The Charlotte Chronicles (5 page)

M
y request
for a kiss doesn’t result in Nate rolling me over and pinning me down on the bed. Oh no, he jumps off the mattress like I’ve stuck a burning iron into his side. His athletic instincts kick in, and he’s halfway across the room before another breath is taken by either of us.

“What the fuck?” he almost yells at me and then, tossing a worried glance toward the door as if my dad will bust through any minute, he lowers his voice and repeats the question sans profanity. “What did you just ask me?”

Scowling, I answer, “I asked for you to kiss me, not kill me.”

He places one hand on his hip and another he scrubs through his hair, looking exasperated, but his irritation is nothing compared to my mounting annoyance. My earlier shyness is chased away by my frustration. This is classic Jackson brother behavior. Because I’m a girl, I can’t possibly want the same things that they do.

“Charlotte, I—” he begins, but I cut him off. I don’t even want to hear what he has to say. I roll over on my side so I’m not facing him.

“Forget it. I’m not going to beg you.” I would if I thought it would do any good. It’s just . . . since I’ve been sick Nate’s been different to me. He’s been nicer, and he’s held me closer. His behavior is not so brotherly. I catch him looking at me with a gleam in his eye, and it makes me feel warm all over. At this moment, though, he’s looking everywhere
but 
me and so I turn away.

I feel his body depress the side of the bed, and he rolls me toward him.

“What’s this all about?”

“Nothing, just go away.” I keep my eyes covered so he can’t see my hurt at his instant rejection. He didn’t even have to think twice about it. He can kiss—and more—any number of girls at school or other schools or, heck, even a couple of girls who live in our building, but the idea of kissing me results in curse words and discomfort.

“I’m not going away,” he insists. His palm is on my shoulder, and I feel electrified just from that small touch. I wonder what it would feel like if he touched me other places.

“All that talk about me being important to you seems like just that—talk,” I mumble, still refusing to look at him. He pulls on my wrist that is covering my eyes, but I resist. It would be easy for him to overpower me, but instead he just lets go . . . and even that makes me sad.

“It’s not just talk, but you’re fifteen, and I think we should wait.”

“I’ll be sixteen in five months, and it’s not like you weren’t kissing girls when you were fifteen.”

“You stay here, and we’ll kiss when you’re ready.”

My heart sings at the words “we’ll kiss.” He wasn’t rejecting me! I drop my arm and sit up abruptly. Nate reaches out to steady me, and we are only inches apart. If I leaned forward I could kiss him. Instead I say slowly and clearly, “I’m ready now.”

“You’re not.”

“How do you know? You were like twelve the first time you kissed Molly Masterson at her birthday party. And you had sex when you were fourteen with Olivia Petrzelka in her parents’ rec room.”

He gapes at me. “Goddamn Nick. I’m going to beat him until he can’t remember his own name let alone anything about me.”

“Nick? If you want to shut down the gossip pipeline, you better start picking better partners.”

Nate does a double take. “Are you saying that it’s the girls?” He draws out the word 
girls
 in shocked disbelief.

“What do you think we’re talking about?” I drop to the bed and stretch out like a starfish.  “I’m going to kiss someone someday. Do you want that first kiss to be yours?”

He glares at me and presses his lips together, but behind his glower I can see something else, something that maybe if I was more experienced I could identify. I just know it’s there, and it’s something other than anger.

I stretch farther, making tiny linen angels in my bedsheets. Nate’s attention is diverted, and at first I think he’s staring at my chest, where my IV port is but then I realize his gaze is lower, much lower. A devilish impulse comes over me, and I drag one foot up my leg, around my slender calf, up to my thigh and then allow my knees to fall apart. Despite my illness, I am still limber from years of gymnastics training. As I watch beneath my eyelashes, Nate does not look away. He’s riveted, and my gaze falls down his body past his chest and down to his sweatpants that hide absolutely nothing.

I’ve seen erections before, on the Internet, but I couldn’t decide whether I thought that penises were disgusting or attractive. I prefer looking at the naked chest, the abs on a male model, or even his back.  Somehow I know that Nate’s erection would be different, amazing. Girls in the locker room talk about blow jobs and oral, but I haven’t done any of that. I pretend like I know what they are talking about, but the closest I’ve ever come to anything remotely sexual is a few Tumblr gifs. No one is willing to brave the Jackson brothers to get to me, and I haven’t been too interested in breaching the line either.

