by Einat Segal
I haven't felt this way since that day when I was twelve and first got my period.
A warm blush rises in my cheeks as I turn to look at Esmeralda. "Honey," I whisper, horrified, "I think I have a crush."
* * *
"I can see the problem here," Esmeralda says as she flips over the omelet. We're at her house, sitting in the cluttered kitchen. Tina, Esmeralda's mom, collects everything. The walls and shelves are crowded with all manners of knickknacks, from cutesy cookware, mugs, and kitchen tools, to animal figurines, framed posters, pictures, elaborate jars, and boxes.
I love the chaos of this kitchen. I find it remarkable that somehow, amidst the endless mess, Esmeralda manages to cook.
"It's your first time feeling this way, but the second you talk to him, it'll all be over."
"We sorta talked today," I say, biting into a baby carrot as I mull over what this all means in the scheme of things. "I threw a sandwich at him."
"You what?" Esmeralda turns away from the stove to stare at me. I shrug, and she turns back to transfer the omelet to a plate and cut it in two. "Crazy bitch."
"Thank you." I’m touched. That's a huge compliment coming from Esmeralda.
"How come I only hear about this now, from you? Wasn't anyone looking?" she asks as she comes over with the omelet and two forks, pulling up a chair and sitting beside me at the table. In our school, something as weird as sandwich-throwing would be talked about far and wide.
Unless, like in this case, no one knew it happened aside from the parties involved.
If a tree falls in a forest . . .
"He came to talk to me in my corner during lunch," I explain, spearing my fork through steamed asparagus.
"In the spider hole?"
I nod. "Maybe I should just come up to him tomorrow and tell him."
Esmeralda's omelet-laden fork pauses in its journey to her mouth. "Tell him what?"
"Landon, I think you're hot. Let's fuck, no talking," I try.
Or not.
I’m not sure I can pull that off. If I wasn't a virgin, maybe.
Esmeralda has to brace herself against the table as she hollers with laughter.
* * *
"I forgot to ask you," Esmeralda says as we both lounge on the bean bags in her "alternative" living room, doing our homework.
At least, I'm doing my homework. Esmeralda has her laptop propped on her lap and is messaging with her mysterious new “star.”
"What's the deal with you and Shawn Henderson and that Ashley chick?"
I plead guilty. I don't tell my best friend everything. "They just ran out of people to mess with so they're trying to mess with me."
Esmeralda gives me a long look. She knows that's not everything, but the full story doesn't seem important enough for us to waste our breath over it. "They're going to be so disappointed," she concludes.
That's the bottom line. They can try to mess with me, but all they'll find is: "Whatever," I say.
I nod at Esmeralda's computer. "Did you meet her yet?"
Esmeralda snaps her computer shut, wearing a distinctly bashful expression. "Sorta." She frowns. "Not really."
"It's not going well?"
She waves her hand in the air. "Complicated."
"Mmm?" I know when to back out, and when it's time to listen.
“She isn’t one hundred percent out yet," Esmeralda admits.
I nod. Esmeralda needs a lot of encouragement to talk about these things. She came out pretty early, when we were fourteen, and while she stays comfortable in her skin and brave about it, sometimes she's invaded by fear and insecurity.
"But we clicked. We really clicked," she continues. "And she wants us to go out. We can't stop talking. You know, she's crazy about Escher too."
"The Dutch guy? The one who designed the cover of that Pink Floyd album?"
Esmeralda is an art freak. That's not quite the same as an artist. She wants to run a gallery when she grows up. She suffers from Stendhal syndrome and gets higher from a painting than people who take LSD.
Escher, the Dutch painter and graphic artist, is Esmeralda's biggest hero. She practically starts smoking at the ears when she describes his works. I've once gone with her to an exhibition when one of his original works was on display, and she fainted from excitement, literally. I rode next to her in the ambulance.
"I kinda really like her, Soph," Esmeralda says quietly and dramatically. "She's so beautiful and smart and funny."
