If I Was Your Girl

by Meredith Russo

  “Guess that’s up to you,” he said, favoring me with his full smile. I realized his front teeth were actually a little bit crooked, and I realized that a person’s flaws could make them even more beautiful sometimes. “I know I want to.”

  “But the other day, after school, you seemed like you wanted to be as far away from me as possible.”

  “Shit,” Grant said, sighing. His hands beat a steady rhythm on the wheel. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I guess I was just embarrassed about not being able to give you a ride. Made me feel less manly or something. It’s just things with you are so fresh and new, and … you ever feel like you only want somebody to see you at your best?”

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  “I don’t just want you at your best though,” I said. “I want to get to know you.”

  I thought about what Virginia had said, about us both keeping secrets, and I thought about my parents and how quiet it was in our home in the year before they got divorced. How they basically stopped telling each other anything important. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it right. I chewed my knuckle for a moment as I remembered the day at the plantation with Bee. “What if we played the honesty game?”

  “What’s that?” he said. I explained the rules the way Bee had explained them to me. Grant paused a moment, thinking. “So it’s like Truth or Dare?” he said.

  “Kind of.” I nodded, thinking of how Bee had described it. “Just, you know, without the pervy stuff.” He put on a show of pouting and I gave him a light shove. “Whatever! Play your cards right and pervy stuff might be negotiable. So you’ll play it with me?”

  He nodded. “Do we start now?”

  I shrugged. “No time like the present, right?” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll go first.” I took another deep breath and thought of the sermon at church with Anna. The idea of shedding all your layers of secrets and lies. Maybe someday, if we played this long enough, I would be able to tell him the truth about everything. “That night by the lake was my first kiss.”

  “No way,” Grant said, shaking his head. “No way.” I nodded emphatically. “How’d you hold out so long? Pretty as you are, guys must’ve been chasing you since middle school.”

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing. “I changed a lot last summer, so this is all pretty new,” I told him truthfully. “Your turn.”

  “That was your first kiss,” Grant said, tapping his chin and looking up at the ceiling, “but it was my best.”

  I touched my lips and looked down at my knees, my cheeks burning. I had been so afraid I would be a bad kisser or, worse yet, that I would kiss like a boy. I closed my eyes and remembered the kiss and my heart began to race. When I calmed down enough to look back at him I saw him blushing as well. I laced my fingers in his and said, “We can’t just let that record stand, can we?”

  “Why, no ma’am,” Grant said, leaning toward me, “I suppose we cannot.”

  The kiss outside the apartment was beautiful and nervous and almost chaste. The kiss on the bleachers was tender but fleeting. What happened next was different. Our mouths connected and somehow I found myself in the driver’s seat, poised above him with my hands on his hard, broad chest and my hair draped around us like a curtain. I pulled back for a moment and we just breathed, staring into each other’s eyes. I felt something brush my waist and looked down to see his hand inching toward the hem of my shirt, his gaze questioning if this was okay. I bit my lip and answered by kissing his neck and biting his ear. His fingers burrowed beneath my shirt and drifted past my belly button, where they stopped for a moment, and then I felt them near my ribs.

  “Hey!” Rodney yelled, pounding his fist on the window. I screamed and tumbled back to the passenger seat, banging my head in the process. “Come on, y’all, that’s new upholstery!”

  Grant stammered an apology as we stumbled out of the cab, both of us red-faced with embarrassment and stifled laughter. Rodney climbed into his truck in a huff and sped away, splattering both of us with mud.

  We stood there in silence for a moment, shaking and smiling, until Grant leaned over and smeared some of his mud into some of my mud and the laughter we’d been holding in finally escaped in a rush.

  12

  I sat with Bee beneath a canopy of brown and red leaves behind the art building, wisps of smoke rising from our lips as we talked. She fiddled with the settings on a new digital camera while I tried to draw her without her noticing. The cicadas had died off a few weeks before, and everything from the wind to the scratch of my pencil as it moved across the page seemed raw and loud in their absence.

