Elmer's Glue
Allison Whittenberg
Allison Whittenberg
It happened that Thanksgiving break.
Her head full of objectives, Brooke had come home from college, her voice sharpened with articles. Brooke made her way into the house, not yet realizing how much she’d altered, or how much he hadn't.
Tyler was waiting. Older. Larger. The king of the house, still, and not used to being questioned.
The tension was familiar.
Tyler slammed her against the wall, rough and sudden.
She fought back.
All 106 pounds of her against his 270. Brooke clawed, twisted, not to win, but to show him she wasn’t scared anymore. What did she say that lit the fuse? She couldn’t remember, she only knew that she said it without regret.
Although she had never been good at the eggshell walk, never mastered the art of soothing a man’s, her brother’s, ego.
He had always been first, older, stronger, allowed. But this time, she was ahead. She had left, learned, grown. He was right where she’d left him.
And that was the last time he ever touched her.
She hadn’t planned to stay the night. Just a quick stop to pick up some old photos. Photos her mother kept promising to mail but never did. It was already dark by the time Brooke pulled up, and the November cold. Despite the attack, she stayed. Slept in her old room, though it barely looked like hers anymore. Just pale blue walls and a mattress on the floor.
Where was the frame?
Brooke found herself rooting through the closet. She found a few old notebooks and her high school hoodie. At the back was a box she didn’t recognize at first, until she opened it.
Inside, it was Tyler’s toy. The spaceship model he spent weeks building in middle school, all silver paint and tiny decals. Broken now, the wing was barely holding on with yellowing paste, a patch job she’d done with Elmer’s glue and too much tape. Her hands were so small then. She remembered how sticky they got, how hard she tried to fix it before he got home.
And just like that, she was not in the closet anymore. She was back in his room. Her knees on the carpet, sticky fingers covered in plastic shards and shame. She heard footsteps on the stairs.
She recalled the way she flinched when he opened the door.
She recalled thinking he’d yell.
But he didn’t.
Not that time.
That was the first time he touched her. She was just a child, six, maybe seven. She’d wandered into his room while he was still at school, drawn in by the shelves lined with comic books, action figures, and model cars. To her, they were only toys. To him, they were sacred.
She didn’t mean to break anything. It happened fast, one of his prized figurines snapped in two, the arm coming off mid-flight. Panic gripped her as she tried to fix it with Elmer’s glue, her tiny hands fumbling to press the pieces back together. The patch was crude, glue smeared and hardened like a bandage, plastic edges still jagged. She left it on his desk, hoping he’d see she’d tried.
When he came home, he noticed it immediately. He picked up the figurine, turning it over in his hands, his face unreadable. She looked up into his eyes, dark and still, bracing for the explosion.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, he said, “I’m not mad.” His voice was calm, almost soft. “I know you tried.”
She felt short ease, sharp, as he placed a hand gently on her head, fingers resting there a moment too long. Then his hand slid to her shoulder, stayed, drifted lower. Something about it made her go quiet.
She didn’t know what it was, not then. She only knew that something inside her went still, uncertain. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t tell anyone.
How could she?
It wasn’t a slap. It wasn’t a shove. It was forgiveness wrapped in something else, something unspoken. Something she wouldn't find the words for until much later.
She would grow up with that confusion planted deep, blooming slowly. Years would pass before she understood how a gesture could seem kind and feel wrong. How a touch could be gentle and still take something. How someone who uttered I’m not mad could still be volatile.
That was the beginning. Long before she learned to fight back. Before the wall. Before the bruises.
Before she said: That’s the last time you touch me.
Her head full of objectives, Brooke had come home from college, her voice sharpened with articles. Brooke made her way into the house, not yet realizing how much she’d altered, or how much he hadn't.
Tyler was waiting. Older. Larger. The king of the house, still, and not used to being questioned.
The tension was familiar.
Tyler slammed her against the wall, rough and sudden.
She fought back.
All 106 pounds of her against his 270. Brooke clawed, twisted, not to win, but to show him she wasn’t scared anymore. What did she say that lit the fuse? She couldn’t remember, she only knew that she said it without regret.
Although she had never been good at the eggshell walk, never mastered the art of soothing a man’s, her brother’s, ego.
He had always been first, older, stronger, allowed. But this time, she was ahead. She had left, learned, grown. He was right where she’d left him.
And that was the last time he ever touched her.
She hadn’t planned to stay the night. Just a quick stop to pick up some old photos. Photos her mother kept promising to mail but never did. It was already dark by the time Brooke pulled up, and the November cold. Despite the attack, she stayed. Slept in her old room, though it barely looked like hers anymore. Just pale blue walls and a mattress on the floor.
Where was the frame?
Brooke found herself rooting through the closet. She found a few old notebooks and her high school hoodie. At the back was a box she didn’t recognize at first, until she opened it.
Inside, it was Tyler’s toy. The spaceship model he spent weeks building in middle school, all silver paint and tiny decals. Broken now, the wing was barely holding on with yellowing paste, a patch job she’d done with Elmer’s glue and too much tape. Her hands were so small then. She remembered how sticky they got, how hard she tried to fix it before he got home.
And just like that, she was not in the closet anymore. She was back in his room. Her knees on the carpet, sticky fingers covered in plastic shards and shame. She heard footsteps on the stairs.
She recalled the way she flinched when he opened the door.
She recalled thinking he’d yell.
But he didn’t.
Not that time.
That was the first time he touched her. She was just a child, six, maybe seven. She’d wandered into his room while he was still at school, drawn in by the shelves lined with comic books, action figures, and model cars. To her, they were only toys. To him, they were sacred.
She didn’t mean to break anything. It happened fast, one of his prized figurines snapped in two, the arm coming off mid-flight. Panic gripped her as she tried to fix it with Elmer’s glue, her tiny hands fumbling to press the pieces back together. The patch was crude, glue smeared and hardened like a bandage, plastic edges still jagged. She left it on his desk, hoping he’d see she’d tried.
When he came home, he noticed it immediately. He picked up the figurine, turning it over in his hands, his face unreadable. She looked up into his eyes, dark and still, bracing for the explosion.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, he said, “I’m not mad.” His voice was calm, almost soft. “I know you tried.”
She felt short ease, sharp, as he placed a hand gently on her head, fingers resting there a moment too long. Then his hand slid to her shoulder, stayed, drifted lower. Something about it made her go quiet.
She didn’t know what it was, not then. She only knew that something inside her went still, uncertain. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t tell anyone.
How could she?
It wasn’t a slap. It wasn’t a shove. It was forgiveness wrapped in something else, something unspoken. Something she wouldn't find the words for until much later.
She would grow up with that confusion planted deep, blooming slowly. Years would pass before she understood how a gesture could seem kind and feel wrong. How a touch could be gentle and still take something. How someone who uttered I’m not mad could still be volatile.
That was the beginning. Long before she learned to fight back. Before the wall. Before the bruises.
Before she said: That’s the last time you touch me.
Allison Whittenberg is an award winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a six-time Pushcart Prize nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry.