Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  Giving into feeling, I lean down, holding my weight above love as I bury my face in her neck.

  “Baby,” I whisper, sliding my fingers and opening her carefully while she clings to me with both arms. “Baby, baby.”

  She trembles and rocks for this contact, burning and begging with barely stifled sounds.

  “Soft girl,” I say, quiet and caught up. I rub a little harder, spreading my fingers, intentionally keeping them from inside, feeling. “You’re fucking soft, Bliss.”

  Pressing and sliding, learning and coming to know her, I draw small circles around precious and pure, and baby almost shakes apart.

  I’ve never tried to make a girl come before. I’ve never wanted to or cared. Sex isn’t about that, but this—

  I love making this girl feel out of control.

  “Here?” I ask under baby’s ear, circling slowly, in love with virgin softness and her sweetest sounds. “Right here, Leighlee?”

  “Yes.” Her breathless whisper brands my cheek, and my heart fucking pounds. “Thomas, please.”

  Leaning up, I listen to my girl, breathing shallow and quick, and I’ll never forget how she looks right now. Nightlight-lit and blushing red from her cheeks to her chest, she has truth-telling eyes squeezed shut, and her brows are knit together in innocent desperation. Her head is arched back, twisting in strawberry blonde, and her lips are all the way open.

  There isn’t anywhere I can’t feel my pulse.

  Love becomes extrasensory.

  “Let it go, baby,” I whisper, watching her pretty struggle.

  Digging her fingers into my shoulders, baby grips me with strength that’s tight. She lifts higher for my touch, and I can feel her opening, burning, and circling. Her chest fills with a cry I can feel in my own, and I have my left hand over her mouth before she can let it out.

  Love is the most exhilarating high.

  Rolling and swirling, beautiful and binding, Leigh holds onto me with everything she has while she comes, and it’s wholly overwhelming. It’s consuming and coercive, soft for how tightly it hooks me and lush for how determining it feels. The way my heart rides love overrides everything else. Fear and uncontainability disintegrate, and for the first time in a long time, I have a grip I can hold.

  My hair swirls and tangles around my head, dancing in the warm evening air. Gravel crunches under Oliver’s Haro, and my palms sweat over plastic grips. I push my wedges onto the pedals, rotating the rubber tires, moving me forward. My skirt fills up with air, and Becka sees my underwear as she passes on her skateboard.

  The sky’s painted pink, purple—twilight. The street lights switch on, and as we pass by different houses, it smells like dinnertime. Kids play in the street, and cars cruise by with all of the windows down. The neighborhood buzzes, savoring the last few weeks of summer.

  Becka bends at her knees, extending her arms out like she’s flying. My girl screams, “You can’t fight against the youth!”

  Smitty follows behind her. His eyes are alive with emotion and respect, as if she’s the only other person in the world. Their silent eyes-only, sigh-only, gesture-only language of affection is adorable.

  I’m envious of what they have after spending the summer watching them together. While Rebecka and Hal speak in coded motions and tender lyrics, I hardly talk to Thomas at all. I’ve been sentenced to nights listening to Becka gush about how in love she is, and I haven’t seen my boy since his birthday.

  Oliver copies my pace, and I’m in no hurry. We’ve grown close and I’ve come to learn he’s fearless. He doesn’t speak in sighs and gestures. He burns slow, and like Dusty, he’s quick to defend. Neither one of them needs to be loud to get their point across, but Thomas is spontaneous, where Oliver is articulated. One is disobedient, and the other is compliant.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow your bike,” I say, slowly turning the pedals.

  Sublime songs have been our anthems, so it doesn’t surprise me when I hear “Chica Mi Tipo” when Oliver pulls his headphones down and asks, “What did you say, Bliss?”

  I’m going to repeat myself when I see Dusty at the end of the block, standing in front of the Lincoln and next to his boy, smoking cigarettes.

  His bite mark on my skin throbs.

  “Nothing,” I say, catching Thomas’ jealous glare.

  I pedal, doing my best to keep my hands from rattling while Thomas talks to his sister and Smitty. Even as his eyes are on them, his attention is mine.

