Free Alone at 90 Foot by Katherine Holubitsky Page B

and been cut twice. I’ve changed my room around. I made a pumpkin-pecan cake for Dad’s birthday. He didn’t want me to. But I had to. It’s the one Mom always baked. I have a jar of sand from Ucluelet. And a peach pit from the Okanagan. And then, there’s this other thing that happened, that nobody knows about. Not even Dad.
    I like ice skating. Joanne and I have been going ice skating together since we were nine years old. Every Friday night during the winter, we take the bus from the Center, down Mountain Highway to the arena at the Winter Club. At nine o’clock, we take it back. We get off at the Center again and walk all the way down Ross Road. Joanne goes into her house. And I walk farther, turning on Hoskins toward mine.
    Last January was when it happened. Joanne had gone into her house. I was continuing down the street toward mine. This guy, like about eighteen or whatever, was passing me. He was walking the opposite way, on the other side of the street. I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. This is because I don’t like to look in the eyes of people who I don’t even know. It was dark, but it wasn’t raining. Actually, it was quite warm. We passed. But then the sound of his footsteps didn’t continue like they should have. I heard them stop, then swingaround. They became louder again, coming after me. He was right next to my side.
    I walked quicker. He walked quicker alongside me. He hung his arm over my shoulder.
    â€œHey, sweetie. Where are you going in such a hurry?”
    His breath was bad. His long whiskers scratched against my cheek. I had never had a man — not even my dad — so close to me. I tried to run, but he threw an arm across my collarbone and slammed my back against his chest.
    â€œWhere are you going, doll?” he hissed.
    I couldn’t move. I was pinned against him and he was pressing his hand across my mouth. He hissed more things, worse things, in my ear. And as he said these things, he ripped a button from my jacket and he squeezed — he
kept on
squeezing
— one of my breasts! I struggled hard but I couldn’t move. And he kept on doing it. And it hurt so much! And I couldn’t do anything! Except blubber like a little baby. Because it hurt. But mostly because I
hated
him. I hated him so much I would have killed him if I could have got my arms free. Instead, I bit him on the hand he had wrapped around my neck.
    Right at that very same moment a car came around the corner, sweeping light across us. It came to a sudden stop. He let go of me and I startedrunning, faster than I have ever run in my life. I ran and ran and ran. I could feel my heart, like it was ready to explode, just below the skin of my chest. I didn’t look back. I just kept on going. I tore up our driveway and flew in the side door, down the hallway and into my bedroom. I curled in a ball and rocked back and forth on my bed. I couldn’t stop crying. But I had to do it quietly. I didn’t want Dad to hear me. I could hear him on the telephone in his den. I pulled my pillow over my head and nearly choked myself so he wouldn’t. But it was nearly an hour before I could catch my breath. And another one before I could even think again. A little while later I came out of my room. Dad was surprised to find me sorting beads and folding scraps of fabric in Mom’s hobby room. He said he was just about to call Joanne’s. He was beginning to get worried. He hadn’t known that I was home.
    I took a long shower that night and another one the next morning. I tried to get the smell of that man out of my head. But I never could. I mean, I can’t. I can still smell him. And sometimes, my breast still hurts. I wish sometimes there was someone I could talk to about it. Maybe that would help. But there isn’t. My dad would absolutely freak. Besides, it’s too embarrassing. Who would believe a thing like that would happen