The Good Girl

I'd made it this far without getting into trouble. Time to play Goldilocks.

The first door closest to the foot of the stairs opened into a bathroom. It seemed quite large for being in a basement. Especially with a soaking tub, a double-sink, and a shower with a glass wall but no door that looked like it could fit at least five people. Besides the toilet, the only other item in the room not connected to the walls was a shelving unit filled with folded black towels. Again, every surface was black or white. Cold-looking. And the room was void of any accessories besides an empty, silver bowl on top of the shelves.

Behind door number two was a bedroom. A large made-up bed with a white duvet and a lattice-styled headboard in black-painted wood took up most of the space. A padded bench—in black leather, not surprisingly—sat at the foot of the bed, and a long, low dresser that matched the bed frame occupied the opposite wall. There was nothing in the drawers. And there was no closet. There were also no decorations of any sort in the room besides two black throw pillows on the bed. Not even a mirror.

The third door was locked. Bummer.

The last door hid all of the previous stuff that had once filled the basement. The outside, cinder-block of the foundation was still visible on two walls. The third and fourth that shared a wall with the locked room and the main living area respectively was covered with bare drywall. There was ample space to walk around, and the perimeter was lined with wooden shelves, most of them filled with small pieces of furniture and familiar gray bins. The labels on the bins indicated various holiday decorations, seasonal clothes, belongings of Mallory's, and other heirlooms. Just what I had last seen them, although they were now organized up off the floor instead of stacked in rows against unfinished walls.

I returned to the living room area and plopped down onto the couch. It didn't make any sense. Why had Dave kept this a secret? And why had he been gone so long?

If anything, I was expecting a man-cave with a super-sized flatscreen television, pool table, or even a bar. Instead, the basement was...normal. Uninviting, but normal. Maybe Dave was just creating a place where he could escape the memories that haunted him.

After an hour of racking my brain but finding no answers, I went home, took that hot shower, and finally crawled beneath the sheets of my bed. I could hear the crickets chirping outside my open window while the rain tapered to a light drizzle.

I dreamed of running around Dave's black-and-white basement as though I was trapped in an old TV show.

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CHAPTER 2

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Saturday dawned cool but sunny. My parents weren't around when I emerged from my room. I barely glanced at the note they'd left on the kitchen counter about where they'd gone, when they were coming back, and that I was on my own for meals. Same old, same old. Just once, I wished they'd written, "Love Mom & Dad," or something sentimental so I didn't feel like an afterthought.

I ate my breakfast while staring out the kitchen window. There was still no activity across the way. I envisioned the basement with its room placement, furniture arrangement, and minimalist décor. All those days I had sat upstairs and heard guys working below. What had been the purpose? To create an area Dave didn't need and probably wouldn't use? The house was already too big for just one man.

I took dressed and headed over to Dave's house, letting myself in the back door this time as though I lived there. There still lingered a feeling of loneliness. Emptiness, desertion. Yet, I still had hope that someone could walk in at any minute for an appointment and say hello. Thankfully, no one did. I would have had a heart attack.

Instead of going back to the basement, I ascended to the second floor where my bedroom was. I stood in the doorway of the pale-yellow painted room, taking in the twin bed and white dresser with a mirror framed in the same curves as the headboard. A little desk still sat in one corner, the white lamp and yellow shade on top covered in dust. An easy chair sat in the opposite corner, a patterned quilt neatly folded on the cushion. Between the two pieces of furniture was a wide window seat. The once-white lace curtains above had turned ivory from age, and dust particles danced liked fairies in the morning sunlight streaming through the glass panes.

I retrieved the familiar, lone teddy bear from the window seat and sat down. The Mitchells had given me the bear the first Christmas I'd spent with them. I had been five, and my parents had decided to go out of town for a holiday party. Mallory had said she wanted me to feel welcome and cared for.

Now, all these years later, that stuffed animal was a small reminder that I'd had a home here. Maybe even more-so than my own, I wanted it still to be so. I longed for the place of my childhood where I'd felt safe...and loved. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spent the night, though. It had to have been at least four years...when I was still in junior high. When Mallory was still alive.

