Lissa Learns

The mall food court was busy, crowded during lunchtime on a holiday Saturday. I sat by myself, near the water feature, a waterfall dropping into a pool full of glittering coins. Simply people watching, I saw families pass by, little kids begging to toss in coins. Older couples strolling, slowly, years of love or antipathy reflected in how close they kept to one another.

Right across from my seat, someone dropped a soda from the food court burger joint, ice cubes and liquid spilling broadly. A large puddle formed. In a few moments, a security guard passed by and radioed for a cleanup.

A bored-looking kid with neck tattoos, gauged ears, green hair and a yellow vest pushed a mop bucket up, took a few desultory swipes, stepped away and set up a "wet floor" sign some 10 feet away.

The ice cubes and puddle remained. The sign was too far away to really do any good, but I learned a while back where the boundaries of my responsibilities lay. Wet floors and a kid who doesn't care is way outside those boundaries.

I turned my attention back to the flow of the crowd. From the distance there was the faint sound of kids shrieking as they rode the carousel, with its gilded horses and neon zebras. A kitsch and bad-acid-trip design nightmare.

Above the swirling ruckus I heard two voices rather close by, clearly behind me and off to the side. The speakers were young-sounding, pretty obviously female, and seemingly plotting something. The words I made out were interspersed with laughter. One clear exchange caught my ear as I listened more closely.

"No way! You go do it! It was your idea, yeah? You should be the one to do it."

"Ugh no, I mean he's so old. I bet he's a pervy creep."

"I don't know about that. I mean, he's not even checking us out. Look at him, he's just sitting there."

"Yeah right, but like, that's how pervy creeps do it. They pretend they're not. But they're like undressing you and fucking you in their imagination. Old guys like him are like that."

"But it's mean, right? Like, teasing him like that is mean."

"Duh, that's the whole point Lissa. Not like it's gonna hurt him mean, but just show him what he's way too old for. Make him want it and then leave him hard. If he even can get hard without his blue pill. C'mon, don't be a pussy. Just do it."

The second voice, apparently belonging to Lissa, sighed an exasperated "oooookayyyy, but you owe me, bitch." Peals of girlish laughter followed.

From just out of my field of vision, to my right, came a petite, dusky brown vision, carrying a bag from one of the youthful fashion stores in the mall. As she walked right in front of me, she dropped the bag. Intentionally, of course. And right by the puddle of soda and melted ice cubes. I guess she was so intent on their plan that she didn't notice the mess.

Turning so her back faced me, she bent at the waist to pick it up, flashing her sculpted brown thighs and taut ass clad in tight shorts. She wiggled a little as she bent. So that was their plot, shake a little booty at the old guy, taunt him a little.

Things didn't go as planned. Yes, I looked at the scene presented to me. That part worked. But she put her foot right into a slick cluster of half-melted ice cubes the green-haired slacker had left on the floor. That reduced friction, her momentum, and gravity conspired to bring the young lady to heel. As she bent forward, her right foot slid backward, and she pitched forward. A dismayed "aahh" followed by a thud, preceded her new pose, face down, ass up.

I was out of my seat in an instant, skirting the puddle and reaching a hand to her. Choking back a laugh, I asked, "are you ok?"

She looked up at me with a scared and rather shy expression. Of course, she had no idea I knew what she'd been doing but the fall, her position, and the large wet spot on her tee-shirt were embarrassing. She had a very slight nose bleed, but her pride and ego were more bruised than any physical part of her.

She took my hand and pulled herself up, using me as leverage. "Uh-huh," she said. Sheepishly. After picking up her bag, I helped her to my table, sat her down and started to look for her friend.

"Wait here a sec, ok?" Lissa nodded, a bit distractedly. A quick scan of the area showed no teen girl looking like she was concerned for a friend's wellbeing.

"Well, Lissa," I said as I returned to the table, "it looks like your friend bailed on you."

Her eyes widened, obviously startled, and she said, "How do you know my name?"

"Clearly your friend isn't a very good one, putting you up to tease the old pervy creep and then leaving you alone with him when you need help."

A storm of emotions played across her pretty brown eyes as she spluttered with feigned anger.

"What? What do you mean? How the fuck do you know my name? Let me go!"

