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We were never really confidantes; our ages were too far apart for that. And I doubt Chloe ever adored me the way I worshipped her. Still, we were sisters. Playmates. Friends. She doesn’t understand what changed.
But I do.
Anthony changed everything.
• • •
That March I was fourteen. Just got my braces off. My breasts were finally making their belated appearance. Right before Christmas, I had finally been kissed for the first time (by Javier, an exchange student from Barcelona, which as first kisses go was pretty awesome). When I looked in the mirror, I no longer saw a gawky kid. I could glimpse the woman I would become.
Not that I was anything compared to Chloe. To this day she outshines me as brightly as the sun outshines the moon. She’s a couple of inches taller, so she looks more svelte. Her hair is one shade lighter, but it’s the shade that takes it from brown to blond. While my eyes are an uncertain hazel, hers are pure, piercing green. No doubt about it: Chloe’s the beauty of the family.
But I’d finally realized that didn’t make me ugly. Not by a long shot. I began playing with my hair more in the mirror and reviewing Chloe’s makeup lessons more carefully. I thought of my prettiness as a tool I could use to get what I wanted.
(That’s screwed up, right? Welcome to the world as seen by my mother. )
Then, that March, for spring break, Chloe brought home her first serious boyfriend. She was so proud of him, and I didn’t blame her. Anthony Whedon wasn’t especially tall—average height, no more and no less—but he was built. Turned out he was on the Sewanee lacrosse team. He wore the uniform of the Southern male—khakis and polo shirts—but they hung on his frame as though they’d been tailored for him. Sandy hair, a dimple in his chin, lips almost indecently full on a man: Anthony could get any girl he wanted. Clearly he wanted Chloe.
His arm was always around her waist. Her eyes were always on his face. To me, no celebrity couple had ever looked half as glamorous.
Anthony didn’t treat me like the annoying brat kid sister, either. “Come on, Mrs. C. ,” he said to my mother. “It’s just Frankie and Johnny’s for some bell pepper rings. Not like we’re dragging Vivienne out to Tipitina’s with a fake ID. ”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mom said, but she was smiling. If Anthony had won me over, he’d conquered my mother. Though honestly, I think she was sold the minute she found out the Whedons were one of the wealthiest families in Tennessee. “You two don’t want some time alone?”
“Aw, we don’t mind taking her along,” Anthony said. “It’ll be fun. And Vivienne can tell me all her big sister’s secrets. ”
“Stop. ” Chloe shoved at him, but she was laughing.
That week I hung around them every chance I got. Occasionally I got on Chloe’s nerves—but Anthony never seemed to mind. Chloe never stayed grumpy for long, either. I knew that was mostly because Anthony sneaked into her room every night.
On the last evening of their stay, though, Chloe didn’t feel good. She’d had a headache all day, and around eight P. M. she announced she was going to bed. “To sleep,” she said, with an emphasis that was only for Anthony. The message: No action tonight. I hid my smile behind my hand.
“No problem,” Anthony said easily. “Vivienne and I can have a movie marathon ’til dawn. ”
Some cable channel was showing Titanic. Although I felt very grown-up, hanging out with a college boy until after midnight, mostly I was focused on the movie. In those days I had a serious crush on Leonardo DiCaprio.
Anthony kept talking to me, though. “Can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend yet. ”
“I kind of had one. ” I figured Javier’s kiss at the party counted. “But not anymore. ”
“How come a pretty girl like you isn’t out there breaking all the hearts?”
I was so flattered. Blushing, I said, “I don’t know. Talking to guys—it’s hard. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what guys like. ”
He laughed. “We’re not that complicated, trust me. ”
It wasn’t that I had a crush on him; Anthony seemed to belong to Chloe as firmly as Ken belonged to Barbie. But nobody had ever told me I was pretty before, much less a college guy. It wasn’t even like I had on any makeup, and I wore just some old leggings and a giant T-shirt of my dad’s.
For a couple hours more, I felt beautiful. Grown-up. Ready for the world.
Then—just after midnight, in my own home, with my parents and sister asleep upstairs—Anthony raped me on the living room couch.