“She’s not kidding,” Annette confirmed, stepping behind the chair and gently running her fingers through the back of my hair. I wanted to tilt my head back, beckon her down for a kiss, but her face was turned toward the closet (from whence my probable doom would come at any moment). “If we put her in heels, she’ll take us all down on the dance floor.”
“Let’s leave her hair wild,” Becca suggested, studying my locks in the reflection. “God, I’ve always wanted curls like that.”
“They’re amazing,” Annette agreed.
“They’re a pain in the ass,” I assured them, surprised that Becca was envious of my crazy hair. Despite the fact that they often made me look like an unshorn sheep, I secretly loved my unusual auburn curls.
“Hand me the blue bottle from the bathroom shelf,” Annette said.
I watched Marina flip through Becca’s side of the closet with remarkable speed—clearly a professional.
“How’s this?” she asked, holding up a denim mini.
Annette shook her head. Her fingers were still entwined in my hair, and I was grasping at a moment of intimacy in the crowded room. We’d moved thirteen hundred miles away from our families and lived under the same roof (if tragically not in the same room), but it felt like we’d hardly touched each other since we’d arrived. I closed my eyes and reveled in the sensation of Annette’s hands in my hair.
“Hey, no falling asleep!” Cynthia called with a laugh. I opened my eyes in time to see Marina rehang the skirt and continue flipping through, making her way toward Annette’s side of the closet. “Ooooh, Annette! This is fabulous.” She held up one of my favorite dresses—an above-the-knee orange knit with an asymmetrical chenille trim. It was sixties vintage, and Grandmother Ruby’s.
“That’s perfect.” Annette leaned down until I could feel her breath on my ear. “I’ve always wanted to see you in that,” she whispered.
How funny. I had always wanted to wear it.
She gave my hair, which was especially big tonight, a final scrunch and disappeared into the bathroom to rinse her hands. By the time she emerged, Marina had the dress unbuttoned and off the hanger.
I dropped my jeans to the floor. Pulling my tee over my head, I slipped my hands into the sleeves while Annette tugged it down around my knees, which felt strange. She had undressed me a hundred times, but I wasn’t sure she’d ever dressed me. While she and Marina did the buttons up the side, I studied myself in the mirror.
The dress looked completely different on me than it did on Annette, and yet I felt good in it immediately. The fabric hung just right and had a wonderful stretchiness to it. Annette was taller, so the dress fell all the way to my knees, but I was chestier, so my breasts filled out the V-neck more fully. And the color, surprisingly, worked great with my hair.
“Scrunch her curls a little more.”
“And we still need shoes.”
Annette looked down at my Converse, which were the same off-white color as the trim. “I think the ones she’s wearing are fine.”
Becca held a pair of dangly earrings up to the sides of my face. “These are great. Should we swap out the necklace?”
Annette shook her head as my fingers touched my opal pendant protectively. “No, let’s leave it.”
Relieved, I watched the final flutter of activity. Becca handed the earrings to Marina and in they went. Cynthia told me to pucker up and efficiently applied some coral-colored lipstick, which felt surprisingly smooth, and Annette gave my hair a final scrunch.
I watched it all in the mirror and smiled, because at that moment, every piece of it felt good.
When everyone was dressed, Becca locked the door and turned off the overhead, plunging the room into a sudden semidarkness. Annette’s bedside table lamp dimly lit the space, casting off a pale disk of yellow light.
Marina giggled.
“Shhhhh,” Becca warned. “Lola No is on tonight.” She vanished into the closet.
Cynthia sat down on the bed, pulling Marina next to her. “Pipe down, girl. We don’t want to get busted the first weekend of school.”
“We don’t want to get busted at all,” Becca corrected in a whisper, reappearing with a blue bottle of Skyy and a pair of tiny glasses with Brookwood’s main building etched on one side. No bottle swigging here.
“Is that vodka?” Annette asked.
“It isn’t water,” Becca replied. “Who’s first?”
“The Minnesotans,” Marina said. “It’s their virginal Brookwood drink.”