"Look Lissa, I heard you and your friend talking about the old guy, the pervy creep. She talked you into trying to get a rise out of me. You fell flat on your face, and she took off. And then the pervy creep came to your rescue. Isn't karma great?"

"As for letting you go, you're sitting across the table from me, you have your purse and your bag, I'm not touching you or restraining you at all and you're free to go."

"And you're very welcome for my coming to help you. No need to thank me, I can tell you're not the kind of girl to express gratitude for kindness."

"Your nose bleed has stopped, you don't seem injured, so maybe you best be on your way."

She glared at me the whole time, her face getting redder and redder. She stood abruptly, grabbed her things and began to storm away.

"Ungrateful little wench," I muttered, audibly, but mostly to myself.

She whirled back to face me, clearly very upset, with her long black ponytail lashing around. Returning to stand by the chair she just left, she let loose.

"I, you, I'm not, I'm not ungrateful. How dare you? Fuck you."

"Not ungrateful? You've not said thank you, not even apologized for the unkind things the two of you said about me. You haven't even smiled. And you've cussed at me twice. So yeah, you're ungrateful."

She seemed like she was about to burst. Suddenly she deflated. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes brimmed. She sagged into the chair and began to cry. Ah shit, I went too far and broke the girl.

"I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry. I'm not from here, life at home and school is so hard, and I'm trying to fit in with friends and some of them are mean. I don't want them to be mean to me, especially Emma. I don't think I could take it. You're right, I was ungrateful. And a bitch. And I'm sorry. Thank you."

"I accept, Lissa. Both your apologies and your thanks. And again, you're welcome. I remember school being horrible. Especially the end of high school. How old are you? What grade?"

She sniffed a little, wiped her hand on her nose and, looking at the snot and blood on the back of her hand, seemed both embarrassed and fragile. "I'm 18. A senior. At the consolidated high school."

"It's Emma who left you here? Not much of a friend it seems. She hasn't even texted to see if you're ok, has she?"

She shook her head, that long, jet black hair swaying. "No."

"You're not from here? Where are you from? I'd guess Indonesia but ...."

Her head snapped up. "How could you tell?"

I shrugged. "Your accent, eyes, a lucky guess. What brought you here?"

"I got sent here. I didn't want to come but they made me."

"Explain that please," I asked.

"Well, my dad's a businessman from here, but he lives in Jakarta. I lived with him until ... uh, something happened. I got blamed. It happened a couple more times and I kept getting blamed. So, I told my dad and he sent me here." All this with her eyes fixed on the table, pinching at her arms. Clearly a hurting puppy.

"To stop you getting in trouble?" She nodded once. "What sort of trouble? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

I couldn't hear her whispered response. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't hear you. It's okay to tell me or not to. It's up to you."

Her response took courage, and really surprised me, not in its content, but that she said it all, especially to a stranger. "I'm not a virgin and it's a really big deal. For them."

It dawned on me that this hadn't been her choice. And that was why the whole pervy creep thing was so obviously loaded for her. Sometimes I wish I was psychic, could know things without asking and could fix things with a flick of a thought, or a finger. But I was just me.

"Lissa, I'm sorry. No one deserves that, and it's absolutely not your fault." Pat, pablum responses, but true none-the-less.

Her eyes were distant, vulnerable, and she looked lost. She regained her focus, her eyes boring into me, and said, "you're the first person who said that. Ever." She then asked if she could talk to me more.

"Right now, or ...?"

"I see Emma over there, and she's my ride. I have to go. I'm sorry I was a bitch. You're nice. I'd like to talk later, maybe, I don't know."

I told her my name was Frank as I scribbled my number on a piece of paper, a receipt pulled out of my pocket.

"Lissa, if you want to call, I'll talk. You can call me from a burner, or just block your number if that makes you feel better." She favored me with a slight smile and left.

"What the fuck, Lissa? You talked to him? What the fuck were you thinking? That's fucked up. Gross!"

"Emma, shut the fuck up, ok?" They wandered out of earshot.

A week later my phone rang, a private caller. I was about to let it go to voicemail when it dawned on me it might be Lissa. The rational part of me said there was no way she'd call me. The non-rational part said to answer the damn phone.

