Read Online Carrie Pilby by Caren Lissner - Free Book Online Page A

At dinner in a waterfront restaurant, I’d watch the reflections of orange lights shimmering in the harbor, and he would reach across the table, dunk his roll in my bisque, and ask me if he should put this or that book on the syllabus for next semester. I couldn’t believe I was affecting what his next semester classes would be reading, or that he considered me intelligent enough to offer suggestions. But he always listened closely to what I said and either nodded or gave me a new perspective. It felt wonderful.
    Each of us should have the feeling, even if only for once in our life, of having someone so entranced by us that every inconsequential thing about us becomes an object of fascination. Any old piece of debris that’s poking around in our soul can be offered up for voracious consumption.
    David and I commiserated on the perils of being smart, of thinking too much. One time, we were driving through a small town, the gray-brown branches of naked trees crossed above us like swords, and I told him the story of how, for a few months in seventh grade, I couldn’t sneeze.
    â€œIt started out of nowhere,” I said. “I was in social studies in seventh grade, and I was about to sneeze, and then I thought about it, and I couldn’t. The sneeze got all bottled up under the bridge of my nose and wouldn’t come out.” Every time I had to sneeze after that, I tried not to think about sneezing, but the more I tried not to think about it, the more I had to think about it, so I couldn’t sneeze. Finally, one night, I confessed everythingto my father, and he arranged an emergency meeting with the school psychologist. The psychologist told my father he was concerned that I might have obsessive-compulsive disorder. I had to see him for four weeks in a row. But somehow, I started forgetting to think about sneezing during my sneezes, and the problem disappeared as quickly as it had come on.
    David smiled. “If you think a lot about anything, it can ruin it,” he said. “If you think about kissing, about the fact that two people press their lips together and move into all sorts of configurations, it seems completely bizarre.”
    â€œI’ll bet it’s worse if you think about it while you’re doing it,” I said.
    â€œLet’s see,” he said. And he pulled off the road.
    Â 
    After about a month of my sleeping over regularly, David began telling me a few new things he wanted me to do.
    They were only slight variations on the norm, and I considered them a small sacrifice to make. Whatever kept his attention. As long as they didn’t go too far.
    But soon, he began to tell me some of the things he wanted me to say.
    They bothered me. They weren’t the kind of things I’d ever said before, and I’d probably never say them again, if I could help it. It wasn’t just that they were dirty—the words were harsh. I didn’t feel I could utter some of what he wanted. But I didn’t want to disobey.
    â€œWe’ll start slowly,” he said kindly, one night in his room. “Just like with everything else. I just want you to say this one thing.”
    I was silent.
    â€œCarrie?”
    What’s wrong with you, I thought to myself. It’s just words. You know that intellectually. So what?
    But I knew that even if I could say it, it would come out unnatural. And thus, it wouldn’t have the effect he was hoping for. I was sure of it.
    â€œCome on,” he said, sweat on his brow. “Say it.”
    â€œIt won’t…it won’t sound like me.”
    â€œJust say it,” he whispered. “Say it once.” He kissed my lips, then my neck. He ran his hand down my chest and rested it in my crotch, then took his index finger and began circling. “Say it. What do you want me to do to you?”
    â€œâ€˜I want… I want you to…’”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    He sat up. He