Puppy Love - (aka: "Eat me, Paul Anka")

PROLOGUE

He whispers in my ear, “you’re so beautiful.”

I must’ve drifted off for a bit. I open my eyes and squint, my sight veiled with a vodka-infused shroud. We’re alone in the hotel room. Soft light from a single candle flickers, illuminating the quiet stillness around us in frenetic stops and starts. I see drapes moving slightly on currents of warm air blowing softly through the open patio door.  I hear intermittent, faraway sounds from the beach beyond the patio fence. I smell salt and beer and hints of tanning oil.  Dusk’s last light has passed and the evening’s darkness slowly descends outside, a gentle, reliable nightly embrace. The others we were with have stayed on the boardwalk for more drinks.

I'm naked. His body moves rhythmically over me, like the distant lapping surf, back and forth, back and forth.  His hands and mouth, probing my neck, my nipples, my stomach.  His lips leave moist trails on my skin. He spreads my legs. His tongue drags wet circles and quick breaths along my inner thigh.  He moans, his fingers in my flesh, prodding and pulling and rubbing.

I lift my head to look at him. He gazes up from between my thighs with a lustful grin. “If you weren’t my sister I’d totally fuck you,” he says, and slams his tongue into me.

I rest my head and close my eyes again.  Drifting on waves and wrapped in my shroud, I float through the doors and past the beach and beyond the farthest ends of a gentle blue ocean, deep into the blinding white stars of an unconscious dream.

I feel nothing.

CONTE

Everything hurts. The best hangover remedy is more alcohol, and this meeting is delaying my daily cure.  I'd kill for a cigarette.

“Well I appreciate everyone coming together today.  I know our scheduled meeting isn’t until next month but after your call I thought we should touch base… ” The predictable preamble, as the ritual requires. “On-the-Record Dialogue” – this language is one I know and resent in equal, fierce measure.  Other than my name heading every piece of paper that follows, there's never any actual point to my presence at all.

The Social Worker, her voice is pleasant, with a professional tone that would be equally appropriate for a television ad pitching toothpaste or mattresses, or an important, feel-good charity telethon. I sit up straight, proffering my best “I’m paying attention” stance.

Preamble concluded, our living room floor is now given to the Fosters.  “We’re frustrated,” the Mother says. “We just got back from a month in Hawaii.  We don't know how else we can possibly show her that she's wanted, that she's part of our family for good.  We want her to stay with us. We’re still feeling so rejected and it makes no sense.”  She looks at me, her eyes glaring with hurt and intangible-but-very-real accusation.  Nausea begins its familiar seep through my gut. I look at the floor and begin counting carpet hairs.

“She has been isolating more than usual,” the Father offers, less angrily. “And since we got back she’s been noticeably tense about our son in particular.  Even the mention of his name…”

“Which makes no sense at all!” the Mother interrupts him.  “She was fine when we all met up with him three weeks ago.  He’s not even here right now - he’s still touring and won’t be back for another two weeks!”

All eyes are now fixed on me.  “Well, how is it for you to hear these things?” the Social Worker asks. “Do you have anything you want to say?”   I look up at her, wondering if anyone can hear the deafening pounding in my head.

“Um no. I’m fine.”

“You are safe to let us know what’s going on for you,” she prods.  “We care about you. We’re all here to help you.”

“I know,” I reply. I make sure to look at each of them.  “Thank you.” I’ve learned it’s best to stroke the kind intentions of anyone who ever says they’re here to help me.

“So what’s up with [name removed]?  I can see you’re frowning right now, when I say his name.”

The orange glow of a million lava ribbons dance a slow rising heat inside my skull.  “Nothing...” I shake my head.  “Really.”  My eyes return to the carpet.

“Do you see?” The Mother lifts her arm and holds her open hand in my direction, like a show model inviting an audience to gaze at some awe-inspiring thing.  “She just shuts down - she won’t let anyone in!”  Arms crossed and head shaking, her exasperation fills the room.  Once again, I am Disappointment Incarnate.

The Social Worker surveys the scene while a lifetime of uncomfortable minutes tick by.  And then suddenly, she understands. “I think I know what’s going on here.”

I can feel the involuntary frown on my forehead beginning to sharply fold in on itself.

She leans in toward me and asks, “did something happen between you and [name removed]?”  She is a calm oracle drifting confidently in the blissful wake of a divine prophecy.

Hot boulders begin to collide in my head with nail-stabbing pain.  My throat rendered instantly to sandpaper, I shove a single word out to reply.  “Whaaat??”

