Page 59 of The Elements

It’s been a few weeks since my evening with Rufus, which turned out to be far more troubling than my usual encounters.

He was clearly alarmed when I led him into the bathroom, even more so when I turned the shower on, but when I took my blouse off, he emitted some strange, petrified sound that blended confusion, desire, and terror into one.

I’ve experienced similar reactions before, of course.

Among their friends, most of these boys act as if they could put Casanova to shame, but in reality they’re all completely terrified of women.

When we made it to the bedroom, he lay beneath me with such a frightened expression on his face that anyone would think I was forcing myself upon him, and when he whispered, “Please don’t hurt me,” I was this close to telling him to gather his things and leave.

His body reacted as it should, however, and somehow we got through it.

When it was over, he slipped out from beneath me and slunk to the floor, staring down at the carpet.

I left him to it, returning to the bathroom to clean up, and when I emerged, he’d at least had the dignity to drag himself to his feet and was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing his football shorts and Coke-stained T-shirt again, but still barefoot.

Only now did he turn to look at me, rearing back a little as if I posed some sort of threat.

“Why did you do that to me?” he whispered.

“Why did I do what?”

“What you just did.”

I watched as he reached for his socks, slowly pulling them on, and decided to ignore his question.

“You should probably leave now,” I told him, which was when I realized that he was drying tears from his cheeks. “Why are you crying?” I asked. “If anyone should be upset here, it’s me.”

He looked at me and frowned, then tried to put his runners on but struggled with this rather basic task, possibly because his hands were shaking so much.

“You’re putting them on the wrong feet,” I said, going over to help him, but he pulled away.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted, so loudly that I jumped back.

“Jesus, fine,” I said, holding my hands in the air. “But the left runner goes on the left foot and the right runner goes on the right. It’s not rocket science.”

The tears came faster now, and he ran the insides of his elbows across his eyes to wipe them dry.

“You can stop blubbing,” I said. “I’m not going to press charges, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What?” he asked, looking bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we both know that you took advantage of me, but I won’t go to the police. You’d only end up in a young offender institution, where God only knows what would happen to you, and I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“But I… I didn’t… it was you who—”

“As far as I’m concerned, none of this ever happened. But you should count yourself lucky. Anyone else in my place would have had you arrested by now.”

He stared at me, shook his head slowly, then started crying again.

“But I need you to go,” I continued. “And don’t ever come back here again. If you do, I’ll report you. You’ll end up as a convicted sex offender. Your parents will disown you. Your entire life will be ruined. Is that what you want?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Good. Well, you’ve been warned.”

He pulled himself to his feet and made his way back into the living room, walking so unsteadily toward the front door that, if I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed he was inebriated.

When he reached it, he struggled with the lock and I had to open it for him.

When my hand brushed his arm, he pushed me away. Then—Christ alive—the tears again.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” I asked. “I’m trying to help you here.”

“I didn’t want it,” he said.

“Didn’t want what?”

“That. What we did.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“You made me.”

“Did I drag you into my car?” I asked, raising my voice now.

“Because I seem to remember you opening the door of your own accord. Did I force you up to my apartment? You came willingly enough. Did I pour Coke over your T-shirt so you’d have to take it off?

I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure that was you. Very subtle, by the way.”

“It exploded over—”

“Take responsibility for what you did, Rufus. You haven’t even apologized.”

“I’m…” He looked around, his face falling, completely disoriented.

“Look, I’m a grown woman,” I said, trying to sound magnanimous. “Believe me, I’m used to the violence of men. I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but maybe from now on you’ll realize that you can’t treat girls like this. Not everyone will be as willing to forgive as me.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“As you should be.”

He paused for a few moments, then looked at me, genuinely curious.

“You really didn’t want that?” he asked tentatively.

“Rufus,” I said, in as measured a tone as I could muster, “you raped me. You understand that, right? You are a rapist. That’s something you’re going to have to live with for the rest of your life.”

He seemed uncertain what to do next, so I decided the only way to get rid of him was to drive him home.

We traveled down to the garage in silence, and when he placed his bag in the back seat, he sat there too, rather than joining me in the front.

For the first time, I noticed that his school backpack had two badges sewn into it.

One for the city’s football team—the same team whose erstwhile players I had once sat in judgment upon—and one bearing a picture of the Muppets.

I felt embarrassed for him. It was the sort of thing a child would have.

We didn’t speak as we drove, other than him giving me quiet directions, and when I finally pulled up outside his small, terraced house, he leaped out of the car like a jack-in-the-box, disappearing inside without so much as a goodbye.

I haven’t given him a second thought since then, but now, when there’s a knock on my door, for some reason his face pops into my mind, even though I know it can’t be him.

It must be Hugh Winley, I tell myself, coming up to try it on with me again.

He’ll be standing outside with a bottle of wine, saying he’s just opened it but doesn’t want to drink alone.

I’ll have to be firm with him. Tell him once and for all that I’m not interested.

He has a certain malevolence to him, though, that is perhaps not uncommon in children’s television presenters, and I assume he’ll react badly to a definitive rejection.

However, when I open the door, it’s not my neighbor standing there, and as it turns out, I rather wish it was.

It is, however, a fourteen-year-old boy. When I recognize his face, my heart sinks.

Those phone calls where no one spoke when I answered. And then the one where he did, on the very same evening that I picked Rufus up from his football game.

Is that Freya?

“ Hi, ” he says, the very definition of a shit-eating grin on his face. “Remember me?”

“Graham,” I say, knowing full well that I’m getting his name wrong but not wanting him to think that I remember it.

My heart is beating a little faster in my chest. I’ve never slept with a boy twice.

I’ve never needed to. It’s not as if I actually enjoy the experience, after all.

I just want to destroy their chances of ever forming happy, healthy relationships in the future.

“George,” he says, correcting me. “George Eliot. Like the writer, remember?” He walks brazenly past me, marching into the living room, followed by an overwhelming stink of cheap cologne.

I stare at his back and offer a slight laugh before closing the door.

If I could, I would pause the universe for a moment and think this through.

Whatever made him repeatedly call me, and whatever has brought him here tonight, I need to play it very carefully.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, turning around.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. Although I’m wearing loungewear, my feet are bare, and I feel exposed.

I can’t just throw him out, because that would risk antagonizing him and children his age are extremely unpredictable.

I need to figure out what he wants. And then deny him it.

“I wanted to see you again,” he said. “That’s OK, isn’t it?”

“How did you find me?” I ask.

“Ah,” he says, throwing himself down on the sofa and pulling his phone from his pocket.

“That is a really good question, and I think you’ll be impressed.

I actually spent the last few weeks trying to remember where you lived, and I just couldn’t do it.

I mean, I literally walked the streets day after day trying to find this building.

You brought me quite a distance from my home, didn’t you?

But then it finally occurred to me.” He holds his phone up and waves it at me.

“These things track your movements. All I had to do was go back to the night we fucked, and it would tell me where I was. It pinned it down to the exact location. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. ”

I flinch when he says the word fucked , but I’m even more disturbed to learn that smartphones track our movements. Does that mean that every boy I’ve ever brought here has a record of where he’s been? If this is true, then it’s very concerning.

“You phoned me, didn’t you?” I ask. “Called my number over and over, then hung up when I answered.”

“To be fair, I spoke once. But, after that, I couldn’t get through again.”

“I thought you were a cold caller,” I lie. “So I blocked you.”

“Who talks on the phone anyway?” he asks. “Old people. No offense.”

“How did you get my number?”