Saliva pools in my mouth as I think about taking Nate inside me, and I wonder what it would feel like if
he
 touched me between my legs.  As quickly as the wanton spirit had spread over me, it leaves, and I lock my legs together, rolling to the side, embarrassed at my thoughts.

Nate groans, my motions awakening him from his trance. He turns to face the wall, and presses his forehead against a palm. Shame sets in, and I’m sorry for what I’m doing to him, what I’m doing to myself.

“I’m going to Switzerland. I’m leaving after the first of the year and I just don’t want my first kiss to be with someone other than you.” I bite my lip and then touch him tentatively on his back and wait for his response. I’d like him to be my first everything, but he’s skittish and I don’t want to scare him off. His hard on, though, must mean something.

When my palm hits Nate’s back, his muscles bunch tightly under his T-shirt—as if he is anticipating a blow. Remorseful, I lean into him, resting my cheek in the middle of his spine, and slip my arms around his waist. I’m not sure why I’m pushing him tonight. I think it’s because I’m scared of what is going to happen to us when I go away, but my claim on him has never been one of girlfriend/boyfriend.  We’re family and no matter what he gives to the other girls in his life, I’ll always mean something to him. I should be satisfied with that.

I should be, but I’m not.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against the worn cotton. I rub my face tenderly against his back as if I am his old dog Hobo, seeking forgiveness from my owner.

I feel him exhale, and then he grabs each of my hands in his to pull me tighter. We sit like that for some time, his head bowed and mine nestled in the curve of his back.

“You’re going no matter what, right?” he finally says.

“Yes.”

I’m not able to explain to Nate why I feel compelled to go and how I really believe that this is the right thing for all of us, but especially me. I’ll never get better here because it will be too easy to rely on Nate and Nick to do things for me. Nick will cover for me in classes, and Nate will glare all my detractors away, and I’ll be smothered in sympathy and pity. It would be easy to stay and that tells me more than anything I should go.

If I tell this to Nate, he won’t get it. His response will be that he can take care of me, but that’s not what I want. If I’m ever to mean something more to Nate than little Charlotte, the girl he remembers crying because her cupcake was smashed, then I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.

My illness has only accelerated this problem. I suspect that if I let him he’d still be cutting my food ten years from now. But while his hands would be feeding me from his fork, his attention would be wandering. I’d be a needy invalid, and he’d want someone who could walk beside him.

“You’re breaking up the Three Amigos,” he says lightly, but I can hear a faint accusation there. I dread facing Nick tomorrow.

“You’re just mad because you don’t get to leave first. And because you like to tell Nick and me what to do.”

“I resemble that remark,” he quips. Gently, he unwinds himself from my embrace and rises. My heart catches as I fear he’s going to leave. I’m not ready for him to go. I push up on my knees and reach out for him. He towers over me on the side of the bed, a fierce look on his face. Cupping my cheek and chin in one hand, Nathan rubs my face with the back of his little finger. It’s a light caress, but I savor it all the same. “I can’t figure this one out, but I’m not going to argue tonight.”

He pulls me to my feet and then reaches over to pull down the covers. “I’m going to hold you tonight, even though your dad or mom may kill me in the morning, but that’s all we’re going to do.” Was this a warning for me or him?

We lie down together, our sides barely touching in the large bed. He reaches over and links his fingers through mine.

“How long?” he whispers.

“Three weeks. Right after New Year’s.”

His fingers tighten almost painfully on mine for a moment, but I don’t move at all.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says.

I’m not sure what we have left to figure out, but I’m too tired to ask. He’s beside me, and we’re lying together, our hands entwined. It’s enough for now.

I
spend
most of the night with one eye open just waiting for Charlotte’s parents to burst through the door, but even with that anxiety hovering around the edges of my consciousness I don’t leave. Charlotte’s hand tucked into mine is more effective than a chain bolted to the floor. I can tell that she is confused by my response to her, and I am as well. These feelings came on so fast, and neither of us are prepared. I had some vague idea Charlotte and I would end up together, but that was in the future. Her being sick, nearly dying has changed things. But we aren’t ready. I’m not ready.

The memory of the last time I had sex flicks through my mind. It’s been a while. Months. I know other guys would either be having sex with other girls or be taking Charlotte up on her offer. Although what she is offering, I’m not sure.

And it’s not like Charlotte and I are dating or even a couple. We’re connected though.

For so long I’ve just taken for granted that she’ll be around when I’m ready for her. And right now she’s too young, and I’m trying hard to push away those physical feelings. Emotional ones are okay, but I feel two inches high whenever I get hard around her.

