The Space Between Us. Megan Hart

was drifting to sleep, silence. Then the comforting creak of the floor in the kitchen, the living and dining rooms. Vic was making his rounds. Checking the doors and windows, making sure everything was locked and we were all safe.

      His footsteps on the basement stairs sent me staring, wide-eyed, into the darkness. I heard him moving around the perimeter of the basement, doing what? Checking the windows down here, too? They were too small and awkward for anyone to get through. I heard the rattle of a toy being kicked, the mutter of a curse. Then the metallic squeak of my doorknob being turned slowly.

      A square of lighter darkness appeared as my door opened. I couldn’t make out his silhouette, but I could hear him breathing. I heard the soft scuff of his feet on the carpeting, and I closed my eyes tight. Stifled and slowed my breathing so there’d be no way he could think I was awake.

      I tensed when Vic leaned over me. But instead of touching me, all he did was press the lock on the high, narrow window above my bed. Then, assured all was well, he left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

      I let out my breath in a whoosh and burrowed deeper into my pillows. Chill sweat had broken out all over me, and I was breathing hard. Warmth filled the cave I’d made, but it took me a long time to stop shivering.

      And when I did, when I slept, I dreamed.

      I don’t know what Vic does when he’s not at The Compound, but when he is here, he works on cars. Some people here, like my parents, for example, drive Volvos or BMWs the rest of the year, but during the summer they ride around in beater cars. Old Jeeps, dinged up and rusted muscle cars, stuff like that. Because The Compound’s not about money or status, it’s about getting along with people and raising vegetables and flowers or some shit like that, I don’t know. I’ve been coming here my whole life, and all I know is that this summer I’ve been bored out of my mind.

      There’s not much to do for me here. I could hang out in what they call the crèche, helping with the little kids, but the stench of cloth diapers gets to me after a while. I could help in the gardens, weeding and stuff, but it’s the hottest summer on record for like, twenty years, and it’s just brutal out in the fields. And for what? I don’t even like tomatoes.

      I’m like that girl in the song in that movie, the one about the family that sings while they escape from the Nazis. I’m sixteen, going on seventeen, and I don’t have a TV, a computer or a phone, and there are tons of younger kids here and lots of adults, but there’s only one other girl my age and we don’t get along. Her parents live here full-time, and she acts like that makes her better than me, when really I think it should be the other way around. She thinks Adam Ant was in Culture Club, and I know that’s a little old school for some kids, but still.

      So I spend my time hanging around the garage. It’s loud in there with the clanking of tools, but Vic’s got a radio he tunes to classic rock. My little brother, Cap, hangs out here, too. He’s better with cars than I am. Well, fact is, Cap’s kinda fucking brilliant. I can replace a windshield wiper, that’s my accomplishment of the summer, but Cap can practically rebuild an engine.

      Vic never acts like I’m in the way, though. He’s patient, showing me what parts go where and how they all fit together. He’s got grease in his knuckles and under his nails, even when he wipes them with the scraps of T-shirts he keeps in a big box on the workbench. Sometimes, when he uses the back of his hand to wipe his face clear of the sweat, he streaks his face with grease, too.

      Today Cap’s gone swimming with some younger kids over at the gross pond that’s full of algae. They took a picnic. Healthy foods like hummus and pita and cucumbers grown in the gardens here. I’m dying for a cheeseburger, milk shake, fries. I’m wasting away here this summer, frying in the heat, mind numbed from all the smiles everyone has. I want to scream.

      So I do. Really loud and hard, my fists clenched, eyes closed. I stomp my feet, one-two, in the dirt outside the garage. And I kick it. I stub my toes inside my old black Chuck Taylors against the barn siding. And then I lean forward to rest my head against the splintery wood and think about how there’s only a few more weeks left. How usually I’m sad to leave The Compound, but this year I can’t wait.

      “C’mon. Can’t be that bad.” Vic’s leaning in the doorway, a wrench in one hand and some grease along his forehead.

      “I’m fucking bored.”

      Vic shrugs. “I’ll put you to work, Tesla. You know I will.”

      That’s the reason why I came here. Because he’ll put me to work. And because maybe he’ll take his shirt off when he gets too hot, and I can watch the sweat run down his back, between the dimples just above his ass. Vic wears his jeans low on his hips and cuffed above his big black motorcycle boots.

      Vic makes me lie awake in my bed at night, shifting restlessly in the sticky summer air.

      I know all about sex. Everyone here does it with everyone else. Nobody talks about it, but it’s no secret. And if you think it’s gross to think about your parents doing it with each other, try thinking about them doing it with other people. Sometimes more than one at a time. Along with peace and love and organic veggies, there’s a whole lot of fucking going on at The Compound.

      I know all about it, but I’ve never done it. Boys in my school don’t appeal to me. Too young, too immature, and besides, I go away for the whole summer. That’s prime boyfriend-girlfriend time. The one time last year I tried going out with a guy, I came back to school in the fall to find out he’d spent the summer dating his way through the entire cheerleading squad. First of all, I’m so not a cheerleader. Second, I guess I couldn’t blame him. A girlfriend who disappears for three months isn’t much fun.

      I work next to Vic all that long, hot summer afternoon. We’re fixing an old Impala that doesn’t look like it’ll ever run. He does take his shirt off, and I pretend I’m not staring, but we both know I am.

      “Fuck.” He growls the word when the wrench he’s holding slips and clangs against the metal.

      I use that word all the time, but something about it freezes me now. I’m standing too close to him, at his side, our hips touching as we lean over to watch him twist something with the wrench. He says it again, lower.

      “Let’s take a break,” Vic says.

      In the small back room there’s an ice chest full of cold beers and a couple of Cokes. Vic takes the beer and hands me the soda. I think for about half a second of asking him for a beer, since even though I’m underage, stuff like that mostly goes unnoticed at The Compound. But I hate the taste of beer and wouldn’t be able to drink it, anyway.

      “We’ll get it working. We’re a good team, you and me.” Vic tips the beer in my direction.

      I care about a thousand things more than I give a damn about that car. One of them is the way Vic looks at me. Or doesn’t look at me, which is closer to the truth. I don’t want to be on a team with him. I want him to notice me.

      From outside in the garage, the Rolling Stones start singing about painting a door black. Vic’s fingers thrum against his thigh as he lifts the bottle to his lips and tips back his head to swallow. The bottle sweats, wetting his fingertips. His throat works.

      I want to lick the hollow of his throat. I want to run my tongue along the curve of his collarbone. His shoulders.

      Suddenly, I want.

      This time, I don’t glance away when he looks up to see me staring.

      Vic licks his lips.

      He could easily push me back when I cross the short distance and stand between his legs. It would’ve crushed me. Probably made me unable to make the first move again for the rest of my life. But he doesn’t push me away when I stand, my calves pressed against his, then my knees on the inside of his thighs.

      It’s hot in this room. Stifling. Sweat sheens Vic’s upper lip, and I don’t think about anything but leaning forward and tasting it. My tongue slides over his salty flesh, and my lips brush his.

      It’s