The Devil & Me

Chapter Sixteen: Switching Seasons

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The social worker came, I told her the truth, and Mrs. Ambrose's⁠⁠—Elena's words came to pass. They recommended I be removed from the home. I ended up with the Ambroses.

I went to my mother's apartment, collected my things as she cried, passed Matthew as he sucked his teeth, and left. I hoped to see my room again. I wasn't sure I would anytime soon.

Staying with the Ambroses was like living in a movie or a teenage t.v show. Everything was idyllic. I moved into the guest bedroom. Elena took me shopping for curtains and LED lights and books to decorate the shelf. Mr. Ambrose⁠⁠—I mean Ivan said the family would be driving up to Montreal and he helped me get my passport. It was the first time I'd left the country. We spent a week there, then returned to New York, but only for a few days as the Ambroses packed for their "compound home" or whatever wealthy people called their homes too large to accommodate their small families. I remember winding up the drive and seeing the home; it was a massive, Victorian estate with blue walls and a tower ringed by windows letting in large slats of light. The inside was lush, carpeted, and obviously old. I could imagine five generations come before me walking up these steps and into the library filled with first editions of prized books that university professors would've killed for, I bet. From the home, we went sailing, canoeing and hiking. We drove into Boston for nice dinners, then went to see plays afterward. We spent long days in the sunlight and when I could I would creep away, head inside, and sit in the library's bay window, overlooking the lazy road through the forest.

You could say I grew comfortable with living this way. Even Liliana seemed to tolerate me, saying more and more over time, until our conversations stretched to five, even ten minutes long. It was strange, but so was everything, so I didn't think it was out of the ordinary.

The days bled together: sunning, sleeping late on white sheets, sipping wine when Mrs⁠⁠. and Mr—Elena and Ivan⁠⁠ let me have it. Going to the kitchen for food prepared by a catering service on Sunday nights. Sneaking upstairs with Cassius, though Elena forbade it.

I wondered if, the more Elena railed against it, the more Cassius wanted to. In the deep of midnight, I'd hear him tap on my door, and I'd get up and open it for him and he'd nod at me, tan skin flushed (which I could tell, even in the dark), and ask, "how are you doing?"

"Good." It wouldn't be true though. I was deeply homesick and I missed my mother. I was angry: at night I had dreams of striking Matthew like he struck me, or even going further and killing him. "I'm okay."

"That's good," Cassius would say, swinging his arms back and forth. Then the air's tightness would snap and he would lean into me like a wave crashing into flood walls.

And we would kiss, and I would like it, and he would groan and reach, reach, reach until I'd stop him and say, "Don't you think we should slow down?"

His confusion was always palpable when I said anything like that. His eyes would be melting too, wet with hunger, with lust. He would kiss from my shoulders to the crests of my thighs, then try to peel them apart with hands softened in summer's humidity. And I would always snap them shut.

"We're moving too fast," I'd say.

And he'd sigh, relent, but murmur. "But I miss you," or, "But I love you," or something like that. I'd smile and pull away and lead him to watch the stars rise out of the night sky. And I'd pretend I hadn't heard that.

That was summer's sweetness, its promise, its poison: honeyed drinks and honeyed eyes. I could get swallowed here and never, ever come up again.

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