Shelter Me
Authors: Mina Bennett
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Marissa
SHELTER ME
by Mina Bennett
Copyright 2013 Mina Bennett
Please note: due to mature subject matter and themes, this book is recommended for readers eighteen and older. It features sexual content, including one scene of a coercive encounter between a married couple which may be upsetting for some readers. It also contains some scenes of emotional and verbal abuse. Discretion is advised.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Scriptural references are quoted from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
CHAPTER ONE
Jacob
Her sisters were named Mary and Martha. If you didn't know any better, you might think her parents were going for a Biblical theme.
But then, Marissa came along.
I don't know if it was because of her name, or because she was the youngest, or because she was just born different. But right away, you could tell there was
something
about her.
Shortly after her family moved to Hobb's Vale, there was a talent show at church. Mary and Martha, two little golden-haired angels, ran up hand-in-hand to the signup sheet on the wall in the recreation room. Neatly, in their best D'Nealian cursive, they signed all three of their names. But Marissa, standing in the corner with a quarter of a muffin in her hand, just stood and stared at the floor. Her hair and her eyes were dark, and she had the longest lashes you've ever seen.
At the show, Mary and Martha were positively glowing. They sang "More Precious Than Silver" at the top of their little lungs, while the piano player dutifully plunked along. Marissa stood several inches away, slightly behind them, singing a little off-tempo, and a little off-key.
I didn't realize it at the time, of course. But looking back, really soul-searching, I'd have to say that was the moment I fell in love with her.
I never bothered to tell her, though.
From then on, she was simply a part of my life. Always hovering around the periphery, lingering in the back of my mind. If my parents noticed that I was suddenly eager to go to church instead of throwing a tantrum every time they tried to wake me up on Sunday morning, they didn't ask why.
A lot of people in my situation would have ended up resenting her. I never did. I couldn't quite bring myself to feel bitter towards her, even when she broke my heart for the thousandth time and didn't even realize it. How could I? I had no one but myself to blame for that.
It started a few months after the talent show. Little Marissa never spoke to strangers. In fact, I was pretty sure the only time I'd ever seen her open her mouth was to sing. Her parents spoke to her, certainly, but she only answered by nodding or shaking her head. If you tried to engage her in conversation, she'd just stare at the floor.
Rumors had started to fly that there was "something wrong with her." Nobody ever said anything in front of Mr. and Mrs. Moore, because if there was something wrong, they were playing it close to the chest. But the rumors spread in guarded whispers whenever their backs were turned.
I became determined to find out the truth.
After Sunday School one day, when we were about eight or nine, I decided to make an effort to get to know her. It wasn't that difficult; she was never exactly surrounded by other kids. She looked at me suspiciously when I approached, but after a moment, her frown was replaced by a more neutral expression. She almost looked like she might smile, but stopped just short.
"Hey," I said. "You want to come play Frisbee with me?"
She tossed her hair a little, so that it slid away from her eye for a moment, only to fall back into place. "I'm not supposed to," she said. "We're leaving in a minute."
"Well, that's okay. Maybe we can play some other time."
"Maybe." Her mouth might not be smiling, but her eyes were. It really lit up her whole face, and I wondered how anybody could think there was something wrong with her. Or if there was, why it would even matter.
We stood there for a few more minutes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, her mom appeared, snatching her arm and pulling her towards the door.
"Marissa," she stage-whispered. "What did I tell you about bothering people?"
"It's fine," I called after them, but I wasn't sure that Marissa's mother heard. "We were just..."
The next week, I tried to talk to her again, but she ran and hid behind her mother, who didn't even seem to notice me there. I tried again, the week after that, but all she had to say was:
"I don't want to talk to you."
Later that day, I spent an untold amount of time kicking a mostly-flat soccer ball around the yard as the sun peaked in the middle of the sky. When mom came to call me in to lunch, it took me a few seconds to even look up.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked, walking towards me with a concerned look on her face.
"Yeah," I said. "Just a little tired."
And so began my longstanding tradition of pretending not to be sad about Marissa.
***
I remember the first time Marissa smiled at me.
We were about fourteen, fifteen, something like that. I was finally old enough that my mom allowed me to indulge my burning desire to take my ten-speed bike apart, and put it back together again. It wasn't without its frustrations, but overall, the whole thing left me feeling very pleased with myself. I started reading about bike repair and practicing on my own, to the point where I had permanent grease deposits on my hands, much to parents' chagrin.
Before long, I was helping out everybody in Hobb's Vale who owned a bike. It started with younger kids, then those my age, and even the grown-ups started coming to me with spinning chains, squeaky brakes, or weird clicking noises. I learned to diagnose and fix them all. Usually I'd refuse payment, but if somebody insisted I'd take a few dollars or some fresh-baked cookies.
