“Just wanted to get you away from that thing. Don’t want you missing out on life because you’re in front of that computer worrying.” She turns off the flashlight, like we don’t want to be seen, which maybe we don’t. Anyone in town who runs into us now will be chatting and questioning and friendly, and that’s not why we went on a late-night walk.
“I’m fine,” I say, stiffening. She keeps on about me making new friends and getting out of the house and spending more time at Tea Cozy instead of on the computer, and it’s not terrible, having her care, seeing her worry about me. It is that special mix of super annoying and totally heartwarming. Cate’s gotten some burst of mothering energy, and I’m not used to it. Pregnancy has made her unpredictable—sometimes distant and spacey, sometimes full of energy and interest and sentiment.
“You have to push yourself,” Cate says. I’m getting so uncomfortable with her pestering that I almost tell her about the website and the Assignments.
“I actually think I am going to try to push myself; it’s sort of funny you brought it up—” I start, but something stops the words.
Because that’s when I see it, a long ways down the road.
Not it. Her.
I know it’s a her because when we are just that one step closer, the whole scene comes into focus. The dark is like that. One minute it’s all shadows, the next minute your eyes adjust and the darkness shifts and you can see the world almost as well as you could in the light of day.
At first the shape is simply a person on a porch. But then it’s something more. Not just a girl sitting under the porch lights in the middle of the night, but something actually much, much stranger. An almost naked girl, sitting on the front porch: so milky white and so curvy and so undeniably there. No top, but a long, ballerina-like skirt covering her legs. I must see her only a half moment before Cate does, because I hear Cate’s gasp right after mine. Then, of course, Cate’s quiet giggles.
The houses are close together and similarly shaped on Village Hill Road, so I can’t immediately decipher whose house this is and who might therefore be on the porch.
Either that or I’m in denial.
“Oh my God,” Cate says as quietly as she can with all the laughter pouring out of her. “Oh my Christ, what is happening?” She’s even snorting a little. Cate’s a big laugher and finds almost everything funny: little kids wearing designer clothes, old ladies in high-waisted pants, poorly translated Chinese food menus, the times when I have awkwardly caught her and Paul getting it on in unseemly locations like the kitchen or the shed. So of course she’s laughing now.
I blush first and then join her laughter. It feels good, to laugh like that. I hope the wind and rustling of leaves and scurrying of animals cover our voices.
I have noticed something else: the mostly naked girl has costume fairy wings on. It adds a mystical, magical element to the whole scene, and I feel a familiar jealousy at how strange and special and sexy this person seems. The feeling grows when the girl gets up and starts dancing and twirling and swinging her hips.
I look around at the surrounding homes and get over the shock of a naked fairy dancing in the light of the porch. The image was so alarming, it distracted me from what is obvious about the house and the girl, what I already know. Because it makes perfect sense. There is only one family in our tiny town who would have a ridiculous purple door with gold moldings and a naked fairy-girl on the porch. And an available set of fairy wings. One more look, and yes, it’s there. A camera set up on a tripod. And the now-unmistakable, soft shape of the winged girl in the distance.
I try to catch my breath, which has dropped from my lungs to my toes, where I can’t access it. I wrap one arm around my belly. Some part of me is scared my guts will fall out if I don’t hold them in with a skinny forearm.
It takes a little too long for my laughter to stop, so I’m laughing even after I’ve realized who it is, even though it stopped being funny.
It’s Sasha Cotton’s house. And that is Sasha holding her own breasts in her hands like a Playboy model but not. She has a sunflower behind her ear, and I would do anything to see the look on her face: Is it sexy or sad? Is it playful or serious? Maybe if I could see through the shadows to her facial expression, I’d know how to be that tragic sex kitten, instead of whatever I am now: cute and safe. I want to be loved and dangerous.
I flush with jealousy. My heart twists with it; I could never do what she’s doing. I couldn’t write the poem, I couldn’t flit around topless late at night. I can’t make Joe leap every time I call. This is so, so Sasha Cotton.
About a year ago, her mother had a yard sale, and Jemma and Alison and I went by. This was back when Jemma and I didn’t like Sasha Cotton together. A different universe of time.