Page 50 of Such Sharp Teeth

“You’re a beautiful girl,” he said, his eyes on me. “Your mother. Your sister, but especially you.”

“Scarlett and I look the same,” I said.

“You’re prettier.”

No one had ever said that to me before.

We’d been in the car alone together many times. Many, many times. But this was the time. A rainy Tuesday, on the way to pick up a pizza. He let me sit in the front seat of his truck. He always did that.

He pulled off the road and parked in a random driveway in front of an empty lot. There were trees on all sides. The leaves were green. It was spring.

“Rory, I have to tell you a secret,” he said.

I didn’t want to know it.

“I really like you a lot,” he said. “I think you’re really special. And I want to do something special with you. I want to show you something special.”

There’s a sound. A faint tearing somewhere.

I’m rocking back and forth now. It’s involuntary. My lips are glued together. My eyes are closed.

I’m afraid. I’m losing control. And it’s bringing me back, keeps bringing me back. There’s no escape.

I shake my head. It’s a violent shaking. Something has a hold on me. It’s blazing.

He started to do something I didn’t understand. He touched himself. He made this horrible groaning noise. He kept looking at me. With those eyes. Those big hollow eyes.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to reach for the door, to unlock it, but I couldn’t. There was panic and there was fear and confusion and I wanted it to stop but it kept happening and I wanted to close my eyes but I was too scared, and I wanted to scream but I couldn’t find one, and I wanted help but there was none. I wanted to escape but I didn’t know how. I was stuck. Trapped.

I had never felt so young, but I knew I would never be young again.

When he finished, he said, “Our secret?”

I nodded. I was silent through dinner, and that night when Scarlett asked me why, I told her. I told her everything.

“What should I do?” I asked her.

She shook her head. At first, I thought she was upset, confused like I was. But then I realized. Then I saw it. Doubt.

“What?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he had an itch.”

I snuck downstairs to the kitchen. I found my mother there alone, standing at the counter, smoking a cigarette over a tall stack of bills.

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered. “About Dave.”

“Not now, Rory,” she snapped. “I’ve got a million other things. I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t.”

I was too tired. I couldn’t bring myself to plead, to beg just to be heard. I retreated upstairs. I crawled under my bed, held my knees, and cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I went straight to Mrs. Meyer, the guidance counselor, and told her what had happened. She said I did the right thing, coming to her. She told me that everything would be okay, and that it wasn’t my fault.

She listened to me, believed me. No one else had listened. If they’d listened . . .

Dave was already a registered sex offender when my mother met him. When she brought him into our house to sleep under our roof.

And he’s somewhere out there. Out of prison by now. Under this same . . .