Whenever I wasn't working on bikes, I was riding. That was a love I'd discovered long ago, when I'd climbed onto my very first trike as a toddler. The feeling of freedom was unmatched by anything I'd ever experienced, and it wasn't even dampened by the sound of my mom yelling at me to be careful from the front porch.
Once I was old enough to go riding by myself, it almost felt too good to be true. I could pedal and pedal until my legs ached, and coast after that, riding down steeper and steeper hills without using the brakes. It was better than a roller coaster. It was almost as good as having a car. I couldn't understand why everyone else in the world wasn't as obsessed with bikes as I was.
One day, I'd just hopped on my newest acquisition, a mountain bike that I'd gotten for Christmas that had yet to see any real use. It was the first nice day of spring and I'd been looking forward to breaking it in for months.
Halfway down the street, I spotted her. I recognized her immediately, even from the back of her head. She was crouched on the ground, next to her bike, staring at it.
"Hey," I said, coasting to a stop nearby. "You need some help?"
I had to play it cool. This was the first time I'd spoken to her in years and years. But I couldn't act like it was a big deal; that would be weird.
She looked up, frowning, and nodded. She'd started growing out her hair now so that it partially hid her face, always hanging over one eye. I wondered if it made her feel safer.
"I don't know," she said. "It just - the chain, it keeps jamming."
I hunkered down to take a look at it. The problem was pretty obvious at a glance; it had grown rusty and dirty, almost like somebody left it out all winter. Glancing over the frame, I saw a few more rust spots that supported that idea.
"The chain's all rusted," I said. "Might be able to clean it up, but it's easier to replace. I have some extra, why don't you walk it back to my garage?"
She laughed a little as she grabbed the handlebars and followed me; she was trying to hide it, but halfheartedly.
"What's so funny?"
She shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "Just, the way you said 'my garage.' Like you're a mechanic or something."
"But I am," I replied, grinning. "A bike mechanic."
"I don't think most people would call it that."
"I dunno if I like what you're implying."
Marissa was smiling at me.
I knew she'd be up and gone the minute I got her fixed up, so I spent a few extra minutes puttering around my little workshop corner, trying to make conversation. "So, what happened to your bike? Get caught in a water fight?"
"Well, it's a hand-me-down," she said. "Sort of."
"Sort of." I picked up the spare chain and walked over to the bike. "Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers."
"Yeah." She was kicking at some imaginary dust on the floor with her toe. "I'm lucky I ran into you."
I just smiled as I pulled off the old, rusty chain and tossed it into the garbage. She sat down on an upside-down bucket and watched me while I oiled up the new chain and made sure it was running smoothly.
"I'm supposed to be with Mary and Martha, but they left me behind once I started lagging," she said.
"Well, that's not very nice."
"It's okay. I'll catch up with them later." She shrugged.
"Your parents won't be mad?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. Probably. After those kids disappeared, I thought they'd never let us go out riding again." She was referring to the story that had been dominating our local news for weeks now. Two young teenagers, who'd been dubbed "the Romeo and Juliet runaways," had vanished from their homes after their parents forcibly separated them and enrolled them in different schools. Before all the details came out, some parents in the area had feared kidnapping. In the end, though, the couple was found at a nearby bus station, trying to skip the state. The whole ordeal was over in less than twelve hours, but it had left a mark on the whole town.
"Oh, yeah. Well, I can understand that." I straightened the chain a little.
"I'll tell you this," she said. "If I ever ran away, I sure wouldn't hang out in a bus station. That's the first place they look."
She was smiling when I looked at her, but I thought it seemed a little hollow. "Planned it out, huh?" I joked.
"Hasn't everyone?" She looked at the floor, still smiling a little. "Wait until late in the day, after they've checked every place, but before the police can do anything.
Then
go, and buy your ticket. Right?"
"I have to admit, I haven't put that much thought into it."
We were both silent for a while.
"You should open a bike shop," she said, matter-of-factly.
I glanced up at her. "Oh," I said. "Yeah, I dunno. Maybe someday."
"I'm serious. There's no place to go around here. Think about how much you could make if you actually charged people to do this stuff."
She was looking right at me - she'd even brushed her hair back from her eyes. I could feel my ears starting to burn, but I just went back to my work.
"I don't know," I said. "I barely know what I'm doing."
Marissa shrugged. "I wish I was as good at
anything
as you are at fixing bikes."
And for the next three or four years, we were friends. That was all. Nothing more.
That was what I kept telling myself.
***
"'Like a lily among thorns, is my darling among women.' Powerful imagery, right?" Mark paused, and looked around the room, smiling. "Anyone want to try and reword that? What's he really saying?"
"I only have eyes for you," Brandon deadpanned. He always sat with his chair tilted all the way back, rocking gently back and forth and looking bored with his Bible sitting, unopened, on his lap. He only ever spoke when he was convinced he had something clever to say.