Blaze

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

“Who the hell is looking at her elbows?” Amanda gestures like a game show hostess to the model’s bulbous breasts.

  “Good point.” Terri’s mom is always harping about how the skinny models with fake boobs are wrecking all our self-esteem, but Terri and her sisters sneak fashion magazines into the house anyway. Still, her mom must have her half-brainwashed or something, because Terri is always pointing out when models are too skinny or when airbrushers go overboard.

  The Lucy’s Lucky Lingerie model’s airbrusher has definitely gone overboard—but then, a girl can use a little help when her ass is blown up to the size of small planet.

  I say, “I should get back—”

  “Get back to what?” Terri cuts me off. “Sitting at home, obsessively checking your emails?”

  “Why don’t you just text him?” Amanda asks.

  “No way. I can’t seem desperate.” I quickly check my phone, since a whole minute has passed since I last looked at it. Terri gives me an accusing glare, and I defend, “I didn’t say I can’t be desperate. Just that I can’t seem desperate.”

  “Oh, you’re desperate all right,” she says. “You need to chill out.”

  “You guys are ridiculous,” says Amanda. “It’s perfectly acceptable for a girl to make a move when she likes a guy.”

  I totally blame Virgin Girl for Mark’s silent treatment. I just need to reassure him my powers of chastity are not completely impenetrable. He probably doesn’t even realize how much I truly like him. My chest clenches and I feel the sensation that I’m being watched.

  Looking around, I catch Comic Book Guy staring at me as he strides through the mall. He doesn’t avert his eyes when he sees I’ve caught him looking. In fact, he twists his body as he passes so he can continue gawking at me.

  Creeper, I think, mortified that he caught me checking out a lingerie window. I glance again, and his eyes narrow as if he’s trying to place me. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to worry—I’m not planning to come breathe all over his comics today.

  Amanda doesn’t seem to notice our stalker as she grabs my arm. “Come on!” I get a final glimpse of Comic Book Guy still staring as she drags me through the wide entrance to Lucy’s Lucky Lingerie. We’re hit with a wall of powdery-smelling fragrance. Brightly colored bras line the pink walls, and racks of lace teddies crowd around us. Amanda grabs a satin hanger dripping with scraps of pale pink lace and flings it into my chest.

  I hold up a twisted strap. “There is no way I am putting this on my body,” I say. “It won’t even cover my bits.”

  “That’s the idea,” says Amanda. “It’s supposed to show off your bits.”

  “Well, I’m game,” says Terri. “My bits are bitty enough.” She selects a black satin teddy and heads toward the back, where the words “Get Lucky” are painted in gold on the wall with an arrow pointing to the try-on rooms.

  “Ooooh, this is stunning,” Amanda holds up a tangle of white satin that will probably look incredible on her. “Come on,” she commands as she heads after Terri. With a glance at my phone, I drag myself and my pale pink bands of lace to join them in the plush try-on rooms. Maybe I will “Get Lucky,” I think as I pass under the sign, and get a text from Mark.

  As I undress, I think about everything I did wrong in Mark’s basement to make him not like me. On top of my Virgin Girl display, I know I didn’t seem interested enough in his soccer movie. Why couldn’t we have watched some superhero movie, like Iron Man or Spider-Man? I think. I could’ve pointed out the little insider nods the filmmakers put in for comic enthusiasts. Not that displaying my inner-geek will win me Mark’s love. Once I have on the pale pink number I check my phone one more time as I head out of the changing room. No messages.

  Terri looks adorable, but her teddy covers her bits a little too well. She pulls the saggy material at her chest into two points. “Whadda ya think girls? Is it the new me?”

  Amanda laughs. “Catherine Wiggan is the only chick big enough to fill out that teddy.”

  “And the only girl slutty enough to wear it,” adds Terri.

  “Did you hear about her latest conquest?” Amanda asks in a scandalous tone.

  “According to the status updates of everybody on FriendsPlace that’s conquestsss, plural,” Terri says. I tune them out as I adjust the straps to my “lucky” lingerie.

