by Anne Key
“Well, we don’t have to go ice skating, dork. I was trying to tempt you. I can use chocolate instead.” She pinches me, right under my boob, and I can feel it everywhere, like it starts a little weird fire. Maybe she drugged me. God. “Say you’ll do it.”
“Fine. If I say yes, can I have a Coke?”
She snorts. “Yeah, duh. I brought you a Dr Pepper.” I hear a bag rattle, then a cold can is pressed to my chest. “Here.”
“Cold!” I grab it, sit up. “Jesus, you evil bitch monster.”
“Yeah, but I’m your evil bitch monster.” Her head lands in my lap. “I’m glad you’re coming, Charley. I don’t want to do this.”
“You don’t have to.” Do I? Do we have to do this?
“Yeah, I do. I have to go, and I have to have a date from the football team. Hell, Vicki? The mascot girl? She’s engaged to Juan Gonzales—promise ring and everything—and they’re still making her take someone from the team to Homecoming.”
“Whoa. That’s not cool.” That’s like a cult deal or something.
“Tradition.”
“Traditions are stupid.”
She chuckles. “Totally, but you still do them.”
“I guess. Are you sure this guy wants me to go with him?”
“Yeah. He’s into jocks.”
I touch her hair, ignoring the fact that it feels like each single hair has been dipped in cement. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to do this, but I don’t want to disappoint Kaylee more.
“So you’re going to do it for me?” I can tell from her voice that she knows the answer already. She’s got what she wants.
“I guess. Spoiled brat.”
“Yep.”
I finish my Coke and lie down. School’s going to come early, and Kaylee’s an extra shower. She curls up around me and hugs tight.
“I love you best, Charley, you know that, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
And I do.
I know.
Chapter 8
“I CAN’T believe you didn’t want extensions. Mom would have paid for them!”
“I have short hair. I don’t want someone gluing hair onto my head.” It’s bad enough that I have the spider eye things on. Hell, we spent all damn day at the spa—which is salon-speak for real expensive—getting mani-pedis and makeup and hair.
I had them cut mine again and it’s damn cute, I think, all curling around my face and shiny.
Different.
I think it’s good anyway.
“Still, it’s a dance.”
“You’d just have them put it all up on top of my head anyway.” That’s what girls with long hair do—ponytails, braids, scrunchies, clippies. It’s always up.
“Still….”
We’re sitting and listening to music and eating Sonic, all cross-legged in Kaylee’s room. We look like dorks because we’re all made up for the dance, but wearing shorts and tank tops.
“So did you like him?”
“Who?”
Kaylee glares at me. “Brant.”
“He’s okay.” He had been super cool, actually, given that I met him-met him for the first time Thursday. I mean, I’d seen him around, I guess. He looks like every other guy on the football team—tall and mostly skinny, wearing jeans. He’s pretty new. Moved in at the end of last year and he knew Steve from some church-camp deal. I don’t know. I hadn’t really listened. He’d brought me a great mum, though, and I wore it to school and to the game and Applebee’s after with Steve and Kaylee.
It has lights. Music. We’ll take pictures with it before we leave and then, tomorrow, Mom can put it with hers in the box.
We hadn’t said much, at least until the baseball playoffs came on. Then I found out that he plays baseball and actually knows something about it.
I guess we bonded.
“You seemed to like him. You gonna go out with him again?”
“I don’t know. I start work again after this weekend. He probably doesn’t want to date a girl at the Super 1.”
“He might. He works at L-3, like cleaning up or something. Maybe filing. His dad works there.”
“What time are they coming?” I change the subject because, well, I don’t want to know about Brant from Kaylee, you know?
“Pictures at five. Supper at six. Then the dance, and then we’ll find a party to hit down by the lake. Someone will be having one.”
Goodie.
“Cool.”
God, this is going to take forever. And in that dress.
It’s pretty, that’s for sure—red strapless, hitting right at the knee. Kaylee is going to let me borrow the chicken cutlets for my bra so that it’s not screaming “dude, Charley’s got no boobs!” I mean, everyone knows that already, right?
It’s pretty obvious from looking.
I was really surprised when Mom came up with the dress too. I was going to wear the sundress that I bought on clearance at the Cato’s. It’s got this halter deal and violets on it and a ribbon around the bottom.
It’s totally not like me, but sometimes you have to be somebody else—like at church or at the year-end sports banquet (that’s where I wore it) or tonight. Still, I guess Mom gets it. She had the formal in her closet in a plastic sack and we had Miss Lucy take it in and up and we had it cleaned.
Even Kaylee called it “totally retro and bomb,” so that rocked a little.
Kaylee’s dress is aqua blue with jewels all over it. It’s an Anna Somebody and it cost the earth. Six hundred dollars for a dress she’ll only wear once.
My dress started out as Granny Caskey’s in the sixties.
“Did you say you were going to borrow my red heels?”
I shake my head. “I have a pair of canvas tennies that are all white glitter. They’re cute and fun and I can walk in them.”
“You sure? I mean, that’s sweet, but….”
“I’m totally sure.” I have to work tomorrow. I don’t need miserable piggy toes.
