Almost (38 page)

The man's voice is far away. Suffocating white is the only thing I see.

My stomach flips and rolls with nausea. I need to find some air that's not overheated. Everything begins to spin. I try to roll over, because I think I might vomit, but I can't seem to move very far. Confused, I stare up at my arm. It's caught—
tied
—above my head. On the other side of the white thing that's suffocating me. My hand kills, and I can't move.

I pull down on my arm hard as I can.

And I remember.

I remember.

I'd already tried to pull my arm free hundreds of times. My latest attempt has finally cut into my wrist. Now blood is staining the sheet above me. My blood. On the sheet.

That's what the white is…a sheet. A sheet…

I stare at the long trickle of red that has soaked through. It's dripping a slow a line down my arm. I hear the voice again. “Appears passed out. Wonder what the hell happened in here…”

“Help,” I croak. The back of my throat feels shredded—like it's been hit with a blowtorch. “Can you please get me out. Untie me. Please. I want out.”

I look down at myself and realize I'm only wearing panties. No bra. My cheeks are wet like I've been crying for a long time.

Shame, panic, and absolute dread solidify the lump in my throat until I'm choking.

The fear has me frantically pulling at my arm again. I don't care that it hurts. “I'm over here. Is anyone there?” I call out again. Why won't my legs move?

“Please…” I hear keys, the clash of metal, and a strange, noisy static sound growing louder. Light hits my face like a punch, and I cringe against it as the sheet is pulled off me.

“What the—!” The policeman's voice is so loud it cuts through the air like pointed knives.

Cold slams into me and I close my eyes. I'm only able to turn slightly away from the police officer.

“You're safe now,” he says. I feel the sheet come quickly back up to cover my nakedness, but he keeps my face clear of the fabric.

Only I wish he wouldn't.

I wish he'd hide my face. Make it so I can't breathe again, because now, I think I want to die. I don't want to talk to him.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here!

“Young lady, can you tell me what happened? How old are you? Do you know your name?” The voice is kind, but the reflective flashes of light glinting off his badge, his handcuffs, his belt buckle, and even from the small snap that hold his gun in place make it hard for me to find his face when I open my eyes again.

The static buzzing increases and blips. I realize it's the officer's walkie-talkie, which is right next to my ear. He kneels next to me, and shines the light right in to my pupils, then on to my tied my arm.

“This is O'Connor. I'm requesting female officer backup ASAP. Upstairs—master bedroom. I have what appears to be a 261 or 261A.”

More loud buzzing, and then, a metallic reply: “Pulling up outside.” It's a woman's voice. “Can you hold for two? Over.”

“Will hold. Request ambulance to scene. Code 50. Basic transport. Victim is conscious and breathing. Wait for possible injury update.”

“Ambulance dispatched,” a third voice runs through his radio.

The officer leans closer. I can finally register his face. He looks worried. He's older than my dad. His eyes are kind. Safe.

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 assuming 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 glass 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.

“Shit!” 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 seashells 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 seashells 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 seashells 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.

God, how I want to scream because his hands are rough, scraping 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 seashells glowing, translucent and fragile in a crystal bowl.

Beside the bed. Beside the bed where I'm being touched and I can't move. Seashells.

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 hell? Dude. Get out!”

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

“Seriously? Damn. 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—ingGodDamn!” 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.