by Roya Carmen
Smiling widely, she sent me to the washroom. “There’s instructions on the box. You go figure it out. It’s easy.”
“Little Abby is all grown up,” she cooed, and I cringed a bit. It was a bittersweet moment. I was happy to finally be a woman, but was not looking forward to bleeding every month. And I knew my stupid brothers would have a field day with this. I’d just have to hide all evidence of the shedding of my uterus lining every month.
Adele busied herself working on the preparations. She had to make a special cake and prepare the circle of womanhood. She also had to clean up. When I came back from the washroom, I was an awkward mess, wiggling in my underwear. It just felt so foreign. I didn’t like it one bit. I studied Adele’s art books to distract myself. Her art supplies were scattered here and there. Adele was not only a mom, but she was an artist too. Little Abe was watching television and surprisingly, Izzie offered to help clean up and make the cake. Izzie’s Dad was sleeping. He often worked night shifts when he was around.
“We are quiet little mice, and we don’t want to wake the big grumpy cat,” she told Abe and he giggled quietly.
“Do I have to wear these things all the time now,” I asked Adele.
“Just a few days a month, sweetie.”
“This sucks.”
Adele smiled. “That’s the PMS right there. It makes your hormones go all blunky.”
“Can you tell I’m wearing it?” I asked Izzie.
She laughed. “It looks like you’re wearing a diaper.”
“It does not. Izzie’s just being a pest.” Adele assured me. “I can’t even see it.”
“Me neither,” Abe added, and I smiled.
“Plus, if you’re not comfortable, you can always were a sweater around your waist,” Adele suggested.
I perked up. “That’s a good idea.”
“Plus think of the wonderful gift you’ve been given. You can now give birth to a child, my love.” Adele was still emotional. “But not too soon. Not until you’re a least twenty-five,” she was quick to add.
The room was dark and warm. Adele had set lit candles on the tables all over the living room. One sat in the middle of the coffee table. The thick white drapes were closed. Adele brought a tray of cheese and crackers and green seedless grapes over to the living room. She had bought the grapes special for the occasion that morning because she knew they were my favorite. They were a treat since they were a little cost prohibitive. Bananas and Macintosh apples were the regular fare at the Reed home, which was a lot more than most other households in the neighborhood had.
She settled the tray down on the coffee table, a rustic piece. At its center, lay a beautiful stain glass design; a red tulip. I never dared set anything on the table, but loved to admire it. Adele had made the table from scratch, and I applauded her for being able to create such beauty.
“Ok. Let’s all sit around the table,” Adele instructed.
We sat down on the beige carpet. Adele and Izzie on one side, and me on the other. Adele stretched her arms out. “Let’s all hold hands and close our eyes.” She reached for our hands, and Izzie hesitated a second before surrendering her hand. “This is a little lame, Mom.”
“I know it may seem silly to you, but this is an important event in a young woman’s life and we should celebrate it.” We all closed our eyes. We had grown accustomed to Adele’s eccentricities.
“Today...” she began. “July 14th, 1998, we celebrate Abby’s official entry into womanhood.”
“Are you going to make her a certificate?” Izzie quipped.
Adele payed no attention and continued on. “She is now changed forever as she can now give life. She can play an important part in building our future generation. She has a power that no man will ever own.”
“She can get knocked up by the first guy who feels her up.” Izzie interrupted again, smirking.
Undeterred, Adele went on. “She can experience life growing inside her and treasure it. Today we celebrate the future.” She lifted her arms and shouted. “Congratulations, Abby, on your first menstruation.”
I bet they don’t make a Hallmark card for that one, I thought.
We all opened our eyes, as if woken from a trance. We glanced over to the door in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry to interrupt…” Simon Cook stood by the doorway. “The door was open.”
The door was always open on hot summer days to let a breeze in, the screen door closed to keep out the pesky flies. Everyone walked in to everyone’s homes without batting a lash. There was no knocking, and there certainly were no doorbells.
