House on Fire

Chapter 15

  We’d kind of dropped out of sight that summer, then left Esky so fast. Nobody knew where we’d gone, so we had to tell the story a million times. We tried to explain about Colorado, but the other kids didn’t get it at all. They made fun of our cowboy boots. Our feet were growing and the boots were getting tight anyway.

  Seventh grade was okay; it was cool to be in Junior High. But being back with the other kids was weird. It was like we’d changed, and they’d all stayed the same. Spaz was still a goofball and Janna still whined. I noticed that some of the girls had, well, started to look like teenagers.

  There had been a big controversy at the school board while we were gone, whether we should have sex ed. In the end, a narrow majority said yes. Fifth through eighth grade would go through it the first year, and after that it would be a regular part of fifth grade. Everyone seemed all goofy over it. I don’t know why – you didn’t even have to attend if your parents wrote a note.

  It was good to see Joel at my weekly lessons. He was impressed at the new stuff that James had taught me. So was Mrs. Loomis, who was pleased at how much progress I’d made. Playing guitar every night and working all day at the ranch was good for my hand and arm.

  I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing Spaz. His dad had moved out, and things were pretty hard at home. He usually stayed with us for dinner. He admitted to me that there wasn’t always a lot to eat at house. His mom was having some mental problems and couldn’t cook dinner some nights.

  More than anything, it was good to see Dad. He was more normal than he had been since the fire. But different, too. Gaunt, older, very subdued. Even though he’d quit drinking and joined AA, he was still so depressed that he couldn’t work. He had to see a doctor and get special pills.

  He still wore his wedding band, and he visited Mom’s grave every week. A couple times he made us come with him. There was a bench next to the stone; I think he paid to have it put there. He’d sit and talk to her as if she was listening. Maybe she was. Dad always called her Dear, never Emma. He told her what was going on at school, and about our struggles and accomplishments.

  Jessie and I wandered off and left Dad alone on the bench for a while, looking for the oldest markers. Jess wanted to kiss behind a tree, but I told her it was way too risky. From across the way I glimpsed Dad crying. He didn’t make a sound, but his shoulders shook, and I knew. That was one of the worst things I ever saw in my life.

  After that, he offered to take us, but I never wanted to go. I’m sure he thought it was because I was too sad. I was just too guilty. Seeing her name on that stone reminded me what I had done. Even worse was seeing his name carved on the stone next to hers, with his birth date and a blank space, to be filled in later. I started to understand Jessie a little better; if we lost him we’d be orphans. It gnawed at my mind.

  In October he had a relapse and started drinking again. Jessie and I were really worried, and begged him to stop. He managed to pull it back together after a couple weeks. He was a strong guy, inside and out, and knowing something was even more powerful than him, that was terrifying.

  Dad got a job in Manistique as a dispatcher; the State Police got a federal grant to expand the nine-one-one phone system for the whole tri-county area. He worked Friday through Monday from noon until ten at night, with an hour drive each way. It was rough on all of us, but we were glad he was working again.

  Weekdays after school he’d take us out to the old sand quarry and practice with the deer rifles. When firearms season opened, he borrowed me from class to take me hunting. He would’ve taken Jessie, too, but she was adamant that she didn’t want to actually hunt anything.

  First he missed an easy kill, the next one he just wounded. We followed the blood trail as far as we could, but lost it in a swampy area. He seemed kind of annoyed when I let a couple go because I couldn’t get a clean shot. That was forgotten when I dropped a young doe at over fifty yards.

  We didn’t talk much – it wasn’t easy like with Daniel. I was always afraid I’d mess up and he’d know my secrets. So when he asked me about the new class, “Human Development", it was really uncomfortable.

  “There’s a lot more to know than what they’ll teach you,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “They’ll explain the physical development you’ll go through, but will probably leave out most of the emotional changes, which are just as tricky. They’ll give you sanitized details about how the biology of reproduction works, but not the practical stuff that people deal with in real life, which is much more complicated.

