Stone Cold Fox (51)

That word again.

Star.

All of a sudden I’m a star?

I’ll take it.

Francis raises an eyebrow, looking behind me, and the woman has reappeared. “We’ll get you back to your mother now,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” I say. “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Francis.” I trip again in my sandals, they’re probably an inch too high to be comfortable, and I immediately feel like an idiot. Why am I being so awkward? But he lets out a huge laugh and I’m relieved. Francis comes closer to me. He wraps his arms around me. He kisses me on the cheek. His lips are wet. They linger. He breathes onto my neck. Then into my ear. I don’t move. Stay still.

“You’re cute, Fleur,” he says before returning to his desk. “Really cute.”



* * *



? ? ?

MOTHER TELLS ME all the time that she’s proud of me. Francis adores me. His friends do, too. It’s easy, isn’t it? It’s so easy to entertain a man, the right type of man, to get what you want. She always wants a full report and I provide it, proud of myself. She’s been taking care of me for so long. It’s time for me to return the favor, and she’s right, it’s quite easy. I wear little outfits at the parties and laugh and fill their drinks. I don’t mind them looking at me. Not really. Men are always looking at me. At least I’m getting something out of it this time.

Francis introduces me to his friends at his parties and expects me to remember their names, so I do. He tells me later those aren’t their real names. It’s just for fun. It’s all pretend. Just a place to blow off steam, an innocent gathering, something most people wouldn’t understand, but I understand, don’t I? Because I’m mature. One of the select few.

Of course, other girls are there, too. Some of them look older than me and act like it, too, but Francis always says I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do and that if anyone tells me differently, I should find him. That hasn’t really happened yet. I don’t mind being grazed by a hand here and there. It’s just a hug, or just a little kiss. Whatever. It’s nothing, just like Mother says. She says that’s just a part of it. Means it’s working, that I’m working.

She’s proud of me.

Some of the other girls are there with their mothers. Some are even with their fathers, but I stay away from them. Something inside tells me to, and when I tell Mother, she agrees with me. Those are the type of men to be avoided. Most of the girls are with nobody and I definitely stay away from them. They like to go far, that’s what Mother says. Alcohol and pills and powders in other rooms. I don’t want any of it and I’m always told I don’t have to, but it still makes my stomach turn. I see what it does to them. It feels like an alarm going off in my head. Francis asks me once if I want a little taste. He doesn’t say of what, but I say no thank you and he shrugs, not bothered. Whatever you want, Fleur. Whatever I want? I feel fine and this is pretty easy, but I still wish I could pretend this is normal. I know that it isn’t. At the house. On the planes. In other places. I’m never alone. I never feel in danger. It’s just a touch. Just a hug. Just a little kiss. Just a massage. Mother is always there, or at least outside the door. Watching. Observing. Never engaging. She says she’s there to protect me so I believe her. Hasn’t she protected me my whole life?

So many men. Watching and looking and touching, just ever so slightly. Waiting for me to say it’s okay for more, but I never do.

Leave them wanting more, Mother says. Always leave them wanting more.

I’m always returned to Francis.

I’m always returned to her.

“You’re a star,” she says to me. “Proud of you.”



* * *



? ? ?

I DON’T TRY to make friends at school. They wouldn’t understand. They’re still kids and I’m an adult. I feel like one, anyway. Besides, my classmates are wretched. Uniforms accessorized with designer bags. I have the uniform. I have the bags. But who is my family? Where do they come from? New money or old money? I’ll have all the wrong answers to the questions they’ll have so I make sure I’m never asked them at all, staying far away.

When I have time to myself, I watch television shows about normal teenagers. Girls from the wrong side of the tracks breaking the hearts of boys, with their hearts of gold, flip-flopping love stories with each passing season, blonde by brunette, in small oceanside towns where everyone is more than a little bit pretty, regular kids with summer jobs at seafood shanties delivering soliloquies to one another about the injustice of their adolescence, yearning to be adults already so their lives can really begin.

I’m jealous.



* * *



? ? ?

FRANCIS WATCHES HIS friend Diamond go too far at a party. I slap him on the hand. Francis immediately apologizes. To him. To Diamond. Then Francis grabs me by the wrist, snatching me out of the party. Mother watches but doesn’t follow us. She stays still and stoic and calm. She looks disappointed in me.

“You’re not a kid anymore, Fleur!” Francis barks at me in the hallway, just the two of us, alone. “What did you think was going to happen here? We let you take your time, you’ve had plenty of it, and if you want to stay here—if you and your mother want to stay here—you have to grow up. Okay? If she won’t tell you that, I will, because I actually care about you.”