the booze flowed like tapwater, and sex was open and often. Chris sprawled out on the floor, one hand up Cheryl’s blouse, the other down her pants. Her hands on his crotch, teasing him to a massive erection.
I looked away.
But I always came back for more. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I never let Steve touch me in public. In private, though I guarded my virginity like a chastity belt, I had no choice but to give him something if I was to keep him. And I needed to keep him because he was my link to Chris. I hated doing things with him. I wondered if he told his friends about me. I wondered if he told Chris. How I despised myself.
But I kept going back because I needed to see Chris. In fact, what I saw was an alcoholic in the making—my former student packing away shots without breaking a sweat. Drinking made Chris gregarious—a foreign entity to my eyes. He’d smile, he’d joke, he’d become a good ole boy with lots of fans. Lots of drinking also made him amorous. After an hour of raging, he’d disappear with Cheryl into a back room.
Always making sure I saw him go with her.
My grades started slipping. I became despondent. Lying like a lump in bed, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, thinking suicidal thoughts. Out of desperation, with no one to turn to, I turned to prayer—to my obligation of confession. Dense as I was, it finally hit me. It wasn’t that I had posed nude for Chris. Had he loved me as he should have, I would have died for him. It was debasing myself for a boy who regarded me as dirt.
I unburdened my soul, asking Jesus for forgiveness and acceptance. For me, confession had always been a painful process even when I did it on a regular basis. But a yearlong neglect of my spiritual duties made me feel even more shameful and guilty. But I forged ahead, seeking penance from God. After it was over, I felt better. But guilt continued to gnaw at my bones. Because my heart still ached for Chris.
But righteous actions first. Maybe the thoughts would come later.
I went cold turkey. I broke up with Bull Anderson. No more parties, no more torture. Then I started avoiding Chris. The hardest period was orchestra. He always had a crowd around him and was very good at catching my eye.
Then one day something drew my eye away from him. Perhaps it was Jesus guiding my soul. Or maybe it was the scent of another wounded animal just like me.
His name was Daniel Reiss. Besides being in orchestra with me, he was in my math class. He was a computer junkie, an almost nerd with glasses that often fell down his nose. He was skinny but at least he was tall. He was staring at Chris, a piece of his flute in each of his hands. His eyes weren’t resentful. They were simply perplexed, saying: Why would God who made a Chris also make someone like me?
Violin in hand, I walked over to Daniel. “It won’t work unless you put it together.”
Slowly he turned, amazed that I was talking to him.
“You’ve got to put the pieces together.” I smiled briefly. “Then you’ve got to blow.”
I walked away.
He followed.
Daniel was wonderful in his simplicity. He was sweet, and gentle, and didn’t expect a thing sexually. So anything I gave him was met with unbridled excitement. He gave me back my sense of self, and because of that, I wanted our senior prom together to be extra-special.
With my tutoring money, I could have afforded almost any dress I wanted. But store-bought wasn’t good enough. I wanted something unique—handmade.
Which meant made by me. Every day after school, I rummaged through fashion magazines. Once I settled on the design, I started my hunt in the fabric stores. I found a bolt of teal-blue taffeta woven with gold thread that cost a fraction of its original price.
I cut, I snipped, I sewed. I adjusted and pinned until my eyes gave out. But when I was done, I had my one of a kind—a backless and strapless bodice attached to a form-fitting miniskirt that gave my body a sexy embrace.
But something was missing.
It needed trim. It needed a bow. But not just any bow. A monster-sized bow that I tacked on just below the waistline. It swayed when I moved. It gave me kinetics. With the rest of the fabric, I made a matching stole. I accented the entire outfit with a black lace bag, matching lace gloves cut off at the fingers, and black garters and stockings. I kept my jewelry simple—a cross around my neck and Chris’s pearl earrings—a nice, ironic touch.
On prom night, I felt as desirable as a courtesan. Yet inside, I was pure … well, maybe not totally pure. But at least I came away from high school still a virgin.
Daniel was speechless. His hands shook as he pinned a corsage onto my bodice. I took his arm as we walked to his car. He had wanted to rent a limo, but I told him not to waste the money. His six-year-old Volvo would do just fine. I felt cocky as I made my entrance into the gym.
I could feel the eyes on me—male and female. The girls looking at my dress, the boys eyeing what was inside. I could hear a buzz as Daniel and I walked over to the picture line. I kept my expression genteel but inside I was flying.
All these years of keeping a low profile. But not tonight. Tonight was my turn.
Casually, I glanced around the room.
I saw him before he saw me. He was absolutely gorgeous—completely at ease in formal wear. I figured he must have attended a lot of weddings in his day. He was talking to his friends, Cheryl at his side. But there was a distance between them. No body contact.
Then she took his arm. He stiffened. She looked upset.
I felt bad.
He turned and looked in my direction.
I caught his eye.
Abruptly, his face turned into something inanimate—cold and emotionless with the eyes of a dead fish. I looked away and moved closer to Daniel. When I glanced up again, he was gone.
I pretended the interchange never happened. I danced, I laughed, I flirted, I drank punch and ate cucumber sandwiches. Midway through the affair, I saw him again, moving through the crowd, heading for the side door.
Without a nod to rational thought, I excused myself from Daniel and gave chase. I found him alone under a tree, knees up against his chest—same position I’d modeled for his sketches. I sat next to him, hugging myself because I was cold.
“Stuffy in there,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Like my earrings?”
He didn’t move.
“Look, Chris …” I tried again. “I’m sorry it ended so badly. I’m sorry that things got so messed up. You were a very important person in my life. I feel very deeply about you and—”
“Are you wearing garters or panty hose?” he asked me.
I waited a beat. “What?”
He looked at me for the first time. His voice was calm. “I asked if you were wearing garters or panty hose.”
I stared at him.
He
