The Song of David

“Now feel your own body, Amelie” Robin insisted, stepping back, and Amelie obeyed, running her hands down her chest, over the swell of her breasts, past her flat stomach to rest on her slightly flared hips. Then she cupped her butt in her hands and snickered, “I didn’t grab your ass, Robin. Come here.”

“Ha, ha. Keep your hands to yourself, Grabby,” Robin laughed. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But you can feel the difference, can’t you? I’m lumpy. You’re curvy. I’m soft, and you’re sleek. You look the way you feel, Amelie. You have an amazing body. And when you dance, no matter what move you’re doing, if it feels right, I can guarantee it looks right, too.”

Robin rose another notch in my estimation.

“Really?” Millie asked.

“Really,” Robin answered.

Amelie swung herself around the bar a couple times, almost absentmindedly, her ponytail swinging as she hoisted herself up, executing a perfect split before she wound both legs around the pole and dropped upside down. She handled being upside down a whole lot better than Henry did. She trailed her arms over her head, felt the concrete beneath her palms, and released the pole, scissoring her legs back to a standing position, like she could do back bends in her sleep.

“I wish I could touch Tag like that. I wish it was okay to ask for things like that. I mean, I’ve felt him smile . . . but I want to feel the rest of him.” Millie blurted, as if confessing something that had been bubbling over.

I bit my tongue to keep from gasping and wondered how in the hell I was going to get out of this situation without embarrassing everyone involved.

“Amelie! You naughty girl!” Robin squealed.

“I’m not trying to be, Robin. I know he has strong arms. I know he has dimples in his cheeks and a cleft in his chin. I know he has a slightly crooked nose. I know his body is hard and his lips are soft. And I know he has big, calloused hands.”

“Stop it! I’m getting turned on and depressed,” Robin groaned. “Amelie . . . I think Tag Taggert might be the kind of guy who likes women. Period. You know? And you’re beautiful . . . so obviously, he’s going to like you. But . . . that’s not the kind of guy who’s going to make you happy in the long run.”

“No.” Amelie shook her head, rejecting Robin’s opinion of me, as spot-on as it was. “No. There’s more to him than that. He’s special, and he makes me feel special. Sometimes I think there’s something between us. I can feel it in my chest, the way I can’t ever really catch my breath when he’s around. I feel it in my stomach too, the way it flips when he says my name. And mostly, I feel it when he talks to Henry. He’s gentle. And he’s sweet.”

Millie shrugged. “But then other times, I think he’s just the kind of guy who is really good at taking care of people, and Henry and I are . . . needy.”

We were facing each other, twenty feet apart, and Millie had no idea I was there, standing by the stairs at the shadowy end of the long basement, listening as she confessed her feelings for me. I considered sneaking back up the stairs, but the stairs were old, and I was guessing they creaked like an old man’s joints. I was frozen between wanting to hear Millie’s secrets and wanting to hide from them.

“I wonder if he enjoys touching as much as I do,” Millie mused. “I want him to touch me, and I want to touch him. But I want him to actually like me, the way I like him, and not just the beautiful parts of me. All of me. Blind eyes, knobby knees, big ears, pointy chin. All of me. So that when he does touch me, and I touch him, it will be wonderful and not weird.”

I wished more than anything that Robin was not standing between us at that moment. I wished I could walk over, wrap my arms around Millie and kiss that pointy chin and whisper assurances in the ears that were a little big, now that she mentioned it. I slid back around the corner and sat down on the bottom stair, resting my head in my hands.

She’d laid it out. And I’d been lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to hear it. I was lucky because Amelie Anderson was falling in love with me. I was unlucky because I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know. I’d refused to listen to Moses when he’d called me out on Saturday. I’d refused to examine the kiss in the bathroom or the line I’d already crossed when I’d lain Millie across her white comforter, a comforter I still saw every time I closed my eyes.

But standing there, listening to Millie spell it out, I couldn’t ignore it any more. I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend that I had more time to decide. Time was up, and I had to choose.

I didn’t question my feelings. The feelings had been there from day one. From day one. I’d seen her standing like a shepherdess in the night, her head tilted back, her tongue catching snowflakes, and I’d felt something shift. Three days in, and I’d looked down into her face and felt the ode, a feeling no other girl had ever inspired. And I’d known. Since that day, I had found myself saying things, feeling things, doing things that I’d never done before. Millie had become my favorite sight, my favorite smell, my favorite taste, my favorite sound. My favorite. But that was never what any of this was about.