Instead of just continuing to receive the small quarterly dividends from her trust, Mom sold her shares in the Dakota building, her inheritance, to her cousin for $25,000. Much less than it was worth, but huge money to us.
“I’m going to buy a few gold coins, so we have some money when the whole economic system crashes. I want you to know where it is in case anything happens to me.” Grandpa was always preaching that the great economic crash of America, and the world, was going to happen any day. “I can’t face being so helpless again, like I was when we were in the US and I couldn’t support you kids.”
Shuddering, I tamp down the images of canning and counting pennies for mac and cheese.
Nothing has been the same after getting accidently kicked out of the Family and finding we couldn’t make it on our own. I’m with her. I never want to be so vulnerable again.
19
Breaking the Rules
Now that the Farm is empty, I have no Family friends to confide in and find solidarity with. I try to make friends with some of the Portuguese teens who come to our riding school, but, as I learned in America, friendship is based on shared experiences, and we have nothing we can share.
As if she’s reading my mind, Mom comes into the schoolroom one morning while I’m reading about the US Civil War. “Guess what!” she announces excitedly. “We are going to be getting some more girls your age! We’ve had word from the Shepherds that they want to send us two teen girls who have been struggling in their Family Homes in India.”
Great! Finally, I won’t be alone here! I can have teenage friends.
Mom confides that the two new arrivals want to leave the Family, but they’re too young. “Their parents and Shepherds are at their wits’ end. They are hoping a more relaxed environment at the Farm with animals will help, but if they can’t make it here, they are out.”
Wow, girls who actually want to leave the Family. They would have been sent to the Victors in the old days.
“You need to be careful to be a good example to them and not to let peer pressure lead you astray,” Mom admonishes.
“Yes, of course,” I say. I’m nothing if not the sane, responsible one in my family.
The new arrivals are Emily, fifteen, and Jen, sixteen. Everything about Em is pin straight: her short, mousy brown hair and bangs; her tall, lanky body; her thin face. She has no boobs or curves at all. She barely speaks. I can’t imagine her getting up the courage to say boo, much less express a desire to leave the Family.
Jen, Miss Rebellious, is the opposite—round and loud. She throws herself on one of the beds and announces, “This is my bed.” She has curves everywhere: curly dirty-blond hair, round face and eyes. She stares at the two of us and decides she is queen.
Em and I get along, and while Jen is older than us, I don’t respect her. She is crazy, I think. And mean. I stand up to her every once in a while; this is my Farm, after all. But mostly I just let her call the shots. She cries and yells if she doesn’t get her way. Even though she is bossy and loud, I can tell she doesn’t have much more confidence than I do. She lifts her leg and says, “My thighs are so fat. Look at that; and look at how skinny you two are. Em, you could be a stick figure. I hate my body. I need to lose weight.”
“You’re beautiful,” says Em.
“Yes,” I agree. She is a bit chubby, but at least she has boobs, I think.
Em hates how stick-thin she is. “Like an insect,” she jokes.
“At least you’re tall. I’m short with small boobs, a big butt, and”—I’ve decided after long inspection in the mirror—“Not a single attractive distinguishing feature. I’m plain.”
“No, you’re not!”
“And I have weird feet. Just the other day one of the Portuguese boys coming to ride told me, ‘You know the first thing I saw when we met was that your second toe was longer than your big toe.’”
“He’s just a jerk. You’re beautiful.”
“So are you.”
We lie comfortingly to each other but privately think our self-assessments are correct.
Jen loves to flirt openly and starts to secretly date a Systemite guy who works at the Jockey Club. She’s pressuring Em and me to get boyfriends, but I’m still reluctant. I have no interest in the Jockey Club workers.
Every year in July, the city holds the S?o Jo?o festival at Hac Sa beach with a parade, food, game stalls, a huge bonfire, and dancing. This year, like every year, we ride our horses at the head of the parade dressed in traditional Portuguese folk clothes of red and green with tight black pants and boots.
As I stand leaning against a pine tree after the parade, watching Taurug eat, Nunu walks up with a big grin. “Hey, do you remember me?”
Do I ever! I haven’t seen him since I was eleven, but he’s just as handsome as I remember. He is a Systemite who used to come to the Farm for Bible studies, but I was too young for him to notice then. Now he’s in his twenties and I’m fifteen, filling out my riding pants much better and wearing makeup. Jen shows me how to do smokey eyes, and while normally anything more than a light touch is frowned upon, my parents don’t make me wash it off.
Nunu and I chat and flirt innocently, watching the local Portuguese police fill up their water guns with wine and have shootouts over the huge bonfire. Before he leaves, he invites Jen, Em, and me to a party that some of his friends are having at Hac Sa beach the following Saturday.
The next weekend, the three of us girls sneak out the huge back window of our bedroom—no lights, no flashlight—and walk down to the beach. It’s a small party, a bonfire, some beer, and a handful of people who are all older than I am. After chatting for a while, Nunu guides me a little way from the fire to lean against a boulder. Cold, I cuddle into him. He leans down and kisses me. My tummy tingles in excitement.
This hot guy I liked when I was a kid likes me back!
Even though sex has pervaded my life since I was a child, I am still shy, embarrassed to show my teenage body for the first time, to have a guy touch my breasts or see them. My reticence doesn’t make sense, even to me.
Perhaps I am polluted by the few romance novels I read when I was twelve? Or my grandmother’s Victorian-era books?
Guys are always rushing. I just want to linger in the kiss a little longer. Time, I just want time. Time to feel comfortable. Time to know him, time to know me. As I wiggle and gently push his hands down from my small breasts then up off my underwear, he finally takes my hand and places it over his crotch.
Okay, this I can handle. I’ve been giving guys hand jobs since I was ten, and I’m pretty good at it.
I may not be comfortable in my own skin, but I really like Nunu. I feel like I’ve known him for years, so I’m willing to explore this with him.