  “How was your report card?” I asked, my voice croaking as I handed the joint back to her.

  “Shitty,” she said. “I would’ve done okay in English if Mr. Robinson didn’t have it out for me, but I managed to pull out a B anyway. Got a C in chemistry and a D in calc, but who cares, right?”

  “I care,” I said, rolling the tension out of my neck as I turned my attention to her hair, trying to translate its movement in the breeze in frozen graphite.

  “Oh yeah?” Bee said. “What do you wanna do with your life anyway?”

  “I want to go to school up north,” I said. “NYU maybe, if I get in. No idea what to major in though.”

  She leaned over suddenly and examined my drawing. I tried to hide it from her, but she grinned.

  “I’m like forty pounds heavier than that, but I’m not gonna complain,” she said. “Can I have that when you’re done?”

  “Sure,” I said, turning to a new page. “But yeah, I’m not dead set on New York. I just know I want to get as far away from here as possible.”

  “Word,” Bee said, holding the camera close to her face and screwing her nose up in concentration. “Fuck this place.” She pointed the camera my way and snapped a few photos before I could turn away—a reflex from years of being unable to stomach the sight of myself in photographs. “Why a girl like you doesn’t want to be seen is a mystery to me,” Bee said, shaking her head. “How’s that boy of yours by the way?”

  “Good,” I said, sketching out a bunch of random shapes that I would go back later and fill with faces. I felt my cheeks burn the way they always did when I thought of Grant. I thought of the movies we hadn’t paid any attention to, and the rolled-up-jeans walks by the lake, and fingertips brushing and smiling glances in first period while Parker glared sullenly. “Great, actually. Except…” I trailed off, unsure how much I wanted to say.

  “Trouble in the garden?” Bee said, grinning. “Does he have bad breath? Is he, like, super racist?”

  “No,” I said slowly, arching an eyebrow. “Nothing like that. He’s just … It’s just…” I looked up at Bee’s inquisitive face, and realized that as much as I loved talking to Virginia, I wanted to talk to someone about Grant who actually knew Grant, and the words began tumbling out. “He’s weird sometimes. Like, we have to meet up for all our dates; he won’t pick me up. He says his car is in the shop, but it’s been weeks now. And he’s always busy with something he doesn’t want to talk about. Like, we’re lucky if we get to hang out once a week, you know? No way football takes up that much of his time. I feel like he’s keeping things from me.”

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Bee said. She obviously meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t help imagining the worst, that he only liked me for the boyish things about me. Was it possible?

  “You don’t really…” I began, only to trail off. I wondered for a horrible moment if that was why he liked me, but Bee gave me a weird look and stopped my mind from swirling. “You don’t really think he’s gay, do you?”

  “How would I know?” Bee said. “Just ’cause I’m bi doesn’t mean I have magic powers. I’m not the plucky queer sidekick in your romantic comedy.”

  “I’m sor— Look, I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, suppressing the urge to apologize. “It’s just you kind of have dirt on everybody, don’t you?”

  She laughed at the look on my face. “I’m joking! Grant’s straight as
they come.” She closed her eyes and slid down onto her back like a serpent. “Parker, though? Biggest closet case I ever saw.”

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “I told you what happened at that party! He’s like a giant homophobe!”

  “That’s how you can tell,” Bee said. “You’re straight, right?”

  I nodded.

  “How often do you think about women having sex with each other?”

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “Never,” I said, shrugging.

  “My point exactly! Homophobes think about gay sex all the time because they wanna have it. They insist being gay is a choice because every single day they have to choose not to have the kind of sex they want. Homophobes are super gay.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I said. “But wouldn’t that make the South—”

  “The gayest place in the Western hemisphere?” Bee said. “Absolutely.”

