Gravity

by Leanne Lieberman

  The water laps blue and gold from the sun’s rays against the weathered boards of the boat dock, weeds gently moving back and forth in the water. Out in the bay beyond the point, seagulls circle the few lone white pines on Horseshoe Island. They dip around the tall branches, screeching and garbling, finally come to rest in the placid waters. The sky stretches blue, thin white clouds slowly drifting.

  “Jujube?” Lindsay offers the bag to me.

  I shake my head.

  “Your parents still together?” Lindsay asks.

  I nod.

  “Money?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are your parents together for financial reasons or because they just can’t be bothered to split up?”

  My parents would never hold hands in public, or even in front of me, yet I see the way they listen to each other. “I-I think they like each other.”

  “Really?” Lindsay looks me right in the eye, looks at me so hard I twist in my seat.

  “Yeah,” I respond. “They went to Israel together for the summer.”

  Lindsay whistles and shakes her head.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Lindsay pushes her sunglasses down her nose and narrows her eyes at me, her lip curling. “Only one?”

  I ignore the teasing slant of her eyes. “Why do you call your mother Maureen?”

  Lindsay stops smiling and looks out at the kids playing in the sandpit. She turns back to me. “‘Cause then she listens.”

  WHEN I GET back to the cottage, I join Bubbie for lunch.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever do anything really bad? I mean when you were a kid.”

  “No, but your mom did.”

  “Really?” I put down my tomato sandwich.

  Bubbie laughs. “I’m just kidding. Your mother never did anything. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, well, no reason.”

  Bubbie looks at me over her glass. “What, did you eat pork? Did you forget Shabbos again? Did you have gelatin?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Let’s see. I think I stole a magazine from a store and, well, of course I was never home on time, and I smoked. Nothing I think I’ll go to hell for.”

  I sigh and down the rest of my lemonade.

  LINDSAY DOESN’T COME over the next day, so I wander over to her place in the evening. She is sitting at the top of the porch stairs, her hair scraped into two tight braids.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I sit tentatively next to her. “I brought my star chart,” I say, pulling out a paperback book.

  “Wha—?”

  “My star chart. I’m going to find the Little Dipper and maybe some—”

  Lindsay bursts out laughing.

  “What?”

  “You are such a geek.”

  I shrug and flip open the book. As long as she’s laughing. “I can never find Cassiopeia.” I lean back on my elbows, gaze up at the sky.

  Lindsay wraps her arms around her legs, taps her feet on the wooden deck. “Stars are boring. How about Truth or Dare?”

  “Oh, I’m really bad at that.” A slice of moon sinks through the clear night sky behind the trees on the island.

  “Truth or dare?” Lindsay repeats.

  “Truth,” I say, still looking at the sky. “I think that’s the Little Dipper.”

  “Okay, truth. Ever kissed a boy?”

  “Did you know the moon controls the tides?”

  “Ellie.”

  I sit up. “No, but I’ve practiced for it.”

  Lindsay glances over. “Pillows?”

  “No, on my sister.” I check the star map and squint back up at the sky, avoiding Lindsay’s look. “If that’s the Little Dipper then...”

  Lindsay’s eyes open wide. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ew. I always used my pillow or arm.”

  “It’s not the same.” When we were little, my sister and I used to practice kissing with our mouths clamped tight.

  Lindsay pauses, impressed, looking at me, head cocked to the side. “Okay, you dare me something.”

  I’d like to dare her to kiss me, to let me touch her long strawberry-blond hair. I stare out over the lake shimmering in the moonlight.

  “You’re so slow!” Lindsay stands up. I cringe and tense my shoulders. “Okay, I’ll choose truth instead, and I’ll answer the question I gave you. Yes, I’ve kissed a boy. There. Now, how about a dare—”

  “Wait, what was it like?”

  “The kiss? Wet.”

  “Did you...did you use your tongue?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, is he your boyfriend now?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t like him that much.”

  “You still kissed him?”

