I am a permanent fixture at Garrett’s house each night, from late evening to dawn. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, we rise ahead of the sun and run, and he works my muscles like before, as cold and businesslike as ever. I love him these mornings, when he is predictable—when I can follow his directives with unhesitating compliance. But I love him even more when he is unpredictable, when the frissons of excitement crawl over my skin as I try to guess what he’ll ask me to do next. Sometimes he hurts me, like at the river; sometimes he scares me, but it’s not nearly as scary as the thought of being without him. I try my best to please him, but when I don’t, it’s okay because the rougher he is, the more alive I feel.

Thursday morning I’m in my practice room early, a good cello student, freshly showered after my run with Garrett, when Bethany knocks on my door.

“Hey there, stranger!” she says, and she is so perky and innocent that she barely makes sense to me. I imagine how flustered and pink she’d be if she knew the shit Garrett did to me last night.

“Am I a stranger? I’ve been here every morning. Well, except yesterday.” Yesterday I stayed with Garrett in the morning because he wanted me to strip naked in front of his open front window and get myself off while he called me a filthy little slut and accused me of liking it. It took me a whole two minutes to come. I really am a filthy slut.

“I guess that’s true,” Bethany says.

“What?” Is she calling me a slut?

“Like you said, you’ve been here most days. Guess I just missed you yesterday.”

She’s leaning on the doorframe now, staring at the ceiling while she tangles and untangles her fingers, and I think, She knows absolutely nothing about me.

“What are you playing in studio today?” she asks.

“Popper.”

“The same one as last week?”

“A new one.”

“Wow. You want me to listen?”

I shrug. It doesn’t matter.

She hesitates and fiddles with the doorknob. “Would you mind listening to me, though? I have the second movement of the Schubert…”

“Sure.”

She plays for me, and I smile and nod and tell her what is good and what is bad. I’m acting pretty normal, really, even though inside I’m heaving and burping like a forgotten pot of sauce on the stove. I can pull off normal.

But that afternoon in the study lounge, Rome is either more perceptive than Bethany or less willing to keep his mouth shut.

“You’ve got some bitchin’ bags under your eyes, girl.”

I widen my eyes at him, like, And?

“Daphne told me you never sleep at the dorm anymore.”

“None of your business where I sleep, Rome.” I’m absorbed in Hitler’s Obersalzberg Speech, thinking how Hitler’s arrogance reminds me quite a lot of Garrett’s confidence, his steadfastness. Will Garrett eventually clear me out, carve some lebensraum—living space—for himself out of the space I once inhabited? I picture him digging into me, breaking me apart with a spade and turning clumps of me over and over, tilling me until he reveals the rich, palpitating underbelly of my aliveness, like I am a tract of earth and he is preparing to sow himself beneath my skin.

“You can try to play cool with me,” Rome says, “but I know that guy, okay? I met him at the beginning of the summer, way before you got here, yes, because we both sell dope. He’s a fucking psycho, and let me tell you, girl, you are not the first.”

I think I’m going to slam my book shut and walk away, but instead I picture myself with my face in the mud, my mouth full of black sediment, and this time instead of getting turned on, my eyes burn. And now I’m crying, well isn’t that just fucking awesome, we’re in the study lounge where anyone could walk in and I’m sitting here with tears running down my fucking face.

“Fuck, Mal, don’t do that. Jesus Christ, I wanna fucking kill this asshole.”

“But I love him. I love him. I know he’s not perfect, but I love him.” Wow, I’m the biggest blubbering idiot who ever lived.

Rome closes his book and looks hard at me. “That’s not love, girl, come on, you gotta know this. You gotta know that’s not what love looks like.”

“It’s what love looks like to me,” I say defensively, but that’s not quite true. The idea of Garrett wanting me makes me feel worthy. Worthy of what, I’m not sure, but who wouldn’t want to be desired by someone with such…militant control over their emotions? How could it not flatter me that I am sometimes the stimulus for Garrett’s occasional lapses in restraint? I look around to make sure we’re still the only ones in the study lounge, and though I confirm we are alone, I lower my voice to almost a whisper: “I can’t explain it, Rome, he just—he’s so clean and perfect and beautiful, and he makes me feel alive.”

“Girl, you were alive before,” he says in that sweet, matter-of-fact way of his.

