by Michelle Ray
Antonio knew I was dating his sister. His only comment was that he’d kill me if I hurt her again. No pressure.
Family weirdness aside, we were alone at her house again, and that, at least, was great. We ate pizza — or rather, I ate; B only picked at her food — and watched a ridiculous crime drama full of beautiful police officers in sunglasses talking in serious tones. I watched and laughed, suggesting that we kiss each time the lead investigator ripped off his sunglasses melodramatically or when the female investigator nearly missed dipping her long, perfectly done hair in blood. Beatriz seemed to think this was funny, but then her mind drifted and she startled when I pecked her cheek.
I didn’t want to worry. But I was worried.
Beatriz
The empty Desdemona’s Secret bag was lurking under my bathroom sink while Ben and I watched TV. Like the tell-tale heart, I could practically hear it calling out, “Whatcha got under that sweater, Beatriz Garcia Rojas? Pretending it’s a normal night? No cotton day-of-the-week undies on today, sister. Are you still watching that stupid show when you could have a whole other show going on upstairs? Lame. Prude. Sad, sad, sad.”
I was a wreck.
I decided I couldn’t stand the suspense another second and suggested we go to my room. It was a really long walk.
Ben
I wasn’t surprised when she asked if I wanted to go upstairs since that was where we ended up most nights we hung out. But she was definitely acting strange and it was making me edgy. I thought for a second that she was gonna break up with me, but figured she would have just brought me to the front door if that was it. When we got to her lavender bedroom — I was always relieved to get away from the sterile white-white-and-white of the rest of the house — she told me she needed to use the bathroom and to make myself comfortable. While I kicked off my shoes, I noticed the pause she took before going in. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but swallowed the question. She didn’t seem like she wanted me to talk.
While I waited, I looked around as usual. The first time I was allowed in her room, she showed me her prized possessions, but after that she just let me wander. There was something, I don’t know, intimate about seeing which pictures she’d pinned to her bulletin board, which medals and awards she’d chosen to put on her shelves, which stuffed animals she still kept around.
I studied a photo of her at a cinderblock house with a short, gray haired woman and knew it had to be her grandmother in Colombia — the one she told me about at Peter’s house. The night I got to see her dance. The old lady’s fiery eyes were the same as B’s, and so was the pointed chin. I wished I could meet her but knew I never would. And if somehow we did meet, I knew that despite six years of Spanish, I wouldn’t be able to truly explain to B’s abuela why B was the best thing in my life.
Beatriz Garcia Rojas I could kill Sula and Hope. And Desdemona.
Beatriz
I locked the bathroom door, which struck me as a little funny. Why lock Ben out if he was going to see it all in a second? Suddenly I wanted to be alone or to just stay in my clothes and suggest we go to a movie. He’d say okay. But I also didn’t want to. With a determined breath, I unzipped my pants and let them fall to the tile. I had remembered to shave my legs, which was good, and my toenails were done. Like Ben would care, but it made me happy.
I took hold of the bottom of my sweater and paused. Moment of truth. I knew if I waited too long, I wouldn’t do it. I pulled the sweater up and over my head and regarded myself in the mirror. The bra was nice and I knew I had a good body. People always commented on it, but I wanted to be more than that. And that kind of attention made me so uncomfortable that I refused to put much thought or effort into showing it off. But objectively speaking, I knew there was no reason to fear. But the rest . . .
I took a deep breath and opened the door. I wasn’t sure where to look or where to put my hands. I decided on a pose I saw in a movie, and held the doorjamb and the knob (which was great because stopped my arms and legs from shaking) and looked at Ben. His mouth dropped open. I smiled just a little at his reaction, but then felt really self-conscious again.
He continued to look stunned and said nothing, so I crossed the room and I lay down on my comforter. To keep from trembling I stiffened my arms and legs and looked right at the overhead lamp.
“Okay,” I said, my voice as tight as the muscles in my face. “Let’s do this.”
Ben
To say I was surprised is an understatement. Since we’d started going out this time, we’d done a lot more than when we first dated, but that was a far cry from B popping out of the bathroom, well, almost naked. With most other girls, it would have been go-time, but this was B.
So when she said, “Okay, let’s do this,” I felt like my grip on reality was slipping.
“Do what?” I asked stupidly.
“Have . . . you know . . . sex.” She started to squeeze her eyes shut but then they flew open and she stared, crazy-eyed at the ceiling.
When I’d come over tonight, I’d expected pizza, not this. I’d made a promise to be smart and to take things slow, and here she was pushing us to go farther. Not that I didn’t want to, but she looked absolutely terrified and I knew for sure that if I made the wrong move, she and I would be done. Possibly for good.
Why is this kind of stuff never in the movies? What was I supposed to do?
Beatriz
Ben’s face came into view as he leaned over me. “B, you look like I’m going to attack you.”
I blinked a few times, not wanting to say that was kind of what the whole thing sounded like when I heard it described, but I didn’t want to sound dumb. “It’s okay. Do what you want. I’m ready.” Without wanting to, I winced a little.
