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THE BROKEN PIECES OF ME

PART 2

One of the things you have complained to our marriage counselor about is that you don't understand why I have struggled trying to figure out my identity because you've never had that problem, have you, Jim? You've always been Jim Reed, the guy whose life has been carefully planned out, carefully organized, with everything mapped out into neat little sections of "what to do" and timelines of "when to do it".

But if you could look inside me, you'd see my roadmap of life is a jumbled mess of highways under construction and dead-end streets—I'm still trying to figure out who I am and what I'm supposed to be…

Because I wasn't happy being Jean Conway and I haven't been happy being Jean Reed, wife to Jim, mother to Jimmy.

The therapist has told me that a lot of it stems from the abuse I suffered at the hands of Mr. Chapman, for such trauma can create inner conflicts and sense of poor self-worth, but I also think it comes from being a middle child who was sandwiched between a brainy older sister and a piously perfect younger sister, bearing the brunt of my parents' indifference as they lavished praise on Gwennie's astonishing mathematical abilities or Mary's slavish devotedness to achieving metaphorical sainthood before she was eighteen. I knew I was not exciting, I was not interesting, I was just plain old tapwater boring Jeannie Conway, the little red-haired girl with freckles on her nose and a dislike for big ugly bugs like cicadas.

So I decided to try on my sisters' personalities, slipping into their skins to see if they fit me, see if I could find what it was I was meant to do with my life, if I could find my proper place in the world. I gathered mathematical equations and scientific experiments around me, trying to be brainy like Gwennie, but algebra and geometry bored me to tears and chemistry made my eyes burn and my hands stink and gave me a headache. Then I adorned myself with Mary's mantle of pious perfection, but being a saint chafed at me, for it required being selfless and giving my allowance to the UNICEF drives instead of spending it on the latest Elvis record or a new bottle of nail polish or some pretty hair ribbons at the five-and-dime.

I bounced from ballet to tap lessons, from piano lessons to singing lessons, from a poetry class to a pottery class, from an acting class to a modeling class to a photography class. Every time I changed my mind and jumped into something new, Mama accused me of being flighty, Daddy accused me of being scatterbrained, Mary accused me of needing to be the center of attention, and Gwennie accused me of deliberately sabotaging my efforts so I'd never be able to find my true happiness.

I was lonely being myself and I was lonely being someone else.

So before my freshman year of high school started, I decided a total makeover was in order, stripping away the plain-Jane cocoon of boring little Jeannie Conway and becoming the beautiful butterfly Jeanne, a cultured misspelling of my given name that allowed my tongue to roll it out in a luscious slur, lulling it upon the ears like the French pronunciation, exotic and exciting and definitely NOT the bland old Jean I was born with.

I also tried out for cheerleading that year with Ruthie Bannister and found that I loved it, relishing it when all eyes were on us during half-time, our skirts flying and pom-poms fluttering and ponytailed hair flashing like bright victory pennants as we bounced and cartwheeled and danced through our choreographed routines, screaming out the school's war chant in shrilly gleeful synchronization, showing off for the crowds in front of us. And even more I loved the jealous looks we got from the plainer girls as they watched us fluttering around the school jocks like pretty little birds, wearing our cheerleading costumes to class on the days we had pep rallies, those bright blue and gold uniforms marking us as different, as something more special, more exotic and exciting than the ordinary students.

And Ruthie took me under her wing, showing me how to do my hair and makeup, how to dress demurely enough to get out of the house, but to turn those demure outfits into something more provocative by rolling the waistbands of my skirts up so that I could show off my legs, or unbuttoning the buttons of my blouses and sweaters just enough to let a little hint of creamy cleavage to peep out. I took cues from my literary heroine of Scarlett O'Hara, learning how to flirt and act coy and coquettish, giggling at whatever silly things the boys said, even if I didn't find them funny, figuring out how to use my beauty as a weapon against my loneliness, drawing the boys to me like moths to a flame, to use a tired old cliché.