“Okay, but you have to borrow jewels from me.” She hops up and pulls her jewelry box over. She went to Claire’s and found earrings and an arm-cuff deal, but her dress is sort of jewelry on its own. “Pearls or diamonds?”
“Sparkly, huh?”
’Cause of my shoes.
“Yeah.” God, I love playing with Kaylee’s jewels. They’re all fake, except for the pearl earrings she got for her sweet sixteen, but I don’t care. I remember all of them. The weird red-velvet bow earrings from Gramma Kay for Christmas, the huge neon green ones from when she dressed up as Madonna for Halloween three years ago, the half of our best-friends necklace from sixth grade.
“I think either fancy earring and simple necklace or fancy necklace and simple earrings….” She looks at me. “Fancy earrings. You and your short hair. Besides, we don’t want to scream ‘hello! shoulder surgery!’ do we?”
“No. Is the scar bad?” I haven’t even worried about that yet.
“Nah. It’s cool. If it had been, we’d have found you a little shawl like the fat girls wear.”
“Kaylee!” Oh, that’s mean.
She grins and rolls her eyes. “If you can’t be a total bitch around your bestie….”
“Who can you be a total twat around?” I finish and we crack up. I steal Kaylee’s last Tater Tot and she grabs the cherry from my drink, just like always, and it makes it a little easier.
I mean, it’s not like this is my first date, really. We all go places—the mall, the movies, parties. Daniel’s mom did a huge Vegas-themed birthday party for him last year, even—with lights and poker and blackjack, even a roulette wheel, but usually it’s a bunch of us, all together.
Not me and Kaylee and two guys.
Shaundra is not coming to the dance tonight and neither is Jeri or Belinda. They’re all going to see a double feature in Rockwall.
Lucky.
“Are you going to wear panty hose?”
“What? No. No, I shaved my legs fresh this morning; that’s good enough.”
“Cool, because I don’t want to, but if you were going to, I’d have to.”
“Follower.” I have to tease, but I get it. All the girls on the softball team—all my teams—have long hair. All of them. You’re supposed to wear it back and do all these fancy braids and shit, but… I have gee-my-dad-was-Creole nappy hair and all the straightening irons and chemicals on earth won’t make it smooth, so it’s short.
Fuck the haters.
“I wish I had your skin, Charley.” Kaylee reaches out, touches me, and it leaves tingles behind. God, please. I can’t be all crushing on Kaylee, still. Please make it go away.
“If you had my skin, then I’d be all naked and gooey.”
Her hand shoots out and pinches my nipple hard. “Bitch!”
“Ow! You’ll leave a bruise!”
“Won’t be the first time; won’t be the last. Want to pinch mine?”
“Shut up.” Because the answer isn’t something I want to think about.
We’re supposed to be beyond this. I’m fixin’ to be eighteen, for God’s sake.
“You want to play Sims? I’m about to make Desiree have sex with Marlee and Jack.”
“Desiree’s a slut.”
“Yeah, who isn’t?”
“I guess you’re right.”
She pulls her laptop over and starts playing while I pretend to pay attention. Thank God Mrs. Bergeron didn’t assign homework this weekend; otherwise I’d be screwed.
“SO, THE dance totally sucked, huh? I mean, eighties pop? They didn’t say it was retro night.” I have to admit Brant makes me grin.
We’re sitting out on the golf course on the tailgate of Steve’s truck while Steve and Kaylee are playing tonsil hockey in the cab. At least there’s a blanket to protect my dress.
“It was okay. I mean, I guess. I’m not into dances.”
“No? You look like you could move okay.”
What are you supposed to say to that? Hell if I know.
“Thanks. You go to a lot of them?”
“I did in Houston, yeah. Lots. Here, I don’t think so.”
Oh, right. New kid. How bad did that have to suck? At least I know who the assholes are.
“Did you like it there?”
“It was okay. I knew people. My father’s a pastor, though, and ‘God called him’ to bullshit northeast Texas. Really, God didn’t call. It was getting caught porking Shirley Mann in the church office.”
“Oh.” Ouch. “I’m… sorry?”
“Nowhere near as sorry as Mr. Praise Jesus.”
“So. I take it you’re not real religious.” It’s just a guess.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell FCA President in there, but no. It’s all about the cash. It’s all a money thing.”
“That’s what my mom says.”
“Smart lady.”
I nod. She is. She’s not a lawyer or nothing, but she manages okay.
“So, what about you, Charley? You like it here?” Brant leans back against the wheel well. He’s tall.
“I guess? I was born here. I been here forever. I don’t hate it.”
“Where are you going to college—Commerce?”
“God, no. I got a softball scholarship to UT, assuming I didn’t fuck it up with the surgery.”
“Austin! Nice. Freak capitol of Texas.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m….” He frowns, closes his mouth, then starts again. “I’m not sure yet. Dad wants me to go to SMU.”
“Dallas, huh?” That’s cool.
“Yeah.” Except Brant doesn’t sound like it’s cool.
God, it’s so weird with boys, because I don’t know whether to just come out and go, “you’re lying” or just nod and agree because whatever. His life.
“So, where are you really going to go?”
