CHAPTER TWO
Janie
Getting home from school, I scuttled upstairs to my room before throwing my book bag on my bed.
“Everything good today, honey?” called my mom from downstairs.
“Yes, everything’s fine!” I call back, hoping my voice sounds normal. It’s a little croaky but that’s to be expected given what happened earlier. Because oh my god, I showed my pussy to a man, the pink folds gleaming and wet. And not just any man, but Trent Lewis in particular, the hottest guy at Sunnyside.
My eyes close again, remembering the encounter. There I am, on my hands and knees, skirt flipped up over my back. There I am, slyly reaching a hand back to pull my g-string to the side to reveal my steamy pussy. And there I am, pulling my pussy apart to show him the pinkness that’s already glossy and puffy, begging for his touch.
What in the world? How could I have done this? I’m boring Janie Martin, not some super-slut who goes around parading herself. And yet it was true. It had really happened, and I knew I wasn’t dreaming.
But at the same time, I didn’t know what to think because someone physically pushed me. I’d felt the nudge on my bottom as I bent over, and when that didn’t knock me off my feet, a second stronger push sent me tumbling onto my hands and knees. What the hell?
But there was only one person who could have done it, and my chest flared with anger remembering what had happened. It was Trent. Must have been. No one else was even around during that time. He’d shoved me on purpose, making me fall over like a bully picking on a small kid. Sure, events spiraled out of control after that, but still. A man had pushed me until I fell!
So I wasn’t sure what to make of what had happened. On the one hand, I was titillated, my body desperately wanting more. But on the other, Trent had physically hurt a woman. Of course, there were no bruises or whatnot because I have plenty of padding. But even so, physical confrontation is wrong. I resolved to slap that cocky grin off his face tomorrow in Biology.
But there was no time because the appetizing smell of meatloaf wafted up at me from downstairs and suddenly my stomach growled in answer. Like a woman on a scent, I descended the staircase before appearing in the kitchen.
My mom closed the oven door just as she lifted a steaming tray of browning beef and breadcrumbs onto the table.
“There you are!” Elaine chortled, setting down the pan on our homey red and white checkered cloth. “You’re a healthy girl with a good appetite,” she nodded approvingly. “I knew you’d come as soon as the meatloaf was done.”
I blushed because it was true. I love to eat and have never held back. In fact, I can’t hold back. There have been a few times when I tried dieting, but I was miserable the entire time. My stomach literally ached from constant hunger, and I couldn’t sleep because of the knives stabbing my belly each night. So at two a.m., I’d leap out of bed and storm downstairs, throwing the cabinets open and devouring everything in sight. Obviously, that did more damage than good. I ended up putting on even more weight from the nightly gorgings, instead of losing fat. But to Elaine, it’s never mattered. My mom is a heavy-set woman herself, and she nodded approvingly as I grabbed a plate and sat down on the table.
“I can never understand those ladies who subsist on salad,” she clucked, shaking her head with bewilderment. “Us Martin girls aren’t like that. We need meat to survive.”
I nodded, carefully cutting into the steaming meatloaf and serving Elaine a slice.
“Ma, this looks wonderful,” I complimented. “And healthy too, with all the carrots and onions on the side.”
Elaine beamed again.
“Exactly,” she said. “We need to get our veggies somehow, and a balanced meal is a wonderful way to do it. You know, back when you were small, I used to sneak mashed carrots into your cereal to trick you into eating vegetables. It was ingenious, if I say so myself,” she chortles.
I try not to laugh because even though I was only six at the time, I knew what my mom was up to. Who wouldn’t? The orange of pureed carrots doesn’t exactly blend in with brown Choc-O-Puffs.
But Elaine is sweet and loves me loads. My mom dotes on me and my dad. We’re her family and we mean the world to her. So she’s always done her best to make sure we have a hot meal on the table and a warm hug should it be needed. In short, my mom is the best, and a more caring lady couldn’t be found.