"But she still needs time?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Then give her time."
I don’t plan to follow my own advice, though. I’m going to approach Landon on the first opportunity I see. He's wonderful fantasy-fodder, and it will be a shame to ruin it, but I hate this tangled web of emotions that's brewing in my mind. There’s always the possibility I won’t have to stay a virgin until college. And if Landon takes my virginity, then I’ll have the upper hand with Shawn.
"I will,” Esmeralda says, “but I'm confused."
"About what?"
"She wants us to go to Dean Marklin's party together, with matching costumes." So, mystery girl is from our school. Every year since freshman year, Dean Marklin's parents actually give him permission to throw a Halloween party in their huge basement. There's a rumor going around that they even provide the booze.
I've never gone to a high-school party. I hate them by default and have nothing to look for in them. But I know that Esmeralda always goes.
"Maybe that's the time she needs?" I hazard a guess. Esmeralda still looks dubious.
"Soph, if it comes to that, can you please come with me —”
"No," I say flatly before I, or anyone else, can stop me.
"Soph . . ." She does the puppy-dog face. You know those stuffed animals with the huge eyeballs? That’s what she’s doing.
Even for a heartless potential serial killer such as myself, it's a slap of cuteness right in the gut.
“Okay. Whatever," I say in resignation. It's nearly two months away. So much could change in that time.
3
I Hate It That I Love It
"Hello?"
"Come outside," says a guy's voice on my stupid mobile phone at 4:20 in the morning on Thursday of the second week of school.
"Sorry, you've got the wrong number," I say automatically, and hang up.
Three seconds, and my phone vibrates again. I furiously press the button with the green icon and hold the tiny phone to my ear. "Who is this and how'd you get my number?" I demand.
"Calm the fuck down, Fee," he says.
"Shawn? Why're you calling me? What do you want?" My voice is rapid and cracking since up until a minute ago, I had been sound asleep. Even for me, this is too early.
"I'm outside your house," he says slowly with the tone of someone hanging on to his last reserves of patience.
What the hell? I take the phone from my ear and crawl out of my bed, marching over to my bedroom window and moving aside the heavy green curtain. I spot a black-and-silver BMW i3 in the street down below, illuminating the misty morning gloom with its white headlights.
I put the phone back to my ear. "Why are you outside my house in the middle of the night?"
"I screwed up, Fee. I really need your help."
I find every single part of that sentence hard to believe. I let the curtain fall and hang up the phone.
Go away, Shawn.
The phone buzzes again. I decline the call. Ring. Decline. Ring. Decline. Ring—
I press the green button this time.
"GODDAMIT, SOPHIE, I'M FREAKING OUT!" Shawn's voice yells at me even before I manage to bring it to my ear. "Please come out." There's a desperate whining at the edge of his voice, like he's on the verge of tears. "I'm covered in blood."
Oh. That gets my attention. I'm awake now. Any normal person would rush downstairs then and there, no more questions asked. I'd do it too—out of curiosity. But most people are sentimental idiots.
"Whose blood?" I ask.<
br />
"Mine," he replies.
Good. See? One simple question rules out me getting entangled with a murderer. I've got a career in medicine to think about. I can't afford to have a criminal record.
I assess the situation. "Okay, Shawn, I'm coming out. But if you're lying to me, you’re dead."
"I wouldn't have it any other way, Fee," he says, but his heart isn't in it. His voice is strained.
I hang up without a word and pick up my Converse from where I set them out the night before next to my closet. Barefoot, I tiptoe past my parents' room and rush downstairs, unlocking the front door. I throw down my Converse and slide my feet into them, running down the path toward the road.
I knock on Shawn's window, and he rolls it down for me. While the sky is beginning to grey, it's still very dark. I bend down so I can better look at Shawn's face.
He wasn't kidding.