God, what was wrong with me? I was so sure a couple of hours ago and now I was acting like a silly little girl. Or worse, a psychopath.
Ben started to say something, but the sound got caught in his throat. “B, sit up. This is weird. I don’t want to touch you when you’re like this.”
Humiliated tears sprang into my eyes. Ben would touch anyone but he didn’t want me? Great. Just flippin’ perfect!
I ran back to my bathroom, still having the presence of mind to wonder what my lace-covered butt looked like at that speed. It was official: I was a psycho.
I slammed the door and covered my mouth so he wouldn’t hear my crying. The tile was freezing under my feet and I began to shiver. I tried to get my sweater on quickly, but got tangled up in it. Defeated, I slumped to the floor and wept.
Ben Richardson Being a gentleman is overrated.
Ben
I sat on the bed with a mind full of curse words. Did I just let her go? Did I just hurt her feelings? How could I not have seen this coming? Now what? It was ridiculous. In trying to do the right thing I upset her. It wasn’t that I didn’t think about sleeping with her, like, all the time, but she looked so pained, or like she was in a coffin. Seriously, like a corpse dressed in outrageously sexy lingerie. Wtf? Girls never ceased to amaze me.
I heard a noise behind the closed door. A sniffle? Crap.
I knocked.
“Go away,” B said, her voice all tight.
“B, open up.” I listened and heard nothing. She couldn’t be killing herself in total silence, so that was something. “Open the door. I want to talk to you.”
“Go h-home, Ben.”
Not a chance. I leaned against the wall, careful not to knock down the cross that was nailed above the light switch. A cross. Well, if that wasn’t a sign. But her voice was quivery and stuff, and I wouldn’t leave until I made sure she was all right.
I could hear her shuffling around and sniffing. Something dropped. A razor? Pills? God, I felt like I was in some Lifetime movie. Girl in peril. Dick boyfriend stands on other side of door and does nothing. Damn. Should I bust open the door and get to her?
No. I didn’t want to do my usual: act first, think later, and explain a lot more in the end. She was a talking kind of girl, so
maybe I could talk this one through.
I ran my finger along the curve of the door handle, wishing it were her that I was touching. “B? You just took me by surprise. B, come on. Let me in.”
Beatriz
I was soooo not letting him in. I’d finally managed to get my damn sweater on right and I leaned against the sink. I used my sleeves to wipe my face and stared at the closed door, wishing I could disappear. Or die on the spot.
“B, I’m not leaving while you’re in there.”
I said nothing. I hated him. I hated me. I hated the whole stupid world that told me to be pure and sexy, honest and coy, confident and needy, determined and vulnerable. I couldn’t be all of that, so I would be nothing at all.
“You’ll have to come out eventually.”
Not true. There must be some nutritious aspect to toothpaste. And while I only had one magazine to read, I bet I could ration the articles out and last for at least a week.
“B?” I heard him lean against the door with a sigh. “I really like you. I’ve never felt like this with anyone. I can’t stand that I just hurt your feelings. I know coming out like that wasn’t easy for you . . . And let me say you looked incredibly hot — But you looked scared and . . .”
He sounded so pitiful and I knew the magazine would get boring fast. Maybe he could help me figure this out. I might not be the only one who was confused.
I opened the door, forgetting to warn him, and he tipped back, whacking his head on the tile floor. I reached out to help him up then remembered I was pants-less. I jumped into my jeans, zipped them and hurried across the room. I sank down on the mattress, defeated. I couldn’t bear to look at him and stared out the window instead.
Ben
I didn’t know what to do, so I stayed in the doorway of the bathroom.
After a while, still looking out the window, she spoke. “Last time we were together, we broke up because I wouldn’t do . . . anything with you. But I’m sick of being ‘Miss Priss’ and ‘Mother Superior’ and those other things. I can’t think why you want to be with me.”
Why’d she have to be so tough on herself? I moved slowly so I wouldn’t scare her and sat next to her on the bed. I took her hands in mine, and her fingers unclenched. She breathed out and closed her eyes. I couldn’t help but notice her mascara had smeared. Even with black marks on her face, she was so pretty it hurt.
“B, they’re just names.”
She didn’t let my hands go, but she didn’t look at me, either. “No they’re not.” Her lip started to tremble, which kind of killed me. “It’s true. Sula wants me to adopt sexual positivism, but I’m struggling with that, but I don’t want to make the same mistakes with you again.”
“B, we’re both different than we were. I don’t want to make the same mistakes either. I can wait.”
At this, our eyes met. “I can’t. I want to know what all of this is about. I want to do it.”
I rubbed my forehead. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we should slow down.” She looked completely dejected and like she was about to cry again, which squeezed my chest. “I want this to work, B, and I don’t want sex to mess it up.”
We sat quietly listening to the sounds coming from outside — a house alarm, a car, a helicopter.
