Letter Eight #2
“Come on, dude,” he said, pushing his hair back. “It’s Willoughby. You know that.”
“She’s right through there.” You gestured to where I stood, setting everything out on the dining table.
Willoughby shuffled toward me while you strode casually to the sitting room—which, of course, sits directly across the entry hall and faces the dining room. It’s where you sat so you could keep an eye on us. And that didn’t just annoy me, Casey. It made me simmer with rage.
“Are you okay?” Willoughby asked, dipping his head to look at me.
My hand shook as I turned a page of my history textbook, biting the insides of my cheeks hard enough to taste the metallic tang of my own blood. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”
As we worked, I caught you glancing up from your book occasionally to check on us. Once, after you caught me casting one of my death glares your way, you picked up your phone. Two seconds later, my phone buzzed with a text. It said only: Wednesday.
A deep groove of concern had formed between your eyebrows. The look you gave me said, What’s wrong?
I squeezed my phone, cutting my eyes at you again.
Stop looking at me like that, you texted.
I hammered out some middle finger emojis. An entire paragraph of middle finger emojis. Hit send.
You frowned at my text, then dropped your phone on a side table.
About an hour into our supervised study session, you rose from the settee and walked over to us. “I’m popping to the kitchen for a drink. Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks,” I snapped.
As you strode off to the back of the house, Willoughby leaned closer. “You weren’t kidding about him, were you? He keeps an eye on you, alright.”
“Yep,” I said, digging my pencil into the paper of my notebook.
Softly, Willoughby asked, “Why’s your dad so crazy strict?”
Because I am. That’s what I could’ve said. Because I’m crazy. That was the truth.
Instead, I turned to Willoughby, grabbed him by the shirt, and crushed my lips to his.
It was my first kiss. Seventeen years old and I’d never been kissed by a boy.
The very first one, and I had to take it.
Willoughby kissed me back, but just barely, because—well, you remember, I’m sure—you were there.
“What the hell?” you said, causing Willoughby to spring back. “I was gone for one minute.”
On a hard swallow, I slowly leaned back in my chair.
“Collect your things, Willoughby,” you said. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“But we aren’t finished,” I argued, digging my fingernails into my palm.
“That’s too bad. You’ll have to do the rest over the phone. Your dad said to send him home if anything happened, so off he goes.”
“See you tomorrow,” Willoughby mumbled, gathering his stuff. “I’ll text you.”
As soon as Willoughby left, I thrust myself up from the table.
My hands trembled as I stacked my books into a haphazard pile. My whole body shook. From the unfairness of it, Casey. The rage. “You’re unbelievable,” I spat.
“You’re unbelievable. You hopped on that boy the second I left the room.”
“You embarrassed me. I’m already a freak at my school, and now all his friends will know that my jailer made him leave because we kissed.”
You stepped back. “Your jailer?”
“That’s exactly what you are! It’s bad enough that I have my dad breathing down my neck. Now I have you, too. He doesn’t let me have anything—not one fucking thing other girls my age have.”
“That can’t be true,” you said.
“Oh, yeah? I’m the only person in my school who isn’t allowed on social media.
Tinsley and Bree are supposed to go to Peru at the end of summer break this year—to study abroad—but my dad won’t let me go.
Tinsley’s my best friend, and I’ve never once spent the night at her house.
Her mom has a different boyfriend every week and leaves Tinsley alone a lot, so my dad doesn’t trust her.
I’ve only ever stayed the night with the Harrises or my grandparents.
Those are the only four adults my dad trusts to watch me.
I’m the only girl in my class—in probably the whole school—who’s never been to a real sleepover, a concert with her friends, or even a coffee shop without an adult present. ”
I swatted at my face, my chest heaving as I tried to slow my breathing and temper my rage. Your gaze tracked the tears that flowed down my cheeks, your dark eyebrows drawing together with concern.
I kept talking. “Until you came along, the only boy I’d ever been left alone with was Michael—and that’s just because my dad believes Michael and I are too close and he’ll never touch me.
You just chased away the only boy I’ve ever danced with, the only boy I’ve ever kissed.