His eyes are wide and glossy. His skin's chalky white, making the black splotches of blood that mark his nose, mouth, chin, and the whole front of his white T-shirt stand out even more.
"Nice," he says, looking down my T-shirt. "You're not wearing a bra."
I instantly straighten up. "And you've just worn out your welcome." I make to turn back to the house.
"Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry!" he quickly exclaims, reaching out through the window to grasp my arm. "I need you, Fee. Please."
I wasn't actually serious about going back to the house. But I'm not completely sure this isn't all a game. Just to keep on the safe side, it's better to continue playing.
I begrudgingly look down at him. "So, what's the story?"
"I was spending the night with Ola," he begins.
"Which one's Ola?" I ask, because I love to show Shawn that in all our evenings spent together, I’ve never listened to his stories.
"Number eighteen," he says. "College student from Poland."
"Okay."
"Anyway, we were sleeping, and Ola suddenly gets up and makes me dress, telling me I have to leave. And this guy barges into her room, punches me in the face, and kicks me when I'm down. And then he just lets me leave. But that's when it all became creepy."
I wait for more, but all I hear is crickets.
"That's it? You got beaten out of your sex-buddy's place by an angry boyfriend?"
I make to pull my arm from Shawn's grasp, but he holds on tightly, turning his head to look down the street. “When I tried to leave, the door was still locked and the key was still on the table by the door right next to Ola’s phone. How'd he get in, Fee? How’d she know he was coming?"
I shrug my shoulders. The hell would I know? Even though the story is somewhat improved, it still doesn't explain why Shawn is here.
"And then?"
"I unlocked the door and drove straight here."
I exhale, exasperated. "Why didn't you go home? Or the hospital?"
"Do you know what my dad would do to me if he knew I drove my car after curfew?" Shawn snaps.
"Shawn, I can't even imagine Bob scolding you. How do you think you turned out like you did?"
"He'd confiscate it, and I'd have to take the bus to school," Shawn continues, ignoring my comments as always. He tugs on my arm.
"What about all your friends? You’ve got a million of those.”
"And have them see me like this? Do you have any idea what that would do to my reputation?”
"Oh my God, you’re such a drama queen."
He looks up at me with a face covered in gore. I have to say, I like the look. "Help me out, Fee, just this once. Just let me get cleaned up. I'll even take you to school."
I yank my arm from his grip. “You get in, and you leave. You can't show yourself to my parents, understood?"
He gives me a lopsided grin crusted with blood and gets out of the car. I notice right away that his legs are all wobbly. Just before he topples over into our neighbor's hedge, I manage to grasp a handful of his soiled T-shirt. He sways on the spot for a moment, leans into me, and then regains his balance.
“You're drunk?" I ask. This keeps getting better and better.
"Ola thinks vodka is a type of water," he says as he begins shuffling toward my house.
"Just . . . Shut up.” I feel a very firm tug of regret as I let Shawn into my house.
* * *
"Ouch."
"Hold still."
We're in the guest bathroom in the basement. Shawn Henderson is down on his knees on the fluffy pink bathroom rug, his chin raised up toward me, a look of manic desperation on his face.
I tap my finger against the bridge of his nose just to see him wince. Now that the blood's gone, I can tell it's swollen, but not too badly. Enough to give him the ruffled-up look, but not enough to make his face any less than legendarily handsome. There’s barely even a bruise.
"Well?" he asks anxiously.
"Well what?" I straighten up and turn to wash my hands in the sink.
"Is it broken?" His voice squeaks slightly when he asks this.
"How the hell should I know? Do I look like an X-ray to you?" I look over my shoulder at him.
"You said you'd have a look." Shawn wobbles up to his feet. "I thought you had a way of telling."
I turn back to the sink to wipe my hands dry with a clean blue hand towel. "And I thought I'd have you down on your knees in front of me in less than three seconds."
I turn around to get out of the bathroom, but almost walk straight into Shawn's bare chest. His hands shoot forward to grasp the edge of the bathroom counter on both sides of my body, trapping me in the cage of his arms.