I leaned back against the wall framing the alcove and stared at the ceiling, realizing I didn't fit within the space anymore. While I once had been able to stretch out on my stomach while reading a book...or even stand on the seat while playing make-believe, my head was only a few inches from the top of the inset now while sitting. And my long legs had to be bent, my right leg propped up on the cushion while the other one dangled over the side with my foot flat on the carpet. When had I grown up?

For the millionth time, I wondered where Dave was and let out a loud sigh of frustration. Maybe I should check his answering machine in the studio. What did he do about customers who wanted to hire him while he was gone? He'd already missed my senior prom and my most important birthday thus far. Would he also miss the next biggest milestone in my life, my high school graduation? I wanted him there more than anything in the world.

I set the bear aside and went back down to the main level. I wandered through each room, memories of Mallory and the fund we'd had together filling my thoughts. I'd never missed my parents like I missed the Mitchells at this moment. My heart ached to see Dave. To hear his voice...to have him remind me that I wasn't alone.

I found myself going downstairs again and standing in the refurbished storage room. I pulled a stool down from one of the shelves and opened a gray tub with Mallory's name on it. I don't know what I was looking for. But each item I pulled out made me smile, even if sadly.

Time seemed to stop in the coolness of the basement, a lifetime of memories boxed up around me. I found a photo album of Dave and Mallory's vacations before I'd entered their life. Then another during my early years when I was too young to remember without the aid of the photos. There were the years of my school days, holidays when my parents were gone, and finally my junior high graduation. The photos grew sparse after that. They ceased entirely around the time Mallory would have been diagnosed. Despite Dave being the professional photographer, she had always been the one to keep track of the family photo albums. All were permanent reminders of my childhood that should have been captured by my real parents. Instead, they were stored in the basement of the house next door.

I had returned a container to the shelf and turned to leave when I noticed a small bin on the highest shelf. I needed the aid of the stool to reach it, despite being five foot-eight. Finally retrieved and opened, the bin was full of DVDs in plain, black cases. The only labels were the first names of women and dates.

Once more, my curiosity got the better of me. Dammit.

I snagged a DVD labeled "Julie 1978," put the bin back where I'd found it, and closed up the basement. Dave had a TV and DVD player in the studio for when he created video montages for customers. I found the remote and settled into his worn, leather chair, trying not to think about the familiar smell of him that the material had absorbed through the years.

For a minute, there was nothing on the TV but the typical snow...like one would see at the beginning and end of a show on an old VHS tape. Maybe whatever was on the DVD had been recorded from the old format. Or had been recorded over. But why record over family movies? Or keep the disc if the contents had been erased?

I was trying to remember Dave or Mallory mentioning a family member named Julie when the screen suddenly went black then bright blue. The cheesiest music I'd ever heard poured out of the speakers. I laughed even harder when the title of the movie, "Summer Fling," spun onto the screen as though someone had thrown it like a Frisbee.

Bad music. Even worse special effects. This had to be a joke.

But my eyes went wide when the screen changed to the view of a backyard of a house and a lady with a body like a Barbie doll wearing a gold bikini that showed more tanned skin than allowed in public.

Oh, my God! This wasn't a home video!

I fumbled with the remote and stopped the movie, my breath quickening. I had never seen a pornographic movie before, yet I was certain this was one. There had just been the lady reclining on a lounge chair by a pool. She'd had oversized sunglasses on, her poufy blonde hair pulled back slightly, and she was opening a bottle of suntan lotion. But the music...the way she was dressed...it could only mean one thing.

As I sat in the stillness of the room, shivering at the discovery I'd found, I was both curious and disgusted about what would happen next.

My father's words echoed in my head. What would a good girl do?

I paced the room. I wrung my hands. Maybe I had been wrong. I could watch a little more. Just to see.

I sat on the edge of the chair and resumed the movie. The cheesy music faded away to the sound of birds chirping. Barbie, as I was going to call her—or maybe her name was Julie like the label had said—poured a clear liquid out of a bottle and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Repeatedly. Very slowly. When her arms were glistening in the sun, she poured more of the liquid into her hands and repeated the process on her legs.

