September
By K Bannerman • Oct 22nd, 2009 • Category: Short Fictionby K. Bannerman
I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t love her.
Our ugly moist fumbling was never going to be anything remotely resembling love. Love doesn’t have an agenda; it isn’t an act of resistance. Love doesn’t smell bad, it doesn’t make your back ache, it doesn’t make you wish you were somewhere warm and comfortable, instead of lying naked in the trunk of a car, cold and damp and shivering. That isn’t love. That’s straight-up desperate lust, and that’s what this was, and anything else we might’ve said to each other was a lie, but when I admitted that I didn’t love her, that wasn’t a lie. That was the truth.
“I don’t love you.” I whispered in her ear, a little scared that she might cry, but more scared that her dad would discover she was gone.
“Yeah, I know.” she replied. But she didn’t know, not really. She was still fooling herself, so you see, that was a lie.
We’d left the trunk open a crack, and I felt a draft of cool midnight air raise the gooseflesh on my thigh. We’d left her bedroom window open, too, so that she could get back inside before dawn, but of course, that also let cool drafts in, where other people could feel them. I hadn’t thought of that, and neither had she.
“I shouldn’t have come.” I said, but I kissed her anyway. “I don’t love you. You shouldn’t have snuck out for me–”
“Shut up.” she hissed harshly, and I almost asked why, when I heard the heavy galloping of steel-toed boots racing up the walk towards the driveway, and a skid of gravel as he stopped next to the Oldsmobile, his breath catching in his throat. ‘Shitshitshit.’ I thought, squeezing myself a little closer to her, as if pressing our nakedness together would hide all the pink bits and make this tangle of limbs into something secure. I almost felt the thoughts in her head, we had pushed ourselves so close together; the resentful hatred of her father, the bolt of terror that he’d hear our muffled breathing, the stark horror on his face if he discovered this nest of castoff clothes. The down of her cheek brushed against mine. I felt the twist of the crowbar under the curve of my hip. I could swing it, if he threw that trunk open, but I knew I didn’t have the strength or the angle to hurt him through his rage.
“Gina!” he screamed. “Gina, goddamnit! Get back here!”
He yelled down the driveway, through the shadows of the cedar trees that flanked the yard. He must’ve thought we’d made a dash for the street, trying to find some private spot to call our own, because I heard his boots crunch twice in the dirt, taking him a few paces past the back of the car. Then he reeled around, and I almost let out my breath, thinking he’d retreated to the house, when the driver’s door squealed open and the whole car shook with the slam.
The old engine coughed twice and started up like a farting bull.
I felt her body shaking. I tried to put my awkward arm around her, to comfort her in her crying, but she pushed me away as her hand flew to her mouth; she was laughing! She rolled on top of me as the car jerked around the corner and roared down the street, careening through the intersection at Willamar and Main, then taking a left, a right, a swerve, a heavy-toed brake. I marked the passage of time by Gina’s stifled giggles, and when the whole steel structure came to a shuddering halt, the driver’s door slammed again, and the heavy boots stomped away.
I felt her body shaking. I tried to put my awkward arm around her, to comfort her in her crying, but she pushed me away as her hand flew to her mouth; she was laughing! She rolled on top of me as the car jerked around the corner and roared down the street, careening through the intersection at Willamar and Main, then taking a left, a right, a swerve, a heavy-toed brake. I marked the passage of time by Gina’s stifled giggles, and when the whole steel structure came to a shuddering halt, the driver’s door slammed again, and the heavy boots stomped away.
A moment of peace and quiet.
“C’mon!” she whispered. A knee in the side, an elbow against my ribs. She lifted the heavy trunk lid an inch, and I saw her broad toothy smile glinting blue in the moonlight. Past her, I saw the low building of the high school, deserted with the lateness of the hour.
She slipped out, and I stumbled, and we ran for the edge of the parking lot with my hand seized in hers. Our clothes bundled under our armpits, she led us straight for the alleyway behind the gym, grinning like a dog that’s slipped its chain. I followed with numb, giddy joy. We’d made it, we’d gotten away with it, we’d fooled the old bastard–
His hand reached out of the shadows from a doorway and snatched my skinny wrist in a grip so fierce that my fingers splayed, and he jerked me back hard enough to make the socket of my shoulder groan. I went down on the asphalt. My teeth clacked, my scraped skin burned. I held up two fists and bared my teeth. I staggered to my feet and threw myself at him, but he batted me aside and narrowed those half-focused eyes in disgust.
It wasn’t me he wanted.
Her mouth gaped like she was choking. There was a sharp smell like ammonia and a gentle pattering sound like rain. For a single suspended second he stared at the puddle, then he shouted until his voice cracked. Clasping a handful of dark hair in his calloused hand, he dragged her, struggling and sweating and bestial naked, back towards the car. With a ruthless grunt, he threw her in the driver’s door and shoved her deeper inside, holding tight to her arm, swearing a blue streak and promising all manner of retribution.
She rolled down the passenger window. Her smile was defiant; her eyes, bright and terrified. Through the crack, she yelled, “Don’t worry! I’ll be fine!”
But we both knew: that was a lie, too.
K Bannerman is a West Coast writer with short stories and non-fiction articles that have appeared in publications across Canada, the US, and Europe, In 2006, her short story “The Mask & The Maze” was nominated for a Hugo Award, Fountain Award and Aurora Award. In 2008, she received a Canada Council Grant for Professional Writers in the category of Creative Writing, and is now working on a third novel.
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