You go through every outfit with Clarissa on the phone and decide on the perfect one: shredded bellbottoms, purple satin flip-flops with beaded flowers, a matching purple T-shirt that says HAWAIIAN GURL in silver glitter across the chest. You use your new Sapphire flat iron to press your hair straight. You light incense under your vanity mirror and practice applying your makeup through the snaking smoke. You blast Boyz II Men and sway your hips in the mirror like a woman. You decide to wear a bra, one that fits. Your mother bought it for you recently, a training piece. It’s pink with red flowers, a little embarrassing, too cute, but the T-shirt covers the straps. You like the way it feels, tight across your chest.
You don’t sleep that night. In bed, you read Little Girl Lost for the one hundredth time, trying to distract yourself. On the cover, Drew’s hair is frizzed and lit from behind. Her lipstick is dark. Drew’s life was so hard, you think. You used to relate to this book. Fucked-up parents; a choking loneliness. Her only friend was the robot of E.T. and your only friend was this book version of Drew. But that was the old you. That was before men. Look at you now.
It is difficult to find the twenty-eight-year-old Beth. Years ago, you looked her up online. You had exchanged a few words, casual niceties, but now that account and address are gone. Vanished. Her old number is disconnected; it’s as if she doesn’t exist. Your remaining high school friends haven’t thought of her in years.
There is one person who knows where she is. The friend whose friend’s brother’s cousin’s babysitter helped make it all happen. You still don’t know the story. She hands over Beth’s e-mail address, wishes you well.
You write an e-mail with the subject line: Difficult. You divide this e-mail into two parts. Part one explains that you miss her. Part two explains that you’re sorry.
You were such a huge part of my life, you write, through those achey, formative years. But we are also connected in a way we never fully addressed.
Your mother drives you to the mall before a hair appointment. When she asks who you are meeting, you tell her it’s Beth. She’s too close with Clarissa’s mom for the lie.
That’s good, sweetie. I thought you had a falling out or something. I haven’t seen her around lately. I’ve always liked Beth. A good best friend to have.
I’m sure you did, you say, rolling your eyes.
Daddy and I will pick you up at four. We’ll go to Sushi Ray.
Whatever, you say.
Pick me out something good! she says.
Chad told you to meet him in the department store Burdines. Of course, you are early. You stand near the top of the escalator, knotting and unknotting your puka-shell choker. You want to look busy when he shows up, so you pretend the cord is broken, bothering you. You feel like annoyed is your most mature look.
Hey, he says, from behind you. You had expected to see him on the escalator, but he must have been here all this time, waiting.
Hey you, you say.
You hug an awkward hug. A few hard pats on the back. You wonder if, by the end of the day, you will kiss good-bye. If the hug will be tighter by four o’clock. If he might even slip you some tongue. If, by then, it would feel natural.
So I, ummm, I left something in my car, he says, and it almost sounds like a question. He smiles at you as he says it. His teeth are so wet and perfect. They glow under the fluorescent lights. He repeats himself, Left something in my car?, and looks at you as if you should know what this means, as if you should have expected this.
And shopping? you say.
It won’t take long, he says. Will you walk with me to the car?
You could stop here. You could ask, What exactly did you leave? You could say, No thanks, but meet me back here when you’re done—I’ll wait. You know the kinds of things he has told you about—the kinds of things that happen in cars, in his car—the words that make him breathe so heavily into the phone you can feel the heat of each syllable in your ear. You could walk away right now and buy your presents. You could change the story.
But Yes is what you say. Sure.
Chad holds your hand as you walk out the exit, over to the covered parking lot. Nobody has ever held your hand before, not in this way, and it feels damp, uncomfortable. You feel self-conscious that he’ll see your fingers in the daylight—the wet open wounds around your nails where you gnaw the skin off, where you’ve been cutting with safety pins at night. You always carry yourself with fists, your thumbs tucked in. Sometimes, when it’s worse, you wrap each fingertip in bandages for school. Your mother says you look like a serial killer that way, and this only makes you do it more.
This is me, he says, motioning to the blue car you already know is his.
He opens the rear-left door and asks you to slide in. He slides in after you. It’s dark in the car in this covered lot, but right away you see a figure in the driver’s seat, the side of a face—it’s Gil. Hey princess, he says, but he doesn’t turn his head around. He doesn’t even look at you. He smacks a button that locks all the doors in a quick thwack. He moves his right hand around the seat, toward Chad. Chad gives him five.
You say nothing.
Chad leans in with his eyes open, staring at you. You can’t believe a man is this close to your face. He tells you to open your mouth. You do. You feel his tongue on your tongue, and you feel like you might choke. You like this feeling. So this is a kiss. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you sit on them. Chad moans as he circles his tongue—it’s that same laugh-cry sound from the phone. He pulls away. Show me, he says, as he lifts your T-shirt to your neck. Flowers, how cute, he says, as he yanks down the cup of your bra. In this moment, you are humiliated. Your bra has shape, but your breasts do not. Your breasts are nothing but swollen, sore nipples—puffed and pink as erasers. There is nothing else but that. Still, he takes them into his mouth, the left and then the right, and calls you so sweet, sexy, and says, Is that what you’ve been keeping from me?
You say nothing.
Chad pulls your shaking hand out from under your jeans. For a moment, you consider reaching for the handle of the door, but he catches your hand in his, wraps your raw fingers around his cock. You don’t know when he unzipped his pants, when it appeared, but it’s there, twitching. You have never seen anything like it before, this strange organ, the palest skin. He moves his hand and your hand with it. You are surprised that the skin moves, that it’s not a solid thing. With his other hand, he takes your hair in his fist, pushes your head down, tells you to be good. You have no idea what you’re doing, but you do your best to breathe. He says, Cut that shit with the teeth. Open up. You do your best to be good. He pushes your head all the way down to finish, and tears splash from your eyes onto his boxers. He opens the car door, says, I’m going shopping, and Gil gets out of the front seat, comes to meet you in the back. You had forgotten he was even there all this time; you had forgotten the world. His cock is already out, there is no kissing or touching; there are no words. It is larger than Chad’s, the size of your forearm. It smells like chlorine. He is more forceful with you, squeezing your wrists in his big hands, clearing your pulse. He pushes and pulls your hair like a fast, violent knock on a door until the rot of him glugs down your throat, until you are coughing, crying, until you have bitten your lip so hard it’s bleeding.
He calls Chad on his flip phone. Come back to the car, he says, and snaps it shut.
Chad opens the driver seat door. He turns the music up. Chris Carrabba.
They high-five again.
You can’t just get out of the car like this, Princess, says Chad. It’ll look weird.
They drive you around the loop of the mall, drop you off on the side of the road. Thanks, Cherry Top! says Chad.
You say nothing.
You don’t for years.