Pinned Up (Pinned Up Trilogy) (11 page)

“Mom, you’re killing me. What are you thinking putting this tray of temptation right in front of my face? For every pastry I eat, I have to run an extra mile on Lucifer. Today, I’m saving my calories for a sinful lunch.” I scold my mom as I shove a large spoonful of fedora in my mouth. The chocolate pastry soaked in rum tastes like heaven, almost as if Jesus himself made it. Since I don’t want it to go to waste, I hungrily devour the remaining piece.
It’s just so good…and fluffy…and rich…yet, light at the same time…and simply…the best chocolate dessert I’ve ever had in my life. Absolute perfection.

“Baby, you’re sexy as hell just the way you are, but don’t worry, I’ve got this.” Josh winks at me and gives me a devilish grin. Josh proceeds to eat all the samples my mother provided him and even has seconds on some.

My mom and Josh are getting along; a few times they even ignore me during their conversations. He seems sincere with his responses to my mother’s twenty questions and genuinely interested when she speaks. As we’re heading out, my mother has a look of awe. I notice she really likes Josh and is already seeing him as part of the family.
Great.
No, mom, don’t get attached. It’s too soon. I’m not ready for this! What have I done?

We decide to pick up some sandwiches and snacks at Roxie’s Deli, their pastrami and turkey sandwiches on Dutch Crunch bread with all the fixings are simply bad ass. We head over to palm tree studded, Mission Dolores Park and sit under some shade where Josh and I have a great view of downtown. I bring my Betty Boop rolled up blanket that I always keep in my car’s trunk and lay it out. It’s a sunny afternoon with a slight chill and no breeze, by San Francisco’s standards, it’s a perfect day for outdoor relaxation.

“Why did you name your car Betty?” Josh asks curiously.

“Hello? I named her after two iconic pin-up models, Betty Page and Betty Boop, even though Miss Boop is just a cartoon character. It’s only common sense.” I tease.

“Oh, I see!” He makes an exaggerated expression as if he just unveiled life’s greatest mysteries.

“When I became interested in the pin-up culture and modeling, I really gravitated to them. That’s why I have so many trinkets and posters of both Bettys throughout my house.” I remind him.

“But you don’t have any besides the blanket in your car.” He points out.

“You’re right. I never noticed. I guess I haven’t found anything special enough.” I turn on Pandora from my cellphone and put on a Lowrider Oldies station. The song, “Don’t Let No One Get You Down,” by War begins to play. I feel completely relaxed.

“What else do you like?” Josh asks.

“I like fast exotic cars. I think they’re sexy.” I state with a sinful smirk.

“What have you driven?” Man, he’s really probing me with questions.

“I haven’t. I guess I just like the idea of them.” I confess.

“I’ll fix that and take you for the ride of your life one day.” He says this with determination clear in his voice and deep in his handsome features.

“If you insist! I’m game.” I can’t help but have a cheesy smile plastered all over my face. The thought of him making future plans for us delights me.

“Can I ask you a question?” Josh seems a bit hesitant. “It’s sort of been on my mind since our first non-date.”

“You can ask me anything you want. It doesn’t mean that I’ll answer, but if you’re curious, it doesn’t hurt to try to get a response from me.” I take a bite of my bomb sandwich.

“Always so guarded, but fair enough. When you were describing your job, you stated that you did it to the best of your ability and that ‘it was the least you could do.’ What does that mean? Why would you say that?” His face is serious, I have his undivided attention. Immediately, I shut down.

I can’t speak, but I want to.
No, it’s too soon.

“Valentina, I know we just recently met, but I want to know you from the inside out. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve never felt like this. You consume my thoughts. I know you’re this strong, independent woman, but I get this urge to just want to protect you. When I look at you, I see this beautiful rock hard exterior, but I feel there’s something inside of you hurting. I just want to take some of your pain to make things easier on you.” Josh lowers the volume to the music playing on my phone. He sits quietly and patiently waits for me to speak.

I can’t. I just can’t, but I want to. I’ve never discussed this with anyone! And now, all of a sudden I’m considering pouring out my soul to a stranger? Why this need to want to connect with him on all levels? Why can’t I resist this desire to want to feel protected by him?

