hunched over trying to shield my front with my arms, but my arms are so
thin, and Deek is pressing so close, slides his arm around my shoulders and I’m on my feet, panicked, trying to run to the door. But Croke grabs me like it’s a game we are playing, or
him and Deek are playing, like football, Ann’slee is the football, captured. Croke’s big fingers tear at the halter straps, Croke manages to untie the straps and pulls off the halter, Ohhhh, lookit!— the guys are whistling and stamping their feet, teasing, taunting like dogs circling a wounded rabbit, and I’m panicked like a rabbit, trying to laugh, to show
this is just a joke, I know it’s a joke, but I’m desperate to get away from them, stumbling to the bathroom, the only place I can get to, shutting the door behind me, fumbling to latch
the door, had a glimpse before I shut it of Croke (I’d thought was my friend) with the halter top on his head, tying the straps beneath his chin like a bonnet.
Somewhere not too far away Momma is looking at the clock, fretting and fuming: Where is that girl? Where the hell has Annislee got to this time?
They wouldn’t hurt me — would they?
They like me — don’t they?
How long I am crouched in the bathroom in terror of the guys breaking in, how long I am shivering and trembling like a trapped rabbit, I won’t know afterward, and even at the time what is
happening is rushing past like a drunken scene glimpsed from a speeding car or boat on the lake. My right breast is throbbing with pain, must’ve been that Croke squeezed it, an ugly yellowish
purple bruise is taking shape.
Croke I’d thought liked me. Helping me out of the boat.
Back in grade school already we’d begun to hear stories of what guys can do to girls if they want to hurt them, though we had not understood why. And sometimes the girls are beaten,
strangled, left for dead, it isn’t known why.
“Hey, Ann’slee.”
There’s a rap on the plywood door. I’m not going to open it.
One of the guys rattling the door so hard it slips open. It’s Jax leaning in, seeing me crouched against the wall so frightened my teeth are chattering, says, like he’s embarrassed,
“Here’s the swim top. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
I’m too scared to reach up and take the halter top from him. Jax shoves it at me, muttering, “Put the damn thing on.”
Jax shuts the door. With trembling fingers I refasten the top.
Avoiding my reflection in the mirror. That greasy smudge where I’d kissed my own lips.
When I emerge from the bathroom, stiff and numbed, my eyes blinking back tears, the guys are still at the table, still drinking. Seems like they’re between poker games. Or maybe
they’re through with poker for the night. Their eyes swerve onto me in that way that reminds me of excited dogs. Deek says, “Li’l dude! There you are. C’mon back, sit on
Deek’s lap, eh? You’re my girl.”
A glint like gasoline in Deek’s bloodshot eyes and a way his big teeth are bared in a grin without warmth or mirth warns me that I am still in danger. Through the plywood door I’d
heard Deek mutter what sounded like Ain’t done with her yet, so don’t fuck with me.
Outside, all I can see of the early-evening sky is massive bruise-colored clouds. Still there is heat lightning way in the distance.
“Here y’are, Ann’slee. Shouldna been so scared.”
Croke tosses the Cougars T-shirt at me. I’m so grateful for the shirt, smelly from where Croke wiped his sweaty face with it, I’m stammering, “Thank you!”
There is a break in what the guys are doing, I can feel it. Or maybe they’ve been waiting for Ann’slee to emerge from the bathroom, uncertain what they would do with me, or whether
they would do anything with me: like turning a card, possibly. It just might be the card that makes you win big, or it might be the card that assures you will lose. It might be a card that will
mean nothing in your life. Or everything. It might even be a
thin, and Deek is pressing so close, slides his arm around my shoulders and I’m on my feet, panicked, trying to run to the door. But Croke grabs me like it’s a game we are playing, or
him and Deek are playing, like football, Ann’slee is the football, captured. Croke’s big fingers tear at the halter straps, Croke manages to untie the straps and pulls off the halter, Ohhhh, lookit!— the guys are whistling and stamping their feet, teasing, taunting like dogs circling a wounded rabbit, and I’m panicked like a rabbit, trying to laugh, to show
this is just a joke, I know it’s a joke, but I’m desperate to get away from them, stumbling to the bathroom, the only place I can get to, shutting the door behind me, fumbling to latch
the door, had a glimpse before I shut it of Croke (I’d thought was my friend) with the halter top on his head, tying the straps beneath his chin like a bonnet.
Somewhere not too far away Momma is looking at the clock, fretting and fuming: Where is that girl? Where the hell has Annislee got to this time?
They wouldn’t hurt me — would they?
They like me — don’t they?
How long I am crouched in the bathroom in terror of the guys breaking in, how long I am shivering and trembling like a trapped rabbit, I won’t know afterward, and even at the time what is
happening is rushing past like a drunken scene glimpsed from a speeding car or boat on the lake. My right breast is throbbing with pain, must’ve been that Croke squeezed it, an ugly yellowish
purple bruise is taking shape.
Croke I’d thought liked me. Helping me out of the boat.
Back in grade school already we’d begun to hear stories of what guys can do to girls if they want to hurt them, though we had not understood why. And sometimes the girls are beaten,
strangled, left for dead, it isn’t known why.
“Hey, Ann’slee.”
There’s a rap on the plywood door. I’m not going to open it.
One of the guys rattling the door so hard it slips open. It’s Jax leaning in, seeing me crouched against the wall so frightened my teeth are chattering, says, like he’s embarrassed,
“Here’s the swim top. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
I’m too scared to reach up and take the halter top from him. Jax shoves it at me, muttering, “Put the damn thing on.”
Jax shuts the door. With trembling fingers I refasten the top.
Avoiding my reflection in the mirror. That greasy smudge where I’d kissed my own lips.
When I emerge from the bathroom, stiff and numbed, my eyes blinking back tears, the guys are still at the table, still drinking. Seems like they’re between poker games. Or maybe
they’re through with poker for the night. Their eyes swerve onto me in that way that reminds me of excited dogs. Deek says, “Li’l dude! There you are. C’mon back, sit on
Deek’s lap, eh? You’re my girl.”
A glint like gasoline in Deek’s bloodshot eyes and a way his big teeth are bared in a grin without warmth or mirth warns me that I am still in danger. Through the plywood door I’d
heard Deek mutter what sounded like Ain’t done with her yet, so don’t fuck with me.
Outside, all I can see of the early-evening sky is massive bruise-colored clouds. Still there is heat lightning way in the distance.
“Here y’are, Ann’slee. Shouldna been so scared.”
Croke tosses the Cougars T-shirt at me. I’m so grateful for the shirt, smelly from where Croke wiped his sweaty face with it, I’m stammering, “Thank you!”
There is a break in what the guys are doing, I can feel it. Or maybe they’ve been waiting for Ann’slee to emerge from the bathroom, uncertain what they would do with me, or whether
they would do anything with me: like turning a card, possibly. It just might be the card that makes you win big, or it might be the card that assures you will lose. It might be a card that will
mean nothing in your life. Or everything. It might even be a
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