Everything Grows

by Aimee Herman

  I noticed Prince. She was with two others and they were laughing about something inaudible. I tried not to be too obvious as I took in her outfit and style. Reigh was right; she was definitely blush-worthy. Her skin looked just like a London fog, my favorite hot beverage.

  “You gonna make a move, darling?”

  I turned back toward Reigh and froze. “What? A move? No, I’m definitely not cool enough for . . . her. I mean, she’s . . . she’s Prince.”

  Reigh started talking about this person she used to be in love with called G. I was a little confused because Reigh kept skipping over the pronoun, so I couldn’t tell if G was a girl or a boy and then I decided it didn’t matter.

  “G was definitely out of my league. I mean, a drummer and a mountain climber?! G was fearless, dropping beats everywhere. I spent months just trying to be anywhere I thought G was and then.”

  Reigh stopped talking and smiled. I waited.

  “And then, I realized that G was everywhere I went. We finally had a conversation and realized we were each other’s . . . stalkers.” Reigh busted out laughing as though she just heard the most fantastic joke. “Five years of my life. Five . . . tumultuous years together. But that’s another story for another day. Quite. A. Doozy.”

  “So . . . you’re telling me I should say something to Prince?”

  “Hell yeah! Look, she just got in line for the bathroom. Perfect. That is where many love affairs begin.”

  “Waiting to use the bathroom?”

  “Sure. Waiting on line is the best time to strike up a conversation. Trust me, Eler. My intuition is signaling me to push you on this!”

  I took a sip of my root beer and swirled the spice around against my teeth. The sugar was strong and thick, creating a film over my tongue. I stood up, headed toward the back where the line was, and walked behind Prince.

  Prince smelled like Gret’s high school friend, Farrah, who wound up choosing The Grateful Dead over college. She now drives all over the country, going to Dead shows, shaking her long brown hair, dancing in various indoor and outdoor venues. I remember Farrah coming over a few times, imprinting her scent all over our house. I lusted after her way before I admitted to myself what that even meant.

  “Ugh, there’s always a line.”

  What? Huh? Prince is talking to me! Play. It. Cool. Eleanor.

  “Yeah,” I dripped out of my nervous lips.

  “You here for the open mic? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m just here with a . . . a friend she took me here I’ve never been to a . . .” Breathe, Eleanor! “Are you performing?” I asked.

  “Yeah, still need to sign up. I play bass. I’m still working up the courage to sing. Until then, I just play instrumental for now.”

  “Hey, that’s cool. Actually, my friend used to tour in a band. She plays bass too!”

  “It’s a fuckin’ cool instrument. Got calluses on pretty much all my fingers to prove it.”

  I glanced at her fingers, which I suddenly wanted to sip from as though they were straws.

  “Yeah, anyway, I’m T’nea.”

  “Tinea, hi, I’m—”

  “No, T’nea. No ‘I’.”

  “Got it. T’nea. I’m Ele . . . Eler.”

  “Awesome. Ah, shit, it’s my turn. Nice to meet ya.”

  T’nea disappeared into the bathroom and I just stood there, drenched in amorous thoughts. I peeked my head around and looked at Reigh. She caught my stare and smiled.

  When T’nea walked out, I told her I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom.

  “Oh? You just like hanging around bathrooms?”

  “You know,” I said. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you . . . you kind of look like Prince. In the best way. I mean, the girl version, but—”

  “I fuckin’ love Prince. No bad way to take that. Thanks, Eler.”

  T’nea moved closer and sniffed me.

  “Then, uh . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell like a boy.”

  “What? What do you mean? Like dirty laundry or sweaty sneakers?”

  “Shit, what kind of boys you got hanging around you? No, like . . . I don’t know. Musk. You smell good. I just mean, you don’t smell all florally like most girls. You smell . . . good. Damn, I don’t know. You got me all stuttery now.”

  Perhaps we were both blushing.

  The bathroom door opened. T’nea grabbed my hand and without exchanging any words, lead me in and asked me a thousand questions in the span of seconds just with her eyes. Suddenly, we were inside this single-serving room with a toilet and sink. Door closed, locked. Did anyone see us walk in together?

  “Hi,” she smiled.

  “Hi,” I smiled.

  “You queer?”

  “W-what?” I choked out.

  “I don’t know. I just get a sense from you that you are, but I definitely have been wrong. Are you?”

  “Uh, y-yeah,” I blurted. “I mean, I just started calling myself a lesbian, but . . .”