Not exactly, I thought, remembering the giant bottle I’d tilted back in the woods my first day here. I hadn’t pegged Becca for a party girl but couldn’t say it was totally unexpected, either.
Becca handed Annette and me two shot glasses and we held them while she filled.
“You don’t have to,” I said quietly to Annette. She didn’t really drink.
She shot me a “don’t say anything” look and her hand wavered, sloshing a bit of vodka on her wrist.
“To your first year at Brookwood,” the girls whispered in unison. And then, “Go!”
We lifted, tilted, poured, and swallowed. The alcohol burned, but went down easily enough. It wasn’t the cheap stuff. Annette’s green eyes widened and she put her hand on her chest, sputtering. By the time she got it down, she was coughing wildly.
“She’s not much of a drinker,” I explained.
“She will be,” Marina quipped, snatching the glass from Annette’s hand and wagging it in the air for her own ration.
Without waiting for a partner, she raised her glass. “Embrace the horror,” she said, downing its contents like water. Well, that was one way to approach it.
Cynthia and Becca finished the round and then we went full circle a second time. “That’s enough for me,” I said, remembering Roxanne’s two-shot rule. I could feel the alcohol seeping in, shifting everything a little, and half wanted another shot. But I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, and did want to let my girlfriend off the drinking hook. I could tell she was already a little misty.
“Speak for yourself,” Marina said, holding her glass out for a refill. “I was just getting going.” It was becoming clear that barmaid was an appropriate costume for her.
Becca filled the shot glass just above the roofline of the main building and Marina downed it in less than two seconds. “One for the road?” she asked, holding out the glass again.
“Last one, piggy.” Becca filled the glass not quite as full.
“Who’re you calling piggy?” Marina protested, downing the shot and setting the tiny glass on the bedside table with conviction. “Thanks to the No Carb Diet, I wear a size four petite, and my nose is not even the slightest bit pugged.” She turned her head, giving us a nice long look at her profile. Then she got to her feet, tottering for a second on her heels, and made her way to the bathroom mirror. She turned from side to side to side, trying to see her profile for herself.
“You need two mirrors to see your profile, dopey,” Cynthia said.
Marina glared at her roommate in the mirror and fiddled with her straight, mousy brown hair.
“But everyone tries with just the one,” Annette added with a giggly laugh I’d never heard before. Where did that come from?
“Thank you, Annette,” Marina said, pulling a lipstick from the medicine cabinet. She smoothed a layer of waxy red onto her lips and smacked them with satisfaction. “Now let’s get out of this hellhole.”
While Becca stashed the bottle in the depths of their closet, Cynthia took the shot glasses into the bathroom to rinse them out, returning with a bottle of Listerine. “Time for another quick shot,” she said, “but you definitely want to spit this one out.” She took a swig and passed the bottle. Annette took a sip and, sputtering nearly as badly as she did with the vodka, sped into the bathroom to spit it out. I took my required breath-cleansing mouthful and followed suit before trailing everyone else out the door.
The dorm was unusually quiet and we sounded like a herd of el
ephants as we traipsed down the hall and pushed open the door. Outside, the air was chilly, the sky clear and dotted with stars.
As we crossed the circle drive, I couldn’t help but notice Annette’s relaxed shoulders, the easy way she glided over the pavement. I’d never seen her this tipsy before, and she seemed simultaneously relaxed and exhilarated.
About halfway across, she fell back a bit and we walked shoulder to shoulder, letting the other girls go ahead, and she extended a hand just enough for the backs of our fingers to touch.
“I think I’m a little drunk,” she whispered giddily.
I slowed and stepped in front of her. Her eyes glistened from the alcohol, and I could smell the vodka-tinged mouthwash on her breath, minty and distilled and sweet. “Is it okay?” I asked.
“It’s great. I feel sort of tingly and warm all over.”
I felt tingly and warm just standing next to her, and could see the outline of her lips in the lamppost light. God, I wanted to kiss her.
“I wish I could kiss you,” she said.