Simon stood awkwardly, glancing at the door, wishing he had not entered at that particular moment. I was completely mortified.
“You better not tell anyone,” I scoffed.
“Don’t worry. I don’t even know what menstration means,” he lied, deliberately mispronouncing the word. He would, of course, tell everyone.
Simon had been a regular at the Reeds. He had a pretty serious crush on Izzie. What boy didn’t. Izzie’s dad also encouraged him to help out fixing whatever broken piece of machinery he had in the yard at the time. Although he worked as a truck driver, he’d take odd jobs on the side, fixing anything from snowmobiles, dirt bikes, RVs, trucks, and plain old cars. The Reed yard was always littered with a varied selection of these at any time; one of which was a beautiful red Corvette. The guys at the park would always linger over to check out the new patient. That Corvette attracted so many people, Izzie’s dad could hardly get any work done.
Simon was always the dutiful assistant, standing next to him, handing over the tools, all the while checking out Izzie. When some of the park guys would drop by, Simon dutifully went into the house to fetch some beers or some smokes. That day, he wasn’t fetching smokes. Izzie’s dad was at the back of the trailer, passed out. He was taking the day off.
“So Bobby’s not working in the yard today. Is he on the road?” Simon ask Adele. His long golden hair dangled over his eyes. His lashes, peaking out from behind the strands of dirty hair, framed the largest saddest blue eyes I had ever seen. I kinda liked Simon but there would be no way anyone would ever know. He looked disheveled as he usually did, like he hadn’t taken a bath in a week, which he most likely hadn’t. He wore a black t-shirt, and his hands dangled from the pockets of his old faded jeans, worn at the knees. Big red lips with a tongue sticking out stretched across his chest: The Rolling Stones. For some reason, this t-shirt always made me a little uncomfortable.
Adele suddenly did not look herself, a furrow etched deep between her eyes and sloping eyebrows. She reached for a cigarette on the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry, Simon, but Bobby’s not feeling well today. He’ll let you know when he needs your help again, okay.”
“Does he have a cold? You think he’ll be alright tomorrow?” Simon was concerned. He had learned so much from Bobby, and there was so much more to learn. Bobby was the one person he could talk to.
Adele quickly became irritated. “I’m not sure. Like I said, he’ll let you know as soon as he starts working on something again.” She was clearly annoyed, but it wasn’t in her nature to be anything but polite to everyone. Simon was no idiot and stepped back to the door, leaving with his head down.
“Why is he always hanging around here?” Izzie complained. “Doesn’t he have his own place?” She was stretched out on the sofa, one leg over the arm, her white panties visible, peeking out from her ultra short red Lycra sports shorts.
“He likes to help out Dad with fixing the bikes and cars. Dad’s teaching him a lot,” Adele said through a cloud of smoke. “You should try being nicer to him. He likes you.” The cigarette had succeeded in soothing her.
Izzie reached for the Glamour magazine on the end table. “Everybody likes me.”
“Besides it’s good for Simon to have a hobby....something to distract him...” Adele looked out the window. “You know.. since the accident.”
Everyone at the park had heard about the accident. Simon and his
little sister were riding with their mom, coming back from Bingo night. They didn’t even see it coming. They got hit by a 4x4, smack right on the side. The guy in the truck was drunk. Apparently, Simon’s little sister shot straight out of the car. She landed a good one hundred feet away, and apparently died instantly. This is the version of events I’d heard. I wanted to ask Simon about it, but never dared to.
“It’s too bad about his little sister,” Izzie managed to articulate between mouthfuls of cheese and crackers. She had wasted no time in sampling the goodies. All eyes turned towards her, surprised at her comment, very uncharacteristic of her. But true, this was something so terrible, even cold hearts could feel for.
“Uh… Izzie. Can I borrow your orange sweater?” I asked.
“Sure… why?”
I jumped to my feet and bolted toward her room. “You’ll see.”