  T’nea held my hand. Her fingers wrapped around mine, pressing against my knuckles. Her tea leaf skin against my apple juice flesh.

  “I really wanna kiss you. How old are you anyway?”

  “I’m . . . I’m fifteen,” I embarrassingly stuttered.

  “I’m sixteen. You cool with that?”

  “With your age or . . . with you—”

  And suddenly, T’nea’s mouth was on mine. Her tongue was hot like an electric blanket. We were circling our tongues around each other, lips moistened by our combined spit. I could feel her breasts, pillowy and soft, press against my chest. Her hands in my short, choppy hair. My hands in her hair, a mass of twists like fireworks thrust from her scalp. How was this happening?

  James, I want to report to you that our kissing lasted for seven days and six nights. I want to tell you that we celebrated a new year within the span of our kissing. Perhaps I celebrated two birthdays as our mouths mashed together and hands explored places I barely like to acknowledge on myself. Or it could have just been a few minutes. Or maybe less than that.

  T’nea touched her mouth with her hand. Was she wiping me away?

  “My lips feel like they are on fire!”

  “They do? Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Ha, ha, yeah! You’re a fuckin’ amazing kisser, Eler. My thighs are all rubbery and shit.”

  If only she knew this was my first real, real kiss. Wow. I thought it would be with Aggie. Oh, Aggie.

  “We should give back the bathroom, what do ya think?”

  “Yeah, probably should. Umm . . . do you wanna sit with my friend and I? I mean, I saw that you came in with some others. You’re all welcome to—”

  “Cool. Yeah. Let me put some liquid in me. That is, besides just your sweet spit. And then I’ll come and join you.”

  We exited the bathroom and walked in our separate directions.

  “Well, there you are,” Reigh greeted me loudly. “Thought you ditched me, sweet one!”

  “Reigh, I’m so sorry, I—”

  “Are you kidding? I’m fine. I’m just hoping you got a story for me!”

  “Reigh, I . . .”

  “Let me guess . . . you’re in loooooooove!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but . . . oh my gosh, we made out!”

  “Well, aren’t you a surprise, Eler! How was it to kiss Prince?”

  “I feel like I stopped breathing. Her name is T’nea. And I told her that she looks just like Prince. And Reigh?”

  “What, doll?”

  “She said that I smell like a boy. But like, in a good way. It confused me at first, but then I started to feel really . . . uh . . .” I whispered, “Turned on by it.”

  “Yeah, I can wrap my mind around that.”

  “I invited her and her friends to sit with us. Is that okay?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  Sunday, December 5

  Dear James,

  I’ve been in such an Aggie haze tha
t I am still processing (therapy word) these past few days. It’s like when I switched my crush from Michael Jackson to Janet. Michael was all over my bedroom. Pictures ripped out from every magazine colleged collaged on my walls. I still love his music, but Janet owns my heart now. I know that Aggie will always just be my friend. I get that. I still cannot believe T’nea kissed me!

  I definitely didn’t expect T’nea to call me so soon. We exchanged phone numbers right before Reigh and I left. I was shy, at first, on the phone. Luckily, T’nea filled in all the gaps of my nervous silence.

  First, she walked me through her entire Saturday.

  “I had soccer practice, almost got hit by the ball twice, because you kept swirling in my head, thought about doing homework when I got home but then decided to listen to music instead, dinner at my Dad’s, fight with my brother, fell asleep thinking of you.”

  James, my entire face caught on fire from blushing so much.

  “What kind of music do you like?” I asked.

  “SWV, Mary of course, Whitney, Salt-N-Pepa, Tupac, and Pearl Jam.”

  “Pearl Jam? Do you like any other rock?”

  “Mainly I like music I can dance to. How ‘bout you?”

  I told her all about my love for Nirvana, Pixies, she’d never even heard of The Velvet Underground or even Bob Dylan! I like that we have different tastes. It means we can teach each other new stuff.

  Monday, December 6

  Dear James,

  Today in English class, Ms. Raimondo soaked us all in a noise bath. I know that sounds weird and it kind of was, but also really cool too. You would have loved this, James, or at least I think you might have. She said that it’s important to be aware of every sense around us. To smell the air and hear the wind and taste the words floating all around. Isn’t that beautiful? She said that to really hear creates an opening for more, to understand the ideas and words we read. She said it can even help us be better readers and writers.