  Lindsay tosses her head. “Enough questions. Truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  “Okay, I double-dog dare you to skinny-dip to the raft and back.” She leans over me, hands on her hips.

  I look up. “Skinny-dip?”

  Lindsay flicks a braid over her shoulder. She nods.

  I pause, imagining the cool water on my skin. “Will you come?”

  “You mean you dare me back?”

  I shiver and nod. A breeze stirs the trees. Strands of her hair brush against my shoulder. I clutch the star chart to my chest, my stomach forming a sharp fist, like fingernails pressing into me.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg,” she says.

  We sprint across the lawn, pulling off our T-shirts and bras, laughing as we run through the dark. I stop at the end of the grass to wriggle out of my shorts and underwear, getting a quick glimpse of Lindsay’s breasts. The night extends black like velvet, the stars glimmering like sequins, the moon casting pools over the lake. I run straight across the dock, my legs still churning as I hit the water. A delicious cold shock breaks the nervous energy circulating through me. Just as I surface, Lindsay dives, ever graceful, her naked body white in the night. She swims a furious smooth line past me toward the raft. I do my best front crawl behind her, my arms choppy, legs splashing.

  When we grasp the ladder, I can feel Lindsay’s warmth beside me, hear the rapidness of her breath, see the tops of her breasts. Our legs brush each other as we tread water. My nipples harden into tight buds in the cold water.

  “Ellie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s your turn.”

  “I dared you back.”

  She flicks water in my face. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Ah.” I pause. “I...I can’t think of anything.”

  Lindsay spits a mouthful of water at me. “You’re pathetic.”

  “Dare me something instead,” I beg.

  Lindsay pauses, moves closer to me. “Hmm...” She furrows her brow. Then she leans over to my ear. My teeth start to chatter, goose bumps forming up my arms.

  “I dare you,” she whispers, her breath warm, “to disappear.”

  “What?” I jerk away. My face falls. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay by her warm body in the lake, the two of us in the moonlight.

  “You know, leave and not come back.” Lindsay smiles.

  “Where would I go?”

  “I don’t know, just away.”

  I push hair out of my face. “That’s the stupidest thing ever. It’d take hours to just walk to Cloyne.”

  “Who said walk?” Lindsay calmly treads water.

  “You mean hitch? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “I’ve done it before. Do you dare me back?”

  “No.”

  “Dare me back.”

  “Forget it.”

  “C’mon.”

  “No! I wanna dare you something else,” I blurt out.

  The screen door slams up at the cottage, and we hear Lindsay’s mom on the porch.

  “I want—,” I whisper.

  “I’m
cold,” Lindsay interrupts. “Race you back.” She plunges down into the water, leaving me hanging on the raft. The moon sinks behind the island, and the porch lights flick off.

  I let go, water closing over my head. My hair swims around me in a brown cloud.

  I creep out of the water and dress, shivering, behind a tree. Lindsay is waiting for me with a flashlight from the cottage. Her hair leaves a long wet patch down her back. She walks me back through the trees, waving her flashlight across the path. When she bends down to tie her shoe, I slip into the trees. After a moment of rustling branches, I’m motionless behind a birch. I press my back against the peeling bark.

  “Ellie?” Lindsay shines the light into the trees near me. I dart back, crouching in the grass.

  “Ellie?”

  “I’m right here.”

  She whirls around, shining the light in my eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Disappearing.”

  Her lip curls into a sneer.

  “And re-appearing,” I add. “You dared me.”

  Lindsay scowls. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  She turns on her heel and runs back to her cottage, a haze of mosquitoes following her.

  When I stumble out of the trees, most of the cottage lights are already out. Bubbie has gone to bed, her radio playing fifties’ music. I wander about, skim a layer of dust off a pine end table, drag my fingers around the brass lamp and the pictures frames. In the bedroom, I slip off my Star of David necklace and put it in my bag with my skirts.

  I OVERSLEEP THE next morning. When I awake, I am sweat-streaked and disoriented. My stomach feels queasy, and a nervous energy tingles in my feet. I stomp them on the bare wood floor.