And I cry harder, because, no, I wasn’t alive before. All the years my mother was wasting away, I wasted away with her, and when she went under the water, I went under with her. I’ve been living life from under water, and my goals, my grades, my cello, were a thin, hollow reed sticking up above the surface, funneling barely enough air into my lungs to keep me from drowning. Liza wanted to kill my father; I wanted to die with my mother.

“So,” Rome says, “did you hear about the two antennas that got married?”

“Huh?” I look up, sniffling.

“The ceremony was so-so, but the reception was amazing.”

I crack a smile, though my eyes are full of tears. “You’re a dork.”

“Made you smile,” he says, leaning back and opening his book up again. “And that’s really all I wanted.”

---

It’s Halloween night and, unbelievably, Garrett is coming out with me, Daphne, and Bethany to a costume party. When I asked him if he wanted to go, I was sure he would say no. But he suits up and sticks a cigar in his mouth and totes a fake machine gun—he’s a gangster, of course he is, so smooth, that bastard, and I’m dressed as Wednesday Addams because my black hair is perfect for the costume and I’m in the mood to stare at people like my soul is dead.

Daphne dresses up as Tinkerbell, and Bethany is all in black, with black lipstick—she says she’s a moody teenager. We laugh at our similar themes and how different Daphne’s is. Daphne is adorable in her little green tutu though, even if she’s too damn skinny. I message costume pictures to Liza and she does the same; she’s hanging out with that nice friend from the musical, and they’re dressed as flappers with costumes they snuck from the school wardrobe.

Garrett brings another friend I haven’t met, a good-looking, sandy-haired guy who I assume must sell either insurance or weed. He seems like he’s looking for a hookup, though I can instantly tell he is not interested in Bethany, and I know for sure that Daphne is not interested in him. I take a sick amount of joy in watching him attempt to flirt with her while she rolls her eyes at him. Tonight I’m not the only one dangling from the cliff of rejection.

The party is across the street from the music school on the top floor of an apartment building. Everyone’s dressed up, and the music is appropriately spooky but still dance-friendly. I feel upbeat tonight, still in disbelief that Garrett has come out with me. He even dances with me for a few songs, his hands coming to my waist in a glorious show of possession: She’s mine, I’m with her. Rome watches us warily from the sidelines. I can tell he disapproves of my happiness with Garrett, and I want to prove him wrong—I want him to know that I am the girl, that I am enough to keep Garrett’s interest. I bet that before me, Garrett didn’t take his other girlfriends out to parties.

I throw my arms around Garrett’s neck, brave from the two beers I’ve consumed, and he peels my hands off and lowers them firmly to my sides. My heart sinks like an anchor until he takes one of my hands and spins me instead. He wants to be playful. I love this side of him, love that he is letting me see it, love that it exists at all.

Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” comes on and everyone goes crazy dancing. Then the floor is clearing, and I know it’s because of Rome. I can only see through a crack between people’s shoulders, but it seems like the whole party is watching him moonwalk and gyrate in a perfect imitation of the King of Pop. Bethany and Daphne are standing on the opposite side of the floor next to Garrett’s friend, grinning and cheering with the crowd.

A girl I’ve never seen before joins Rome on the floor, and they dance the classic “Thriller” choreography in unison. I can’t believe there are even people my age who know the entire routine. Their synchronization is so perfect, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they’d rehearsed in advance.

I turn to look at Garrett and he’s already looking at me, his face serious, and I have the sinking feeling I’ve done something wrong again. Last time I messed up I ended up with my face in a riverbank. My heart bangs in my chest, throwing me off balance because it’s out of time with the music. I’m afraid to look at the dance floor again but I can’t just stand there staring at Garrett’s somber face; I turn my gaze back to the two dancers, though this time I force my expression into one of boredom.

My chest is swelling and deflating like the throat of an excited bullfrog. I’m sure Garrett’s noticed that he’s made me nervous—it’s not the kind of thing he would overlook. There are still people standing in front of us, blocking us from view, so I do something crazy: I reach over with my right hand and cup Garrett between the legs. You’re the one I want, I think I’m telling him. He lets me do it for just a second before encircling my wrist with his strong fingers and returning my hand to my side.

The moment the song ends, Garrett grabs me by the arm and yanks me out of the party, down the stairs, and across the street to the music school. “Where are we going?” I say as he’s pulling me across the street, but he doesn’t answer. I didn’t even get a chance to tell my friends I was leaving. It doesn’t matter, though. This adventure with Garrett, this feeling of not knowing what he has planned, that something dangerous might happen—it pardons the other, smaller injustices.