  That’s our deal.

  He takes deep pulls from his cigarette, smirking as he exhales thin smoke into the air. His hair is dirty, and as I get closer, our eyes meet and I notice his are black and dilated. There’s a tremble in his hands and an edginess in his manner.

  “When did you ditch the training wheels, little girl?” stoned and lost asks.

  Petey takes Becka’s board and kick-flips.

  “Don’t be a dick, Thomas,” my best girl says, taking Smitty’s skateboard and following Pete.

  My cheeks redden, embarrassed by the boy who’s absorbed in his high. The audacity of his shameless arrogance makes me want to drop the bike and bite his knuckles. I feel like kicking him in the shins, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, and screaming, “Where the fuck have you been?”

  I stay on the bike and roll my eyes.

  Thomas leans back against the driver’s side door of his Continental. He takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it out to the street.

  “No pom-poms on the handle bars. No stupid white basket on the front. No bell. Whose bike is this, baby Bliss?”

  “Mine,” Oliver answers.

  Love’s blacked-out blue eyes snap over to Oliver, who’s bold under Dusty’s gaze but unable to last under his scrutiny. He looks away, exhaling a frustrated breath, and though Oliver’s retreated, my boy waits for his menace to make a move, stronger.

  I set both feet on the ground and stand with the red bike between my legs. “He let me borrow it because I don’t know how to skateboard.”

  “I said I’d teach you,” Oliver says.

  “Cute,” Thomas mumbles around a cigarette, looking up with pitiless eyes as he cups his hand over it, flicking his lighter.

  My heart pulsates in my teeth and in my temples. Every strand of my wind-blown hair aches, and I want to drag my fingernails down my face. He’s unbearable, ridged, and unapologetic in his stance, chain-smoking and self-justifying.

  “That’s probably a horrible idea, Oliver,” I say causally, shrugging my sunburned shoulder. “I don’t have the right shoes.”

  Thomas laughs softly and my pent up aggression and hurt feelings melt away. We’ve been apart for too long, and now my bones clatter for a new reason.

  “Can you drive me home?” I ask.

  “Let’s go,” he answers.

  With a lit cigarette between his lips, Thomas opens his oversized trunk and uncaringly shoves Oliver’s bicycle inside. Hidden behind the massive door, I’m hyperaware of the tingle between my legs and the warmth I feel inside because I’m close to love.

  Dusty sweeps my hair away from my neck and says, “I’ve missed you, little girl.”

  I want to slip under his shirt and press myself against his skin, and wrap my legs around his waist to feel him where he feels best. I want him to pull my head back by my hair, kiss down my neck, and leave bruises, teeth marks, and scratch lines. I want the tips of his fingers to push into my muscle, and his words in my ear, in my hair, against my body.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  Thomas closes the trunk and walks around me. He opens the driver’s side door and says, “At Pete’s.”

  He waits with his arm on the door, taking one last hit from his smoke before tossing it in the middle of the street with his others. I move past him and climb into the Lincoln. He smells like cigarette smoke and too many nights drunk, but the car’s interior smells like vanilla air freshener and pot.

  I slide to the farthest side of the bench seat, brushing my legs ag
ainst summer-warm leather. Thomas gets behind the wheel, hooks his hand between my thighs, and pulls me beside him.

  He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a pack of Doublemint. Unwrapping a stick, he asks, “Do you have to go home?”

  I shrug. “I can call my mom and see if she’ll let me stay at your house.”

  He hands me his cell phone because his sister has mine in her back pocket. My mom says I can stay with the Castors as long as I’m home Sunday morning. School starts in a handful of weeks and I need to get back in a routine. I need to start going to bed earlier.

  Like I’m a ten-year-old.

  I laugh after I hang up, halfway embarrassed by the woman who gave me life, halfway furious with her for treating me this way.

  “You have your parents so tricked, sunny side.” Thomas snaps his gum between his teeth.

  “I know.”

  The place between guilt and pride is a tricky place, but the older I get and the longer Dusty and I live out this secret, the easier it is to snub remorse. I’ll be home on Sunday morning, but I’ll spend every second between now and then doing whatever the fuck I want.

