“Heaven forbid,” she added, “someone call the EPA and file a complaint.”
The old woman hadn’t finished speaking when Leslie walked away, leaving him behind.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, good night.”
He pushed through the mob to catch up with Leslie, his eyes tearing from the sudden haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hanging gray and heavy, like the smoke he’d seen cloud above the factory towers in the west.
11.
Maddie
Spencer’s tongue filled her mouth. They were on Mr. and Mrs. Fox’s bed and the satiny comforter smelled like talcum powder and those air fresheners you plug into the wall.
They slid farther up the bed, his hips grinding into her, the buckle of his belt poking, her head surrounded by plush pillows—so many pillows. Fringed with tassels and tiny gold pom-poms, backed with black velvet and wine-red silk. He’d told her to take her top off as soon as they’d walked into the room. Your bra too, he’d said. Her small breasts jiggled with each thrust and she stopped herself from covering her chest with crossed arms.
Spencer was grunting. How could he be feeling good when it sounded like he was in pain? Then she remembered those nasty dudes in the porno and how hard they’d tugged on their dicks.
She tried to get her head out from under the pillows but he launched into her again, his cold hands sliding up over her breasts, her nipples tingling, his tongue wriggling back into her mouth.
He was sweating. A soapy scent slipped off his skin. She wanted to enjoy that, and the hard knots of his back muscles under her hands. If this were one of those late-night movies, she thought, the camera would pan in on her hands sliding over his back, fingertips gripping.
A tassel fell into her mouth. The wet thread stuck to her lips and she had to spit it out. He was too busy to notice. “Dry humping,” Bitsy had called it—how guys could come just by rubbing up on a girl. She was supposed to lie there and pretend that she liked it. She let out a little moan. He must have thought it an invitation because he yanked down her jeans and she sat up, knees clamped together, one hand pulling up the waistband of her panties. He was on his knees, his erection tenting out the front of his plaid boxers.
Music rose from the basement below—a heavy bass throbbing—she couldn’t name the song but knew it was make-out music. The porno was over, the lights dimmed, and the couples messing around. She thought of Penny and hoped she wasn’t too wasted.
He said, “Lie down.” She did.
Most nights, in her own bed, she lay on her stomach, her blanket pulled up high over her shoulders, one hand tucked between her legs. At first she only touched over her underwear, but then she’d let her fingers slip past the elastic. She’d learned how to make herself feel so good she’d wished she could let out a moan, wished she lived in a house with real walls, not thin Sheetrock her dad and Uncle Carmine had used to make one bedroom into two—one half for her, the other for Dom.
Spencer’s head ducked between her legs and she heard herself mumble, “Okay. Um. Okay.” Almost a question. Her stomach muscles clenched.
“Relax,” Spencer said lifting his head, looking at her over the pale field of her belly.
“Okay,” she said again.
She felt his saliva pooling, his hot breath, his tentative tongue. His lips smacking. She tried to imagine she was touching herself. Safe in her own bed. Now her moan sounded more like pleasure.
A rustling sound came from outside the bedroom door. What if Bitsy and the others were hiding behind the bedroom door, listening, about to burst in and yell Surprise! What if they heard her—she’d be mocked forever, the humiliation impossible to live with. Because she already wanted to forget tonight and it wasn’t even over.
“Did you lock the door?” she asked.
Her legs were quivering, an involuntary spasm.
“Yeah, it’s locked,” he said. “Chill out.”
“Can I do you?”
He lifted his head from between her legs—was he smiling, she couldn’t tell—wiped his mouth with a hand, and crawled up next to her.
Should she kiss him after he’d had his mouth, his lips, his tongue down there? It seemed gross, but then his mouth was covering hers. God, she thought, you suck at this, Maddie.
She tugged his boxers down his legs, which wasn’t easy. She laughed. He laughed. This made her feel better. She knew he was nervous too—when her mouth closed over his penis, he shuddered and said, “Sorry.”
She held her breath so she didn’t have to taste him or smell the scent, like unwashed scalp, of the coarse hair around his penis. She sucked until she felt like her eyes might pop out, took a quick breath, and sucked some more.
She felt a little sorry for him. He was shaking too. His legs trembled over Mr. and Mrs. Fox’s burgundy sateen comforter, reminding her of Penny’s seizure at the fair. She knew it wasn’t the kind of thing you were supposed to think about during a sexy make-out session.
She also felt a little sorry for herself. Why didn’t this feel like it looked in the movies, in the music videos on MTV? All those couples entwined and rolling around on a sandy beach. Like Chris Isaak and that model, Helena something, in one of her favorite videos. “Wicked Game.” She wanted to feel that.
Spencer’s hand cupped the back of her head. He pulled down and she gagged. It gave her a chance to look away, wipe her teary eyes, before putting him back in her mouth. Her neck ached. It wasn’t working. His penis was soft like those balloon toys filled with water she’d played with as a kid. Wigglies.
She must be doing it wrong. Should she suck harder? She didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe she should stroke up and down with her hand while she sucked. She couldn’t ask him for advice, could she?
“Can’t you do something hot?” Like he was annoyed. Like it was her job to know what to do. She was pretty enough (wasn’t she?) and sitting there half-naked seemed the definition of hot. The muscle in his jaw wriggled as he yanked his penis harder. Like he wanted to tear himself apart. She saw she was an idiot for thinking those gross dudes in the porno would get hurt tugging so hard.
She was an idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Thinking he’d wanted to save her downstairs, take her away from—what had he called the porno? Sick.
“Maybe,” she said, wanting to solve this, make it end, “I can dance for you?”