He told me about the whole God thing after all.
“California. I’m totally hitching a ride to California.”
“You mean….” Whoa, how cool is that?
“Yeah. I’ll graduate and then I’m gone. I want to live in San Francisco.”
Okay, so that is unexpected. I would assume LA, as that’s where Hollywood is.
“What’s in San Francisco?”
Brant gives me a look. “People like us.”
“Huh?”
Sports fans?
“It’s okay, Charley. I totally won’t out you. I know how it is here, but you’re not alone. There’s more than a couple—mostly guys, sure, but some girls that swing your way. That’s why I was so fucking stoked that Steve-O asked me to take you to the dance. We’re perfect for each other. Safe.”
I sit there, listening to him and not really listening at the same time.
People like us.
Who thinks that?
Does someone think that about me?
Oh, fuck.
He’s still talking and I can’t hear him, not really, because all I can hear is my own brain, screaming at me.
People like us.
Asked me to take you.
Safe.
God.
“Honey? Charley? You okay?”
“Uh-huh.” No. No, I’m totally not okay.
Totally.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.” I play softball.
“Do you mind if I do?”
“No. Just don’t blow ashes on my granny’s dress.”
“No problem. I’ll even stand on this side of the truck.”
The wind is hot for October and I’m starting to sweat a little.
This sucks.
This whole thing sucks.
He hops into the bed and lights up, inhaling deeply. “I really appreciate you being so cool and calm. You’re the first girl I came out to here that wasn’t hanging out with us already. Thank God for Dallas, right? At least in the big city, there are places for us to hang.”
This time he’s obviously waiting for me to answer, so I just nod. “I don’t get into Dallas proper much.”
Only for league practices and games.
“You want to go with me next Friday? My folks think I’m going to the game.”
No.
God no.
Why would I do that? Shaundra might ask me to come to her house. Or I could see if she wants to go watch a movie or something.
Never.
Not in a million zillion years.
I open my mouth and the word that falls out is “okay.”
God.
What is wrong with me?
“Cool beans. It’ll totally be fun. We’ll have a ball, huh?”
“Sure.” I’m already having second thoughts.
“Relax, Charley. I swear, I’m the last guy on earth with designs on you. I just like talking to you.”
“This is relaxed.” How long do I have to wait for Kaylee to get finished doing what she’s doing?
How long does it take?
How long is it supposed to take?
“I assume you’ve never….”
“No.” I mean, Christ. I’m an athlete. I just started having my periods regular after my surgery—because you know, insult to injury. I’m pretty sure you can’t catch pregnant if you’re not on the rag, but I don’t know. And also, ew.
“Yeah. It’s different for girls.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean, guys don’t have to worry about all the parts and hurting and babies. I mean, at least straight guys don’t.”
It seems to me that straight guys are the only ones that really need to worry about babies, but I could be wrong. “Look, I just play softball. Honest, that’s like my dream.”
“What are you going to do after, though?”
God, everyone asks that, like it’s going to go away or something. Poof. Softball is no longer a sport.
Right.
“I’m going to college to be a physical therapist, but I might coach, once I’m in my thirties.” Besides, Mom says there’s money in Olympic titles, especially if you�
�re smart and keep your nose clean.
I can do that—be smart.
“I can see that. I want to take a few years off—learn a big city, work, goof off. Just be myself.”
How do you have enough money to just “take a few years off?” That’s crazy.
“You aren’t scared?”
“Fucking terrified, but I’m more scared of ending up having to marry some woman from the church so I can stick my dick into her and make Jesus happy.”
Whoa.
I mean, really.
Whoa.
“I don’t think God cares who you are.” I don’t know for sure that I believe in God. I don’t know for sure about anything.
“God is made out of money, girlfriend. Pure cash to pay to keep the morons stupid and sheep.”
“Bitter much?”
I mean, I get it. I’ve caught my own raft of shit for not wanting to join “praise Jesus this” or “yay God that,” but I got Mom to blame it on. It’s handy.
“Yeah, I mean, I’m so tired of ‘God hates fags’, aren’t you?”
“Isn’t that just the sign-holding people at funerals?”
He gives me this look, all nasty. “What fucking world are you living in? Don’t you pay attention to the news?”
“No, and don’t be a bitch. I’m a fucking teenager.” The news is boring.
“Well, you have to start paying attention. You have to learn to care because….”
“Because why?” Nothing I do will make a difference here. I know that. I got no money, and I’ve watched Mom vote. Fat lot of good that does here.
“Because it sucks and we’re supposed to change it.”
Ah. See, that’s religion. I mean, I get it a little because softball is important to me, but I’m just wanting to play the game, not change it. I know better.
I shoot Brant a look. “Drama queen.”
He glares back, but there’s a grin there. “Jock.”
“Bitch.” Okay, this is fun.
“Ballbuster.”
“You know it.” Sometimes a girl has to be.
“Thanks for coming to the dance with me, huh? You saved my ass a lot of questions.”
“That’s what Kaylee said too. I guess people are talking about me.”
Like I’ve done something wrong.
“Well, we’ve got each other’s backs now, right?”
I guess we do.