  The rear door opens and Becka and Petey slide into the backseat, sweat-faced and breathing hard from skating.

  “Hal and Oliver are going to skate a little longer,” Rebecka says as Thomas starts his car and pulls away from the curb.

  We drain the rest of the evening driving around with the windows down and the music up until the stars come out. The sound of sprinklers and the smell of hose water fills the cab of the car as we cruise through random neighborhoods. A dark-haired man washes his car, and his kids splash through the soapy water as their mother opens the door to call them into the house.

  Our backseat passengers fall asleep, cuddled up with their mouths open, each snoring lightly.

  “That didn’t take long,” I say, kicking my shoes off. I bring my feet up, under my bottom and sink into Dusty’s side.

  My boy adjusts his rearview mirror to see them better and says, “Petey hasn’t slept and my sister is a baby. You know that.”

  They don’t wake as the car stops and we get out at the beach. Thomas locks them inside before he takes my hand and leads the way to our dock.

  Our feet hang freely over ocean-battered, neglected wood, and cool salt water splashes our bare toes. Off to the right, the lighthouse is bright, illuminating the Oregon shore.

  “I’ll break that motherfucker’s bike if I see you on it again,” Thomas says quietly against my neck.

  I tilt my head back, pressing my back into his chest. He pulls me closer, until we’re mended with no space between us to spare.

  “Tell me where you’ve been,” I say into the salty night.

  Love’s lips pause right below my ear, and his arms circle around my chest, locking me in. “You taste like the best kind of day, girl.”

  I turn my face so we’re eye to dilated eye. Thomas stares into mine for a split second before cleverly smirking like a true secret keeper.

  “I’ve been around with the boys.” The sea breeze blows his dirty hair away from his forehead, giving me clear glimpse at his pale expression. “I wasn’t doing anything. We lost track of time.”

  The place between concerned and tolerant is a tricky place.

  The boy who doesn’t tell me everything slips his hand under my shirt and holds his palm to my stomach. His pinky finger teases the waistband of my skirt.

  “Remember the other night?” he asks, his tone concern-murdering.

  I nod and open my knees.

  His hand sinks into my underwear and palms where I tingle for him. I stare up at the starlit night before I close my eyes and exhale.

  “Remember how it felt?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper, breathless. He’s hard against my back and kissing gently up my neck.

  “Can I do it again?” Thomas bites my earlobe.

  My lips part and the smallest breath escapes as I whisper, “Yes.”

  I LOOK into my closet, running my hand over dresses and skirts, tank tops and halters. My eyes roam over my flip-flops, wedges, and old snow boots that don’t fit anymore. Just last year I thought they’d protect me from anything, like they had power woven into their soles.

  I push them to the side and think, a lot of shielding you did.

  The white Doc Martens beside my old grey boots are a very early birthday present from Becka. I secretly hated them at first, because they reminded me of Valarie. But I tried them on and realized if I would have kicked Valarie in the face with my snow boots, it might’ve hurt, but she would have recovered easily. If I kick her in the face with my new Docs …

  “What are you doing, baby?” Mom stands with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Looking for something to wear to the beach,” I say. I wish she would have knocked, but I don’t mention it.

  “The beach?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, composing patience. “I asked the other day if I could go, remember?”

  She sits on the same bed that not even four weeks ago, Thomas touched me until I melted and tasted Heaven for the first time.

  “Who do you think you’re going to the beach with?” she asks, folding a shirt I’d thrown on top of my comforter.

  “Tommy and Becka,” I lie easily.

  “I don’t know, Bliss. You’ve spent the entire summer—”

  “Mom, please.”

  I walk over to my dresser and pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top and throw them onto the bed beside her before opening the top drawer, searching for the bikini Tommy bought me.

  “You’ll need to be home—” she starts, but I interrupt her again.

  “Actually, I was wondering if I could stay over at Rebecka’s tonight.” I turn and face my mother, holding the red bikini in my hand. “I know I need to be home early because of school, but summer is practically over, and …”

  “Fine.” She smiles, but her stern tone betrays her. “Be home tomorrow morning, Leigh.”