  Gray clouds blanket the horizon. The air is heavy, moisture hanging like a layer of city smog. Bubbie is out on the dock. “Summertime, and the living is easy,” she bellows, her voice rough. I wave to her and head back into the woods with my prayer book. Perspiration forms under my arms and along my hairline. I step off the path between the sparse branches of two fir trees, brushing away loose branches and twigs until I have a small clearing. My morning prayers fall automatically, without thought, off my tongue. I chant under my breath, “Modah Ani Lefanecha, Melech Chai Vekayam.” I am grateful to you, living and enduring King. When I finish, the humidity still wraps thickly around me, through me. I add a few extra English prayers of my own. Please stop me from doing anything bad. I crouch down in the pine needles, pick up a dry birch branch and balance it against another bough, creating an arch as high as my waist. I step back to eye the curve of wood between the firs, and add more branches, forming a small dome. Inside my tree hut I sit cross-legged and try to recite psalms. I sigh and drop my head forward. Lindsay’s skin shimmered warm and wet and close.

  Back down at the shore, I watch a frog tremble in the weeds, its cheeks quivering. I bend down in the mud, cup my hands, and reach out and snap my palms around the frog. It’s smooth, not slimy the way I expected. The tiny feet tickle, and I let it go.

  Lindsay stands on the end of her dock, skipping stones over the calm gray lake. The rocks make small plinking noises across the still water. When I join her, she slumps in a wooden deck chair and scratches a trio of mosquito bites up her arm.

  I sit next to her and pull my knees into my chest under my baggy T-shirt. Two loons swim out by the island, diving down and resurfacing.

  “I built this hut, this tree hut.”

  “A tree hut?”

  “Yeah, wanna see it?”

  Lindsay turns and watches the loons take off and fly over the trees. “No, not really.”

  The screen door slides open and we turn to see Dave coming down the stairs with a beer and the newspaper. “Crap,” she says, “he’s coming this way.” We wave at Dave and head to the path through the trees. “Okay,” she says, “what did you want to show me?”

  I lead her up behind the cottage, halfway up the road to the highway and along the old overgrown path. She eyes me suspiciously when I lift a branch for her to go into the hut. We balance on our toes in the small dark space under the branches. Our knees bump, and I bury my hands in the dry pine needles to balance myself. A cool breeze lifts some of the humidity.

  “It’s quiet here,” Lindsay says.

  I nod, squinting in the dim light. My legs start to cramp. “It’s better if you sit, I think.” We shift our feet in the small space, trying to put our butts down without disturbing the branches. Lindsay is first to lose her balance. She grabs my hand, sending small currents down my spine. Her other hand grazes my thigh. We fall over, holding tight to each other, sticks tumbling down on us. I want to laugh and cry, but I’m breathing too hard. I’m holding Lindsay and she’s laughing, a quick layer of sweat forming between the skin of our legs.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie,” she says, her mouth open with laughter. “Oh, Ellie,” she says, “I’m sorry.” She can’t stop laughing.

  We stumble out of the trees into a clearing surrounded by sumac bushes, the grass flat like a cushion from where deer have lain. Lindsay flops down on her back, still giggling. I pick a milkweed pod and lie down next to her.

  “Look.” I break open the green shell to show her the layers of white feather-like plant inside. “It’s like a female peacock.”

  Lindsay touches the pod, sap dripping.

  “Monarch butterflies feed on them.”

  “Uh-huh.” Lindsay rolls over on her side. “Last night in the water...”

  My shoulders tense, a film of sweat covering my back. “Yeah?”

  “I know what you wanted to dare me.”

  I freeze, my chest tightening. I stare at her. She doesn’t have her usual teasing look, the manipulative gleam in her eyes. She touches my bare arm, milkweed sticky on my skin. Raising herself on one elbow, she hesitates, moves her lips close to my ear. “I dare you to kiss me,” she whispers. “I want to know what it’s like—to kiss a girl.”