I came back with the arms of the bright orange cardigan wrapped around my waist, hiding not only my hips but the bulge between my legs. A smiled stretched across Adele’s face as she walked to the sofa. She grabbed Izzie’s legs and pushed them out of the way. “Move over.” She sat down next to her daughter unapologetically.
I sat next to them, still thinking about Simon. I’d been very preoccupied with him since the accident. Had someone been there to help him? He had no other siblings. It was just him and his parents now. At least they had each other. I wanted to go to his trailer and offer my help, but unfortunately, I was way too shy for such a bold move.
10
The plan is to have a relaxing evening. It’s all perfectly set up; Pretty Woman, one of my favorite movies, popcorn and a tall glass of my favorite pomegranate flavored water.
Richard Gere and Julia Roberts are beautiful but they just can’t hold my attention tonight. My mind is consumed with Noah Parker. Why hasn’t he called me? Does he not like me? I thought we had a good time. Am I too old? Is he an ageist? Maybe he wants a hot young thing he can screw for a few years before he knocks her up with a brood of his children. If he hooked up with me, he’d have to get on the impregnating phase pronto. Tick tock. Tick tock.
I shake my head in disgust. Never mind that this is all in my head. I bounce up from the sofa in a huff and storm out of my loft, wearing grey sweats, a Hello Kitty t-shirt and fuzzy socks.
I knock on his door. Hard. Once. Twice.
I’m just about to knock a third time when the door swings open. Noah is standing in nothing but lounge pants, and he’s ripped, more than I could have imagined, considering his job is not physical in the least. He must work out, I conclude.
He raises a brow, clearly surprised to see me. “Abby.”
I attempt to smile but it’s completely awkward.
He invites me in, and I slowly make my way to the living room, regretting my impulsive actions. What am I supposed to say now? “I… I just wanted to say hello,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Are you hiding from me?
“I’ve been swamped.” He walks to the kitchen and I follow him. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
I settle my rear on one of the tall stools skirting his kitchen island. “No, I’m good. Just a quick hello, you know.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” he says quietly. “Been busy.”
“What have you been working on?”
He smiles. “Well, here, I’ll show you. Follow me.”
I nip eagerly at his heels as he walks toward his baby grand.
I take a seat on his sectional while he settles himself at his piano. His fingers start to dance over the ivory keys, and shivers run down my spine. The song is beautiful, so soft and also kind of sad. Each note tugs at my heart.
His eyes are closed, his back slightly hunched. He’s beautiful, and truly talented. I could watch him play for hours.
The music comes to an abrupt halt. He jerks his head up. “Just something I’ve been working on.”
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Who is it for?”
He smiles. “No one at the moment. We’ll see.”
I stare up at the framed Nashville poster up on the wall. “You’ve been to Nashville? I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Used to live there.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Why’d you leave?” I ask just before realizing that I might be getting a little nosy.
His smile fades. “I was in a relationship and it went sour. I needed a new start.”
“Why Chicago? Why Wicker Park?”
“Uh… I…” he falters. “I wanted to be closer to home, I guess.” He tears his gaze from mine and looks out the window. “I’m from Chicago originally. Anyway, can I get you something to drink?”
I smile. “No. You already asked me that.”
“Oh sorry.” He stands, closes the distance between us, and sits next to me on the sectional at a respectable distance. “So how about you? You’re originally from Michigan, right? Uh… so you said.”
“Did I?” I cross a leg over the other. “Yep, but I moved around here about eighteen years ago.”
His sky blue eyes are fixed on me, and I freeze. We’re both without words. No, it’s not just my imagination. The boy definitely wants to get into my pants, or my sweats, as it were.
“I’ve been busy,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, “but not that busy. I just think you should stay away from me, Abby. I’d be nothing but trouble for you.”
My breath hitches. What does he mean? “Why?”
“I’m a mess. I’m bad news, Abby. You’re probably better off to stay away.”
“Why? What did you do? Are you in the mob? Did you kill someone?”
He laughs. “No. And no.”