Because my dad told you to. Because I’m not allowed to have that, either.
He makes me dress a certain way so boys don’t even look at me, which seems totally pointless since the boys at my school are afraid of me, anyway—and if that isn’t bad enough, they’re afraid of him, too.
” I paused to catch my breath. “Meanwhile, you—I’m not sure what you’re off doing when you’re not here, but you sure go through a lot of condoms.”
“What?” you said, taking a step back, eyes flaring with shock. “You’re still going through my things?”
I ignored the question. “You come home late. You can do whatever you want. You could be out there screwing someone different every night, and my dad would pat you on the back and say, ‘You have a good time, Casey?’ As long as you’re back here when you’re supposed to be, standing guard over me.
As long as you’re willing to help him play gatekeeper when it comes to my love life.
We’re only two years apart, and my dad gave you the power to stop me from even kissing a boy.
Do you not see how totally fucked up that is? ”
Your face softened as I swiped tears from my chin with the back of my hand.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be watched constantly?” I asked. “To have no freedom at all?”
“Elliot, come on,” you said gently, taking a cautious step toward me. “Let’s get you calmed down. Let me make you a cup of tea. You should probably eat something.”
“No,” I said, taking a step back. “I did something horrible and shocking when I was eight. Michael forgave me, but my dad hasn’t.
I’m still paying for it. He takes everything from me, and I guess my sentence doesn’t end until I go to college.
This house is my prison, my dad’s the warden, and you’re my jailer.
You probably didn’t realize when he moved you in here, but that’s the job you actually signed up for.
You’re helping to contain me. The way you just handled that situation with Willoughby proves it. ”
I fled upstairs, where I changed clothes, put my earbuds in, and sat on the floor by my bed. When I opened my eyes a little while later, you were leaning inside my doorway, your troubled gaze sweeping over my face.
You joined me on the floor, pulling up your legs like mine. With a huff, I removed my earbuds.
“It makes me sad to know you feel trapped here,” you said, twisting the black-and-white bracelet around your wrist. “I don’t want to make you feel like that—like you’re never free.”
“Whatever. That’s my life. I’m used to it.”
“What if—” You stopped to think. “What if I started giving you a little leeway? For instance, maybe you could go home with Tinsley occasionally? Or the two of you could go for a coffee?”
“Really?” I asked, turning my body to face yours.
“Yes—but only if you are where you say you are, Elliot. No snooping around Michael’s or anything like that. You check in with me. You text back immediately. You come back before your dad gets home, or it’s over. We’ll both get in trouble.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but hesitated before saying that next thing.
“And look, I’m not trying to be the gatekeeper of anything, but boys aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
Willoughby seems okay, but at the end of the day, he’s still a boy, and most boys can be—they don’t always have—they’re just shit, okay?
They’re only thinking about one thing, and they’re shit. ”
I wondered about you and that one thing. All those condoms you went through—a number I couldn’t dwell on too long without wanting to kick something. “But I’m thinking about it, too,” I said, chin lifted. “So maybe that’s okay with me. Maybe that’s exactly what I want from a boy.”
My statement tripped you up for a second. You peered at my bookcase across from the bed and cleared your throat. “Right. But there isn’t any rush, you know? You have loads of time to get all mixed up in that stuff.”
“Are you joking? I’m one of the only girls in my school who isn’t currently mixed up in that stuff. Tell me, how old were you when you started hooking up with girls?”
“That”—you cleared your throat again—“is not relevant to this conversation.”
“Why not? Because you’re a guy? And somehow the rules are different for you?”
“No, I’m not—I’m not saying that,” you said. “It’s just—”
“So you have hooked up with girls?”
Maybe it was the comment you’d made to Michael on Eleanor’s birthday—or the one you’d made about the hot guy on Tinsley’s phone—but suddenly I wanted more clarification on this topic. Maybe I also wanted to strike back because you’d chased Willoughby off, too.
You leaned away from me. “Sorry?”
“You’re attracted to girls?” As your eyes narrowed, I added, “I don’t mean to imply you should be. It’s obviously okay if you aren’t. Just—it’s kind of hard to tell…with you. You know?”