  The earth seems to tilt, my pulse races. I roll over on my side and stare at her. She presses her mouth against mine, her lips stiff at first and then soft and warm. My arm slides tentatively over her waist, down the curve of her hip. Lindsay holds her breath, her eyes closed. She doesn’t stop me.

  THE NEXT MORNING I wake up early, shivering under a thin blanket, dawn barely etching the gray sky. Bubbie and I drink tea, bundled in sweaters on the porch, and watch the baby loons. She passes me the binoculars. I can’t focus. I drum my fingers on the edge of my chair, keep checking my watch.

  When it is finally late enough, so I won’t seem too eager, I run to Lindsay’s. My feet are light and quick through the trees, past the leaning birch, over the spruce log, past the marsh with the rusting car. I force myself to slow down at the sumac trees at the edge of Lindsay’s lawn. I stop at the porch stairs. The blinds are drawn, the doors shut, the patio furniture put away. My heart thumps. Down on the water a whip-poorwill calls weeee-heeee. I walk around to the front of the cottage. Lindsay’s mom’s Jeep is gone. Maybe they just went for groceries or mini-golf. Peering in the front door of the cottage, I see the magazines are neatly stacked, the fans still, the counters clean.

  I pace up and down the porch. Then I kick a pile of pine-cones onto the grass. Shivering in my fleece, I lean against the railing Lindsay’s mom didn’t want. I didn’t even get to ask her if we could meet back in the city.

  THE SUN BEATS down hot on my back, the water cool around me. My right arm comes up over my head, slips into the water. Cup and pull. Then my left arm—inhale— splashing into the water. I swim a few more strokes, shoulders contracting before reaching for the air mattress. I spit out a mouthful of water.

  “You’re doing great,” Bubbie tells me. She lies on the mattress, paddling beside me.

  I nod, out of breath. It’s not quite the way I wanted to swim to the island. However, as Bubbie says, it’s better than becoming fish food.

  I rest my head on the hot plastic, close my eyes against the bright sun, kick my legs. I
glance over at Lindsay’s empty dock: the lawn furniture and fishing gear are gone, even the canoe is put away in the shed.

  Bubbie follows my gaze. “I haven’t seen Lindsay in a few days.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Home. They went home.”

  “Oh, I guess it’s that time of year. We’ll have to pack up after lunch if we want to be in time to get your parents from the airport.”

  “She didn’t say good-bye.”

  Bubbie frowns. “Maybe something came up.”

  I shake my head.

  Bubbie shades her eyes, looks at me. “She’s a slippery one.”

  I nod, avoiding Bubbie’s glance, and slide off the mattress. I push myself under water for as long as I can before breaking into a front crawl. Bubbie follows along beside me on the air mattress.

  I rest again, this time halfway across the bay. Our dock seems far away, the logs on the other side equally hazy.

  “I caught a frog the other day,” I tell Bubbie.

  “Tell me about frogs.”

  “Phylum chordata, class lissamphibia—that means it’s got smooth skin,” I tell her. “I always thought frogs would feel slimy. They’re smooth, just like their name.”

  “Do you know those things from school?”

  I laugh. “Bubbie, religious girls don’t need to know about frogs or birds or fish, except to know if they are kosher.”

  Our days in school are divided into religious studies in the morning and everything else in the afternoon. Science is crammed into two hours one afternoon a week. We read the chapter in our textbooks, answer the questions. The ecology sections are in the back of the book, and we never get there by the end of the year. Once I asked my teacher how dinosaur bones could be older than creation. The teacher said God put the bones there to test our faith.

  “Are frogs kosher?” Bubbie asks.

  “Nope. No fins or gills.”

  “Oh, they taste like chicken.”

  “So I’m not missing anything then?”

  “You’d like to study more about frogs, about nature, wouldn’t you?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

  Bubbie just nods, and so I swim again, practicing my breaststroke, like a frog. Bubbie follows on the mattress.