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Eli’d been talking and laughing with people I didn’t know most of the night. He tried to include me in the conversation, of course, but I shrugged him off. Eli talking to friends without me meant I could sneak more drinks.
“And you’re drunk.” Eli reached for the cup in my hand, but I shied away and cradled it to my chest. The cup was magical. It made me feel amazing and beautiful and happy. No one was getting that cup from me. Eli frowned.
“How many of those have you had, Grace?”
I shrugged. “You’re the genius, not me.” I giggled. “You do the math.”
“I’d say one too many.” Eli reached for the cup again, but again I moved it out of his way.
Changing the subject from me and my cup, I wiggled on his lap. “I like this.”
Eli and I didn’t get enough time alone. Sure, we found ways to see each other. We’d developed a routine. I would wait until Daddy had his afternoon nap, usually after he had his afternoon beers, and then sneak out the front door. We’d meet by Mrs. Nelson’s sugar maple tree and have about one to two hours until Daddy woke up.
It was never enough time. Some days I stayed out past Daddy’s nap and paid for it with bruises. I had to lie to Eli on those days. I would say that Daddy drank an extra beer and would sleep longer, otherwise Eli wouldn’t let me stay out later. He refused to risk me.
Eli was gettin’ wise to me though. Even if I told him now that Daddy drank extra, he took me back to the tree. We hadn’t made love in months. I missed him. I missed his touch. I missed his feel. It wasn’t fair that I was holed up as some prisoner without Eli.
Eli didn’t understand. Daddy beat me regardless. Daddy beat me some days just ‘cause he felt like it. I knew Eli meant good by what he did, that he wanted to make sure no harm came to me when we were out, but it didn’t matter. Daddy was always gonna beat me.
Nights like these Eli and I both knew what was going to happen to me when I got home. I’d left and Daddy knew I’d left. When I got home there was a beating waiting for me; so we just ignored the inevitable and had fun. I wished we could do that on our days, too. I wished we could stop pretending that because I got home before he woke up, he might not beat me.
That was never the case, but it made Eli feel a little bit better, so I kept pretending.
I moved again, feeling him stir beneath me, and Eli frowned.
I stopped, frowning also. “What?”
“You’re not acting like yourself.”
“I know you like it too. I can feel it. I can feel you.”
“Of course I like it, Gracie.” Eli huffed and pushed me off of him. I fell to the side, landing on a hay bale less than gracefully. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?” I folded my arms in a pout. “I’m not actin’ like anything.”
“What’s wrong, Bug? What’s going on in that head of yours?” Eli asked, calling me by the nickname he’d given me years ago. It was one of the first times I’d left home to meet him. At the time, there was nothing romantic between us. He was just a friend; we were only kids then, after all, and well, he’d dared me to eat a bug.
I ate it because I was so terrified that if I didn’t, he’d stop playing with me. After that he called me Bug. At the time, Eli thought it was hilarious. He thought I was the kind of person who liked eating bugs. Having known me for years now, he knew why I’d eaten the bug and didn’t find it as funny any more. Still, the nickname stuck.
“Just take me home Eli.”
I tiptoed past the overgrown grass, yellowed from lack of water, and up the dilapidated porch. The entire ride home with Eli had been silent. He wanted in my head and I wanted him out. Any word I spoke would have given me away. I wanted him happy and carefree, but the closer he got to me, the more ruined he became. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t carefree. I was bruised and damaged and worthless. Some days I wondered if he would have been better off if I had never given him my name. If I had just kept walking the day he’d asked.
The porch squeaked as my foot collided with the wood. Internally I cringed, hoping no one inside heard me, though of course they did. Daddy was always up. Always waiting. Still, a girl can dream.
Carefully, so as not to announce my presence, I opened the screen door. It squealed like a dying cat, its hinges in desperate need of oiling. I pushed open the second door and entered my jail. Inside was blacker than outside, with no stars or moon to guide me. Just black.
“Do you know why I named you Grace?”
I jumped, frightened. “Daddy!” He was sitting in the dark and I hadn’t seen him. He looked like just another shadow. A big shadow. A menacing phantom that haunted my dreams.
“Answer the question, girl!” Daddy yelled, his voice booming like thunder.
“No—no, sir,” I stuttered. Any happiness I’d felt vanished. I hoped he couldn’t smell the booze on me. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t; he’d find another reason to hit me.
“I thought you were sent from God himself,” Daddy whispered into the darkness, his voice cooler than the sensation creeping up my spine. Tonight was different than all the other nights.
I felt like falling back into the screen door and running out into the night. Whatever was on the streets was better than what he had in store for me. Something was o
