I nodded. Like I was glad about any of this. But all I could think about was the horror of getting pregnant. Then everybody would know, and I didn’t want anybody to know.
Anthony grabbed a paper towel left over from our earlier snacking and wiped off my belly, like it was soda he’d spilled on the coffee table. Then he sat up and tucked himself in, straightened his shirt. I pulled my tee back down; it was long enough to cover my hips. As much as I wanted my underwear and leggings back on, I couldn’t see how to put them on without flashing him, and I thought if that happened he might start again.
“You’re a pretty, pretty girl, Vivienne. And now you know it.” Anthony grinned, like we’d had a wonderful time. I guess he did. “This is our little secret, right?”
Numbly, I nodded.
He winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Chloe. Wouldn’t want to start a catfight.”
Then he went back to watching the last bit of Titanic. I sat there, huddled on the far end of the sofa, leggings around my ankle, all the way through the end credits. When Anthony got up to go to bed, he ruffled my hair, like I was an adorable little scamp. He leaned close, and I winced at the heat of his breath against my face as he whispered, again, “Good girl.”
It was maybe another hour before I dared to go up to my bedroom. The whole time I tiptoed past the guest room where Anthony was sleeping, I dreaded him walking out, or pulling me inside. I locked my bedroom door and sat on top of my covers, shaking. My mind kept replaying the last thing Anthony had said to me, over and over, until they seemed like the only words I knew.
Good girl.
I wish I could say that by then, at least, the worst was over. But it wasn’t.
The worst came in the morning.
My mom kept calling me to come down and have breakfast. “Don’t you want to tell Chloe and Anthony good-bye before they go back to school?” Even when my dad told me to get my butt down there, even after I heard Anthony’s car revving up and backing out of our driveway, I stayed in bed, covers pulled up to my neck.
Mom finally came in a little before lunchtime. “Honestly, Vivienne, what has gotten into you?”
I didn’t confide in my mother much. She always gave the impression that her problems were bigger than yours—more important—and that you were being selfish by even suggesting she needed to worry about you, too. I still hated the idea of anyone knowing about what Anthony had done. But that day, I felt so bad. I was sore between my legs, which I hadn’t known could happen. I needed someone’s arms around me so badly. So I reached for the lifeline. “Mom?”
Her hands were on her hips. “What is it?”
“Last night—something happened with Anthony.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
That day, the word rape never came into my mind. Rape happened in dark alleyways, to women who wore short skirts and weren’t careful. Rapists wore black and carried knives. I’d been on the couch with a guy who went right back to watching Titanic afterward. So to me it seemed like that couldn’t be rape. But still, it wasn’t right, and I knew it.
My voice shaking, I said, “Anthony made me—he did something wrong.” That wasn’t enough. “He made me have sex with him.”
Mom stared at me for a few seconds, and then . . . she laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What?”
“No such thing ever happened.”
“But it did.”
“Anthony Whedon is a nice boy,” she said, starting to snatch up clothes I’d left lying on the floor. “He wouldn’t do that to anyone, much less his girlfriend’s little sister.”
I’d known she might not hold me and comfort me. That’s not her style. But I was totally unprepared for her not to believe me at all. “He pulled my leggings down. Mom, he did, for real.”
She gave me a look like, How stupid do you think I am? “Don’t you think we would have heard you screaming? You were just downstairs. That music woke me up three times.”
“But I didn’t scream.”
“Well, there you go. You would’ve screamed, if you’d really been in trouble.”
She was right. I hadn’t screamed. Was it all my fault, then? Maybe Anthony was confused, and he thought I liked it. I’d been crying, but maybe lots of girls cried their first time. If I had screamed, he would’ve stopped. I felt so stupid for not screaming.
Finally I said, “I was scared.”
“Of Anthony. The boy who took you out to Rock N Bowl with your big sister.” Mom’s whole body was tense now. This was how she got before she lost her temper and started shouting. I’d spent my whole childhood trying not to make my mother shout at me. “You have a crush on him, don’t you? And you’re mad that it’s Chloe he likes and not you. So you’re making up stories to try and get him in trouble. That’s not very nice, Vivienne. You ought to know better.”