"Hello, this is Frank." Dead air, silence. Apparently, I waited too long to answer. If it had already gone to voicemail, I knew there was no way Lissa would leave a message, even if this had been her calling.

I was about the cut the call when she spoke. "Frank? It's Lissa. You said I could call you if I wanted to talk. I think I do. I'm not sure, but I think I do. Can you meet me at the food court at 4:45?"

I told her I'd be there, in the same spot as before.

I arrived at 4:30 and settled myself. I chuckled as I saw the green-haired janitor, noting that there was no obvious spill today. Lissa came into view at 4:45 exactly, looking both pensive and scared. I thought she was going to turn and run several times. She came closer, and I remained seated.

"Hi, Lissa. Are you ok? Do you want to sit?"

"I'll sit. I don't know if I'm ok, but maybe that's why I'm here."

"I was going to get a smoothie. Do you want one?" She nodded and chose mango. I told her I would get the same. As I walked off to get them, I wondered what on earth I was in for.

Returning, I set the two drinks on the table and she looked at them as though they might be dangerous. I realized she was probably worried I'd tampered with one. She looked at me uncertainly.

"Which is mine?"

"They're the same, so choose whichever you want."

Taking the one closest to me, she hesitated, took a sip and then thanked me.

"What can I do for you, Lissa?" After a moment of thought, she simply said, "Listen."

My work involves listening. To the words people say, but also to the silences between those words. The silence can speak volumes. I was ready to hear what she had to say, to witness her story, whatever it was.

She told me about growing up in Indonesia, about being happy, about pageants and regular school girl fun. It was good until a few years ago. After her mother disappeared in the tsunami, she had assumed the role of lady of the house. Sure, they had maids and servants, but she looked after her dad and her siblings.

Her dad's grief and business took a toll on him, and he began to drink. He became less concerned about the wellbeing of children, replacing paternal concern with a focus on business and booze. Though present, he was absent.

Then the autobiography turned dark. With her father basically missing in action, her father's business partner began preying on her. One day, arranging to be alone with her in her house while her dad was in a job site, the partner had assaulted her. This happened five more times over the course of two months.

When she finally told her dad, he called her a liar and said she was covering up for being a slut. She'd cried, and protested that she was the victim, but when she said "no" to his question of whether she was a virgin, he took that as proof of her cheapness. In his mind, she seduced his partner and probably had many other men. Her reputation as a slut posed a risk to him.

To punish her, or maybe to preserve his business relationships, he sent her to live with family in the states. They were told she was a bad girl, easy, addicted to sex and lying about it, and that she needed to be watched over. They went out of their way to let her know she was a burden and an embarrassment.

In her school, she was exotic and so all the boys were after her. "No one wants to date me or know me, not really. They just want to fuck the Asian cunt." Her eyes flashed with stifled rage as she said that, then she looked at me and apologized.

"Lissa, don't apologize for what you're saying, or for how you're saying it. I said I was here if you wanted to talk. I meant that. It doesn't matter what you say or how you say it. I'll listen and if you want me to say anything just ask."

The soft sad smile that crossed her face spoke volumes. Maybe I was someone she felt maybe she could be real with.

She continued, telling me she fell in with a bunch of tough, maybe mean, girls. She felt safe around them like they had her back, but she also felt out of place.

"But after Emma bailed on me, I started to think maybe they didn't have my back. Maybe I was alone, again. Like no one cared. But I remembered how nice you were even after I tried to prank you, called you names. So, I thought I could call you."

"I wasn't sure, but then I remembered what you said about not deserving it, what happened to me, and it not being my fault."

I nodded.

"I told you that you're the first person to say that. My family says it's my fault. My friends who know either say it's gross or that someone ought to kill him. But you said what you did, and I guess that made a difference."

"That's why I thought I could call you. But I was scared. Like really scared. But I tried. That was something, right?"

"It was. I'm very glad you did. And I'm touched by all you have gone through. I wish I could help too. I mean, more than listening. But if that helps, I'm happy to listen."

The smile that followed was genuine. It reached her eyes, and something in her eased. We sat and talked for the better part of an hour. Looking at her phone, she said, "I've got to catch the bus back home. Thank you. I think I'll call again. Soon."