I settled back into the cushioned office chair and crossed my arms. The timer on the DVD player was past three minutes. So far, the lady had not spoken or done anything else. Honestly, besides her skimpy swimsuit and the obvious camera angles focusing on her cleavage, there was nothing erotic about the movie at all. Why were people in such an uproar over porn?

When she was so slick and shiny I was afraid she'd slide right off her chair, Barbie turned and swung her legs over the side and stood up. I assumed she was going to go swimming in the clear, blue pool. Whatever her plans were, she was interrupted by a male voice that told her she needed to put oil on her back first so she didn't get a sunburn.

I wasn't sure what the products from the 1970s looked like, but I was certain that sunblock—not tanning oil—was used to prevent sunburn. In any case, I rolled my eyes when a guy in tight black swim trunks, a shoulder-length mane of black, and almost as much hair on his chest walked onto the screen.

The first thought that popped into my head was why did they think this guy was good-looking? He was definitely nothing like the Ken dolls I'd seen growing up, but that was going to be his name in my head. It was easier to think of than Ugly-Hairy-Guy.

Barbie lifted her sunglasses and smiled at Ken before handing over the bottle. She sat back down on the side of the chair. He sat down behind her and proceeded to rub oil all over her shoulders and back. She tilted her head to the side, moaned a little, and he whispered something in her ear that made her giggle. Which actually sounded forced...and slightly annoying.

Then he said he needed to untie her bikini top. The camera man panned around and did a close up of Ken's hands pulling first on the gold string around her neck and then the string around the middle of her back. The top fell away, and not even a tan line showed. I guessed she must usually tan topless. The thought gave me shivers. I was too self-conscious to wear anything but a one-piece, much less risk someone seeing me with my top off, even in my parents' enclosed backyard.

The rubbing of oil all over her backside commenced. Slowly, methodically, Ken's fingers slid up and down Barbie's skin. While the sun glistened off her back like water on glass, he moved to other parts of her body. First on her sides, then his hands reached around to her belly. And sure enough, those fingers eventually made their way up to spread oil on her breasts.

Once her front side was shiny, he didn't stop, though. He cupped her breasts, which were a good handful but still smaller than mine. Her nipples were large and reminded me of the button on my driver's side car door that you could push down to lock the window controls in the backseat. Child-proofing, I think. Funny how Ken used his thumbs to press Barbie's nipples in and out, just like I did with that button when I was waiting in traffic. Then he pinched and rolled her nipples between his fingers and thumbs.

Something about seeing that made my own nipples pucker. It was a strange and almost painful feeling. I moaned softly and rubbed my arms against my chest. It didn't help.

The timer on the DVD player had passed the five-minute mark. Ken had Barbie lie down on her stomach on the lounge chair before he shimmied her bikini bottoms off. I watched slack-jawed while he oiled her butt, rubbing and squeezing her skin. His hands moved deeper between her thighs, and she finally made a noise that sounded somewhere between a moan and a coo.

When he asked her to flip over onto her back, I stopped the disc again and ran out of the house. I was in my own kitchen gulping down my second glass of water when I realized what I had just done. What if Dave came home? He'd find the DVD in the player. Had I even locked up his house? Oh, shit!

My parents chose that moment to walk into the kitchen to discuss an event they were going to that night and wanted me to tag along. Something about meeting the son of a political acquaintance they were trying to persuade to do something for the city. Thankfully, I convinced them I had a project to work on for school and, regretfully, I could not attend. Not that my homework would take all night, but I really didn't want to be their pawn now that I was of the age they thought I could finally be useful.

I watched anxiously while they backed down the driveway and disappeared past the trees on our street. Then I rushed back over to Dave's house. Sure enough, I'd left the back door unlocked and the video equipment on. I had the remote in my hand, ready to shut off the DVD player and TV. But I couldn't bring myself to press the power button. I had to know what Ken was going to do to Barbie.