So kiss me, I thought. But I could hear the girls chatting just a few yards away, and knew she wouldn’t, so instead of encouraging her, I said, “Who says I want to kiss you?” stepping away fast and almost tripping on the edge of a cobble. It was either move away or move in, and everything felt off-balance, as if we hadn’t been a couple for three years, as if we were back in seventh grade.
It was the night of our middle school Fall Foliage Dance. The dance itself was a total bust, right down to the lame decorations—orange and yellow construction paper leaves hanging from the ceiling. The music was no better. Someone had brought in an iPod and some speakers, and Harold Atmore had made a terrible playlist.
“I can’t dance to this!” I half shouted to Annette, whose long legs were doing an impressive job making sense of the halting rhythm. Everyone knew that Harold Atmore was no dancer, so how could he possibly pick out dance music? Bottom line: He couldn’t.
I held still for a second and scoped out the dance floor, which wasn’t exactly crowded. Most of the kids were huddled together in small groups—by the punch bowl, up by the stage, next to the double doors in case they needed to make a break for it. A break for it was a pretty good idea, actually.
“Let’s get some air,” I said to Annette, tugging on her flowered sleeve.
She stopped dancing and blew a wayward strand of blond hair out of her eyes before taking my hand and leading us past the stragglers on the dance floor, past the punch bowl, past the cheesy popcorn and pretzels, and toward the double doors. Pushing hard on the metal, we swung onto the blacktopped yard, welcoming the air.
The school yard was nearly empty. “Where is everybody?” I asked, secretly happy to be alone with my best friend.
“Not on the dance floor,” Annette replied with a snort. “That was lame.”
“Totally lame,” I agreed. Something was tugging inside me—something I didn’t totally understand.
“Do you want to leave?” Annette was asking. “We could go to your house and watch a movie.”
I looked up at her, at her spring-green eyes and the ponytail wisps that framed her face. At her lips, which were so much prettier than mine.
I want to kiss them, I thought. I want to kiss those lips.
I stepped back, worried that I’d spoken the words out loud, that I’d already ruined everything.
“Josie? Are you okay?”
I dropped my hands to my sides. Was I okay? I had no idea. I certainly didn’t feel okay.
Annette moved forward and laced our fingers together. Did she know? Did she feel the same way?
I turned to face her, tugging on her arm so we were standing very close. I could feel her Juicy Fruit breath on my face. “I …”
“What?” She crouched a tiny bit so she could look me in the eye.
I felt tingly all over. Just do it! a voice said. No way, Josie. Don’t be crazy, said another. She’ll never speak to you again.
“Josie?” Annette was whispering now.
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure my chest was going to burst open and the bloody blob would fall to the ground, throbbing.
Just do it, said the voice again. Unless you’re too chicken …
I was a lot of things, but I was not a chicken.
I leaned in, and our lips touched, lightly at first and then with more firmness. Annette’s were warm and soft and she tasted like tropical fruit. Happiness spread through me as I realized she wasn’t pulling away.
When I drew back breathlessly, Annette’s eyes were wide. “Oh,” she said.
Oh what? I thought nervously. Oh great or oh no or oh what? “Oh …” I repeated.
Annette beamed at me. “Wow,” she said. She leaned and kissed me again, more quickly this time. Then she let out a horsey whoop and pulled me toward the gate. “Forget the dance,” she said. “Let’s go to your house and watch a movie!”
“Josie?” Annette was peering at me with hazy intentness. I blinked at her fifteen-year-old self, at her gray-flecked green eyes and her slightly open mouth. Damn, she was beautiful.
“Are you girls coming or what?” Marina called. She yanked the door open and music rushed toward us as a group of kids in difficult-to-describe outfits came out of the building, shimmying and laughing into the night.
Annette turned toward the other girls. “Yes, coming,” she said.
The air inside was ripe and warm, the music so loud the floor, even out in the hall, vibrated. “Let’s get in there, girls,” Becca called as she disappeared around a corner. We followed, plunging ourselves into a pulsating darkness. A few chairs and tables were abandoned at one end, next to which stretched a remarkably wide chasm of empty space, and finally a mob of gyrating bodies crammed together on an invisible dance floor.