  So she had us close our eyes. I peeked a few times to see if everyone else was doing it and I was amazed that they were. She librarian’d into the air. Dara and I used to say that anytime we were shushed. Then she said, “listen.”

  First, all I could hear was my own breathing. Then, I noticed people shifting in their seats. I felt like I could hear Aggie’s braid in front of me. The gathered hairs gasping because maybe her twists were just a little too tight today. Someone sneezed. Then a cough. Another sneeze. A giggle. Then, suddenly the quiet was gone.

  Then, Ms. Raimondo reminded us to keep listening as she introduced new sounds into the classroom. Sounds she recorded like cars on the road and rain against windows. Some sounds I couldn’t quite understand, but it’s like they were all musical instruments creating momentary songs.

  Ms. Raimondo had us write in our notebooks about what we noticed. What was uncomfortable. What happened for us.

  Here is what I wrote:

  I remember visiting Shirley for the first time in the hospital. The smells were really overwhelming at first. Rust and aged sweat and wet dog (though there were no dogs in sight) and sadness. Then I thought about how emotions could have a smell. What does sad smell like? I don’t know, I guess like instant mashed potatoes from the box, salt free, no butter. I’ve never kept my eyes closed for this long while in class. Normally, we’d get yelled at. But Ms. Raimondo is encouraging us. I want to whisper to Aggie all about Reigh and T’nea. I called Aggie this weekend, but she was out and I figured we’d catch up at lunch. I hear Reggie snickering. I can tell it’s him. Someone coughed, though it sounded made-up. What does a made-up sound sound like? I can hear my stomach wishing I had eaten breakfast. I somehow forgot because I was in a T’nea cloud. We talked on the phone yesterday for almost an hour! Her voice sounded even better through the tiny holes of the telephone. I wonder if Ms. Raimondo’s eyes ever checked in on us during our sound bath? James, I wonder what you’d write if you were here.

  In the cafeteria, I finally told Aggie all about my weekend. As I spoke, I watched her grab at her thick, black braid. James, I have spent hours, no, days, fantasizing about that braid against my skin. I have thought about undoing her elastic and watching her hair unravel from its twists. I’ve imagined Aggie’s lips, which are kind of diamond shaped, pressed against mine. But it’s just a little bit different because I was also fantasizing about T’nea.

  I described the beauty and mystery of Reigh and being at the open mic, promising I’d take her next time.

  “Aggie, this weekend I had my first real kiss.”

  “What?” Aggie grabbed my shoulders and shook them.

  This is when I gave up all the details, trying to make her feel like she was there. Though secretly, I knew that if she were there, it wouldn’t have happened. Usually when Aggie is around, I don’t notice anyone else.

  “Did you like it, El? I mean, was she a good kisser or what?”

  “It was . . . I don’t know . . . like warm and kind of sloppy but in a good way. She’s really soft.”

  “Girls tend to be,” Aggie smiled.

  As I went about my day, I kept thinking about yesterday. I’ve been living in New Jersey my whole life and suddenly now, I’m meeting people who are helping me to find bits of myself which have been waiting to be defined. It’s like I’ve been puzzled. No, it’s like I’ve been this puzzle, all intricate and jagged pieces but unfinished.

  I remember driving to Nebraska once with Shirley, Dad and Greta when we all got along. It was a long car ride, about three or four days, I think. We exhausted all the car games we could think of. We played all our chosen tapes enough times to have each song memorized and no longer liked. I remember it was during that car ride, that we were listening to the radio and the DJ announced that Lucille Ball had died. In the backseat, I quietly cried because I loved her so much and had assumed she was already dead. I watched reruns of I Love Lucy and The Lucy Show, where I got to actually see the red red red of her hair. I cried because in that moment, I realized she had existed somewhere. I probably wouldn’t have met her, but maybe I could have written her a letter. There are those books that publish stars’ addresses. And maybe she would have gotten it and written back. But now, she was really dead. I let each tear slowly travel down my face. I remember not wanting to wipe them away, hoping they’d form some sort of puddle on my knees. A pool of salt for Lucy.