And though I knew I should shut everything down and go home—like a good girl—I convinced myself it was just a movie. What harm could come of it?

The movie started over again. I had pressed the button to fast-forward, but my nipples hardened as soon as I saw Ken reach for the bottle of oil. So, I stopped the DVD for the third time and started it from the beginning once more.

For several minutes, I stared at the same scene I'd already watched. This time, I paid attention to where everyone's hands were. And I held my breath when Barbie finally flipped over to reveal her naked body to the camera. She was quite hairy between her legs, but Ken didn't seem to care. He oiled up his palms again and began rubbing the liquid into her hips and the tops of her thighs. He took his time doing the rest of her legs...her feet...which Barbie had already done.

I was beginning to wonder why he avoided the area between her legs when he knelt down on the concrete at the foot of the chair, spread Barbie's legs, and pulled her closer to him. I think my heart stopped when he leaned down and the camera zoomed in to show his tongue disappearing into the dark curls hiding her most private parts. Yeah, that would probably be why he skipped putting the oil there.

He played with her mons, first with his tongue and then his index finger, the latter brushing aside the curls to reveal her red, swollen labia. Why I suddenly remembered those terms from health class was beyond me. His hands wandered up and squeezed her breasts and nipples. Teased the areolas. Or as best as he could with her skin as slick as it was. Her hands tangled in his hair while she writhed and moaned. The cheesy music returned. And the timer on the player changed to eight minutes.

Ken sat up after two more minutes and quickly removed his swim trunks. At first, all the camera showed was his backside. Just like Barbie, he was bronze all over. Even his tight, narrow rear end. I could see his arm moving, and it wasn't until the camera panned around that I understood. I may have been a virgin and naïve when it came to being intimate with a guy, but I didn't live under a rock. He was masturbating.

I stared at the screen then, leaning forward. Because all I could see was Ken's large hand moving back and forth, but nothing else. When he moved his hand away, though, I finally saw his penis. It was so...small. And limp. He continued to alternately stroke it and rub his palm over the end. And as unappealing and unimpressive as the guy was, I was moaning softly. Knowing he was supposed to get bigger and wondering how much so.

Those definitely were not good-girl thoughts. Yet, I told myself it was okay to keep watching. At least a little more.

Barbie was licking her lips, her eyes also on Ken's hand. She even licked her first two fingers, reached down to spread apart her labia, and touched herself while she watched him. They were both moaning and groaning. I wondered if they were really enjoying it or just acting. And I wondered if what they were doing affected the cameraman at all.

After a while, Ken came around the side of the chair again, this time with his back to the pool. Barbie sat on her chair facing him, and she replaced his hand with her own on his member. He put his hands on the back of her head. I held my breath when she actually put his penis in her mouth.

I kid you not, she licked and sucked on him for almost five minutes, stroking and fondling him the whole time. I kept checking the counter...and she kept treating his penis like a Tootsie-Pop that she was trying to get to the center of. He reached down and played with her breasts sometimes. But for the most part, he stood there naked with his hands on her head, her hair gathered in his fist while he thrust his hips toward her or pulled her head down on him.

I was expecting him to lay her back on the lounge chair and finally get it on, but I was wrong. After he'd apparently had enough of her pleasuring him with her mouth, which had helped increase his length a few inches and made him hard now, he took her hand and walked her over to the pool. It reminded me of the pools at hotels where a series of graduating, wide steps were used to enter the shallow end.

Ken walked backwards, leading Barbie into the water. Once they were waist deep, he turned her around to face away from him but tilted her head back so he could kiss her. From behind, he fondled her breasts and mons. She rubbed her butt against him in a circular motion, making little waves in the water while she moaned loudly.

After a full minute of that, he walked her forwards and turned her again, this time situating her so she was sitting on the top step but still in the pool. Water ebbed and flowed over her thighs when he leaned her back against the ledge and spread her legs.

I was leaning forward with my elbows on the desk by now, waiting for the obvious to happen. The cameraman did not disappoint. He zoomed in just as Ken lifted his member, teased it against Barbie's mons for a moment, and then pressed it into her.