  Amanda strikes a seductive pose in her white satin sexy wear. She looks like she belongs in one of the ads. That is, if they airbrush away any softness from her belly and thighs. She looks fantastic, but her chest is the only part of her that matches the models. Amanda rolls her shoulders forward so that her upper arms smoosh her boobs into massive cleavage. “How do I look?” she asks.

  “Better than I do,” I laugh. Amanda must’ve handed me an extra small, because my bands of lace are way too teeny. And just as I suspected, they don’t quite cover my bits. The lace of the bra pulls tightly over my breasts, and leaves nothing to the imagination. The back of the undies run up my butt and look ridiculous with my saggy briefs poking out from underneath. But even if it hadn’t been too small, the outfit still would’ve been X-rated.

  I imagine how Mark would react to this look as I automatically duck my head into my changing stall and pick up my phone. I frown as I register the still-empty text icon. This is awful. I am literally aching for some form of contact from him.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Amanda says. Before I can stop her, she grabs my phone and takes a step back, aiming the camera in my direction.

  “Don’t you dare.” I give her my most evil grimace, holding my hands over my chest as Terri laughs hysterically behind me.

  “Aw, come on, you look cute,” Amanda coaxes, but I’m not budging. I hold one arm over my pink lacy bits as I grope for my phone with my free hand.

  “Come on, guys, let’s make our own ad.” Terri laughs.

  “Not unless they airbrush out my nipples,” I say, pushing out my chest to show Terri just how see-through my bra is.

  Amanda twists her butt in our direction. “I’ll take a little cellulite smoothing,” she says. “Not to mention a tummy tuck.”

  “I could obviously use a boob job.” Terri pulls up her shoulder-straps. “But my mom would kill me for even thinking such a thing, let alone saying it out loud. ‘Boob jobs are for masochistic bubble heads,’” she recites robotically.

  “I’d just love underwear that doesn’t ride halfway up my butt.” I aim my lace wedgie in her direction. “Plus, I really need my cell phone back, Amanda.”

  “Yes, Amanda,” says Terri. “Blaze has not checked her phone for a text from Mark for a whole entire minute.” She opens her eyes wide in mock-panic.

  Amanda laughs and glances at my phone’s screen. She flings her mouth open in shock. “Oh, my God! You got a text!” she practically shouts and dangles the phone just out of my reach as I lunge for it. “And it’s from Mark!”

  My heart races as I feel excitement rush to my face. “What did he say?”

  Amanda’s look suddenly turns hard as she twists my phone in her hand and I hear a solid cla-chick. It takes me a moment to realize she’s just taken my picture. “What the… ?” Maybe he wrote something bad. I feel beyond confused and just want to know what the hell Mark finally wrote to me. I start to panic as Amanda punches madly at my phone’s text keys.

  “Amanda!” I practically shout. “What are you doing? What did Mark say?”

  With a blue-white grin she tosses my phone to me. “He didn’t say anything yet. But I guarantee he will now.”

  I catch my phone in one hand. “He didn’t…” I look at the empty icon and realize Mark hasn’t written to me at all. My heart deflates. Then it starts flinging itself around inside my ribcage as I realize what Amanda has just done. No, No, No!

  “Oh my God, you didn’t!” I turn to Terri for help. “She just sent Mark a picture of me.” I wave a hand up and down my body and shout, “Half! Naked!”

  “Amanda!” Terri springs to my side. “What the hell were you thinkin
g?” She tries to take the phone from me, but I hold it in a double-handed death grip as I scroll to find the photo.

  “What? It’s no big deal,” says Amanda. “I did it with a boyfriend once, and he loved it.”

  “Mark isn’t her boyfriend,” says Terri. “And now he’s going to think she’s a slut!”

  “She’s not even topless,” Amanda says.

  “She may as well be!” Terri gestures to my lacy boobs for emphasis, and I nod in agreement, keeping my eyes glued to my phone as I search for the photo. “He’ll think it’s an invite to hook up!” she says.

  “Well, maybe that’s not a bad thing for him to think!” says Amanda. “You can see how hot she is for the guy.”

  “Blaze, were you planning on hooking up with Mark?” Terri asks me.

  I glance up from my phone. “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I just really want to be his girlfriend.”

