My friends called me Ollie, short for Olive. I was never exactly what you'd call plain looking, but I also didn't possess the goddess-like beauty of the women I saw in magazines or on TV either. I'd like to think I just hadn't fully grown into my looks yet. I was on the cusp of that shift when girls became women; at eighteen something of a late bloomer unlike my friend and neighbor, Charlotte, who looked twenty five the minute she turned sixteen with her round heavy breasts and high cheekbones. I had sandy blond hair that kissed the highest protruding point of my shoulder blades and amber eyes flecked with gold. My face was still a touch immature with a button nose that hadn't yet found it's final form and cheeks that rounded out a heart shaped display. My lips were ruby red. They always looked plump and irritated as though I'd been engaging in a long session of rough kissing with boys. Yet, I rarely did that. Sun warmed flesh the color of caramel announced my love of lounging on a blanket in the backyard, catching rays while I worked myself through whatever book I was currently reading. I had slender flowing limbs, a small waist, and the promise of an hourglass figure in my future. I was pretty, but I was no Charlotte Walker; dazzling dark haired siren that she was with her sparkling chocolate eyes and cupid's bow mouth..
I thought Charlotte had everything growing up. Even though we went to the same school, lived in side by side houses in the same neighborhood, and shared the same friends; her life just seemed... better. For one thing, her parents weren't completely checked out like mine were. I hadn't seen my Dad since I was six and the only thing I had to show for his presence in my life was a handful of birthday cards. My Mom on the other hand tried, but she was selfish. I always seemed to come in second to whatever boyfriend she was shacking up with at the time and believe me, there were a lot of them.
They drifted in and out of our lives; came and went with the seasons. No one ever stuck around for more than a few months, but a good handful of them took my existence in the house as an opportunity to dabble in fatherhood. I loathed it. I can't express what it feels like to have some half grown transient who's aching to play the role of Daddy unironically call you 'Young Lady' as he sends you to your room. Your room in your house; a house in which he will become a ghost before the end of the school year.
Charlotte's parents though, Henry and Linda Walker, they were special. Her Mom was involved in everything; the Parent Teacher Association, Girl Scouts, bake sales, charity food drives, etc. If there was something in Charlotte's life that required a parental role to be filled Mrs. Walker was there to fill it. Who knows where she got the energy; some mornings my Mom could barely roll herself out of bed much less manage to whip up a cake to raise money for the volleyball team. Charlotte told me once that her Mom was diagnosed with hyperthyroid. That seemed a likely explanation for why she could never sit still; accounted for the fact that she was so slender and didn't gain a single pound no matter what she ate. She wasn't the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen with wiry black hair and her signature harsh swath of red lipstick. She looked like the villainess of some Russian spy movie, but to me she had always been kind. She treated me like a part of the family.
Then, there was Charlotte's father. Where to begin; when I was growing up he was the only strong male role model in my life. I adored him and envied Charlotte. When she got angry with him for fulfilling his fatherly duties and took the opportunity to harshly criticize him, I couldn't help but feel indignant and protective. My heart ached when she shouted down the stairs one blustery fall day that he was a dick; all because he wouldn't let her go to some stupid Halloween party. I wanted to climb into his lap and console him and apologize for her bad behavior. It wasn't just that Henry Walker was handsome, though he was. With his broad shoulders and cool blue eyes reminiscent of deep glacial pools, that dark neatly trimmed mahogany hair, and the thickness of his perfectly maintained beard; he was spectacular. He was also the best example of a good man that I'd ever seen - strong, assertive, gracious, and loving.
Sometimes I felt like Mr. Walker or Henry, I would have loved to call him Henry, was the only reason I was friends with a girl like Charlotte — loud, impetulant, boorish Charlotte. When she walked, she stomped on her heels. When she talked, she shouted over everyone else. She was a teenage nightmare who seemed to be fueled by the misery of her peers. There were a few bullies in our school though they were mostly harmless. They'd hone in on obvious flaws and stumble clumsily through generalized insults or partake in minor acts of physical aggression. They didn't cause that same lasting, emotional trauma that Charlotte could when she chose a victim. Charlotte wouldn't just knock your books out of your hand or trip you on the way up the stairs; she had the unique ability to see into the soul of her victims and pick apart the very fabric of their being. She was like a bloodhound sniffing out youthful insecurities so she might shine a light on them for all to see. Luckily, I wasn't on Charlotte's bad side, though that was mostly an accident of geography. We had little in common, but we grew up together. We were 'friends' and so I wasn't often held subject to her abuses like so many of our peers.
I had to wonder what Henry thought of his daughter. I always liked to imagine that he favored me and might have secretly wished to trade us. That fantasy was spurred on by all the little things he would do; like the way he might wink at me while teasing her, or how his warm smile unfolded when he saw me at the front door after school. On a small handful of occasions he embraced me; twice in one day last Christmas. I have revelled in the memory of his beard tickling my neck while strong arms pulled me against his expansive broad chest. The scent of his woody cologne evokes images of lumberjacks and fir trees. If I'm honest, the mere nearness of him had begun to excite me in ways it shouldn't. My heart raced, my palms sweat, my mouth went dry. Embarrassingly, my voice on occasion would flutter at higher octaves threatening to break over the mere retelling of some mundane detail of my day prompting Mr. Walker to grin, "Frog in your throat?"
Although I struggled with guilt in the beginning, I think I can pinpoint the moment that adoration turned to desire. It was the start of senior year and I had reluctantly agreed to go on a date with a boy from school. He wasn't someone I felt all that interested in, but I was encouraged by friends. Jacob Mitchell never had much to talk about, and might well have been a better match for Charlotte with his shallow obsession into highschool hierarchies. He was obnoxiously good-looking, fresh faced, and athletic.
My Mom was off for a weekend at the coast with her latest male fixation, so there was no one to see me off on my date or welcome me home when it concluded. Foolishly, I mentioned this during some meandering chatter about our day. For the most part, it went well. We saw a movie, commiserated over a slice of pizza, the kind with the pepperoni tucked under the cheese like a soggy salty secret, and then hit up an arcade where he spent $10 over 30 minutes to get me a tiny stuffed Emoji with heart eyes - which I thanked him for, and secretly hated.
He drove me back to my house around midnight. The vacancy of our home was obvious, a sullen shadow shrouded in darkness, illuminated dimly by one sole light from the Walkers' kitchen next door. Above us an inky blue sky twinkled with starlight as we sat in his 2003 Nissan Sentra and prepared to say farewell. I knew there was a question of 'the kiss goodnight' after any date, but nice as he was - I just wasn't feeling it. In an effort to avoid him trying anything, I leaned over for a simple kiss on the cheek. But just as I did, his digits began to creep along the outer edge of my thigh, then started moving between them, his hand obscured by the hem of my sundress. I caught him by the wrist and attempted to stop the steady climb of his fingers, "What are you doing?"
