They were running out of Saturday nights.
The semester was almost over. Corinne’s mom had found a house in their old neighborhood, with three bedrooms. The girls would share a room, and the boys would share a room. Brother Fiala still had their beds in his garage. They just had to wait a month, and then they could move in. Then they could move out.
“You don’t have to help me with the dishes,” Enoch told Japheth. “You can go to bed.”
“I’ll help,” Corinne said.
He kissed her against the wall. Against the refrigerator. The magnets got caught in her hair. His hands were wet from the sink. Wet on her back. On her stomach. One palm, damp over her breast, while he pressed her head into the wall and groaned into her mouth. Enoch, Enoch, Enoch. His pale skin and mahogany hair. His big nose in her cheek. In her neck. In her ear. The clock chimed, and he pushed his body into hers, and she tried to make room for it, to be enough for it, every square inch of him. He was built like a wall. Out of bricks. He was big and heavy and stronger than she was, and she wanted it.
Enoch was always the first one to pull away. To leave her in the kitchen.
She kept hoping that he’d find her other places. That he’d show up at the flagpole again. That he’d stop her on the stairs to the church basement. Not even to kiss. Just to be alone. “What are you doing down here, Corinne?” She’d linger there, waiting for him, bouncing on her toes on the edge of a step. He didn’t come.
It was Saturday evening, and Corinne’s blood was singing. She was ready, she was already holding her Bible and sitting on the stairs, waiting for the rest of her family.
“I wish you’d make an effort with yourself,” her mom said.
“What do you mean?” Corinne had brushed her hair and redone her ponytail and glossed her lips with Carmex.
“The Millers all dress nice for Bible study.” She was right, they did. Bonnie wore a dress (Bonnie always wore a dress), and the boys wore cotton pants or their nicest jeans, with collared shirts. “It’s a way of showing respect.”
Corinne was wearing threadbare jeans and her black sweater. She’d chewed a hole at the neck. “I can change if you want,” she said.
“Put on a skirt,” her mom said. “It doesn’t have to be fancy.”
Corinne didn’t own anything fancy. She put on a long gray skirt and didn’t bother with tights. She put her black flats on without socks. There was a mirror in the laundry room, and Corinne looked at herself. Her clothes hung on her, they hid her. Her skirt came to her ankles. You couldn’t say she wasn’t modest. She tightened her ponytail. There was nothing she could do about her body, nothing she could do about her face. She hadn’t worn nail polish since they’d moved into the Millers’ house. She didn’t have any.
She walked out of the bathroom. “Better?”
Her mom smiled at her. “Thank you. Jesus notices.” Jesus noticed everything. He was always watching, and when He couldn’t, He had His angels watching. There was probably an angel assigned to every one of us, her mom said. “You’re never alone.” If God kept track of the little sparrows, He wasn’t going to lose track of Corinne. Especially when she was flouting Him so boldly.
When they went upstairs, the pizzas were already there. Enoch had stopped to pick them up. He was home. Early. Corinne wasn’t used to seeing him at dinner, to watching him eat. His big hands. His fat lips. His tongue. He was wearing a new shirt. Dark green, long sleeves, button-down collar. It looked like it came from JCPenney. He looked cheap. His jeans were too dark, his waist was too thick. That green shirt made his hair look like a campfire, like every shade of red and brown. It made his skin glow pink. Corinne drank it in. She made herself sick off him. Her belly felt too full. He was rising up the back of her throat. Enoch Miller. Enoch Miller. Enoch Miller.
They had their Bible study. They played their game. Enoch had stopped keeping score—there was no way to win. They rolled the dice and asked each other questions. They made each other jump through hoops. They teased each other. They laughed with their mouths closed and open. At ten thirty, Corinne moved over to Enoch’s side of the table. He rubbed her thigh through her skirt. She leaned against him, she knew she was allowed to—she knew he wanted to touch her now. That’s what Saturday nights meant, what they were for. “It’s time to find a save point,” Enoch said, and Japheth grumbled, and Shawn slipped downstairs, and Enoch turned off the lights. But he didn’t pull her into the kitchen—he pulled her onto the couch instead. “Corinne,” he said, so low she almost didn’t hear him.
They’d never kissed somewhere this easy. Somewhere made for kissing. Everywhere Enoch pushed her, it was soft. She held on to the back of his head. She held his ears. She was allowed to do it. He wanted it, and she wanted it. He couldn’t stop touching her skirt, sliding the fabric against her thighs. The couch was against the wall, directly across from the staircase. There was a light built into the grandfather clock. It wasn’t dark, they weren’t hidden. Corinne could imagine how they would look from the stairs. Or from the kitchen. But she didn’t stop, she never would. Enoch pushed her skirt up her legs. He was leaning on her, flattening her against the arm of the sofa. It wasn’t comfortable, but she wanted it. She kissed him the way she always did. Like someone trying to eat him. Like someone saying yes. He slid his hand up her skirt, and she loved it. She loved it. She hadn’t shaved her legs in four months. She didn’t have a razor. Enoch didn’t seem to care, he didn’t seem to notice. He was squeezing her thigh. His other hand was grinding into her chest. It was all just pushing, it was always pushing. He pushed her thigh up, so he could squeeze the back of it. He sank between her legs. She rocked underneath him, she couldn’t help it—and she might as well, the couch didn’t creak. They’d stopped kissing, they’d forgotten how, they’d never known. “Corinne,” Enoch whispered in her hair. “Can I?”
Corinne nodded. He could. Whatever it was, he could. (She knew what it was, and she wanted it.) He pressed his face into her shoulder, and leveraged his hips up, reaching down to do something that Corinne couldn’t see. She pulled one leg out of her underwear. It wasn’t pretty. She was still wearing shoes. Enoch fell on top of her, jammed his mouth onto hers. Corinne didn’t know what her job was, what her part was in this. She tried to make room, to be open. She wanted it. She ached for it. For something. All she could imagine was making a fist and rocking into it. She couldn’t picture Enoch … there. She’d never seen him, never seen any man. And his body was too big, too blocky; she couldn’t see past his shoulders. She could feel his pants open between her legs. She could feel something warm. That must be it. Or maybe that was his hand. Time must be slowing down now. There were more frames per second. Something went into her. It was easy, she was wet. She waited for it to change her. To change everything. Enoch was in her. Something was. It pinched for a second, and then it felt full. And then it really didn’t feel like much of anything. She’d wanted him so much, was this what she wanted? Was this what the ache was for? It didn’t feel like anything, but she still wanted it. It didn’t feel like anything, but she didn’t want him to stop. It didn’t feel like anything, and she didn’t regret it. Enoch was whispering her name. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows were high. He was making a face she’d never seen before, like he was drunk on her. Like she was in his blood instead of oxygen. “Corinne.”
It was over.
She thought it was over.
Enoch’s eyes were closed in the regular way. He was catching his breath. He sat up, off of her, and fastened his pants before she could see. He held his hand out to her, and she took it. She let him pull her up. Enoch wiped his hands on his knees. He was staring at his lap. Corinne closed her legs. The grandfather clock chimed, it was only midnight.
“We should…” Enoch said.
He stood up.
He went upstairs.
Without doing the dishes.