Four months.
That's how long I've been tutoring Kenny now.
That's the equivalent of fifteen runs to Shakey, seventeen cancelled dates with girlfriends, a jump from a D to an A in four of Kenny's classes, and so many jokes about Cartman that it shouldn't be funny anymore. It's meant that I have magically become a bro, and sit at the lunch table with Stan, Kyle, and Cartman now. They (excluding Cartman) wave at me in the hallway and chat with me in classes.
Stan thinks I'm hilarious. Wendy has become overly protective of Stan, and glares at me whenever he laughs at my jokes—apparently I'm funny now—as if I, ugly old me, am some sort of competition.
Kyle is actually a little in love with me for some reason. Bebe, who has become a
strangely close friend of mine (she, unlike Wendy, doesn't see me as a threat to her boyfriend) keeps telling me that he keeps talking about how he's going to ask me out on a date, but he hasn't done it yet. Bebe tells me that's because he's scared of me, but I honestly can't think of a single thing that anyone could find intimidating about me.
Cartman hates me, but that's probably a good thing, since he hates everything that isn't annoying or evil.
I don't have to be alone anymore, for the first time in my life.
The passing of four months also meant a thousand more bruises from the fists of my father, some of which are so bad that I have days where I can hardly move or sit down for the pain.
It's meant that, at one point, he used a hot iron, something he hadn't tried before.
It's meant that, when Cayenne brought home a lost kitten, instead of letting her be happy, he threw it out into the street and let it get run over by a car. Cayenne cried for days afterwards, and wouldn't let anyone touch her but me, and she clung to me like her life depended on it. It hurt my bruises to be held like that, but I relished every squeeze of her little arms.
It's meant that I have gotten closer to Kenny than I ever thought possible. I have shown him the bruises on my arms, legs, and back, as well as the iron burn on my shoulder. It's meant that after telling me what must be a thousand times that I will get seriously hurt if I stay in the house much longer, I have, as of the past week or so, actually made a concrete decision to go to the shelter. Together, he and I have come up with a plan to get me—and the rest of my family—out of the path of my father's hands.
It's actually a really stupid plan. I'm a little bit embarrassed by how dumb it is.
I would have to take them early, early in the morning, which is when he's typically passed out or so drunk that he can't see straight; it would probably also be next to impossible to actually be at my house the night before we go, because he would beat me, as he usually does, around midnight, making it hard to get up within the needed hours.
Kenny thinks of the idea, and it seems like the only thing that makes sense under the circumstances. I will be spending the night at his place.
Kenny's house isn't pretty, but it's actually a shade nicer than mine is. It's a little bigger, its shutters are in better shape, and, on the inside, the cupboards actually have more than alcohol in it and the faces, though grubby, are much warmer and happier.
The family is seated around the table when we walk in. Kenny's mom is unexpectedly attractive. She's got a soft Southern accent, and fluffy red hair, which makes up for the fact that she's got an incredibly dirty lime t-shirt with "I'm With Stupid" written on it. The second she sees me, she jumps up from the table and wraps me in a hug so tight that I almost suffocate on the scent of alcohol and cheap perfume. "Oh, sweetheart, we've been waiting so long to meet one of Kenny's little girlfriends! It's so nice to meet you, Katelin."
I have a few seconds of being totally confused, and then I realize how this must look to her: a girl in her son's grade, coming over for dinner for no apparent reason. Of course she's going to think I'm some sort of significant others. "It's great to meet you, too, Mrs. McCormick."
Kenny's dad—again, very good looking, in spite of his flat-brimmed hat (which says Scotch on it)—is sitting at the table with Kenny's sister Karen, a little girl with long blonde hair and huge blue eyes. It's then that I realize that this family, including Kenny, is absolutely gorgeous. I've never really thought about why he can get away with having so many girlfriends, but it's pretty clear to me now.
It makes me feel pretty awkward, actually. Most of my life, I've been told that I'm ugly and unworthy, but it's never really bothered me until now, sitting surrounded by beautiful people. But they're all surprisingly kind to me, despite the fact that I'm bruised and pale and unattractive, and they're all just as charming as Kenny. I don't have much time to feel awkward with all the stuff they're talking to me about.
"So, Kenny tells me you're pretty smart." His dad says.
"Oh, I don't really know about that…" I really hate talking about myself, but that's been the topic of conversation the whole dinner.
"What classes do you take?" Karen asks.
"Well," I say, visualizing my schedule, "first period is Advanced Placement Statistics, then comes my elective on Women in Politics, Advanced Placement World Religions, and Advanced Placement French. And then for my last three classes, I go to the local community college, for advanced biology and English stuff, then some medieval history. And that's basically it."
The whole family is looking at me like I'm an alien.
Then Kenny turns to his dad, who's sitting next to him, and says, "Told you."
After dinner, the family leaves us alone in the living room. Kenny's dad keeps winking at him and flashing him the thumbs up, as if I can't see or something. I don't really know what they think we're going to do when they're just sitting in the next room, drinking.
