Emerson
(Then)
I take a step toward him, reaching for my skates, but he pulls them out of my reach. I frown and reach for them again. He jerks them even higher out of my way. I glare up at him, confused, ignoring the voice in my head that I can hear clearly now—the voice that’s telling me to turn around and run out the door. To catch up with Jake.
I don’t listen because I convince myself that I’m being stupid. It’s just Coach Lee.
But then he strokes his free hand across my cheek. It burns as if he’s pressing a hot poker to my skin. I can feel my heart beating in my throat as though it’s stuck there, and I think for a moment I’m going to throw up. My brain tells me to move. To say something. To do something. But I don’t move. I can’t move.
He’s just being friendly, I say to myself. Be polite. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t embarrass yourself.
He moves his hand so his thumb is resting against my bottom lip. I shudder and turn my head, trying to make it seem like I’m not freaking out.
“Can I get my skates?” I ask.
“How about we trade?” he murmurs.
I frown up at him, not understanding, yet starting to.
“A kiss,” he says, smiling, “in exchange for the skates.”
My stomach drops with leaden weight to the floor. What’s he talking about? He’s the same age as my dad. He’s Jake’s uncle. He owns half the kayaking business, alongside my parents. I have known him all my life. Why is he asking for a kiss?
I shake my head.
His expression alters. It’s subtle, as though a light has flickered on behind his eyes, and I don’t know what it means, but I do know that I’m scared, that panic is starting to drag its claws down the inside of my rib cage, and that I’m also frozen solid and my voice has vanished.
His hands are there, on my collarbones. What’s he doing? He pushes me back against the cold metal lockers. I can’t breathe. Where’s my voice? The combination lock digs into my shoulder blade. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. What is happening? I don’t understand.
Coach looms over me. His breath is minty and also fumey—it reminds me of my granddad after he’s had his nighttime bourbon. Coach’s fingers are like blunt screwdrivers and they’re digging into my waist. And still I say nothing. My brain has shut down. It’s as if I’m watching it happen from a distance to somebody else.
“Saw you out there with Jake just now,” he says, smirking. “Don’t play innocent with me, Em.”
His hand starts stroking my hair. He tucks a loose strand behind one ear, and I hear a whimper that I don’t at first recognize as coming from me.
“Oh, come on, Em,” he says in a husky voice.
Come on, what? I want to say, but before I can, his mouth is on mine.
It takes a few seconds—how many, I don’t know—before I react. Finally. And it’s more because I can’t breathe. He’s suffocating me. His hands all over me like an octopus, pushing and groping and grabbing.
I push him in the chest. He stumbles back and starts laughing, a soft chuckle that grows into a full-throated laugh. But then the smile vanishes, replaced with a heavy-lidded, ice-cold stare.
He strides toward me and I can’t even scream because his hand is over my mouth and he’s shoving me up against the lockers once more. My head slams against the metal, the sound ringing deafeningly in my ears.
I start to struggle, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, but he’s holding me tight and he’s too strong and he starts whispering, “Shhhh, shhhhh,” and I stop struggling because it’s useless and because I think maybe if I do, he’ll stop and let me go and I can walk out of here and pretend this never happened and everything can go back to normal. But he doesn’t stop. His other hand slides beneath my clothes. His fingers—calloused and rough against my skin—start prodding and squeezing. . . .
Tears well up and start to fall. My body tenses. If I squeeze my eyes shut, maybe I can pretend this isn’t happening. Maybe I can block it all out and pretend I’m somewhere else. But it doesn’t work. I’m still here.
His hand crushes my mouth. His lips, wet and gross, are on my neck. My lungs burn. My vision blurs.
“Em?”
Coach Lee springs away from me as if he’s been electrocuted.
It’s my mom. She calls my name again, and I almost burst into sobs I’m so relieved.
I want to shout out, call to her, but I can’t find my voice. I’m pressed up against the lockers, shaking. A geyser of vomit rushes up my throat, and I barely swallow it down. I have an urge to rip my skin off. Everywhere burns as though I’ve been stung by a jellyfish. A sharp, stabbing pain echoes through me even though he’s no longer touching me.
My mom sticks her head around the door. “There you are!” she says. Then she sees Coach Lee and stops. Her smile fades when she looks back at me and sees my tearstained face. A furrow appears between her eyebrows.
“Hi, Audrey,” Coach says to my mom in a totally ordinary voice.
I dare a glance at him. He’s acting so normal. Did I just imagine what happened? How can he stand there and sound so normal?
“I was just giving Emerson a little pep talk. She got in a fight with one of the Walsh boys, hurt him pretty good.”
My mom frowns at me. Coach Lee gives me a look and I know he’s telling me to go along with it, to keep quiet. Or else.
“I told her she can’t behave like that if she wants to stay on the team.” His eyes stay glued to mine. “Isn’t that right, Em? It’s all about being a team player.”
I just stare back at him, barely breathing. This can’t be happening. Say something. Say something! But I can’t. I can’t speak. Tongue-tied. Now I know the meaning of the word.
He turns to my mom. “Well, I’d best be going. See you next week at practice, Em. And mind you work on your attitude.”
My mom steps aside to let him through the door, and then he’s gone and I suck in a breath and then another.
“Em?” my mom asks.
I sink to the ground as if the bones have evaporated from my legs, and my mom races toward me and catches me, sinking to her knees, still holding me.
“What happened?” she asks.