After all, men are such fools for sloe eyes lined heavily in kohl, for long lashes that flutter fetchingly beneath layers of mascara, for full pouty lips that paint puckered kisses in fire engine red, for pert little breasts that are delicately outlined in pastel cashmeres and dainty laces, for long legs that flash tanned and tantalizing beneath short skirts, for pale skin that is a splash of wholesome milk against a blazing fire of auburn hair. Yes, men go nuts for all those lush curves that wind hither and yon, promising that just beneath that flirtatious, yet innocent attitude there lays a bad girl full of wantonness, full of freedom, full of unbridled desires—

And wasn't I already a bad girl to begin with? Hadn't Mr. Chapman told me as his hands pushed at my bodice or plucked at my panties that I was a naughty girl, a dirty little girl who liked to make nice men like him do dirty things to her?

So the way I saw it, I was only fulfilling what had to be my destiny in becoming Jeanne Conway—a little bit wild, a little bit bad, a little bit fast with the boys I dated.

Of course, not you because your family moved out of our school district in fifth grade, but I dated boys like Adam Gentry and Bobby Prentiss and Chuckie Thurman. We'd go roller-skating and out to dinner, we'd go to the movies and the beach and to the Santa Monica Pier. We'd go to the school dances and slow-dance very awkwardly, the boy pretending he wasn't trying to cop a feel of my ass while I was trying to pretend I didn't feel his hard-on pressing into my skirt. And those dates came with costs, the price paid in tongues that wormed like slugs into my mouth, in sweaty fingers that pawed at my shoulders and pried clumsily at my sweater buttons, in palms that skittered nervously beneath the cashmere to peck at the virginal white satin of my bra, in panting breaths and hands fumbling to climb underneath my skirt, fluttering hesitantly at the barrier of my cotton panties.

Once in a while I'd let my dates go a bit further and allow them to undo my blouse, their fingers scratching at my back as they struggled to unsnap my brassiere, the sudden reveal of my breasts like the release of floodgates as they nattered awkwardly at them, becoming giggly and red-faced as they squeezed at them and rubbed reverent palms over them as if they were manna from Heaven. And I knew how to cup my hands around the bulges in their pants, stroking them until they came over the simple sight and feel of a pair of tits.

Given what Mr. Chapman had done to me, you'd have thought I would've been utterly repulsed by being touched like that, but instead I enjoyed being the center of attention, enjoyed the different things they did to me—the tantalizing brush of their skin against mine, their lips whispering my name like it was some sort of prayer as they kissed and petted me.

But the biggest thing I loved was the power I held over them, knowing I could get them to do my bidding just as long as I let them fondle my breasts and stick their tongues in my mouth and their hands up my skirt; just as long as I wrapped delicate fingers around them and brought them to a sighing, glazed-eye climax in their chinos. It was better than the booze high from the after-game parties, that power of knowing that by offering little glimpses of skin, I could make any of my boyfriends do anything I wanted them to do, wrapping them around my little fingers just because I let them touch a nipple or slide a finger past the crotch of my panties.

(And it's a power I hold over you, Jim—you don't know how many times I have used sex to get you to do something, for you are far too blissful in the sleepy aftermath of it to realize how amazing it is that I'm "magically" in the mood at the same time I've needed you to do something for me. I've also withheld sex for the same reason—you're more likely to do what I want when you have endured an entire week of my chilly attitude and tight little smile as I tell you not tonight dear, I've got a headache. Perhaps it's shrewd, perhaps it's cold and calculating, but a woman must use what weapons she has at her disposal in order to maintain her power.)

Then that summer before our junior year, I ran into you at that basketball game at the Y that Ruthie dragged me to and I found out you and your family had moved back to our district and you'd be going to school with me again. It was pretty obvious you were still smitten with me, but I wasn't too sure about you, but you are nothing if not a persistent force of nature and you dazzled me—hell, who wouldn't be impressed with your good looks, Jim? You'd filled out, losing all those awkward angles and sharp planes, and even though you were still klutzy, your long legs and muscled arms seemed less like a gawky grasshopper flitting about and more like the star athlete you were. And oh my god, those eyes and those lips and those cheekbones…I couldn't help but be pleased with how nice we looked together—we made such a pretty pair, the beautiful little cheerleader paired up with the handsome jock. I was all fire with my auburn hair and lush curves and you were all ice with that dark hair and those chiseled cheekbones and bright blue eyes—yes, I was shallow, but so were you, Jim, so were you.

