Monday morning I got my stitches out, although it didn’t matter too much. I still looked horrible and still needed bandages to go out in public. At least my wound wasn’t weeping anymore.
I got to school in time for lunch. I went out to my table.
Soon I saw Laura approach beneath the trees. When she reached the table, she sat.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey. Mom, it turns out, is relentless.” She pulled out her lunch sack. “It’s ham and cheese today.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah.”
She slid me a sandwich, a bag of chips, and another Brazilian soda in a green can. Quietly, we ate.
After I finished my sandwich, I nibbled on chips. Soon I said, “Your friends, do they talk shit about me?”
She was taking a long gulp of soda. From over the can, I saw her eyes get wide. She set it down and seemed to think for a bit. “Yeah, they say a lot of shit.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re poor and weird. And stupid. And — well — trashy.”
“I see.”
“Yeah.” She took another drink.
“And what do you say? I mean, now?”
She looked away from me, up into the tree where birds were singing. Then she looked back. “What should I say? Should I commit social suicide?”
I shrugged. “No, of course not.”
Then all of a sudden she reached across the table. “Give me your hands.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
I put out my hands. She grasped them.
“So, today, Sheila and Lisbeth were totally trash talking you, right? Anyhow, I told them that you weren’t so bad. I mean, yeah, you’re poor, but you can’t help that. And maybe you’re a little weird, but so what? Right? So then, I told them I didn’t mind having lunch with you. Like, it wasn’t bad at all.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah. So, maybe I’m not your friend, and, sure, my mom is making me do this, but I don’t hate you anymore. In fact, I kinda feel the opposite.”
She released my hands and gave me a long, deep stare. “So, what do you think of that?”
“Uh — ”
“Can I ask you something totally fucked up?”
She seemed really serious
“Uh — yeah.”
“Like, you used to live in a group home, right?”
“Yeah…”
“When you were there — I mean, I’ve heard all sorts of crazy shit about those places, right?”
I blinked my eyes. I certainly didn’t want to talk to her about what happened in group homes.
Then she asked, “So, have you ever kissed a girl?”
I blinked my eyes again. “That’s kinda personal.”
“Yeah. I guess. You don’t hafta answer.”
That was true. But she sat back and didn’t say anything else. And I didn’t have much else to say.
“Yes, I have. I was nine, though, at the time, so I didn’t really know what I was doing.”
She leaned forward with an intense look. “Did you like it?”
There was no way I’d answer that, so I just looked at her for a while. Her eyes were intense. She sucked on her lower lip. Then she said, “The reason I’m asking is that I kinda wanna kiss you.”
“What the fuck?”
“I mean — I just wanna try it. And — ” She stopped and squirmed around on the bench. “Well — I mean, don’t let it go to your head. I wanna kiss a lot of girls, but — well — can you imagine if they found out?”
She looked at me again. Then she reached out her hands again. “I think I can trust you.”
I scoffed. I certainly didn’t take her hands. “You just know that, if I rat you out, nobody will believe me.”
Again we looked at each other for a while. Then she pulled back her hands. “Yeah. I won’t lie. That’s part of it.” Her eyes dropped. She slid down the bench and turned away. “Anyway, forget about it. Please. I mean, it was fucked up. I’m sorry.” She turned back to me, but I stayed quiet. Above us a bird suddenly trilled and beat its wings. “I’ll go then. Sorry. Still, I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t piss off Mom.”
She popped up from the bench and disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees.
The next day, lunch began quietly. She handed out the food and watched me while we slowly ate. After we finished our sandwiches, she asked, “So, are we cool?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It just took me by surprise, that’s all.”
She smiled. “Cool.”
Then she went on to tell me a very shallow story about her and Lisbeth Franklin, a shopping trip to Zara on South Beach, and an embarrassingly tiny skirt. I laughed and pretended to understand the things and places that she talked about.
After first period the next day, Bethany stopped me on my way to computer class. She grabbed my shoulder and said, “Hey, Amy, can I talk to you?”
“Sure.”
“Look, so, I know we haven’t been hanging out. And, well, I’m really sorry about that.”
“Uh, yeah, well, I’ve been kinda thinking through stuff, so, it’s cool.”
“Right. Anyhow, my birthday is coming up this Saturday, and I’d love it if you came.”
“Uh, sure. I’m not doing anything Saturday.”
She smiled. “Great.” Then she reached and touched my hand. “Say, you’ve been hanging out with Laura Sandoval, right?”
“Yeah.”
She stepped close to me. “Why don’t you invite her too, if you want.”
“Okay,” I said, “Sure. I can do that.”
She squeezed my hand, turned, and then trotted away.
When I told Laura at lunch, she snorted. “Yeah right, like I’d go to fucking Bethany’s party.”
I shrugged. “Well, I said I’d go, so I kinda hafta.”
“Yeah, well” — she munched on, then swallowed, a chip — ”that was your mistake.”