  “But you can ask me anything, whenever you’re ready, or maybe I’ll tell you when I think it’s time.” That was just like him, to give me notice that something was going to happen, and that I had control of when. At least up to a point. I decided to test him on that invitation.

  “Um, okay, what does horny mean?”

  “Where did you hear that?” He seemed amused.

  “Jeremy says it a lot.”

  “It means sexually excited, a very strong, urgent craving to be physically intimate with someone.”

  I looked at him to make sure he wasn’t teasing or joking with me. I thought about clean, dark skin and dangerous kisses.

  “Do you feel that way sometimes?” he asked.

  “Yeah, a couple times. It scared me, like getting burned, but inside.”

  “Strong stuff, huh?”

  “Big time.”

  We were silent for a minute, watching the tree line for movement.

  “Is it… normal?”

  “Yeah, it’s perfectly normal. You’ll get used to it.”

  I doubted that.

  The Human Development class was no big deal. It was fun to watch Mr. Winslow try to keep his cool while saying the word “penis" or “vagina" out loud. The other boys giggled a lot. Only a couple parents sent notes so their kid couldn’t attend. Bobby Fleisher got in trouble because he threw his note away and was in the room the first two days.

  Most of the stuff I already knew, and a lot more. Jessie had long ago told me what she’d learned about sex. She taught me all of the slang words, and I’d taught her the proper names that Mom and Dad used. They’d been very matter-of-fact about anatomy, and like I said, sometimes noisy at night.

  We were both “late bloomers” and had just started puberty, so that part of the class was interesting. It seemed weird that we’d sprout hair all over, and that my genitals would triple in size. I hadn’t really understood about menstruation, so that was fascinating, too, but also gross.

  The most amazing part for me was how a baby could grow from one cell to a whole miniature person in just a few months. The process – especially birth itself – looked pretty awful for the mother, and I was glad I could never get pregnant. It crossed my mind how much I’d like to have babies with Jessie, to create people who were literally part of each of us.

  It was funny the stuff the teachers weren’t allowed to say. They couldn’t really talk about actual sex itself – they never came right out and said that the penis goes in the vagina, which is kind of an important detail in the process. They never really answered questions about how boys or girls masturbate or the different kinds of birth control. They talked about condoms and safe sex, but never explained what a condom was or how you used it.

  I got up the guts to ask Dad, and he was prepared. He brought out a package of them and a banana.

  “This might be a little embarrassing. It is for me, too, but I think we’ll both survive.”

  He tore a package off the strip and ripped it open.

  “You pinch the end like this.”

  “Why?”

  He explained what the reservoir was for. Fascinating and super gross.

  “Make sure it’s not inside-out. It should roll on easily, like this. Roll it down as far as you can – don’t leave skin exposed, or it won’t protect you from disease.”

  Then Dad made me open one up and put it on the banana myself. I
t was slimy with gel and I couldn’t wait to go wash my hands. I guess he was right. There was definitely a lot they didn’t teach you in school.

  One afternoon after the class Jess and I were alone in the house. Jess asked me out of the blue, “So, do you get erections?”

  “Yeah, of course. About every fifteen minutes lately.”

  “It seems like it’d be uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “I mean, what do you do?”

  “Usually just wait until it goes away.”

  “Do you masturbate?”

  “Only whenever I can. You?”

  “Sometimes.”

  There was a silence then between us. I wanted to know if she thought about me like I did her. I was afraid, though, so I only said, “What do you think about?”

  She gave me a faint smile, like those pictures of the Mona Lisa. She got up and headed to the kitchen.

  “I’m going to make a snack. Do you want anything?”

  Yes, I did, but we’d reached a limit to our intimacy. I was little relieved, but sad, too.

  Grandma Sophie – Mom’s mother – died in October. She looked even scarier dead. They put makeup on her, but you could still see through it to the tattoos on her neck. She was buried near Mom, but nobody came to her funeral except Grampa Joe, a couple of their friends, and us. Not even Aunt Oona.

  After the service, their motorcycle friends circled the cemetery three times. Dad told us that everyone grieves in their own way.