“I love this song!” Marina shouted, hurtling herself onto the floor. Becca and Annette and I followed, slipping into spaces that weren’t spaces and becoming part of the grooving mass.
I wriggled past a pair of dancers behind Annette, whose arms were already above her head, waving like wide strands of seaweed in the current. She turned, her eyes closed, her body loose and uninhibited. I felt the music seep up through the soles of my shoes and started to sway.
The song faded to a single beat and Annette opened her eyes, seeing me and smiling. She leaned in close to my ear. “This is way better than Harold Atmore’s dorky playlist.”
I laughed as a mash-up started, feeling the music, feeling tipsy, feeling happy. We danced, letting ourselves go and riding the wave of it all.
“Nice moves,” a voice said behind me. Right behind me, actually, or I wouldn’t have been able to hear him.
I turned and saw Penn, who was wearing jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and a jester hat—pretty tame overall. I wondered whether the other girls would be disappointed.
He bowed in a very jesterlike way, then swiped a curl that had escaped the hat and threw his arms in all directions, nodding his head like the bobble figure my dad kept on his dashboard and looking utterly ridiculous.
Becca sidled a little closer to Penn while Marina squealed with laughter, her barmaid boobs bobbing like buoys in a lake and threatening to spring free from their cinching. I found myself between two dancers wearing bowler hats and bow ties.
Annette was now several bodies away from the group, her head swaying from side to side. I was starting to make my way over when Hank appeared out of nowhere.
“Game time, my man,” he half shouted in Penn’s ear. “The cards await.”
“Cards?” I echoed, curious.
Penn waved an arm and leaned in. “Just a little gambling among friends. Hank here loves to give me his money.”
“He is either a seriously demented individual,” Hank confided, “or fails to understand the difference between addition and subtraction.”
“Delusions, delusions.” Penn shook his head, ducking out of the dance-floor crowd to the obvious disappointment of Becca and Marina. I watched his dark
head and Hank’s blond one disappear into the hall, thinking that they reminded me of Ben and Josh. Being away from my family was starting to get a little bit easier, but I suddenly wanted to know what my brothers were doing. Playing Ping-Pong in our basement? Arguing over a video game? Watching a movie? It all sounded good.
Trying to re-find my groove, I made my way over to Annette, who was still a body of lost-in-the-music movement. I sidled closer, swaying and trying to connect amidst the throng of dancers. But the music was rushing from my feet up and out the top of my head without pausing anywhere inside, without letting me feel it. Our moment of connectedness—to each other and to the music—was gone. I stopped moving entirely, right there in the middle of the dance floor, and blinked at the scene that surrounded me.
On the surface, it was just like the dances at home—writhing teenage bodies, a thumping bass line, and some guy working a board in the corner. But underneath, it felt foreign and strange, not at all mine.
When the song ended, I reached for Annette’s arm and pulled her off the dance floor.
“What gives?” she asked, blinking, when we were in the hall. Her skin gleamed with a layer of perspiration and her hair was the perfect amount of messy. She looked happy and alive, like when we’d first started to touch each other.
My ears were ringing. “I just needed …” What did I need, exactly? “I just wanted a break,” I said, overwhelmed by the impulse I’d felt to pull her out of there.
“From dancing?” she asked, turning her head toward the music. She hadn’t stopped moving.
“From everything, I guess.” I moved down the hall a little, slipping into a semidark alcove under the stairs. Annette followed, still half dancing. “Are you all right?” I asked.
She gazed at me confusedly. “Of course,” she said, as if the question were ridiculous.
I felt myself deflate. Wasn’t it okay to ask how she was?
“The music is awesome. Can we get back in there?”
I attempted to exhale my disappointment. I wished I could let go of whatever it was that made me pull her out here, that I could get back in there and enjoy the dance. Problem was, I didn’t want to.
Without Annette Page 7