“Swipe your card,” he says when we reach the door, and I fish around in my purse for the card. I can still hear the dull thump of the music from the party. My breath is coming in gasps.

“Your cello in here?” he asks, and I nod. “I want you to play for me.”

“Okay,” I say, and I know he means for me to play in the way that is only meant for him.

Once I’ve retrieved my cello from its locker, we look for a practice room. The place is mostly empty, since it’s Halloween—the sound of one lonely Oboe croons from the other end of the hallway. We might as well be alone.

We choose a larger room occupied by a baby grand piano, but even so there is little room to move once Garrett and I are inside with my cello. I’m still unlatching my case when the door snaps shut, the deadbolt clanking into place. His intent is like tentacles reaching for me—I can hardly stand to have my back to him, so close like this. Then his hand is on my hip, turning me, and I leave my cello standing for a moment in the open case waiting for me to make it sing. But not yet. Garrett’s tongue is in my mouth now, rough and demanding, and he yanks my black Wednesday Addams skirt high up my thighs. I’m already shuddering, soaking through my underwear. He’s going to do it again—tear me apart and stitch me up.

He pushes me backward until I’m leaning against the piano, the hardness of the bench pressing into the backs of my knees. A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “You think you can just grab my dick like that in a crowd of people?” His voice is low and measured, almost sweet, but vibrating with intensity. He grabs me between the legs then, viciously, as if to demonstrate who belongs to whom.

I grip the edges of the piano. “Are you mad?” I practically wheeze the words into his face.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” He grabs one of my braids with his free hand and jerks it hard.

“Ow, okay, okay, I won’t do it. I thought you’d like it.” But he doesn’t seem to hear me, he’s already pushing my underwear to the side and stabbing into me with his fingers, hurting me so much I’m climbing up on the piano backwards, spreading my legs and whimpering, wanting him to be nicer with his touch, just a little bit nicer so it doesn’t hurt as much. He pulls my braids again and my head goes backward so fast I have to catch myself to keep from toppling into the belly of the piano.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper, my eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, please.” He slows his abuse, massages me now, and god, fuck him for knowing how to do this to me. I’m nothing but a dirty slut, desperate for him, and he knows it and makes sure I know it too. His fingers slide up into my wetness, pulling low, guttural moans from me, and I hate these noises I make, but he likes them so it’s okay—his blue eyes are shining and he’s sucking his teeth while he watches me submit. That’s it for me. Seeing him suck his teeth like that, knowing he’s getting off on this, that’s enough, I’m going to come, and…fuck—

He pulls his fingers from me. “Get undressed.”

I’m throbbing emptily, and it’s so painful I almost want to finish myself off right there in front of him, but I know he’d be a different kind of mad—a really bad kind of mad—if I did that. So I take off my clothes and leave them in a pile on the piano and now I’m standing naked in front of him, rocking back and forth, clenching and unclenching my fists, biting my bottom lip. Waiting.

“Now play your cello.”

I’m trembling. I’m not sure I can even do this, but I feel trapped here, deliciously trapped. What would happen if I said no and tried to put my clothes on and leave? Would he drag me back here? Would he get angry and hit me? Would he let me go and never talk to me again? But no, I can’t even consider that last one—that would be worse than getting hit.

I pull the piano bench out and sit on it naked with my cello between my legs, checking the intonation of the strings. The piano bench is wet beneath me—nasty. My nipples go hard, thinking of how nasty I am.

I begin to play, shaky at first, but it’s easier to play through the shakiness if I tear at my strings and become the savage I was downtown. But unlike downtown, I keep my eyes open and watch Garrett watching me. His nostrils are flaring; he likes what I’m doing. I keep expecting him to pull himself out and masturbate, and I don’t know why he doesn’t—he stands there strong and stoic, still dressed in his gangster costume, ignoring the hard bulge pressing at the zipper of his pants. What happened to his pretend machine gun, anyway?