  We laughed at that idea for a moment, until the sound of footsteps drew our attention. We shared a quick horrified glance, and then I waved as much of our smoke away as I could while Bee stowed the joint. It was last period, but that was hardly an excuse for smoking on school grounds. We quietly sneaked around the side of the building and leaned past the corner, to see if we had heard correctly. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the front door to the art building standing open.

  “Shit,” Bee hissed. “Shit, shit, shit. Let’s bail.”

  We hurried back behind the building and froze when we saw a short, middle-aged man with a slate-gray crew cut standing next to our bags holding our sketchbooks, a thoughtful expression on his square face. He looked up at us silently and raised his eyebrows.

  “Bee,” he said flatly. “Can’t say I’m surprised. How fares your senior year?”

  “Uh, good,” Bee said.

  “That’s good,” the man said, turning his attention back to our papers and sniffing conspicuously. Was he letting us know he knew we’d been smoking? “And might I know your friend’s name?”

  “Amanda Hardy,” Bee said for me, when it was clear I wasn’t going to speak.

  “A pleasure, Amanda,” the man said as he tucked our notebooks under his arm. “I’m Mr. Kurjak. Expect a call from me this weekend, both of you. Mind if I borrow your sketchbooks?”

  “No,” Bee said. I just shook my head.

  “I’ll get them back as soon as I can,” he said, giving us the vaguest hint of a nod as he turned and walked away.

  Bee waited until she was sure Mr. Kurjak was out of earshot and said, “That could’ve gone worse.”

  “Who was that?”

  “The gym teacher.”

  “My life is over,” I said, a sudden ringing in my ears. I breathed in panicked gulps. “I’m gonna be expelled!”

  “Relax,” Bee said, shouldering her backpack. “Worst-case scenario? He maybe smelled some weed. They can’t kick you out over a smell.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely,” Bee said. “Probably. Maybe? It’s last bell now anyway. Let’s get burgers.”

  * * *

  We had to wait until Bee sobered up enough to drive, and I was so hungry by the time we pulled into the Krystal parking lot that I almost forgot to be anxious. Bee hopped out of the truck and strode in ahead of me. I took my time, hands in my pockets, listening to the swollen absence of the cicadas and feeling the cool touch of the fall wind on my skin. Inside, Bee was mid-conversation with a thin, prematurely balding guy in a red polo and visor.

  “What do you want?” she said, turning to me. “It’s on me, since I probably ruined your Harvard plans or whatever.” I opened my mouth to tell her, but a movement in the kitchen caught my eye. The cook, also dressed in a red shirt and visor, seemed familiar to me, but his back was facing us. Just then he turned around and I saw Grant’s face, grease-stained and wide-eyed, staring out at me from beneath that red visor. His hair was lank with sweat and his shoulders sagged with fatigue. His cheeks flashed suddenly red and he broke eye contact with me after a moment.

  I rushed outside and leaned against Bee’s car, my heart pounding. Was this what Grant had been hiding from me? That he had an after-school job? Why hide that? And if it was such a big secret, what would happen now that I had seen him like this? When I saw him coming around the corner, his visor around his neck and his apron missing, my heart pounded even harder.

  “Walk with me?” he said.

  “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “Nah,” Grant said, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking off slowly down the highway. I followed him, my legs feeling clammy and rubbery. “I’ve covered like a million shifts for Greg. He owes me.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “How many hours a week do you work?”

  “At this job?” Grant said. “Or all of ’em together?” I raised my eyebrows and gave him a blank stare. “Yeah,” he said slowly, chewing his lip. “Confession time, I guess. Let’s see.” His mouth moved silently and he stared at the sky as he counted his fingertips. “It’s twenty hours here, ten hours doing odd jobs for Chloe’s family farm in the fall and summer, and ten hours washing dishes at Hungry Dan’s. So forty hours, I guess—give or take, depending on when I’m covering shifts.”

  “Is that legal?” I said, dumbfounded.