  “I will,” I say. “I’ll be home by twelve.”

  “I said morning, Leighlee.”

  “Fine,” I say. I push things around in my closet until I find my beach bag. “I’ll be home by eleven.”

  TOMMY DROPS us off at the beach and the seashore is packed. The air smells like salt and sunblock, and the humidity is suffocating in the best way. This is how I wanted to say goodbye to summer vacation: at the beach with my feet sand-deep.

  Petey and Ben stand in front of me and Becka.

  “I can’t handle this. Little sisters all grown-up.” Pete waves his hands in front of my chest. “Where did those come from, Bliss? You’re not supposed to have tits. You’re like … twelve.”

  “I’m almost fifteen, Petey.” I shake my beach towel and lay it on the sand, looking at him through my Ray-Bans.

  I slip my shorts past the curve of my bottom, and Petey and Ben squeal like girls and cover their eyes–—peeking through their fingers. This bikini’s a far cry from my childhood suit I wore the first time these boys saw me in swimwear. I’m kicking my shorts to the side when Rebecka takes off her white tank, showing her highlighter-yellow strapless two-piece.

  “Holy shit,” Ben says. He takes a step forward. “Becka’s are bigger than Leighlee’s!”

  “They’re only boobs.” She throws her shirt in his face.

  “Little sister boobs,” Petey corrects her. “It’s a whole new level of fucked-up.”

  Becka kicks off her American flag denim shorts and shakes her ass at Petey. He pretends to be mortified, but his smile is sly. I sit on my red and white striped beach towel and aim my face toward the sun. Warmth immediately sinks through my skin, touching bone. I love it.

  Where there are boys, there are Sluts.

  Valarie’s facedown on her towel, soaking up precious light-rays while her friends run around, loud and obnoxious, drinking from plastic red cups and strutting in their barely-there bikinis. Their queen has her hair tied up and her top is unt
ied completely, exposing her perfect bronze-brown tan that continues with clean evenness down her legs.

  Ben drops his shirt into my lap. “Put it on before Thomas freaks.”

  I toss it to the side and lie back. I haven’t seen Thomas, but his car is in the parking lot. My heartbeat deepened the moment I noticed it. “Where is he?” I ask.

  “Around,” he says as his name is called. Ben jogs away, accidently kicking sand on Valarie as he treads past her. She opens her eyes and the first thing she sees is me.

  “Little, sister,” she says is a thick, sleep voice. “Long time, no see.”

  She reaches back and knots her tangerine top before she sits up and sips from her cup, saying nothing about the sand around the rim. The beach bum has sleep lines on her stomach, chest, and face. She looks like she could lie back down and drift off again without a worry in the world.

  It’s a confidence I can’t mimic.

  “Here.” Becka passes me a ginger ale. Her white-rimmed sunglasses are on her head and sand is stuck to her skin up to her knees. She nods toward the parking lot behind us. “Who does he think he’s kidding?”

  Valarie and I both look over our shoulders. Distorted by heat waves, Thomas leans into an open car window on his forearms. From behind the wheel, Casper reaches over and shakes hands with my boy, but it’s odd and lingers for too long.

  I don’t know much about Casper, but he’s made me uncomfortable since my first day of high school when he stepped on my foot in the hallway.

  “What’s that guy’s deal?” I ask, opening up my can of soda. Carbonation bubbles pop onto my fingers.

  “Don’t be so naive, Leigh. Casper’s a dope dealer.” Becka drops her sunglasses over her eyes.

  “A dope dealer?” I question.

  “Where do you think Thomas gets his bud from?” She flips from her butt to her stomach.

  “I guess I never really thought about it.” I shrug, trying to seem uninterested.

  Valarie stands, running her fingers through her beach-dirty hair. She has a silly smile on her lips that grows when Thomas comes up from behind her and circles his arms around her stomach. She leans her head back, and he whispers something into her ear. Valarie nods her head, placing her hands on top of his.