  When we finally reached Aunt Wenda and Uncle Yurick’s house in Aurora, we were all so tired. And maybe I am remembering this wrong, but after we put our bags away, Aunt Wenda—whose teeth were always covered in layers of bright pinkish-orange lipstick—grabbed a puzzle and encouraged us all to take part in putting it together. Maybe I am forgetting something. Maybe I am forgetting that we ate first or drank lemonade in their screened-in porch. Maybe we puzzled the next day, but I really feel like there was this strange urgency to stand around their dining room table to create this cardboard cutout picture together. I’ve always hated puzzles, but it didn’t seem like we (Gret and I) had much of a choice. Shirley didn’t want to take part; this I definitely remember. She sat on the porch and smoked. Greta was annoyingly excited, which made my huffing and puffing seem far worse. In the end, Greta, Aunt Wenda, Uncle Yurick, Dad and I took to this puzzle together. My memory says it took hours, but it could have just been thirty minutes.

  But what has remained lodged in my memory’s throat is this: When we finally got to the end, there was one piece missing. Of course, Greta accused me of stealing it, since I didn’t want to do it in the first place. We all just kind of stared at this hole in the landscape.

  And then, I remember Aunt Wenda saying, “Well, isn’t this just like life. Feels like it’s all together, but there is always, always something missing. Something amiss.”

  I will never, ever forget her saying that.

  These months make me realize I’ve been missing something too. And maybe it’s many pieces—but I’m starting to feel like I’m getting warmer. Like where I need to look to find this missing bit is closer
to me than I realize.

  Like that finger I found at the beach! Decrepit and almost unrecognizable, but I knew what it was. I knew it was from someone. I knew I couldn’t just pretend it away.

  Wait.

  Am I . . . what am I pretending away?

  DEAR ELINORE,

  WHEN I WAS SIX NO EIGHT, I GOT CHICKEN POX. YOU EVER GET THEM? THAT WAS THE LAST TIME MY DAD WAS NICE TO ME. MY MOM FILLED THE BATHTUB WITH SOME SORT OF OATMEAL STUFF TO STOP MY SKIN FROM ITCHING SO MUCH. I REMEMBER I KEPT ASKING WHAT CHICKEN DID THIS TO ME. I HADN’T TOUCHED ANY SO HOW’D I GET THEIR POX? STUPID. BUT AFTER, I WOULD PRETEND TO BE SICK, SO MY DAD WOULD LET UP ON ME. I FEEL LIKE I AM ALWAYS LOOKING FOR HIS APPROVAL, BUT HE NEVER REALLY SEES ME. AND OF COURSE, I’VE MADE IT WORSE. THERE IS NO ONE I CAN TALK TO ABOUT THIS. THERE IS NO ONE I CAN TELL THAT MY DAD FOUND A DIRTY MAGAZINE IN MY BEDROOM BECAUSE I AM AN IDOT IDIOT AND DIDN’T HIDE IT WELL ENOUGH AND NOW HE KNOWS. HE KNOWS. I’M SURE HE’S TOLD MY MOM, BUT SHE HASN’T SAID ANYTHING. THE WORST PART IS I’M SURE HE WOULDN’T CARE IF IT WERE A GIRLY MAG LIKE THE DICKS IN OUR GRADE PASS AROUND IN THE LOCKER ROOM AFTER GYM CLASS. BUT WHY’D I WANT TO LOOK AT THAT?

  WHO KNEW THERE WERE SO MANY BAD WORDS FOR BEING GAY? SHIT, I NEVER WROTE THAT DOWN BEFORE. WHEN MY DAD WHIPS ME, HE READS OFF SCRIPTURE. I WANT TO TELL HIM THAT BY DOING THAT HE’S CONDITIONING ME TO HATE RELIGION. MR. HERALDO TAUGHT US THAT IN SOCIAL STUDIES. HOW HISTORY HAS CONDITIONED US TO TREAT OTHERS OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE BIG DEAL IS THAT I HAPPEN TO LIKE OTHER GUYS. WHO DECIDED THAT WAS SOMETHING WE COULDN’T ALLOW? I LOOK AT YOU AND WONDER IF MAYBE YOU’RE LIKE ME. MAYBE THAT’S WHY I SAY WHAT I SAY TO YOU. I DON’T KNOW. THAT’S TOO MUCH TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE I’LL JUST TAKE A WALK AND FIND A DOOR THAT LEADS TO KNOWWHERE NOWHERE. IF THE EARTH IS ROUND, THEN THERE MUST BE A WAY TO FALL OFF IT SOMEHOW, RIGHT? IS THAT DUMB TO SAY? YOU KNOW, LIKE A DIVING BOARD. JUST FIND THE EDGE AND JUMP OFF INTO SPACE. FLOAT OR DIE OR WHATEVER.

  Tuesday, December 7