Everything at the yard sale was very Cotton family. Unicorn figurines. Pink wigs. Rare books. Fancy pens. Leg warmers. Piles of sheer scarves, patterns on top of patterns making new patterns. Old perfume bottles.
So seeing Sasha with wings and a ballet skirt and even no top is not surprising, exactly. But it’s painful. It twists me up inside. It’s the very representation of what makes Sasha fascinating and complicated, and me just kinda slutty.
I force my hand to find its way to my mother’s mouth, since she won’t stop laughing. We’re close enough to be heard, if we’re not careful. I want one more moment to look at Sasha; then we need to get the hell out of here so she doesn’t see me seeing her. I’m also feeling a certainty that I need to cry. Not really cry: wail. The threat of it burns on my cheeks, my nose, my sleep-tasting mouth. The tears are right there: salty and on the surface. One or two even latch onto my eyelashes. But they don’t spill; I can’t do any of that right now. Cate lets her breathing regulate under the pressure of my palm on her lips, and I put my other hand to my chest, where all the feelings are whirring around.
Sasha moves her body into new shapes, and the camera must be set on some kind of autotimer, because it keeps flashing. The girl doesn’t giggle at herself or move quickly or glance around, looking for Peeping Toms. She’s wholly focused on one singular task: recording her body on film in whatever way she can; in every way she can, I guess. For Joe. It must be for Joe.
Cate ends up being the one who has to pull me away. I keep looking back, but I’m happy to be leaving. The image of naked, dancing Sasha is seared into my head, and it’s already taking up so much room and telling me so many things to feel insecure about that it’s just full-on lucky that Cate’s getting me out of there before it can do any more damage.
“I always knew something was wrong with that girl,” Cate whispers when we are a few blocks away. “And isn’t she freezing? At least she could have worn, you know, earmuffs!” It’s meant to be a joke. I imitate a laugh. We’re walking at a much brisker pace, the sky lightening in tiny pre-sunrise increments. “Not okay,” she says. My parents may be young and hip and disturbingly attractive, but they are not all “sex is a beautiful thing” the way Sasha’s parents are. I get the feeling the reason Sasha wasn’t looking around nervously isn’t because she is so cool and confident, but because her parents actually wouldn’t mind her doing a creepy sexy-angel photo shoot on the front lawn.
“Yeah” is the only word I can push out of my mouth.
“What the fuck?” Cate says, breaking her own rule about swearing. “Who does that girl think she is? We’re in Vermont, not . . . Vegas.”
“Typical Sasha Cotton,” I say.
“Stay away from that one,” Cate says, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest like she needs protecting from what she just saw. We both give an awkward laugh: I don’t have to stay away from anyone; they’re all staying away from me.
“Uh-huh,” I say. My mouth is mostly closed over the sound. I’m feeling weak and tired and so, so tiny. Those pictures, I’m sure of it, are for Joe. I sigh loudly, like that will help expel all the terrible feelings sparking up in my chest and in my brain and all over my body.
But the feeling is too heavy to be quelled with a single deep sigh. It hangs on me.
The whole walk home, Cate keeps talking about “that naked Sasha girl” and I nod, and try to laugh or groan at the right moments, but really I’m shaking and spinning, knowing how far, far, far away I am from being that magical or free or enchanting. I am in a different universe from Sasha Cotton, who apparently can’t feel the cold or the shame or the fear the rest of us do.
When we finally get back home, there’s only one thing I absolutely must do: I need to get on Life by Committee and have something to think about aside from my own relative lameness. I need to believe in Star’s romance and the power of a group, and someone else telling me how to fix the mess that is my life.
And then, before the day is up, I need to do my Assignment and kiss Joe again. Not because I have to. Not because I’m scared of the Rules. But because I want to, and now I have permission.
Sasha Cotton can be as weird and artsy and naked as she wants. But I have something better. I will be part of something bigger. I will do things and be more.
Secret:
I got my history paper off the internet.
—@sshole
Secret:
He wasn’t my first. I told him he was.
—Agnes
Nine.
BITTY: Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll kiss the guy again. Assignment accepted, or something?