Page 60 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“Thanks, fun guy. I also kind of hate speech correction.”
Peter closed his eyes and shook his head in apology. “Believe me, I do, too. It’s out of my mouth before I even know it.”
“I do that so much. I’ll be halfway through a conversation before I realize I don’t actually believe anything I’m saying.”
I was glowing, caught up in our game of reveal, but Peter fell silent just as the waiter came to check on us. When we were alone again he leaned in and took my hand, eyes intent on me, and in that moment there wasn’t anywhere else in the world besides this table with the two of us wrapped taut in its circle of light.
“Tell me something true,” he said.
“I just did. Chicken and biscuits. Mushrooms.” My teasing smile faltered.
“That’s different. Those are tidbits. They’re facts—meaningless, weightless. Facts are everywhere. Tell me something visceral, something that’s as part of you as your breath or teeth, that you don’t even know how to lie about. Tell me something that can hold you here with me.”
For a moment I stared at the plates on the table and then the memory was there, like it had been hovering right at the edges of my mind, waiting to be told. I smoothed my fingers over his and wondered where to start, then I wondered what he would think of me when I was done. Taking a deep breath, I chose my words carefully.
“When I was a kid, I used to tag along after my brother, Greg, and the Beason twins from the next farm over. They were older jockish boys I could hardly keep up with on my bike and they weren’t very nice. If I had anyone else to play with, I probably wouldn’t have followed them around. When you live in the country, though, you play with whoever lives nearby.
“Sometimes we chased barn cats or went swimming in the lake. Sometimes they had me steal stuff from the drugstore, because no one ever stopped me except to sayHow’s your mom doing?Other times they just made me go home.
“One day they biked down to the quarry and I followed as usual. An old wire fence circled the place, but it was broken in a few spots and no one had worked there for years. It was easy to get in. We left our bikes on top and climbed down the rock face. It looked like a giant staircase cut into the ground, like we were going to another world. I was excited and started exploring as soon as we reached the bottom. The boys set up tin cans and tried to knock them down with stones. I wasn’t paying attention and walked in front of them as they were throwing. The rock hit me here.”
I brushed a finger over the scar line just beneath my right eyebrow. The skin always felt too smooth there, glossy and slightly indented.
“I fell down and the blood gushed everywhere. It got into my eye and I couldn’t see. The boys were all yelling at each other and at me. I don’t think we were supposed to be playing in the quarry. When I accused them of hurting me on purpose, one of them—I don’t know which one—got really close to my ear and told me that if I ratted them out, I would pay for it. They’d never let me play with them again and if I tried to tag along, they’d throw more rocks at me.
“ ‘It’ll be on purpose then,’ he said.
“They tried to push me back up the rock wall, but I still couldn’t see anything and my head was pounding so bad. I fell a couple times and finally Greg told me to stay there while they went to get help.
“I was lying on the bottom of the quarry for what felt like forever. There was no shade and the sun made me nauseated. I knew my dad was coming and that I had to lie to him, and I was convinced that God would strike me dead. Honor thy father and mother, they said in Sunday school. I pictured God himself walking down those giant stairsteps, pointing a finger at me and never letting me come back up to the regular world.
“When Dad got there I told him I’d climbed down into the quarry on my own, even though the boys told me not to, and I’d fallen. I was crying and shaking, waiting for the judgment I was sure was coming, but Dad just scooped me up in his big arms and carried me the whole way back to his truck and drove me home.
“No one got punished that day. Not even me.”
I rubbed the scar absently as the waiter cleared our plates.
“Greg and the Beason boys were grateful. They even stole me some SweeTARTS—my favorite candy—but I was petrified all week. I was still waiting and I couldn’t bear it. I knew something awful should happen to me for what I’d done.
“At church that Sunday I said the first and only prayer I’ve ever prayed for myself.Dear God,I said.If you’re mad at me, strike me down right now.
“But nothing happened. The organist kept playing. My parents kept singing the hymn. A rush of relief washed over me as I realized I was safe. God didn’t mind at all. I started pretending more, being accepted more, and I prayed the same thing the next week and the week after that. I’ve said it every Sunday since I was eight years old.Dear God, if you’re angry, strike me down. Strike me down here and now.
“And every week when He doesn’t I leave the church feeling... absolved. Like I’m still covered in dirt but the dirt’s clean. I know I’m not good, Peter. I don’t think I can be. And that’s something I don’t know how to lie about. I can’t walk into church and sayBless me, for I have sinned.I know I shouldn’t be blessed. I walk in and sayStrike me down.And even though I know God will take me up on it someday, I still can’t change, because as much as I should want to be good and one of the blessed ones”—I lifted his hand and kissed the palm and laid my cheek in it—“I want you more.”
I rubbed my face into his hand to absorb the texture of his skin completely, to memorize it for all the days ahead. His thumb brushed my cheek and he studied my face, like he was memorizing, too.
“What do you think?” I asked, shakily. “Was that true enough for you?”
“I think...”—he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then brought our hands down to the table and kissed the back of mine—“he’ll have to strike us both down now.”
We went back to the hotel and undressed slowly, savoring the revelation of each other. When our clothes were in piles on the floor he laid me down on the bed and traced me lightly all over. He murmured while he roamed, telling me how beautiful my breasts were and how sweet they tasted. He explored my stomach, my hipbones, the inside of my thighs, and his words created something inside me, a wild animal that bucked and clenched, forging a thousand invisible emotions trapped underneath my skin. When he lined our bodies up and pushed inside me, it became too much to contain and the happiness welled up in my eyes, trickling down my temples.
Out of nowhere I remembered my grandpa’s silent, tear-streaked face in that depressing nursing home room. It was probably the last time anyone should be thinking about their dead grandfather, like some final proof of how unnatural I was, but in that moment I understood, finally, how love could be too much for our bodies to hold.
When Peter saw my tears he stopped moving and got the strangest expression.
“What is it?” I whispered.
