Then I was afraid she might be a lesbian herself, and what if I’d just made her not want to be my friend because I’d said I liked dick?
I needn’t have worried.
“Yeah,” she’d said. “I like dick too. Have you fucked an older guy?”
“Yes. Two months older.”
“That’s not older,” she laughed. “Would you fuck an older guy?”
“Like how old? Like Doug?”
She cringed. “No. Not like Doug.” A second later, she reconsidered. “I mean, if Doug had something better to offer you than drugs, then maybe, but otherwise, do not fuck a guy like Doug.”
“Okay. I won’t.” It had been strange advice, but everything about her was so wise and mature that I’d figured I was just unsophisticated.
“Would you fuck my dad?”
“No!”
“You don’t even know what he looks like!”
“Oh.” I chewed my lip, unsure what the correct answer was. “Is he hot?”
“No.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. People say he’s good-looking.”
I studied her, again trying to guess at the right thing to say. Much later, when I recalled that conversation, I didn’t remember anything unusual about the tone she’d used to talk about her father. It had been casual. A bit bored, maybe. The way any teenager talked about a parental unit. There’d been no hint of animosity or fear or resentment or even attraction.
When Joe had located her father in a California prison, I’d finally gotten to see a picture of the man. Surprisingly, he actually was hot. It made sense – his daughter was beautiful. Genetics usually played a role in that. It stood to reason he’d be attractive as well. But by that time, I’d already known for a while that he’d been a pedophile who’d raped his own daughter for years before she’d gotten the guts to run away to live on Doug’s couch. I’d just figured that, since he was so much of a monster on the inside, he probably looked like a monster on the outside.
It was a ridiculous assumption. Hadn’t I learned early on that the people with monster insides were always the most beautiful on the outside?
That first night, though, I hadn’t known much about monsters at all. And I certainly hadn’t known that Amber’s father was the monster that hid under her bed. Even if I had, I don’t know if I could have guessed how she wanted me to respond to her line of questioning. In the end, I had asked point blank, “Do you want me to say I’d fuck him?”
“Yes.”
I’d gaped at the unexpected answer. I’d known nothing about her, though, so my expectations were based on absolutely nothing. My imagination flew with scenarios of what her life must have been like to lead to that response: She thought her father was lonely. She hated her mother. Her mother was dead and she hated her stepmom. She’d run away because of her stepmom. She wanted me to be her stepmom. Because she liked me. Because she wanted me to be tied to her forever.
Hope, I think, was what led me to ask, “Why would you want me to fuck your dad?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “How else would you get close enough to kill him?”
I’d laughed. It was funny because it was so startling. And it was revealing. Without details, it told me that he was the reason she’d run away. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but she’d wanted me to know.
Then she moved on. “Would you jump from here if I asked you to?”
I didn’t even blink. “Yes.” I was pretty sure I would have done anything she’d asked at that point. Even jump off a balcony that was three stories high.
“Damn.” It was nice to surprise her for a change. “I think I love you.”
“Really?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Really.”
My throat suddenly felt thick. No one had ever said they’d loved me. Not my mother. Not any of the casual friends I’d made in my life. Not any of the boys who’d put their dicks in my mouth and not the one who’d taken my virginity.
So even though I’d known that she might not have meant it the way most people meant it, and that I might very well never see her again after that night, it had affected me to hear her say it. It had affected me to hear her say anything. To just spend time with me. It was honestly the most attention anyone had ever given me.
It was a big thought, a big emotion, one that needed space.
So I scooted back from the edge, stretched my body out on the floor, and stared at the framing of the balcony roof.
“Which quality do you find most attractive in a man?” Amber had asked next.
“Hmm.” I didn’t have to think long. “Power.”
“You really would like my father,” she’d muttered. “Why power?”
“I don’t know. It’s sexy, I guess.” I hadn’t known how to articulate the appeal. My entire life, I’d felt powerless. With my mother and her drinking. With my body and its abundant curves. With the swim coach who considered me a team filler and never bothered to time any of my laps or check out my form. Power was an enigma to me. I was fascinated by it – by what it could do, by what it could inspire, by what it could create.
“Personally, I like a guy with money,” Amber had said. “Which is a lot like power, but not really. I want the guy to have the money and me to have the power.”
“Yes. That’s what I mean,” I’d said, wanting to be liked more than to be understood.
But Amber had already understood me more than I’d realized. Propping herself up on her side, she’d said, incredulously, “You wouldn’t know what to do with power if you had it. You don’t know what to do with the power you do have.”