"Is that how you like it, Fee?" he asks in a low whisper. "Did that turn you on?"
When did he take off his shirt? I peer up at his face, and he looks down into mine. Neither of us wavers.
There's a raw red bruise on his abdomen below his ribs. I stab it with my finger, making him flinch away and gasp in pain.
"Out of my way, vodka-breath."
"You evil woman," he moans as I open the cupboard next to the door and throw a new toothbrush at him. It's one of those cheap ones they hand out on flights. My mom flies a lot for her job and always collects these airline freebies. I thought it was pointless, until today.
The corner of my mouth twitches upward. This may possibly be the first good deed of my life, but the whole time, I'm wishing I was evil enough to let Shawn rot in his car for the rest of the night.
"Clean T-shirt on the bed. Towels under the sink," I say, and look at my watch. It's 4:41. I can still get an hour's sleep before I have to wake up for school. "And Shawn?"
He looks at me, attentive and hopeful. It’s hard for me to believe that I’m the only person he could turn to in a moment like this.
"Don't ever come to me again,” I say, my words aiming to hurt. “I'm not your friend."
I'm about to leave the bathroom, but he pushes the bathroom door, preventing me from opening it. "That's not how you make it look," he says into my ear. “But I’ll play along if that’s what you want."
I yank the door open. He's going full force on me. It's clear to me he's changed his strategy. He's teasing me now only for the sake of getting a reaction out of me. The best thing I can do is ignore him.
So I don't say anything and walk out of the bathroom.
I cross the basement and start climbing the stairs. I hear the shower begin to run. I turn off the light and open the basement door.
And freeze. The creak of a floorboard in the living room alerts me that someone is up. I quickly close the door, leaving the smallest crack open so I can spy on the kitchen. Sure enough, I see my dad pacing back and forth with some notes in his hands as he reads, waving his arm in the air theatrically.
My dad gets nervous from public speaking, so whenever he has an appearance in court, he paces downstairs in the middle of the night, practicing.
I slowly and carefully close the basement door and wait, trying to calculate my options. It's lucky enough he didn't see me just now, because the way he's pacing brings hi
m in full view of the basement door seventy percent of the time. Anything I do to bring attention to the basement can, theoretically, cause my parents to somehow decide to come down here and discover Shawn.
I stand there by the door for several minutes with the sound of my dad's pacing giving rhythm to my thoughts. Reluctantly, I come to face the truth.
Until my dad goes upstairs to wake my mom, I'm trapped here in the basement with Shawn.
Dammit! Dammit! Shit!
I shake my head and turn on the light, silently padding down the stairs.
And see a lot of skin.
"Sophie!" Shawn exclaims, grinning as he stands stark naked before me, holding the boxer briefs he was about to put on.
Stupid, stupid me.
I quickly bring my hands to cover my eyes and turn away for good measure.
But I saw it all, and I can't un-see.
Not that I'd want to. Let's just say I can now truly appreciate what the hype around Shawn is about. It's a pity I know him so well. I would have gladly taken all of that—I mean, his body—but not the person attached to it.
"Keep your voice down. My dad's in the living room," I say. "I have to hide down here until six."
I hear the rustle of cloth as he gets dressed. "Excuses, excuses," he says. "Why can't you just admit it . . ." Footsteps, and then the touch of five fingers as they lace through my hair, grazing the top of my scalp.
Oh. My. God.
"You changed your mind," he whispers in my ear, his other hand twining upward through my hair from the back. Wave upon wave of tingling gratification races down my spine. My muscles turn to jelly, my head falling back as my body comes to rest against him.
My response gives him the slightest pause. He’s warm against me. I struggle to regain my senses, but he acts before I can. He bunches the fingers of both his hands and then fans them out, combing through my hair.
The softest moan escapes from the depths of my throat. His breath catches as my back arches against him involuntarily.