“Then what is it?” I ask, breathless. “Do you have a girlfriend? A secret wife? Are you a grieving widower?”
He smiles. “No… single at the moment. And not a grieving widower… never married.”
I stare down at my fuzzy socks. “It’s because I’m too old, right? You don’t get mixed up with women my age. You probably want some hot young thing.”
He shakes his head and catches me by surprise when he takes my face in his soft hands. “You’re not too old. You’re beautiful, Abby.”
My silly heart skips at his words.
“Then why?” I ask softly.
His pupils grow, his eyes darken, and his beautiful lips slightly part open. I stretch my neck up, and tentatively press my eager mouth against his, just a soft kiss.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, and it breaks my heart. I can see desire in his eyes, as clear as day. I can feel the attraction between us, in every cell of my being. He’s as tempted as I am, yet he won’t—
He grabs my face again, but this time, he’s not gentle. He presses his mouth against mine and licks my bottom lip. My whole core is on fire. I reach for his jaw, and rub my palms against his five o’clock shadow. When his tongue invites mine to dance and play, it eagerly accepts. His hands travel to my hair and his long fingers get tangled in my locks as his mouth is busy exploring me, undoing me. My whole body is lost to him. I haven’t been kissed like this since…
Since Gavin.
I want more. I lean in, and press myself harder against him, my desire possessing me unapologetically, making me numb to the world outside. I run my hands down his torso, and he groans when I reach the band of his pants. Is this wrong? Is this too early? We barely know each other. He’s too young for me.
My heart jerks when he suddenly pulls back and pushes me off him. My stomach falls. I’m an idiot. He clearly doesn’t want to get involved with me. Why am I acting so aggressive, so desperate? “I’m sorry… I got carried away.”
He’s breathless when he tells me, “No… it was me. I just think this is a bad idea, Abby. That’s all.”
Why is it such a bad idea? I want to scream. Tell me why?
“You should probably go.”
“Yes… sorry.” I rise and turn on my heel. I’m not staying there another second. I get i
t. You don’t want me. You don’t have to tell me twice.
He nips at my heels as I practically sprint out of his loft. “I’m sorry,” are the last words I hear before I slam the door into his face. I run to my apartment in tears.
My movie is still on. Richard’s character climbs the fire escape to reach Julia’s, despite the fact that he’s terrified of heights. He’s wielding a bouquet of roses, and his heart is hers. Forever.
Stupid movie.
Bleeding hearts bared, total abandonment and grand declarations of love… that’s not how real life works.
It’s all a bunch of crap.
I click off the TV, and cry in my pillow.
“How about if we ring the door bell and leave a bag of crap on his step,” Izzie suggested.
“No way. I’m not going anywhere near dog crap,” I argued. “Last time we did that, I was the one who had to put the crap in the bag.”
We were deep in conversation about Jimmy McNaughton, who had made the grave mistake of calling Izzie fat. Anyone who knew Izzie knew that if you pissed her off, you might as well kill yourself because she’d come for you. And in my opinion, Jimmy deserved everything that was coming to him. Yes, Izzie was definitely curvy, but she wasn’t fat. How dare he say that.
“Let’s try to be original,” Izzie said. “If his mother sees us, she’ll run after us with a broom and one of us could end up paralyzed like that kid.” Izzie had started this rumor that Mrs. McNaughton had hit a boy with her broom and had paralyzed him from the waist down. Yet she could never tell anyone who the boy was because it was apparently a secret. No one believed her of course. She always made up stories. There was the one where Stephen King was her uncle. And the one where her little brother, Abe, had seven toes on one foot. Poor little guy had kids pulling his shoes and socks off for a week. There were always stories.
Izzie leaned back on the lounge chair, and closed her eyes. I took the opportunity to study her, not because I was secretly in love with her or anything, just because she was what I wished I was, all curves and flawless skin under her skimpy pink bikini. I was all chubbiness and freckles. My Irish mom had blessed me with those.