end of the sofa, leggings around my ankle, all the way through the end credits. When Anthony got up to go to bed, he ruffled my hair, like I was an adorable little scamp. He leaned close, and I winced at the heat of his breath against my face as he whispered, again, “Good girl.”
It was maybe another hour before I dared to go up to my bedroom. The whole time I tiptoed past the guest room where Anthony was sleeping, I dreaded him walking out, or pulling me inside. I locked my bedroom door and sat on top of my covers, shaking. My mind kept replaying the last thing Anthony had said to me, over and over, until they seemed like the only words I knew.
Good girl.
I wish I could say that by then, at least, the worst was over. But it wasn’t.
The worst came in the morning.
My mom kept calling me to come down and have breakfast. “Don’t you want to tell Chloe and Anthony good-bye before they go back to school?” Even when my dad told me to get my butt down there, even after I heard Anthony’s car revving up and backing out of our driveway, I stayed in bed, covers pulled up to my neck.
Mom finally came in a little before lunchtime. “Honestly, Vivienne, what has gotten into you?”
I didn’t confide in my mother much. She always gave the impression that her problems were bigger than yours—more important—and that you were being selfish by even suggesting she needed to worry about you, too. I still hated the idea of anyone knowing about what Anthony had done. But that day, I felt so bad. I was sore between my legs, which I hadn’t known could happen. I needed someone’s arms around me so badly. So I reached for the lifeline. “Mom?”
Her hands were on her hips. “What is it?”
“Last night—something happened with Anthony.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
That day, the word rape never came into my mind. Rape happened in dark alleyways, to women who wore short skirts and weren’t careful. Rapists wore black and carried knives. I’d been on the couch with a guy who went right back to watching Titanic afterward. So to me it seemed like that couldn’t be rape. But still, it wasn’t right, and I knew it.
My voice shaking, I said, “Anthony made me—he did something wrong.” That wasn’t enough. “He made me have sex with him.”
Mom stared at me for a few seconds, and then . . . she laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What?”
“No such thing ever happened.”
“But it did.”
“Anthony Whedon is a nice boy,” she said, starting to snatch up clothes I’d left lying on the floor. “He wouldn’t do that to anyone, much less his girlfriend’s little sister.”
I’d known she might not hold me and comfort me. That’s not her style. But I was totally unprepared for her not to believe me at all. “He pulled my leggings down. Mom, he did, for real.”
She gave me a look like, How stupid do you think I am? “Don’t you think we would have heard you screaming? You were just downstairs. That music woke me up three times.”
“But I didn’t scream.”
“Well, there you go. You would’ve screamed, if you’d really been in trouble.”
She was right. I hadn’t screamed. Was it all my fault, then? Maybe Anthony was confused, and he thought I liked it. I’d been crying, but maybe lots of girls cried their first time. If I had screamed, he would’ve stopped. I felt so stupid for not screaming.
Finally I said, “I was scared.”
“Of Anthony. The boy who took you out to Rock N Bowl with your big sister.” Mom’s whole body was tense now. This was how she got before she lost her temper and started shouting. I’d spent my whole childhood trying not to make my mother shout at me. “You have a crush on him, don’t you? And you’re mad that it’s Chloe he likes and not you. So you’re making up stories to try and get him in trouble. That’s not very nice, Vivienne. You ought to know better.”
I wanted to argue with her more, but if I did that, the shouting would begin. Sometimes she could back me into a corner and yell for fifteen, twenty minutes. When it was over I would feel like I’d been beaten up. That morning I knew I couldn’t take it. So I said nothing.
“Now get your butt moving and clean up your room.” She dumped all my dirty clothes on the bed—on me, really. “Do some laundry while you’re at it. You’re old enough to help out around here, you know.”
I got up. I cleaned my room. And I did two loads of wash. The whole time, I felt like Anthony had left with everything I’d ever been. Like I was the hollowed-out, used-up thing left behind.
A week later, Chloe sent me an e-mail.
By the way, Anthony told me all about your little stunt the last night we were at home. Flirting with my boyfriend is NOT OKAY. You’re just a kid, so of course he didn’t take it seriously. But as your sister? I take it very seriously when you try to get together with my boyfriend.
Anthony says young girls have crushes and we should put it behind us. I’m willing to do that. We can forget the whole thing, from this day forward. But don’t ever do anything like this again.
Chloe believed Anthony. My big sister, who had known me my entire life and should’ve known what kind of person I was—she believed Anthony completely, even when he told her such a vicious lie.
Until I got that e-mail, I’d been considering telling my father. Afterward, I was too afraid. I thought if I told him too, then all three of them would hate me—my whole family—and that was more than I could bear.
Through the terrible depression of that spring and summer, I realized one important thing. Anthony had lied about me; that meant Anthony was scared of what I would say. So he had known I didn’t want to have sex with him the whole time. All the flimsy excuses I’d made for him in my mind collapsed, and I knew how worthless and small he really was.
Once I could concentrate on hating him, I stopped hating myself as much. But that was before I’d realized how deeply he scarred me.
These days I don’t hate myself for having been raped. I hate myself for wanting to act it out all over again.
“Ma’am?” The bar waiter leans closer to me, and I realize I’ve been sitting there motionless, wineglass in hand, for several minutes. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t buy it. “Would you like us to call you a cab?”
“I haven’t had much to drink.” My glass is still half full. “It’s okay. I’m headed home.”
I drive home, still in a daze. Doreen and I have worked hard on these memories, as I try to learn ways to deal with them without—going numb. Freezing up. By now, mostly, I can handle it.