“Like maybe you each have a little crush on each other or something?”  Her head nods slowly, with eyebrows slightly raised.  Smiling flight-attendant-grade reassurance, her telepathic mantra wafts through my brain and over the entire room, like cognitive room spray: everything’s okay – it really is.  “Maybe you had a couple of beers together and there ended up being a little kiss between you, right?  Isn’t that what’s happened?” she adds, knowingly.

God fucking help me.  I’d rather be safely tucked in a microscopic hole, ideally underneath an innocuous rock, and anywhere but here. Preferably with large quantities of vodka in my possession.  I’m blinded with searing white. The heat in my skull has melted into a boiling river.  The grey plumes from a lit Dunhill can extinguish the lava in my head as surely as vodka can douse the grit thirst in my throat and transform the pounding head nails to silky soft shrouds.  This goddamn meeting has to end, and soon.

The Social Worker, with inadvertent mercy, has leaned back towards the Fosters again.  “It’s completely normal for a healthy 18-year-old boy like your son to feel attracted to a non-related female in the home… you know, he sees her in her nightshirt and just coming out of the shower every day...”  The Fosters, they hang on her words, their own heads nodding with curious albeit relieved surprise.  Everyone is noticeably more relaxed.  The epiphanous theory has explained everything.  This is my out.

The spotlight has returned to me. I can’t meet their gaze, but I know I don't have to. My eyes focus on a tiny black thread jutting out my jeans, along the inside of my right knee.

Gigantic bricks pushing up my throat and through my mouth: “Um… y-yeah. That’s what happened.”   Remember to breathe.

(…and DIRTY echoes of an ageless crimson SLUT emblem ringing through this yet another timeless moment and flame-searing DIRTY  new shame rebranded into the hot cells of the SLUT pearl of your innermost DIRTY  core again and each spark wrapped so SLUT tight and bound to an anchor-heavy sinking foreboding known deep ever and always and only too well by your DIRTY  SLUT  heart and…)

“... and you’re a very pretty young girl, and he’s a healthy teenage boy, so it’s not surprising there’s a little crush happening!” the social worker exclaims, her giggle and voice lilting like a bird’s song.  “It’s quite normal for you to feel the same way about [name removed], and for the same reasons,” she goes on. “It doesn’t happen everyday that teenage boys and girls who aren’t related to each other end up living together.”  She relaxes back in her seat, obviously pleased with the accuracy of her assessment and conclusion.

For a brief moment, they’re all smiling in what can only be nostalgia for the carefree, bygone days of an iconic generation’s youth.  (“And they called it puppy love, oh I guess they'll never know…”)

“So don’t we all feel better now that that’s all out in the open?” the Social Worker invites the denouement.

“Well yes! Of course!” the Mother declares.   “Absolutely!” the Father agrees.

“Maybe when [name removed] gets back you can sit down with him and just set some boundaries.  You want to be reinforcing that his attraction is normal, healthy and totally expected given the atypical circumstances he’s in. Just remind him to try to remember he’s kind of like her brother.  That should help.”

She turns to me.  “And you do the same – just remember that you’re a part of this family now, and you’re his sister. There’s lot of boys in the world you can have your little crushes and dates with. [name removed] is a big brother for you. Okay?”

“Yup. Right. Okay” My words a truckload of shit and dirt rumbling up my throat and spilling out all over the room, filling it to the brim and burying all of us alive.  An ocean of fresh-brewed bile in my stomach is one retch from following suit.  I know it’s almost over.

“Well, I’m so glad we were able to come together and sort this out! Meeting adjourned!”

Finally, I can have that cigarette.  And vodka - as much vodka as I can get down my throat.  To douse the pain and quench my thirst and wash that menacing bile far, far away.

EPILOGUE

Excerpt: File #WIS – 721127

October 27, 1988: Family conference. A’s attraction to [name removed] led to a kiss between them while on a family vacation. Only a 3-year age difference; the incident is deemed harmless. Boundaries & strategies to redirect attentions between A. & [name removed] discussed.

February 7, 1989: Ongoing tension. Foster-parents report continued exhaustion at dealing with A’s difficult behaviours. Transfer requested.

March 20, 1989: A. will transfer to the care of [name removed] on 1 April 1989. Female-only contract home: 6-month placement, to be reviewed by 15 September 1989. 

File transferred to Office 23A.  Worker TBD.

Signed: [name removed], Social Worker, Office 14A