“She’s my friend.”
“Sure she is. Like, she has nothing to say to you after your accident, lets you sit out here alone. Then, when you’re suddenly friends with me, she wants you at her party. Oh! but make sure to invite your friend Laura.”
I frowned. “Oh come on, Bethany is cool.”
“Don’t you see that she’s using you?” I didn’t answer that. “Well, anyhow, your loss.” She held another chip in front of her face. “I was going to invite you to the movies with Lisbeth and me.” She popped the chip into her mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. “But now you’ll be at stupid Bethany’s party.”
The next morning Bethany found me in the hall again and gave me a pair of envelopes. “Here are proper invitations.” On the covers were our names in gold calligraphy. One read, “Amy Cunningham.” The other, “Laura Sandoval.”
When I gave Laura hers at lunch, she laughed. “Oh my God! Clowns and balloons? Really?” She turned the card and showed me. There were indeed little pictures of clowns and balloons. “Seriously, Amy, darling, don’t go to this thing.”
“I promised.”
“Ha! I don’t think you were really prepared for the full level of lameness. I wonder if there will be a bounce house and a pony?”
“Laura!”
She stopped. Then her expression turned serious. “Amy, please don’t go. Come out with Lisbeth and me.”
I was quiet.
“Please. Please, please.” She reached and took my hand. “Okay, let me explain. Like, you know how my friends rag you and that bothers you?”
I nodded. “Yeah…?”
“So, I’ve been sticking up for you. Really, I have. But that’s gonna get old after a while.”
“Okay.”
“So — ” She squeezed my hand. “Well, look, so I want to get you together with Lisbeth, but like, away from school and the other girls and all of that. You see?”
“I guess. What do you suppose will happen?”
“Well, then Lisbeth sees that you’re cool enough, I mean, to hang out with. Then we all hang out and they get used to you. And, well, then I can hang out with you without getting constant shit from my other friends. See?”
I could only see one thing. “This assumes Lisbeth doesn’t hate my guts.” Laura opened her mouth to talk, but I continued. “I mean, it isn’t like we haven’t met. She’s hated me every other time.”
“Just try.”
I looked away.
“Please!”
I opened my invitation. It said, “You are cordially invited to Brittany Stevens’ Sweet Sixteen.” I looked at the pictures: pink balloons, ugly clowns, a little diamond ring. There were no hints of a pony or a bounce house anywhere.
Then Laura said, “Okay. How’s this: if Lisbeth doesn’t like you, I’ll never speak to her again.”
She seemed serious. I had very little choice after that.
Saturday I decided finally to stop wearing the bandages. The thing had healed quite a bit, and while it was still ugly, with red, jagged gashes where the stitches had been, it wasn’t going to get much prettier anytime soon. May as well show the world the new me.
I arrived at Laura’s house, parked my bike beside the garage, and then knocked on the door. This time her mother answered. She was wearing a skimpy black dress that showed a great deal of her bust.
“Hi Mrs. Sandoval.”
“Hi Amy.” She saw my face. “Oh dear! I mean, oh, I see your bandage is off.”
“Yeah.” I gave her a wry smile and stretched out my arms. “This is me.”
“Oh sweetie.” She touched my face. “Come on in.” She stood aside and I entered.
Inside, a man in a gray suit was checking his tie in the hallway mirror. He turned to me and smiled.
“Amy,” Mrs. Sandoval said, “This is my husband, and Laura’s father.”
“Hi Mr. Sandoval.”
He was a small, compact man, a few inches shorter than his wife. His eyes, though, were dark and piercing, his complexion dusky and smooth. He stepped to me, stiff and formal, and held out his hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Amy. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
I took his hand. From behind me Mrs. Sandoval put her hand on my shoulder.
“Amy, can I speak to you for a second. Like, in private.”
“Uh, sure.”
We entered the living room and crossed to the other side. When we were alone she said, “So, I just want you to know that — well — this was totally Laura’s idea, the thing with the movies. I mean, yeah, I made her sit with you at lunch. And I know you said not to, but I did anyhow. And, well, I’m glad that I did. But the movies thing came from her. Okay?”
“Yeah. I figured that out.”
“Good.” She smiled.
“Mrs. Sandoval…”
“Yes?”
“Thanks — uh — for everything. I mean…”
A warm expression crossed her face. “Of course, dear.”
Then, standing beneath her kind gaze, I stepped forward and put my arms out toward her.
“Oh, Amy.”
It took her a second, the briefest hesitation, but she took me, she pulled me into her arms, into her hug.
She was so soft in some places, so firm in others, and exactly those places where a woman ought to be each. Her arms were strong, her grasp unyielding. She pulled me to her. My face ended up against her breasts, her low-cut dress, her skin.
I too held a firm grip around her waist, pulling her to me. My eyes seemed to have a will of their own and clamped shut. I breathed, squeezed, and felt warm.