She didn’t say anything, so I tried to think of something that would make her feel better without lying. I wouldn’t lie. Whatever happened between us, I swore I would never lie to her again. “I’m . . . B, do you think it’s easy for me to see you like that and not jump on you?” She shrugged, so I said, “Hardest damn thing of my life. Harder than physics and the SAT combined.” A little smile tugged at her mouth, so I ventured, “That lingerie looked really nice. Can I, uh, see it again?”
Her questioning eyes meet mine and the stress lines creasing her forehead vanished. Phew. And I really did want to see it again.
“I can enjoy it without . . . everything, right?” I asked.
Beatriz
I jumped a little as his fingers slipped over my collarbone and tugged my bra strap into the light. God, if his touching my bra made me this jumpy, what would I have done if he’d been game for the rest?
“Nice color,” he said. “You pick it out yourself?”
“Hope, Maggie, and Sula were with me,” I whispered.
Ben
Don’t ask why, but this made me really uncomfortable. I wondered who else knew about her plan. I figured B would end up telling her friends that I refused to sleep with her. Then my teammates might find out and I’d have to explain. This made me feel worse than anything else that night.
She explained, “My friends and I talk about a lot of things, but I haven’t wanted to talk about you and me. Clay won’t find out, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
How’d she know?
Beatriz
We looked at each other — really looked at each other — for the first time since I came out of the bathroom barely dressed. I felt a little electricity run through me, and, unable to stop myself, I leaned in for a kiss. He kissed me back hard and I reclined against the mountain of decorative pillows.
“Not too far,” he said, and I wondered if was talking to himself or me.
“I know,” I said, practically gasping for breath. I slipped my hands under his shirt and pulled his muscular back closer. “I know.”
* * *
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me and your mother?” asks Ben’s father.
“I didn’t realize this was all about you,” Ben answers. He yanks the car door handle, but it’s still locked.
His father growls as he rummages through his blazer pocket for the remote. The beep echoes off the canyon walls.
His mother, who is about to get into the passenger seat, spins to face Ben. “Well, love,” she says, meaning quite the opposite, “this certainly isn’t only about you. Have you any idea how devastating this is to our careers? Your father had a meeting with a director canceled this afternoon. A plum role. Sensitive father crap. Award bait. And I had over a dozen clients call to check how this would affect my ability to handle their Oscar campaigns. Honestly, Benjamin, how could you be so stupid?”
“Do you even want to ask if I did it?”
“Not really,” she says, opening the now-unlocked door.
8
Ben Richardson I hate close encounters of the parent kind.
Beatriz
A couple of nights later, I was watching TV with Antonio, waiting for our parents to leave for the night and for Ben to arrive. Things had been calmer since the great lingerie disaster. It had been our thing to hang out at my house after school and on weekends. My parents were usually working late or out, which made it easy. We studied a lot of the time, but always found time to — well, not.
So anyway, this evening my mom walked in, face pale, turned off the TV, and held up a box. Of condoms.
My body went numb. Holy! Crap!
“Miguel!” my mother shouted, staring right at me. I wanted to crawl away and die.
Antonio slid off the couch and my eyes flicked to meet his. He looked amused and worried at the same time, but clearly had no plans to stay for what promised to be an ordeal.
My dad clopped across the marble entryway in his perfectly polished dress shoes, and when he saw what my mother was holding, he stopped mid-step. “What the hell is that?”
“Ask your daughter. It was under her sink. I needed some shampoo and mira! Look what I found!” I sat frozen, so my mom said, “Explain yourself.”
I swallowed hard and blinked a lot. What was I supposed to say? I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her business, but that wouldn’t go over well. I wanted to say the box wasn’t mine, but we’d both know it was a lie. Or I could always tell her that the condoms were from when I had thrown myself at my boyfriend. Yeah, right.
“Are you seeing someone, Beatriz?” asked my father, who looked more confused than angry.
I sank farther into the cushions. “Uh . . . ki
nd of.”
“Kind of? What kind of answer is ‘kind of’? You are or you aren’t,” snapped my mother. An invitation for open, honest dialogue, right?
“Yes.”
“Who?”
My body began to regain sensation, but it was like pinpricks all over. Turns out numb was better. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t hidden the box better, but I hadn’t expected her to go poking around in my space.
“Mamá, why does it matter?”
“You’re joking, right?”
I looked at my dad because my mom was too crazy-eyed to deal with. “Ben Richardson,” I said.
“Ben — the one you broke up with after he cheated on you?” asked my dad.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so forthcoming with the details of our breakup. I nodded half-heartedly.
“Is this a joke?” shouted my mother. “I thought I raised you better than this!” She shook the box of condoms.
“Mom, it’s sealed. I’ve never — We . . .” I paused as a wave of embarrassment rolled over me. “Sealed,” I repeated.
“You intended to use these if you bought them,” my father said, stepping forward, his anger finally matching my mother’s. The thought of my dad picturing me having sex was so awful that I wanted to bury myself under a pile of giant white cushions.