  “Never really thought about it,” he said. “I guess so now, since I’m eighteen, but probably not before then, no. Krystal’s the only place that gives me a check though, so it always worked out.”

  “When do you find time for football?” I said. “Or parties? Or homework? Or … you know, me?”

  “I don’t get a lot of sleep,” he said, “and I don’t really do homework, a lot of the time. My grades are terrible. I cover shifts a bunch, especially in the summer. That way I can call in favors whenever a certain girl wants my attention.” He winked at me and I laughed.

  I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Why were you hiding all this from me?”

  “I’m not a very public person in general,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry if I was weird about stuff. I just … I was afraid you’d see me differently. That and I didn’t want you to feel bad about the extra shifts I work so we can go out.”

  “I do see you differently,” I said.

  He gave me an embarrassed look.

  I shook my head and smiled. “I can add ‘hardworking’ to your list of virtues.”

  “Jeez,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “Can this count toward the honesty game?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but only if this can count as mine.” I hugged his arm and brought my mouth inches from his ear. “I’ll probably be expelled on Monday, and I’m really, really high right now.” I planted a kiss on his cheek before he could respond.

  Now it was Grant’s turn to laugh.

  “Amanda Hardy,” he said, “you might be the most interesting person I ever met.”

  JANUARY, SIX YEARS AGO

  Their fighting woke me up at four thirty. I turned my back to my bedroom door and listened as Mom and Dad screamed at each other. Each swearword, each sharp, barking yell made me flinch as though I were being physically slapped. I stared at my reflection in my bedroom window, lined in orange by a nearby streetlight. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t drown out their voices.

  “He’s coming home with bruises once a week for Christ’s sake!” Dad said. “We have to do something!”

  “So you wanna throw my baby to the goddamn wolves?” Mom said, ice in her voice.

  “Jesus, Bonnie,” Dad said, “it’s the Boy Scouts, not fucking Oz. The kid can’t even throw a ball for Christ’s sake.”

  It went back and forth like that. I listened but not closely, because this was an old argument. Dad wanted me to play sports, join the scouts, go camping with him and his navy buddies, do whatever it took to “toughen me up.” He asked me to play catch with him once a week. The nights we didn’t, he still looked disappointed, but the nights we did were in some ways
worse because I had to watch the frustration grow in his eyes. He said it was for my safety, but Mom said putting me closer to the people who were bullying me would just get me bullied more, and I agreed. I had just started slipping back to sleep when their argument stopped being typical.

  “I’m not making it about me,” Dad said, a ragged edge to his voice. I opened my eyes again and rolled onto my back.

  “Don’t lie to yourself and don’t lie to me,” Mom said. “It’s pathetic, and so is the way—”

  “Shut up,” Dad hissed.

  “Do not tell me to shut up. And so is the way you push your issues about your manhood onto my son. You’re gonna get him put in the hospital because you’re afraid of your buddies knowin’ you raised a fairy.”

  “Shut up!” Dad screamed. I heard glass shatter and Mom screamed in fright, and then there was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” Dad said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Get away from me,” Mom said. I sat up in bed, my heart racing. This was different. Something was about to change. “I said get away from me!”

  My door swung open quickly and the light came on as Mom swooped in. Dad stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip and another in his hair, watching both of us with an expression somewhere between rage and shame. “Put your clothes on, Andrew,” Mom said. “We’re going on a trip.”

  I looked from her to Dad. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. “Do what she says, bud,” he said, his voice quavering. Had I ever seen Dad cry before? The idea was so strange I almost forgot what was going on. Mom tossed an Invader Zim hoodie and jeans onto the bed. I put them on quietly while she packed my things. Once everything was packed, we walked to the door. Dad stood in the way for a second before sniffing once, loudly, and getting out of our way.

  I got in the car and Mom turned it on, to ward away the cold, then went back inside for what felt like forever before she came back out with a suitcase of her own. She threw it in the backseat and, as the sun rose, drove us both east out of the town where I was born. I would never go back.