But going off to another girl?

That seems just as wrong now. Before, yeah, it was easy. The idea of not having sex for some interminable amount of time in the future is bleak. I wonder if I can die from a build up of sperm or if my dick really will fall off if I jerk it too much in the shower. Maybe it would be better if she left. If she was gone, wouldn’t it be easier for me to go without? No temptation around.

I hold myself immobile so I don’t disturb her sleep, but she finally lets go right before dawn. It’s about the time I usually get up and lift weights, so I tell myself it’s okay to leave her. She mumbles something, but I don’t catch it. Leaning over, I tuck the blankets around her and kiss her forehead.

“Naaaate.” She sighs out my name, the word sounding like one long breathy syllable, and it sends shivers down my spine. And I’m hard. Just like that. Adjusting myself, I creep out, glad that the hallway is quiet. All doors are shut, and I can escape into my own home unnoticed. The kitchen is dark except for the range light over the hood.

“You can spend as much time as you like with her before she leaves, but she is leaving.”

My hand is on the doorknob, but my heart is somewhere around my knees. If I had poor bladder control, I would have pissed myself. At least my boner died.

“Jesus Christ, Aunt AnnMarie,” I swear, forgetting myself. In the shadows across the room sits Charlotte’s mother, a mug in her hand and her tablet in front of her on the breakfast table. I hope she didn’t see me tenting my pants earlier. I won’t die from sperm build up. One of Charlotte’s parents will kill me instead. “I d-didn’t see you,” I stammer out.

“No kidding.” I can hear the smirk in her voice. “The fog comes on little cat feet.”

“Huh?”

“Carl Sandberg.” When I show no understanding, she shakes her head. “Schools these days. It’s about the Chicago Harbor! ‘The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.’ You’ve never heard that?”

It rings a faint bell so I nod, but she isn’t buying it. “Come,” she orders. “Sit down.”

I trudge over, my feet slapping heavily against the tiles. She kicks out a chair, and I drop into it.

“Why?” I ask sullenly, feeling like I’m a toddler again and Aunt AM is taking away my favorite toy.

I can feel her looking at me, but the light from the range hood doesn’t extend over here. The only light is from her tablet, which has flickered off. Gone to sleep I guess.

“If Charlotte wanted to go to the Navy Pier, would you take her?”

I know that there is a trap here. I hesitate, and it’s my first mistake. “No,” I say.

“How do you stop her? Physically restrain her? And if she tells you that it is fine and that her doctor has okayed it, do you call her a liar?” The questions come rapid fire, and I can’t process them all at once. “You eventually give in because you love her and you think she must know, after this most recent episode put her in the hospital, that she can’t keep hiding her weakness.”

I nod slowly at this assessment, but I’m uncertain. Would I keep Charlotte from doing something she said she was safe to do? Charlotte can talk me into anything, and if she said that it was safe I’d believe her. My tongue is still frozen by doubt. Aunt AM continues on, using my silence against me.

“And if she had an episode, a seizure or passed out, would you blame yourself?” I nod again because anything else would be an obvious lie. “We want to prevent that from happening. Where you’re blaming yourself and Charlotte avoids placing all of you in a bad situation.”

“How long?” I ask.

“Six, maybe nine months. We hope to be back before her junior year starts.”

I’m glad now that we can’t see each other because what I’m feeling right now is something like relief. I shouldn’t feel that way, but it’s like Charlotte’s absence will give me time to sort out everything.

“Before May 21st?”

As she raises one eyebrow, I fight hard not to flush under her knowing gaze. Yes, I am counting down the days until Charlotte turns sixteen.

With a small smile, she responds, “Maybe before her 16th birthday. It depends on how hard Charlotte works at getting better. Does she do everything her doctors ask, or does she try to hide her symptoms and pretend she isn’t as sick as she is?”

“Okay,” I say. I mean, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. AnnMarie gets to her feet and gives me a hug. Standing up, I return her embrace, already feeling a hundred times better.

“It’s the right thing for all of us,” she murmurs to me.

“Thanks. I get it.” I’m nearly at the connecting door when she calls out.

“Don’t let Bo know you are marking when Charlotte turns sixteen, or you might not live to see your next birthday.”

Because I am a stupid and reckless shit I give her a salute and a grin. She mock tosses her tablet at me, and I disappear down the hall. My cocky belief that all will work itself out reasserts itself. Six months? Nothing can happen that would affect us in six months. By then Charlotte won’t be so young. Sixteen is perfect. Six months is perfect.