I keep playing, pulling wildly at the notes while my left hand grabs at whatever melody it wants. I hardly know what I’m doing anymore—even my braids brushing against my naked shoulder blades make this sick and erotic. I rip at my lowest string, the deep bass note that vibrates my whole instrument and sends the vibrations quaking through my knees and legs and into the deepest parts of me and—

Garrett snatches my cello from my hands, but not before I’ve already tumbled over into orgasm. He leans the instrument in the corner and yanks me by my braids while I moan and gasp, stupefied once again by my body’s lust for depravity. He turns me and throws me against the piano so I land hard on the keys with my elbows—not graceful—and a dissonant racket reverberates through the room like someone has dropped a stack of ceramic plates on a concrete floor. I’m making a terrible racket too, whinnying with pain from my injured scalp and still reeling from my orgasm. If anyone’s out in the hallway, they’re getting an earful.

Garrett still has me by the braids with one hand, shaking me, and then he spanks me hard with the other. I shriek from the sting—he’s never hit me before. My breasts are pressed hard into the piano now, sending bursts of pain singing through my body, the keys beating my forearms like metal bars.

“Worthless whore,” he growls, and hits me again, harder, and then I’m crying, tears running rivers down my cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, my voice a choked whimper. I try to turn—I want to see his face—but he tightens his hold on my braids, low at the base of my neck, and forces my face forward so that I’m looking down into the piano’s belly, staring at its golden strings.

I hear the hiss of a zipper being opened, hear him shuffling, hear the condom wrapper. “You play like that,” he says, low, “just belch out a bunch of random notes that make no sense, and you think you’re making music?”

He plunges into me, hard and deep, ramming me into the piano’s hard edges and reigniting the agony in my breasts and forearms.

“I thought you liked it,” I sob, and for some reason I’m trying to be quiet, restraining my voice, gritting my teeth against the cries that want to escape. I should just go ahead and scream—at this point it wouldn’t matter what anyone out in the hallway hears.

“You make a fool of yourself putting yourself on display, swinging your hair so proud like you’re something special. You look ridiculous and desperate.”

You’re like your mother, Malory. Very weak, not the kind of person who will leave a special mark on the world.

I think of all the money I made playing that way, letting the music pour out of me however it wanted. I think of the crowd, how fascinated they seemed. But maybe they were hearing something different than what I thought. Maybe I really was only making a spectacle of myself. I’m pounded into the piano again and again, sometimes hitting the keys and making that little tinkling noise, and eventually I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it to be over. I feel like someone is scraping me out, pulling out all my guts so that I’ll soon be left with nothing but a vast, open space inside. Soon I’ll be just a shell.

“You’re like a bag lady out there, holding out your hand, aren’t you?” Each thrust is harder than the last, the slap of his skin against mine an ugly thwapping noise in the room, mixing dissonantly with the plink of the piano. He pulls my braids again, yanking my head up from the piano, and my eyes spring wide with pain. “Aren’t you just a beggar?” he murmurs at my ear.

“Yes,” I say, because I want him to stop hurting me now, but also because it’s true. Look how I keep coming back to him over and over even though I’m nothing but his plaything. I’m content to let him tear me apart. I like the idea of being an empty shell. Powerless and useless, just as my father said for years, just as my mother proved when she committed suicide. How foolish I was to believe she was getting better. I might as well have killed her myself.

A memory flashes through my mind then, my father’s voice in the dark, saying those very words, You might as well have killed her yourself. Wait—are they my words or are they his? My heart rate climbs at the idea that my father has put this thought into my head. What other thoughts did he put there? What other words don’t I remember?

Garrett slams into me one last time, my chest crashing into the edge of the piano while he goes rigid with orgasm, not making a sound, still pushing my head forward so I can’t look at him. He pulls out of me and leaves me bent over the piano panting while he zips himself up.

“Get dressed,” he says, and leaves me by myself in the room. He is going to clean himself up, I know. Going to clean off my filth.

He walks me to my dorm after, holds my hand like he doesn’t care who sees. Like he loves me. I’m still dressed like Wednesday Addams albeit a more disheveled version. One of my braids is loose, billowing against my back like a rope that’s come unraveled. I keep picking at it, rebraiding it, as if there’s any way it could stay put without something to hold it together.

Garrett never turns his face to meet my gaze, but his profile is just as beautiful and clean and organized as the rest of him. His breath, even from feet away, still smells like wintergreen. He is still the most confident person I have ever known. But my forearms are achy and bruised. He has hurt me, torn me away from myself, pulled me undone, torn me from myself as surely as he unraveled my braid. And yet I want him. I want him to want me. Imagine, someone like Garrett, who has no need to want anyone, anything—wanting me.

It is an unholy grail.