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broom closet of the house. Here, the grandest star of the Rusch family lived with barely enough room for a bed and a desk, and a tiny window that looked over the roof and the chimney. Sometimes we crawled out on the roof to drink and talk. But lately, our conversations had gone from his talking about my gorgeous hair and curves to bits and pieces about school, what colleges were courting him, and my jibber-jabber about art school and what I was working on, which was nothing.
    My poor easel had barely been touched since I’d met Christian. During the school year, I was forced to perform the brush strokes and dabs that were building my future career and a solid reputation as an artist. During summer vacation, though, I cared much less, lounging around doing nothing while planning when I’d swipe my next drink. That was my art, the creativity of scheming to commit theft so as to cop a buzz.
    I was sitting on Christian, his tiny twin bed groaning under our weight. He had just started feeling me up, placing his hands on my breasts and into my pants. I did the same, and it was like a science experiment, finally meeting and greeting the body parts I’d only seen in diagrams. Christian told me he’d had sex before, but it was hard to believe given that it had taken him so long to even go anywhere near my parts. When he finally did, his hands felt awkward and almost like my own, fumbling through unfamiliar movements. Experienced or not, we both liked what we were doing, and that’s how we ended up naked in the broom closet.
    He was on top of me and tried to get inside. When it didn’t work he jumped off and sat on the floor, angry. I was ready to go, even though I wasn’t sure about what I was doing. I consoled Christian on the floor, taking him into my arms and telling him it would be fine.
    “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeated before I told him I was horny and that we should try again, right there on the floor.
    There’s something gritty and real about doing things on a rug. It promises to burn your knees and elbows if you rub against it too much, and it’s also great for getting your footing. So it was there, on that shaggy rug where Christian and I finally figured it out. I prayed for no rug burns on my butt. It hurt at first, like a stabbing pain that kept going, going, going. He remained above my body, not kissing me or doing anything else except moving back and forth. There was no ecstasy, no rippling heat through my groin or cries of delight like the movies. Nope. It was just irritation from inside-out, and when Christian finished he hopped back onto the bed and poured himself another drink. Even something as important and serious as sex was sandwiched between what really mattered to him.
    We eventually dressed and drove to the top of the city — a hill so high that we could view the lights and ocean from Long Beach to San Diego. Christian had brought a quilt, wrapping it around both of us, hugging me from behind as we looked over the land.
    “I love you so much,” he promised in my ear, rubbing his hands over my stomach and tucking them into my waistband. We made-out as the moon went from harvest phase to high and bright in the sky, an owl flying by to take notice of the fools below who had nothing in common except endless containers of glass and metal filled with diversion.
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    As I moved closer to Christian’s inner circle, I learned how to behave and fit into the scheme of things. By partying, I was able to connect with Allison, Kayla and Audrey, three girls I suspected had been with Christian at one time or another. They latched onto me like leeches , sucking information out like who my parents were and what they did, where I lived, what I wanted to do after high school, and why I thought Christian was the one for me.
    “You’re young. There’s plenty of time to get it right, Rebecca,” said Kayla, an extremely petite blond with pencil legs and no ass. When I first met her I thought she was a