And I let you go pretty far pretty fast, those big hands of yours roaming my body and your lips whispering my name as you dropped kiss after kiss upon my bare skin—kisses that were slow and sweet, making me melt into a puddle of goo the minute your mouth fastened onto mine, leaving me aching and wanting for more. The two of us snuck away every chance we got, hiding in quiet corners and darkened booths, the car windows of your father's '55 Buick or my father's '61 Fairlane steaming over with the heated beads of our passion.

We were inseparable, you and I, we were cocooned into a single person known as "JimandJean", attached at the hip…and we loved it, it was a new identity for both of us, being one part of an attractive and popular couple. We thought we were really something because I proudly wore your letterman jacket on my back and your class ring on a chain on my neck, and you draped a protective arm around me every time we were together, marking me as yours. And we played at mapping our lives together out—you were going to get your accounting degree and I was going to get my teaching degree, and we were going to have a boy and a girl; the boy would be named James Aloysius Reed, Junior (even though I hated your middle name), and the girl would be named Madeline Jeanne, and we'd live not far from our parents in a little white house with the little white picket fence, and we'd be happy forever and ever.

We're perfect together, you'd tell me. You're the perfect girl for me and I'm the perfect boy for you.

And I believed you because I thought you were right—I wanted so much to think there we could have a happy ending together, just like in the fairytales.

But your eye was soon caught by newcomer M'lissy Cooper and her honeyed suth'ren accent and shimmering gold curtain of blonde hair that hung way past her tiny waist, those gorgeous legs of hers seemingly going on forever and those big old double-D tits sticking out like twin Mt. Everests from beneath her tight little blouses. She thrust herself into our group, flittering and twittering and hanging on you, her cat-green eyes blinking languorously at you as she laughed at the same silly jokes you told—jokes that I was beginning to find tiresome, mostly because you simply have no talent for telling them. You'd goggle at her tinkly little laugh and her hillbilly-hick reply of oh, land's sakes, that's so funny, Jimmy!, your mouth dropping open at how her double-D's bobbled unrestrained from beneath her sweater—apparently General Sherman burned bras in addition to the city of Atlanta on his march to the sea during the Civil War.

And while you liked knowing I was jealous of M'lissy, soon you began eyeing me critically, stacking me up against her glorious charms and finding me lacking, so you decided that we, the perfect JimandJean, were getting a little too serious and so we broke up, with me giving you back your letterman's jacket and class ring, both of which showed up on M'lissy's back and neck within a day of our split.

I only allowed myself to cry over you for one night, lying on my bed and bawling until my face was puffy and my eyes were red and my nose ran like a stock-car at the Daytona 500. I wept until my ribs ached from all the sobbing and Mary and Mama sat worriedly on my bed, patting my back and telling me about the other fish in the sea, and Gwen called twice that night long distance from her college in Colorado to check on me, while Daddy groused and paced and threatened to find you and shoot your balls off with his .12 gauge shotgun.

But I only mourned you for that one night. You may have broken my heart, but like Scarlett O'Hara, I decided fiddle-dee-dee, tomorrow was another day and I would get my revenge against you by dating all the boys you'd been jealous over. I made sure you saw me and my beau-of-the-minute in the same places you took that fake little blonde bitch—you saw me at the movies, giggling and necking with Jack Trudeau; you saw me at Dino's Dogs, shrieking with laughter as Chuckie Thurman tickled me in our booth; you saw me at the beach with Eddie Richards, my eyes closed in pleasure as I let him slather baby oil and iodine on my back; you saw me slow-dancing with Harry Falconer at the Half-Time, our bodies pressed tight together as we swayed to "In the Still of the Night" by the Five Satins.

(And it pissed you off, didn't it, seeing me with other boys like that? Yes, I know it did, for every time you saw me flirting or touching or petting with another boy, your face turned red and your jaw set in an angry line, and you grabbed that little honeysuckle rose of yours like she was a goddamned lifeline, her double-Ds the life raft that would save you from drowning in that sea of your own making.)