We hugged like that for a while, until it started to seem really weird. Then we let go, stood back at arm’s length, and touched fingers. We gave each other awkward smiles.
From across the room Mr. Sandoval cleared his throat.
“I have to go, dear,” she said. “We’ll be at a party. Laura is in her room.”
Then she turned, crossed to the door, and left with her husband. I went into the house to find Laura.
I found her sitting on her bed. She had just tossed her phone down as I entered. “Oh, Hi,” she said.
“Hey.”
“So, look, I just spoke to Lisbeth and she’s gonna pick us up in about thirty minutes, so we have some time.”
“Cool.”
I stepped in all the way and looked around her room. There was a big, plush bed with a blue comforter, a couple of white dressers, two chairs, and some shelves with all sorts of knick-knacks and pictures of her on trips.
“Come sit by me,” she said. She patted the space next to her on the bed.
“Uh — ”
She smiled. “Oh, come on. I won’t bite you.”
When I sat down, she popped up.
She turned and faced me. “So, do you really plan to wear that outfit?”
“What? Huh? What’s wrong with it?”
I looked down at my clothes, a light blue tee shirt and a brown corduroy skirt that hung to just above my knees.
“Nothing,” she said, “if you’re, like, eight. Wait there, I have something for you.”
She went to her closet, opened the door, and pulled out a big cardboard box. Then she opened that and took out a little skirt set. “Try this.” She tossed it to me.
“What? Did you buy this?”
“No, silly. It’s mine from a couple years ago. But it should fit you.”
“Your old clothes?”
“Yeah, and they won’t get you on the cover of Vogue, but I think it’s a cute outfit. Try it on.”
I held the skirt out before me. It was a lovely little thing, a lilac butterfly print on light cotton. “It’s very short,” I said.
She smiled. “Yeah. I know.”
“Oh, come on, this is too short.”
“With your bike-girl legs? No, it isn’t too short at all. Try it on.”
I stood up. Then I unbuttoned my skirt, let it drop, and pulled on her thing. It had an elastic waist and fit just right.
She watched the whole time.
“Turn around,” she said. I did. “Nice. Now, look in the mirror.” There was a full length mirror on the back of her door. As I approached it she said, “Wait! Put the top on too.”
The top was a skimpy little cami, also lilac, but without the butterflies. It looked very revealing. “Uh — no, I think I’ll stick with my tee shirt.”
“Aw! Well, okay. But still, check yourself out.”
I went to the mirror and looked at my legs. I turned around. I looked again. Yes, indeed, my legs looked very nice.
I managed not to see my face.
She returned and sat on the bed. “Alright, now that we’ve got you sufficiently sexy, come sit by me.”
I sat by her, but I didn’t relax. She scooted close. Then she slipped her arm around my shoulders.
“So, Amy, have you thought any more about the kiss?”
“Uh — ”
She brought her face near to my face. “Just a little one. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”
I took a deep breath. “Laura,” I said. Then I turned to her fully with my scar. “Don’t you think I’m ugly now?”
A strange, distant look crossed her face, and then a half smile. She reached and touched my forehead just above the cut. Then she ran her fingers along it. Her fingertips crossed the little grooves where the stitches had dug into my flesh.
“The cut is ugly,” she said. “I mean, yeah, everyone can see that.”
Next, she ran her fingers down to my chin, grasped it, and turned my head so that it faced forward.
“But I can’t see it when you sit like this. And like this, you’re beautiful.”
She didn’t release my chin.
“So, now, can I kiss you?”
“Uh — ”
“Oh, come on!”
“Fine. But just a little one.”
Her lips touched my lips, just the faintest brush. She withdrew. Then, when I didn’t object, she came forward again for another so very light kiss.
After that she took hold of one of my hands with both of hers. “So, did you like it?”
Yes, I liked it — very much. It was soft, and she was so pretty, and her lips were so red. Such a sweet smile.
Was I a lezzie? Did that matter?
My eyes dropped, but my gaze fell to her legs, and to her own way-too-short skirt. Her thighs were smooth and tanned. Then I lifted my gaze. Such round breasts. And, unlike me, she didn’t mind wearing a revealing top.
I didn’t know what I was. But I knew what I wanted.
“You can kiss me again,” I said.
“Okay.”
She came forward. This time it was no mere brush, no gentle peck. No, this time she kissed me proper, with her lips parted — and I parted mine — with her hand behind my neck, pulling me to her. She even dared a bit of tongue. Her tongue! So soft! I found myself hoping that she would dare more.
When she released that kiss we both had the biggest grins. I sucked in my bottom lip. She put a hand on my shoulder. “More?”
My whole body was tingling. “Yes. Please. Let’s do the tongue thing more.”
Another kiss, her arms around me, our mouths half opened, our eyes closed. I held her against me as tight as I could.
Then more, then more. Then the doorbell rang.