  The two of them continue arguing over the nightmare I’ve just entered, but they fade to background as the ringing in my ears grows louder and louder. I’ve finally found the photo. And it’s worse than I imagined.

  I feel like I’m drowning in my own heartbeat.

  I stare at the image that is, at this very moment, winging its way though cell towers and satellites toward Mark’s cell phone. Feeling desperately out of control, I telekinetically command his phone to self-destruct wherever it is. I imagine myself having the power to zoom after it and delete it before it reaches him. Never before have I wanted to fly so desperately.

  I cannot believe Amanda sent Mark this picture.

  In the photo, my expression shows open excitement, and the way my left arm reaches forward out of frame makes it seem like I may have actually taken the picture myself. It only shows from the waist up, so my bulging granny panties aren’t in the shot, but that doesn’t make up for the very worst part. My breasts are front and center and completely exposed through the sheer lace bra. Everything, including the small brown beauty mark beside my right nipple, is clearly visible and in perfect focus. My face is the teensiest bit blurry, but I’m still completely recognizable, so the fuzziness just adds to the overall pornographic effect. I can’t believe it’s me in the picture. I haven’t been photographed naked since I turned four and stopped taking baths with my little brother. Back then I obviously didn’t look this slutty.

  “You look so hot!” Amanda admires her photography skills. “Really, he’s gonna love it.”

  As my consciousness kicks back to the world around me, I realize Terri is rubbing my back. “It’ll be okay,” she soothes. “He might not even notice your nipples are showing.”

  Except that I know there’s no way he won’t notice my nipples are showing. Boys notice nipples. It is an indisputable law of the universe. Much too late, I cup my hands protectively over my breasts. I want nothing to do with that photo, and now that Mark has it I feel an odd sensation of just wanting him to disappear too. I certainly want nothing at all to do with the scraps of lace still biting into my sides. “I need to get dressed,” I report dully and turn back to my stall.

  Terri launches into Amanda. “I can’t believe you did that to her!” she shoots, then calls sweetly through the curtain to me, “Hey, Blaze, you want a cinnamon pretzel or something? My treat.”

  I want to escape the mall and get away from everybody. I wonder if I should call Mark and explain that there was a huge mix-up and he should just ignore any and all photos sent from my number. Maybe I should send an odd picture of the ceiling or my foot and he’ll just assume my camera phone is acting crazy. I lay it down on the pink bench cushion and numbly get undressed, hanging the damning strips of pink lace on their satin hanger.

  I already have one leg back in my jeans when my phone starts ringing. Not only does it ring, but it rings with the love song I’ve downloaded especially for Mark’s cell phone number. Mark is calling me! I freeze, balanced on one leg as the cheesy melody fills the dressing room.

  Flinging my head outside the curtain I snap at Amanda and Terri, “It’s him! He’s calling!” Mid-arguing they turn wide eyes to me until I wail, “What should I do?”

  “Answer it!” they both command, and I somehow manage to control my hands enough to pick up my phone and hit the green button a split second before the call goes to voicemail.

  “Hello?” I say timidly while hoping the text didn’t go through and that this is an amazing coincidence.

  “Hi, Blaze.” Mark’s voice sounds sultry. “I got your text.” Damn!

  “Oh, about that, I…” I look desperately to Amanda and Terri for help. “My phone has been acting sort of wonky—”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to call.” Mark cuts smoothly through my panic. “I was wondering if you’re free tonight.”

  Everything goes still as my mind whirrs with responses. I need to clarify that the photo was all Amanda’s idea. I want to make certain it’s not the only reason he called. But really, in the end, there’s only one possible way I can respond to Mark asking me out.

  “You want me to pick you up?” I ask.

  “Seven thirty okay?”

  “Um-hmm,” I say through the ringing that has started up again in my ears.

  “Great! Oh, and Blaze,” his voice turns sultry again, “be sure to wear that lace thing from your picture.”

  “That’s not—” But he’s already hung up.

  • • •

  The next thing I know, Mark and I are parked in the middle of a cornfield off Route 8. In my mind I try to retrace the series of events that led to the two of us making out in the front seat of my minivan, but every time I manage to string two thoughts together, they’re wiped clear by the intensity of Mark’s kisses.

