Body, Boundaries & Safety
She Said It Twice
Tilly and her cousin Marek get there first, before the food is even out. Marek is eleven and twice her size. He grabs her under the arms, like always. WHEEE! One spin, and down she goes, right by the kiddie pool. So far it’s the good kind of shriek.
He finds the spot under her arm. THE spot. The one that folds her in half. For ten seconds it’s exactly their game, and she’s laughing the real laugh. The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
But he doesn’t stop at ten seconds. Her laugh changes shape. Shorter. With a gap where the breath should be. She tries to say something. Out comes more laughing, because her mouth is still doing what it was doing a second ago.
“Stop,” she says. But it rides out on the same breath as a laugh. Marek doesn’t hear a real word in it. He hears the game carrying on. So: same spot. Again.
The grown-ups are around the table. Somebody has just said something about the gravy, and they all burst out laughing at once. Nobody looks over. Grandma is filling a pitcher. Tilly’s mom has her back to the yard.
Marek’s hand goes for the same spot. Third time. He’s already smiling, like this is still the good part.
His hand is an inch from the spot again. And this time, Tilly’s laugh has completely stopped.
What does Tilly do?
Any of these is fine to talk about. If something feels unsafe, telling a grown-up is always allowed.
Shout STOP as loud as she can
“STOP!” It comes out way louder than she meant. Loud enough that the gravy conversation actually stops. Marek’s hand freezes in mid-air. For one second the whole backyard is just her voice, still hanging there.
Marek goes red and drops his hands. Grandma looks over, pitcher still tipped. “Everything all right?” says Tilly’s mom, already halfway out of her chair. “I said stop,” says Tilly. “Twice.” “Then it’s stopped,” says Mom, calm as anything. Grandma nods, and goes back to pouring.
Marek doesn’t tickle her again the rest of lunch. He sits a little way off, flicking a blade of grass, his ears still pink. When their eyes meet, once, he looks at the pool instead. At the table the grown-ups have gone back to the gravy, only a bit more quietly than before.
By the time the plates are cleared, Marek still hasn’t tried it again. Not once. Twice she catches him looking over at the pool. The third time, he says it to the grass: “Pool? No tickling.” “No tickling,” says Tilly. And she goes to find her goggles.
Wriggle free and find Grandma
She twists sideways, out from under his hands. She’s up and walking before he can grab again. Quick, quick. She doesn’t look back to see if he’s noticed.
She gets to Grandma’s chair and stands right behind it, one hand on the checkered tablecloth. Grandma doesn’t stop pouring. She just reaches back without looking and rests a hand on Tilly’s head. For one second.
Grandma asks her to carry the empty pitcher inside. Tilly takes it in both hands. When she comes back, she stays by Grandma’s chair. Marek is in the pool, tickling nobody, because nobody else is in there yet. Splash. Splash.
It’s a long time before Tilly goes back near the pool. And when she does, she keeps to the shallow end, nearest the table. Right where Grandma can see her without even turning her head.
Laugh along like it’s still funny
Third time, his hand finds the spot. And she laughs the loud version. On purpose. The one that sounds exactly like the real one. Because that’s easier than saying the word again.
Marek hears exactly the laugh he wanted. So he does it twice more. Then he gets bored all on his own and wanders off to find the soccer ball. Bonk, bonk, bonk, across the grass.
By the time Marek’s off with the soccer ball, her sides actually ache. A real ache. From all the bits of laughing that weren’t real laughing at all.
She gets into the shallow end on her own and stays there a long time. Nobody touches her. Her sides still ache. She lets her arms float on top of the water, and waits. Bit by bit, the ache goes quiet.