The second they leave, Kenny turns to me and grins. "Thank you for not saying anything about the dinner. That was pretty cool."
"What would I say about the dinner?"
He looks at me weird. "It was a box of Poptarts."
Oh. "Kenny, I can't remember a time in my life that my father has provided anything for dinner. A box of Poptarts is more than I usually expect. And they were pretty good."
He doesn't say anything, but just looks at me in a way I've never seen him look at anyone. I get a little flustered. I'm not sure what the look is supposed to signify. "Thank you," he says again, but this time his voice is lower and a little huskier.
I clear my throat. "Um. The main thing was meeting your family. I sort of love them. Karen reminds me a lot of Cayenne. They should hang."
"I think they sort of love you, too." He smiles. "I'm pretty sure that they were expecting any girl I brought to dinner to be some sort of white trash blonde who would smoke at the table. You were a nice surprise, I'm thinking."
"I'm glad to do it. It's good to be able to say a proper goodbye to you." I toy with the stitching on the sofa. It's about as gross-looking and stained up as the one in my living room, but it's a lot squashier and cushier. "Hey, so let's go over the plan. So your mom is going to call my house and tell my family that I'm sleeping over here for the night, right? And she's going to say you're a girl so that my father doesn't kill me for being a slut, right?"
"Right."
"And then, in the early, early morning, when my father is passed out, I'll go home and take my family to the shelter?"
"Yup."
"Well, it's as good a plan as I think we're going to get at this point."
The phone rings; Kenny checks the caller ID (which is another thing he has that I don't). "It's just Red." He answers it.
Red.
"Hey," he answers, and I tune out the rest of the conversation because I feel like it would be rude to listen in. Outside, the snow is falling very fast and very heavily. I wonder what is going on in my house and immediately feel selfish and dirty. As I have been sitting in a warm house eating Poptarts, Cayenne and my brother have gone hungry. The bruises all over my body begin to ache terribly. On my left shoulder blade, the burn from the iron stings.
In my mind's eye, I see my father reviving the phone call from Kenny's mom, standing in the kitchen with a shot glass in his hand. He talks to her politely, laughing, saying it is just too nice of her to let me stay over and isn't it nice how the girls are still having slumber parties as seniors in high school and he hopes that I won't be too much trouble. Hangs up. What will he do? He's obviously drunk, as he is every night. What shall he do if I am not there to be the representative punching bag?
Will he turn on my brother? My mother? Cayenne? Will I come home in the morning to find my beautiful little sister knocked out on the floor, bruised and battered, waking up so that I can see that the happy light in her large eyes has died?
The very air around me seems to weight heavy on my shoulders, draping me with a thousand worries and cares and responsibilities and dreams that I will never be able to reach.
Kenny is saying to Red, absentmindedly, "Yeah, love you, too."
And, all of a sudden, it is too much and I am crying as I have never cried before because my life seems so utterly hopeless and lonely and empty and there is no one in the world that truly loves me. There is a reason for this.
I have always been too damaged for love.
Ever since I was very young, I have learned from my experiences with those around me—particularly, my father—to expect nothing but sadness and disappointment from relationships of all types. My body has always been too bruised for holding. My lips have always been too frigid for kisses.
I suppose, if a psychiatrist was to talk to me, he would tell me some shit about how I associate sex with the pain of beating, and how that's scared me away from romantic love. I don't know, maybe that's it. It doesn't really matter what the cause is. I have steeled myself against the pain of abuse, and have, in doing so, made myself nearly incapable of making myself so vulnerable as to love and be loved by someone. I'd always told myself that a guy would never come along for me: I was too strong and men wanted women who would depend on them, I was frigid and men wanted lovers, and most of all, men wanted someone beautiful. I am not beautiful, not with my bruised eyes and wild hair and sadness.
Kenny stares at me in alarm for a moment, then immediately hangs up without saying goodbye to Red. A few minutes later, the phone rings again (it's probably Red again, demanding to know why he left the conversation hanging), but by then, he has wrapped one arm around my knees and one around my shoulders, and has picked me up. He's very strong, and carries me as though I weight nothing at all. I cry into his shirt, and don't even ask where he's taking me: I don't care.
Down a hall, into a small room that is bare and drafty like mine. Setting me on the bed and sitting down beside me, he cups my face in both his hands and strokes my tears away with his thumbs. His fingers hardly touch any bruises, thanks to the cream he suggested I get. "Please don't cry. Everything is going to be all right from now on."
I want to believe it. I was so desperately to believe that I will no longer have to wake up and try to conceal the marks on my face, given to me by a man who should be my ultimate caretaker. I want to believe that my siblings will be forever safe from harm, and that they will no longer have to wonder if they will eat dinner. I want to believe that my gentle mother will not have to spend her nights trying to subdue a raging alcoholic. But can all that really be true? I have been living like this for as long as I have memories.