“There you go, honey,” says my mom while pouring a generous ladle full of gravy onto my slice of meatloaf. “It’s mm-mmm good. Now tell me, how was your Science Club meeting? Did you guys finally decide on a motto?”
I smile while chewing. The truth is that I could barely pay attention during the Science Club meeting because I’d been too busy re-living my encounter with Trent in my head. But I swallowed and beamed.
“Yep, we did. It’s “To the Stars and Into the Hands of Humans,”” I announce proudly. “Rosie thought of it, but she’s gone now. I’m going to tell her that her motto won anyways.”
Elaine leans over and gives me a friendly hug.
“Oh sweetheart, that’s a wonderful saying. And I know you miss Rosie, but won’t you see her at the science competition next month? It’ll be two good friends having a reunion.”
I nod, helping myself to another portion of meatloaf.
“It’ll be good to see Rosie-Posey again,” I agree. “I miss her a lot.”
But before Elaine can respond, my dad bursts in through the back door.
“Elaine! Janie! Where’s my toolbox?” Vincent asks frantically, his eyes bugging out and hair wild. “Help me!”
“What?” sputters my mom. “My goodness, Vincent, what’s going on? What has you in such a tizzy?”
But now my dad’s sprung into motion, which is amazing given his portly build. He speeds over to the hall closet and bangs the door open before sticking his head inside, only to come out empty-handed. Then he rushes to the basement door and flings it open, disappearing within the depths.
“Dad, Dad!” I call, getting up and peering into the darkness. “What’s going on? Why are you in such a rush? Why do you need your toolbox?”
Vincent’s huffing and puffing as he stumbles up the stairs, but he doesn’t bother to answer, merely rushing out the door again. This time, Elaine and I trail him, following along cautiously. What the hell is going on? My dad is a really calm guy. He works as a plumber, and he’s always said that getting sprayed in the face by all sorts of liquids gives him perspective. It makes everything else seem not so bad, if you get what I mean.
So to see him scrambling around like a chicken with its head cut-off is new. But the moment Elaine and I step into the street, we see what’s got my dad so frantic. There are cop cars screaming around the corner, their sirens wailing. And as my mom and I run to the end of the block, we see it then. There’s been a car accident, and it’s a bad one. A fancy red Mercedes is crushed up under a Mack truck. And I mean, completely totaled. The front of the car is literally underneath the side of the giant tractor-trailer, squashed so that it’s only two feet high. No one could be alive within that crunched up metal. It’s a ghastly sight, and my mom and I grip each other, eyes wide.
But my dad is a ball of motion. He kneels by the rear of the Mercedes, the toolbox at his side as he starts rattling the back door.
“Come on, come on,” he huffs. “Open, open.”
And with horror, suddenly I realize what I’m seeing. It’s Trent in the backseat, his head lolling to one side with his eyes closed. I let out a shrill scream while running forwards.
“Trent!” is my shriek. “Oh my god!”
But a firefighter who’s just arrived on the scene physically blocks my way, his burly body like a refrigerator.
“Sorry ma’am,” he growls. “Please stay back for your own safety.”
I stand there trembling with eyes wide as my mom comes up behind me, pulling me back.
“That must be one of your friends from school, right?” Elaine asks, her voice wavering with tears in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. You don’t need to see this.”
But I can’t tear my eyes away even as Elaine pulls me towards the safety of our home. My eyes are wide as the firefighters take over, my dad escorted to the side. And the air leaves my body as I see Trent pulled from the wreckage, all in one piece, thank god, but limp as a rag doll. Oh god. His muscular form is pale, face as white as a sheet. Those long arms dangle helplessly by his side as they hoist him onto a gurney before loading him into an ambulance. And then they’re off, wheels squealing as the red and white bolts down our suburban road.
“Come on, Janie,” says my mom firmly, pulling me within the confines of the house. “There’s nothing to see.”
But even as we step within the homey yellow kitchen, I can’t unsee what I’ve seen. Because there was a lot of blood on the pavement, pooling like ruby oil slicks. And my insides crumple because what if that was Trent’s blood? What happens to my handsome quarterback now?