He holds my hand the whole time.
°
I grow even taller. I’m six feet when I pack my single duffel bag and walk to the front desk to sign out on the morning of my 18th birthday. It’s Peg who hands me the pen to sign myself out. She’s worked here since I was about nine and as I sign the papers she says “Goodbye, Bonnie” in the funny way I’ve noticed people who know that you won’t or can’t answer back always say things.
“Goodbye, Peg,” I say simply, handing the pen back to her politely. Her mouth drops open like a fish.
“You? You, you can talk?” she stammers.
I smile at her, pick up my bag, and walk out the front door. Peg stands up and watches me go, mouth agape. I can hear her talking animatedly with other staff even once I’m outside. I hadn’t meant to shock them, but it feels kind of nice. I like being underestimated. There’s some power in keeping what you can really do to yourself. I’ll have to remember it.
Being free of the home is a beautiful thing. I hadn’t expected how much I would enjoy being outside those walls and fences, and I promise myself never to go back – there or anywhere else I’m not allowed to just open the door and walk out as I please.
I could have run away years ago, I realize, standing there on the brown grass outside the gates, but it hadn’t occurred to me. Despite myself, I seem to have some very clear lines drawn in my head about what I am and am not supposed to do. I’m still not sure where I get these ideas. Sometimes I fantasize that they come from my mother but I was so little when she died that it seems impossible. I still feel she has some connection to it, but when I really look at how the lines feel in my head it’s as if they were drawn there when I was being built. When I was growing eyes and teeth and little fingernails, like while my brain was shaping itself, these lines just laid down and took root. I like the lines though; they make me feel more comfortable about some things that I think are still going to come in my life. I breathe in the fresh, free air and look around. I have no idea where to go or how to do anything, but somehow it’s all okay. And there’s only one thing I want to do, anyway. It’s the only thing I’ve wanted to do for twelve years: find Jasper.
•
It’s funny how quickly I become a part of them. I meld into them, folding myself perfectly into the space they have provided. It’s nice. There are problems too, but in general, it’s nice. It’s not like having a parent because mostly I get to make my own rules, but it’s a bit like what I imagine having a whole mess of brothers and a sister would be like. They’re annoying a lot of the time but it’s a comfortable annoying. And it’s good to know someone has my back, that someone gives a crap what I’m up to.
And then of course there’s Adrian, which is a whole different kind of nice.
I make him wait longer than he’s probably ever had to wait for a girl. With that smile, I doubt he usually waits too long. But I’m still worried about getting played, still anxious about what he might take from me when I’m not looking. And if I’m real honest, I’m nervous about having sex for the first time. I can do so much that is seems like it shouldn’t be a big deal – but it is – it feels like everything will be different after, like, I will be different after.
And so I hold out as long as I can.
By the time we get to it I’m itching for him in parts of me I never even knew existed. A lot of what helps me wait is my fear. Having never had sex before I don’t know what to do, probably like any virgin, but more importantly, as we draw closer to it, I grow more and more concerned that I’ll accidentally hurt him. Sometimes I catch myself not knowing my own strength, or not being able to focus it and so I wonder what happens if I finally give in to him and let go. For weeks before we actually do it I have terrible dreams about my fist going right through his abdomen or throat by accident. And then he’s bleeding all over me, parts of him in my powerful hands, light going out of his eyes, the word ‘why’ just hanging on his perfect lips. I wake up nearly in screams, a lot.
It’s one of these nightmares that gets us started, actually. We’ve fallen asleep in my motel bed watching movies and eating Chinese food and I shoot up, breathing hard, the image of my hands soaked with Adrian’s blood still stuck to the back of my freaking eyelids. Adrian reaches out for me sleepily.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“Hhhhh,” I breathe. He wakes up a little more and puts his hand on my sweaty back. My damp t-shirt makes him alert.
“You okay, Lo?”