“I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, bye.”
I hang up and creep up the stairs to my room. I lie down on my bed and close my eyes. The room feels like it’s spinning, like I’ve lost contact with the earth. I grab my prayer book from my backpack. I shove it back without opening it. I don’t know a prayer to say when you’re in love anyway.
I close my eyes and lean back on the bed, slip a pillow between my legs, clamp my thighs tight as a razor clam.
THE NEXT MORNING, I slip out of the house and take the bus to the pool downtown. In the change room I keep my eyes averted. I do ten laps, trying to keep Lindsay out of my mind. I could just not go. Or I could just go and get my one kiss. That’ll be enough. One kiss, and maybe I’ll stroke her hair. Then I’ll just walk out of her house. After that I’ll be able to concentrate. Yeah, right. I dive back in the pool and swim another few laps. What if our teeth bump or my nose gets in the way when we kiss? What if she wants to do something else? I sprint the last lap in the pool.
When I get home Ima is curled up on the couch, where she has been for the past week, except today she isn’t in her gray robe, but her nubbly pink polyester duster. Her hair is greasy, her feet encased in threadbare wool socks, her heels poking through. She sits on the couch, scribbling on her writing pad, her letters jagged like scars blasted in rock. Then she methodically rips the sheets into shreds.
“Hi, Ima.”
“Hey.” She looks up from her pad.
“How’s your voice?”
“Better.”
I put down my bag. “So, are you going to school tomorrow?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.” Her eyes are vacant.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I stand tapping my toes, my coat still on. Then I turn and march to the front door.
“Where are you going?” Abba appears in the hallway wearing Bubbie Rosa’s purple apron with the ruffle on the bottom.
“I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I slam the door behind me.
Out into the freezing dark afternoon, I wrench my scarf around my neck. I slide over the icy patches all the way to the video store near the subway station to rent three of Ima’s favorite old movies: Singing In the Rain, Roman Holiday and The King and I.
Back at home, I knock on Neshama’s door.
“Come on in.”
“Good, you’re here.” I settle on her bed.
“What do you want?”
“I need your help. What are you doing now?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. We’re going to kidnap Ima.”
“Who’s we?”
“You, me and Bubbie. Pass me the phone.”
Neshama stares at me as she hands me her pink phone.
I dial Bubbie’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bubbie, it’s Ellie.”
“Hi, dear.”
“Can we come over and watch movies at your house tonight?”
“Sure.”
“We’re bringing Ima.”
“Your mother wants to watch movies?”
“Well, she doesn’t really know she wants to watch movies. We’re going to try and cheer her up.”
“Okay, how about eight? I’ll get some ice cream.”
“And one of those squeezy bottles of chocolate sauce?”
“And some Amaretto.”
“Perfect. See you then.”
I hang up the phone and look at Neshama. “Are you in?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
In the living room, I hand the bag of videos to Ima. “I brought you something.”
She looks at the bag. “What’s this?” She unfurls her limbs, sits upright on the sofa. She takes out Roman Holiday. “Audrey Hepburn. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“I thought we could go over to Bubbie’s.”
She blinks back tears. “That would be great.” She stands up and wraps her arms around my waist, reaches up to kiss my cheek.
“Ima?”
“Yeah?”
“You could find a new shul, couldn’t you?”
Tears start to flow down her cheeks. “I suppose I could.”
MONDAY I SNEAK out of class early to meet Lindsay. I take the subway to Rosedale and make my way through the maze of Lindsay’s neighborhood. I catch up with her just before her house.
“Hi.”
“Hi. You’re earlier than I thought.”
“Oh.” I blush. “I didn’t want to be late.”
Lindsay turns the key in the giant oak door and guides me into a large, wood-paneled, front hall. A staircase curves up to the second floor. Light streams over a window seat surrounded by potted jade plants at the side of the hall. She starts unlacing her high, black, Doc Marten boots. I take off my coat.
“Is that your school uniform?” she snickers.
I look down at my creased pleated skirt, cringe.
“And I thought kilts were bad.”
“I was going to change, but I forgot.” I brush my hands down my skirt, clench them behind my back.
Lindsay reaches down to pull off her boots, her hair falling forward, revealing the delicious curve of her neck. I quickly turn away and peer through leaded-glass doors into a high-ceilinged living room. Two overstuffed sofas dominate the space, saggy and threadbare, surrounded by antique tables and bookshelves. Faded red drapes cover the windows at each end of the room. A water stain mars the far wall by a piano, like an oil slick on the sea.
Lindsay yanks off her boots and leaves them lying in a wet puddle by the door. “C’mon in,” she says.
I follow her through the spacious hall past a dining room with an ornate crystal chandelier hanging over a long polished table. Floral wallpaper—large red roses on a cream background—covers the bottom part of the walls. Above the wallpaper, golden-edged dinner plates rest on a plate rail.
Lindsay leads me into a large kitchen, surprisingly similar to our own, but a lot bigger. The white-painted cupboards are too high, the counters the same rippled gold-flecked Formica. A faucet drips on a sink full of dirty dishes, the open door of the pantry revealing cereal boxes askew, overturned spice bottles, bags of rice and pasta spilling open.