She did call. The blocked number became a regular feature in my caller ID log. Sometimes she asked to meet in public. Sometimes she wanted to talk on the phone. More than once she asked me to stay on the phone as she fell asleep. "I feel safer if you're watching over me," she explained. Then we laughed about how I couldn't watch over her on the phone, but we both knew what she meant.

At the start of the next semester, Lissa called from a blocked number again, and asked to meet at the mall. Apparently, there had been a big fight at home, her grandmother had slapped her and called her a slut who brought shame to the family. Sitting at "our" table, Lissa vented.

"I know she's my grandma, but I mean damn. I've told her the truth about what happened, but does she believe me? Noooooo. I'm the little brown whore who nearly ruined my dad's business."

"I really don't know what to do. I want to just quit it all, disappear. You know?"

I nodded my agreement, my understanding. "Yeah, I know that feeling. Just giving up? I've been there myself. The best thing, I think, is also the hardest thing. It's to keep on keeping on. Don't give them the pleasure of beating you down."

"I'm thinking about dropping out of school. You know?"

I discouraged her from that. Or maybe encouraged her to stay in. I rattled on about lost opportunities, resilience, hopes for the future, and so on. I stopped before her eyes glazed over. After my little pep talk, she smiled, thanked me and left for the bus. Her step seemed lighter than when she came in 45 minutes earlier. That counted as success, even if it were only to be a short-term victory.

Two days later, late afternoon, my phone rang. It was a number this time, but one I didn't recognize. Lissa? Telemarketer? Only one way to know.

"Hello?"

"Frank?"

"Hi Lissa, it's nice to hear from you. How are things?"

"I want to talk. Um, no. Need to talk. Now. Please."

"I've got time now, Lissa. Go ahead"

The phone wouldn't do. Lissa said she needed me to be with her for what she needed to talk about. We agreed to meet in a park by her high school in 45 minutes. This time she was early, while I arrived on the dot.

I was putting my car in park when the passenger door opened and Lissa slipped into the seat. She had a determined look about her.

"Lissa, what ...," I began.

"Frank please just drive. Just go. Anywhere. Just go. Right now. Please."

I backed out and quickly left the parking lot. Turning left, I asked, "Lissa, where do you want to go?"

"I don't know, I don't care really. Somewhere, anywhere. Your place?"

"Lissa, I don't know about that. Are you sure?" What the hell was happening?

Lissa thought a moment and made a decision. Determination was stamped on her face.

"Yes, yes I am sure. Now please."

10 minutes later we pulled into my driveway. As I killed the engine, I turned to ask her again if this is where she wanted to be, but she was out of the car and moving to my door.

Catching up with her, I unlocked the door. She pushed it open and stepped in. She turned and looked at me. The words began to pour out of her with an intensity and speed that shocked me a bit, it was so out of character for her.

She told me that she'd been thinking -- how no one in her family trusted her, how her friends weren't really friends, how her life was fucked up by what had been done to her and how being scared and angry just didn't work any longer. It was killing her, slowly. Figuratively, of course. I did ask about plans to hurt herself. Her answer convinced me.

Her "friends" -- she threw out air quotes as she said the word -- had been tormenting her. That she was already damaged goods, that maybe she should just fuck all the guys who wanted her, she'd already been used before, no harm in letting it happen again. Emma seemed to be the driving force behind this.

The final straw was when one of the few guys she trusted grabbed her ass in the hallway between classes. She'd turned and screamed, unleashing a string of profanity, to be met with laughter. Not just from him, but all the so-called friends who had watched.

With each layer of torment that she peeled back, she seemed more agitated, simultaneously more frazzled and oddly focused. She finally slowed and took a deep breath.

"Frank, I need something, and I think you can help me, maybe more than anyone else. I really need you to help me."

I said nothing as she walked toward me. "I don't know what loving is like. The people who I thought loved me hurt me, kicked me away."

"I don't know what good sex is. I'm scared of being hurt like that again, and I'm tired of people who blame me or are disgusted by me."

"I am done being afraid, I need the know what it's like done right and I think I trust you to show me. Please?"

By this point she was so close I felt her breath on my face as she spoke. Her arms wound around me, and she looked up at me and repeated "please."

I was being held by a 5'2" deep brown beauty, black hair cascading down to her plump firm buttocks. Her breasts were compressed against my chest and her eyes begged me to do something.