I decide to go against my better judgment and open up to Josh. My incomprehensible reason to discuss my past isn’t about getting closer to him, even though on the surface that’s how it appears. Slowly, I realize it’s more about seizing the opportunity to face my tragic history, something I’ve always evaded at all costs. Josh just happens to provide me with the push and strength I desperately need at the moment.

My chest begins to tighten. I take deep breaths.

It’s okay. It’s okay. Calm down. You can do this.
For the first time in over a decade, I relive that shattering experience.

I begin to speak quietly and slowly, afraid to hear my own words. “When I was little, I developed at a really young age. In the sixth grade, I was a C cup bra size and when I began junior high, I was a size D. The boys couldn’t keep their eyes off me and the girls didn’t appreciate me getting so much attention even though the stares were unwelcomed. Eventually, I grew to be very shy, began to keep to myself, and became extremely self-conscious about my body. Despite being a loner, dressing in really baggy clothes to avoid the annoying gawking, hurtful rumors began to spread about me being easy and sexually active. During that time, I hadn’t even kissed a boy yet. In middle school, the boys saw me as a sexual object and the girls could no longer tolerate the attention I received. Everyone looked at me different and I hated that feeling. I was bullied regularly and had to fight in order to defend myself. Since teachers never witnessed the harassment, nothing was ever done about it at school. I didn’t confide in my mom, afraid if she intervened she would bring more attention to my problem, and make it worse.

One day, I was sitting at the school’s library during lunch when a boy who was in my math class sat across the table from me. He was really nice and asked if I could help him out with that morning’s lesson. I agreed to help him. There was nothing more I craved than a friendship. For the remainder of the week, I helped him study for our math final and was happy that I finally had a friend again. On the last day of school, before summer vacation, he wanted to buy me ice cream as a thank you gesture for my help. We agreed to meet at a corner store that was at the top of a hill near his house. It was a longer distance from my regular route, but I didn’t care. I went through a park that was right across the street from the store. As I was walking by the empty basketball court, I heard my name called out. I turned and saw my new friend; he was with two high school boys. I stopped and let them catch up; right away, they started walking with me. I noticed their eyes were red and that they couldn’t stop laughing. I felt uncomfortable and decided to go straight home. One of the older boys grabbed my arm and told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I yanked my arm away from him and began running. They all caught up to me, stopped me, and kept me in place. All three boys began harassing me by fondling my whole body. I tried fighting them off and managed to kick one in the groin. He dropped to his knees, gathered himself, and struck my face with a closed fist. Another one of the boys pushed me so hard I lost balance and hit the back of my head hard against the pavement. I tried getting up, but I felt too dazed. Someone grabbed my arms and dragged my body behind the bleachers of the basketball court. I was punched in the face again when I attempted to get up. I wanted to yell, but couldn’t, instead I was choking. One of the boys was pouring alcohol into my mouth as another was pulling down my pants.” I wipe away tears I didn’t know had escaped my eyes.

As I relive that experience by telling my story, the tightening in my chest becomes unbearable, but I want to continue.

“I was raped by each of those boys. I was only twelve years old, five days before my thirteenth birthday. I was left behind the bleachers almost naked, beat, full of blood, and too weak to get up. I don’t know how long I remained in that position, but it seemed like forever. Eventually, a boy my age saw me and ran to me. He took off his jacket and covered me up. He was going to run off and call the police for me, but I begged him not to. I’m not sure why, I just knew I wasn’t ready to speak with the police. He helped me get up and provided me with support as I got dressed. He wrapped his arm around my waist and walked me home down that dreadful hill in silence.” I pause for a moment, allowing my words to sink in.

“So, that’s why you’re so terrified of going down steep hills. They remind you of that dreaded day.” Josh murmurs to himself.