Then I'd heard from the other girls that M'lissy let you go all the way with her and even though we weren't together, the idea of you fucking that fake little blonde bitch made me want to puke. I didn't want to think of your hands roaming her body like your hands roamed mine, I didn't want to imagine your lips kissing her skin like you'd kissed me, I didn't want to think of you whispering her name as she wrapped those long legs around you and pulled you down into her drowning pool of green eyes and gold hair.

So I decided to let my beau-du-jour take my virginity in order to show you I didn't give a rat's ass who you were fucking. Bobby Prentiss was pretty surprised when we parked in his father's Oldsmobile at Lover's Leap and I told him I wanted to "do it". The thing I will remember the most about that night was the fear on his face…it probably reflected the same fear that was on my face as we crawled into the backseat of the car, his fingers shaking as he unbuttoned my blouse, his palms sweaty as they crawled up my thighs to push my skirt up and pull my underwear down. His kisses left me cold, for he tasted sour and unwilling, and he dropped his wallet twice as he looked for the condom he kept in there. It was all over in a minute, the two of us blinking and gasping in the darkness as our act of lovemaking turned into a perfunctory act of red-faced apology, all elbows and knees and pinched skin and chafing starbursts of pain that we'd both rather forget.

(When I found out at our last class reunion that Bobby was gay, I was relieved because I realized that the utter lack of passion and sheer embarrassment during the act wasn't all my fault.)

Then M'lissy dumped you for Adam Gentry and like a cad you came back to me in hopes of reuniting, acting as if you'd never defected so cavalierly to that fifth-rate Scarlett. I was aloof to your advances because I wasn't about to give in so easily, but I did miss your company—I missed how you made me feel important, how you touched me like I was fragile glass, not to mention how lovely we looked together, all blazing fire and cool ice. So after a week or so of your pestering me, I took you back and on our first date, we found ourselves necking and petting with an intense heat and desire that left us both throbbing and wanting, panting into one another's mouths as we rubbed and stroked over clothing and beneath it, going as far as we could go without fully "doing it".

You didn't know it, but I'd already decided to let you go all the way with me—I wanted to erase the image of you fucking M'lissy from my mind and replace it with a memory of you fucking me.

So that weekend my parents and sisters were in San Diego to visit my aunt and I had you over to "help" me with my geometry homework and you found yourself seduced by me instead?

It was all planned.

I will never forget the look on your face when you came into the house, expecting to find me hunched over the kitchen table with a pile of mathematical theories in front of me, and instead you found a hot-blooded little redhead with sex on her mind, my fingers latching onto your shirt and my mouth locking hard onto yours as I dragged you down the hallway to my bedroom, our teeth clashing together and our breath panting hot and furious between darting tongues and slick lips. I think you knew by then things were too far gone and there was no backing out because neither of us hesitated, our hands steady as we unzipped and undid the binds of our clothing, that navy blue sheath falling to the floor in a puddle of innocence that was soon joined by your jeans, the two of us aching for the feel of our bare skin frictioning against one another.

And you took it slow, planting gentle kisses in the hollow of my neck and along the lines of my collarbone, your mouth following the curves of my breasts and the dip of my stomach, the smooth silk of my inner thighs, your fingers caressing me so lightly, so sweetly, it made my mouth go dry. I moaned and whispered your name, my fingers carding through your hair, my eyes burning hot and my face flushed with fever as I let you slip into me, arching against you and crying out as I dug hard nails into your back, that ache that throbbed deep in both of us relieved as we expended our passion. As we lay together, panting and sweating on that princess pink bedspread, our limbs a-tangle like unstrung marionettes, you asked me to go steady with you again.

And I accepted.

I gloated as I wore your letterman's jacket once more on my back and your class ring around my neck, rubbing M'lissy Cooper's pallid little honeysuckle face in the fact that you and I were once more JimandJean and NO little piece of suth'ren white trash was going to come between us.

Ever.

Because we were in love and I thought being in love would fix me—I thought it would finally give me an identity, a purpose in life.

But it didn't.

And it hasn't.

And while you like to boast that you took wild-child Jeanne Conway and tamed her down to Jean Reed, a complacent little housewife and mother, what you don't know is the wildness is still within me, the restlessness still burning hot and fierce in my soul, and if my spirit doesn't find the freedom it craves—

I will surely die.