  With the part of my brain that is still functioning beyond, Oh my God, this feels so good, I recreate the cartoon panels leading up to our liplock.

  The first panel features the two of us looking out the minivan’s windshield as we pull out of Mark’s driveway. Talk bubbles show him telling me how funny it is that he was just about to call me when he got my sext and me trying to tell him the whole thing was an elaborate accident. We see a close-up panel of him seductively rubbing my leg as I drive. A cross-section X-ray illustrates the “lucky” pale-pink permanent-wedgie underwear hiding underneath my clothes, worn at Amanda’s insistence, and a comic panel shows a close-up of my heart beating through my shirt. Badda-thump. Badda-thump.

  Comic-Mark suddenly points to the left, his arm flung across my chest as he calls out in big, block letters, “TURN HERE!”

  Superturd swerves a screechy swerve, and lightning letters “SQUEEEEE” up from the front tire in the comic version. And let me tell you, my mind is sticking with the comic version, if only to have something to focus on and avoid going to total mush. I already have the same light, tipsy feeling I got the time Amanda snuck a bottle of vodka into her bedroom for our sleepover. Of course, the burning alcohol going down my throat was much less enjoyable than Mark’s sweet kisses.

  Back in my comic-mind-version of events, Superturd has missed the sudden turn Mark demanded, mostly because I realize right before crashing that there is no actual turn-off. A half-page panel shows that there’s nothing but a big, long cornfield running down both sides of the road. “That’s okay,” says comic-Mark, “there’s another spot just ahead.” And this time when he calls out, “Right here! Turn!” he simultaneously grabs the wheel and turns it sharply, sending us lurching toward the wall of corn. And this panel of us has to show a row of e’s coming out of my mouth, like “eeeeeeeeeeeee!” as I slam on the brakes. By the time the van stops, we’re sitting crookedly in a ditch, but my headlights show that there is, indeed, a break in the cornrows ahead of us.

  “Sorry I scared you,” Mark’s talk bubble says. He gives a worried look as he tenderly smooths a hand over my hair.

  “I wasn’t scared,” my talk bubble defends, despite the fact that I screamed. Plus, my hands have little vibration lines because they’re shaking from the af
tershocks of adrenaline and terror.

  From there, to the present, there’s just a short transition page showing panels of the van pulling deeper into the cornfield and our faces moving toward each other in a row of shots ending with a full double-paged spread of our epic kiss. The epic kiss has been going on for some time at this point, and the intensity is growing beyond Su-per Virgin Girl’s power to control it.

  “Let’s get in the back,” Mark breathes between kisses, but I stay firmly planted in the driver’s seat. The back of my minivan is so smelly and disgusting it will dampen every last drop of passion Mark and I have whipped up.

  “Do you have one of those pull-down DVD players in this thing?” he asks teasingly. Slipping through the gap between the front seats, he runs his hand along the ceiling as he moves toward the back of the minivan.

  “Sorry, no,” I say, my lips already feeling cold and lonely. “Nothing back there but empty seats.”

  Mark climbs past the middle seats and sits in the very back row. When he pats beside him invitingly, I shake my head “no” with the sense we are playing a game and I don’t know the rules. Knowing the rules is important. In this same van, I tricked him into losing at Cows that first time.

  “What do you want?” my talk bubble teases as a thought bubble rises from my head asking, What do I want?

  Mark gives a few bops, then disappears as he lies down across the bench. I wrap my hands around the steering wheel, tempted to start Superturd and drive away.

  “Oh, Blaze,” Mark calls in a sing-song voice, and I know that if I don’t join him I’ll never hear from him again. I think of how desperate and empty I felt just a few hours ago. I don’t want to go back to that. Ever.

  I find myself crouch-walking toward him. When I get to the back of the minivan I don’t know what to do. I sway a bit, wanting to get back to the kissing, but not sure how to make that happen. Mark looks so perfect in the moonlight beaming through the back windows and without thinking, I call out “Piledriver!” and fling myself, elbow first, on top of him. I instantly remember I’m not some petite little brunette backpack who can just fling her body around flirtatiously. My flinging is a clear act of aggression. Mark lets out a loud grunt as my elbow connects with his ribs.