I lightly nod and proceed retelling my past. “I was thankful he allowed me to cry in peace. When we reached my house, he asked if there was anything he could do. I couldn’t speak or face him. I entered my house, locked the door, and fell to the floor. The feeling of disgust and repulsion was intolerable. I remained in that position for several hours. I have never felt so violated. I trusted the boy who I helped out at school and befriended. I couldn’t comprehend why he betrayed me, took advantage of my friendship, and set me up to get raped. I vowed never to trust anyone again so easily. When I realized that my mom was due to come home from work, I gathered up what was left of my will power and took a shower with my clothes still on. I felt so dirty, I couldn’t move, instead I cried uncontrollably. Slowly, I managed to take off my clothes and intensely tried to wash off the layers of filth I felt penetrated on every inch of my skin. That dirty sensation I tried so desperately to scrub off…wouldn’t. Exhaustion from crying and the endurance of such violence left me feeling spiritless. I fought against it and was ready to get out of the shower. I heard noise outside the bathroom door and realized my mom was home. Panic set in. I had to inform her and recreate that appalling scene all over again. I prayed for strength to endure the retelling of my horrific and traumatic experience.

When my mother saw my swollen face, busted lip, and black eye, she lost all self-control. She cried hysterically, insisted on taking me to the hospital, asked what happened, and demanded to know who had done this to me. Tears I wasn’t aware I still had came rushing out. I knew I had to tell her, but couldn’t make myself repeat the heinous crime I had just undergone, so…I shut down completely. I couldn’t tolerate the thought of my mom looking at me different, just like everyone else. Between my sobs, I lied stating I had gotten into a fight and was jumped by three girls after school.”

My body is steady and my face expressionless except for the traitorous tears that flow so easily from my eyes. I focus my sight on our beautiful scenery of the park with its palm trees. Josh attempts to hold my hand and bring me closer to him, but I stop him.

No pity. I don’t deserve sympathy or comfort nor do I want it.

“I’m so sorry you had to endure such inhumane abuse. If you don’t wanna talk about it anymore, you don’t have to. Just know that I’m here to listen and help you any way that I can. Do you want to continue?” He asks me cautiously. I can’t face him, but for some unfathomable reason, I want to continue shedding light onto my dark past.

I close my eyes and slowly nod.

“I refused to go to the hospital. I asked my mom not to make an issue of it at school. I reminded her it would be pointless since we were now officially on summer vacation. I asked her to simply transfer me to a different school. Reluctantly, she agreed.

One day, towards the end of summer, I went to a doctor’s appointment with my mom due to severe stomach aches. I was informed by my pediatrician that I was pregnant. My whole world came to a halt and shock took over my body. My mom was in the waiting room. She wasn’t informed of my situation since I hadn’t provided written authorization.

The next few days were filled with thoughts of the baby. I was just a kid myself. I knew immediately that I couldn’t kill this baby growing inside of me; after all, it wasn’t the baby’s fault. I read the pamphlets on different choices I had regarding the pregnancy. The decisions that had to be made were overwhelming. I knew it was time to talk to my mom. I waited for her to come home from work. Throughout that day, I had felt sick and towards the evening, I was experiencing severe cramping. I dragged myself to the restroom and held onto the sink due to the excruciating pain I was experiencing while I sat on the toilet. Too soon, I felt big clots of blood being released from my body. The twisting of my insides was unbearable. Moments later when I attempted to get up, I saw the large clumps of blood and knew I would be flushing down my baby’s lifeless body.

When my mom finally arrived, I was lying on the bathroom floor. I don’t remember much after that. I simply recall waking up in the hospital. Apparently, I had lost an excessive amount of blood when I miscarried the baby. My mother was in tears. She asked me who had done this to me and if it was consensual. I couldn’t face her. She pleaded for me to say something. All I could say was that I had been forced. After she overcame the initial shock, her first reaction was to notify the police. I begged her not to say anything and cried profusely. She wanted to discuss the situation. Every time I tried, I felt as if I was reliving that sickening encounter all over again and cried uncontrollably. Eventually, she stopped asking.

Since that day, I made it a point to move forward with my life with a hope that my mom would never bring up that subject again. She took the remaining days of my summer vacation off and we spent every moment together, never touching that forbidden topic. When it was time to return to school, she changed her work hours to reflect my school schedule.”