"I can't do this for much longer, Kenny," I say, and am suddenly shocked by how incredibly old and tired I sound. "This life will be the death of me."
"You don't have to do it anymore," he assures me. "Listen: first thing in the morning, you'll go right to your family, and tell them that you have a way to get them out of there. Then, while your father is working- or drinking, whichever he does more often- you'll pack your necessities, climb into that shitty minivan you own, and drive like demons to the shelter and not look back. That's what you're going to do."
Fear and doubt hang on me like weights around my shoulders. I shiver miserably as the frigid air in the old barn permeate my worn parka. "I'm cold."
He reaches for me, and holds me, perhaps in an attempt to warm me, perhaps to comfort.
We are very close. Much to my embarrassment, I begin to notice things. He smells like wood fire (perhaps all of Henrietta's smoking have given him this scent); the rhythm of his heart is regular and quick; his breath was calming and warm; our bodies click with one another.
I start to move away, but he pulls me back. "No," he says, "let me hold you. I've wanted to do it for a while."
I do.
His heart starts to bear more quickly, and I lay my head on his chest—just to listen to it and be calmed by it, I think—only to realize a few second later that I just want to be closer to him. He wraps his arms more tightly around me, and we sit intertwined like that for a few minutes. I get shivery. I'm a fool. A damn fool. This is a boy who has six girlfriends, who has coaxed almost every single girl in South Park into his bed. To let him do this to me would be a folly worthy of the most idiotic of people: I know there's one thing he wants from me. But I'm not feeling like myself tonight, anyway. After I go to the shelter, I might never see Kenny again: this could be the last time I ever spend time with him. I care about Kenny more than almost any other living person (with the obvious exception of Cayenne) I want to make this count as much as possible, and, if that means that he takes something from me, then at least it's something he'll remember me by.
When he unravels one arm, I thought he wanted me to go, but all that he does is tilt my face up to look at his.
It should say something about my experience with these things that I had no idea what was coming next, and all that I was thinking about was how handsome he was.
Then he is kissing me and kissing me and holding me so tightly and I don't know what to do for a split second and then I do.
I lose my mind. His lips make me feel dizzy and wonderful. For the first time I could remember, I can hardly think. My body, mind, and soul are totally focused on responding to Kenny. I push myself into him, and bury my fingers in his hair, deepening the kiss. My body is on fire where his touches mine. I taste him as his tongue explores my mouth, and I make little sounds that I never thought I could make: whimpers, gasps, and moans, and my whole form trembles with overwhelming emotions I have never known.
He breaks it and looks at me like I'm the stars and sun at once. I don't know if he's mastered that look for when he wants a girl, but I don't care one bit. "You're beautiful." It's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. He kisses me again, and goes lower. His lips are everywhere.
Our clothes just slip off. I also don't remember either of us attempting to undress ourselves or one another, it just happens. And he fills me. I am underneath him, and his body is filling mine, and all that I know is joy, pleasure, how he tastes, the scent of him, and the feel of him. We are not cold anymore because we are warm as one. Our bodies are perfect together; I am thinking that I have never felt so whole, and the way he is touching me is gentle and he holds me as if I was precious. Our bodies begin to create a heat, and I naturally began arching and aching for him, and he started making sounds, and something rushes and warms me to my core, and I screamed into his shoulder, and for a moment neither of us were pinned to the earth, we are flying. My body trembles and there are butterflies inside my skull and sunlight blasting through my eyes, and then he cries out and collapses on me, and we breathe one another in for a moment.
For a moment, I think that he must have done this countless times. But that thought flits away as quickly as it came as he begins to kiss my face and stroke me. We do it again, and again, and again, and again, and each time it gets lovelier and sweeter and more amazing and we seem to grow closer and we begin to murmur back and forth to each other, "I love you," and then we are both spent and can hardly move for the sake of exhaustion.
Afterward, he lays there for a moment atop me, then raises his head and strokes my face and kisses me until my lips and tongue are numb. "I love you." He says. "I love you. Life did not exist before you."
I have to ask him. "Do you say that to all the girls?"
He doesn't have much of an answer. "No. None." And we kiss and kiss and are revived suddenly and he moves in me again until we are drenched in sweat and our bodies have given all they can of themselves.
As he slumbers and holds my form to his, I discover how much I can love. All at once, it is as if a floodgate has been lifted and all the joy and happiness and elation I had not allowed myself to feel for my whole life fill me with warmth. I soak in the rush of wonderful feelings that I had never known existed in this life, and I feel my eyes well with tears at the marvel at suddenly understanding what I have read in books for years, what Jane Eyre must have felt when she first saw Rochester, what madness motivated Sydney Carton to give his life, what drove Pip to forgive Estella even when she had crushed him completely.
I am exhausted, but, before I allow my eyes to close, I stroke the hair of Kenny, who I will always remember as the first person to let me love without fear. I kiss his forehead, and thank him silently. I fall asleep thinking that, despite what I might have believed before, perhaps there are such things in this world as true happy endings.
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