“Yolanda comes tomorrow,” Lindsay says, nudging an over-full garbage bag closer to the back door.
I lean on a stool, looking at the ample counter space. “My father would love to cook in this kitchen.”
Lindsay eyes me skeptically. “It’s a total time warp.” She yanks open a sticky cupboard and gets two glasses. “Juice?”
I nod.
She opens the refrigerator and gets a carton from the almost barren shelves. “My mom’s been trying to decide whether to renovate or sell for the past ten years.”
“Oh.” I sip my juice.
She grabs a box of crackers from the counter. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.” I look at the dingy dishes. “So, who cooks, you or your mom?”
Lindsay opens the freezer to show me stacks of frozen dinners. “Yolanda also makes stuff for us a few times a week.” She finishes her juice and stuffs a few more crackers in her mouth. “So, what do you want to do?”
I grind my teeth. “Um, I don’t know.”
Lindsay’s eyes light up, her lips sliding into a grin. “I know.”
I bite my lip, gulp down the rest of my juice. “You like games, right?” Lindsay stands, hands on her hips, in the middle of the kitchen.
I lean against the counter. “Sure. Like, um, like dare?”
“Yeah, like dare, except this is a little different.”
I crack my toes on the linoleum. “Um, sure.”
Lindsay stacks our glasses on the pile in the sink. “C’mere.”
I follow her back to the hallway. “Okay, here’s what you do. You stand here and count to ten with your eyes closed, then you have to find me.”
“Like hide-and-go-seek?”
“Yeah, kinda like that,
but it’s a little different.”
“How so?”
Lindsay smiles. “You’ll see. Just stand here.” She positions me on the thin circular carpet. “Close your eyes.”
I glance around at the maze of closed doors. “I’ll never find you.”
Lindsay steps closer to me. Her huge eyes make me hold my breath. She places a hand on my shoulder and leans toward me. “Yes, you will,” she whispers.
Her voice sends tingles down my back. The skin on my legs and arms is alive. I close my eyes and start counting. One, two, three. I hear the stairs creaking, Lindsay’s footsteps light and quick. Four, five, six. My heart pounds. Seven, eight, nine. Silence around me. Ten. I open my eyes, wipe my sweaty palms on my pleated skirt. I creep up the stairs, the wood groaning under my feet.
Upstairs I tiptoe down a hallway, my heart thumping. I pause at a corner, my hands clenched at my sides, press my back against the wall. Slowly I peer around to the left. Lindsay pops up in front of me, grabs my arm. “I got you.”
I gasp, take a step backward.
“I got you,” she giggles, her hand wrapping tight around my thin wrist.
My heart races. “I thought I was chasing you.”
“And me you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Now what?”
“You take off a piece of clothing.”
I flush, a queasy feeling rising up my torso. “Here?”
Lindsay nods.
I rub my foot up my calf, take a small step back, Lindsay still holding my arm. “What if your mom comes home?”
Lindsay leans against the wall. “She won’t. She never gets here before six thirty.” She licks her lips, then pulls at the sleeve of my cardigan. “It’s just a sweater. Don’t you want to play?”
I let her tug my sleeve over my hand. I shrug the cardigan over my shoulders, the warm wool slipping down my back, dropping around my ankles. Lindsay’s eyes graze my thin white blouse, my nipples tightening against the blue satin cups of my bra.
“Okay,” Lindsay says. “It’s my turn to count. You hide.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
My hand reaches out to the hem of Lindsay’s kilt, tugging at the edge. “I found you too,” I whisper. I can’t believe what I just said.
Lindsay frowns. “So you think I should take off something too?”
I cross my legs, press one shoulder up to my ear. “Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible. I look down at her stocking feet.
“Fair enough.” She smiles and starts pulling off her vest. Then she stops, raises one eyebrow. Her hand slides down her blouse, over her kilt, snakes up one bare thigh. My mouth drops open as she hooks a thumb under her panties. She wiggles them, white and lacy, down her legs, and lets them drop down to her ankles. She calmly steps out of them and shoves them in her cardigan pocket. I draw in a deep breath and lean against the wall.
“So I can tag you and you can tag me?” I ask, swallowing.
“If you can find me.” Lindsay’s fingers trace the bony ridge of my now naked wrist.
“Is this hide-and-go-seek or tag?”
“Both—neither.” She smiles. “Whatever you want it to be.” She slips her fingers between mine, her palm pressed tight against mine.
Lindsay cocks her head to the side, a finger at the corner of her mouth. “You’ll figure it out—you’re smart.” She tightens her grip on my hand, pulling me toward her. “Catch me if you can,” she whispers. Then she pulls away, her hair streaming loose behind her. I lunge down the hallway, my fingers grazing her waist by the open door of the bathroom.
Lindsay stands, laughing. “Okay, you got me,” she says.
Suddenly I’m embarrassed to have caught her so fast, my face crimson. “I...I...You don’t have to take off anything. I just, I just want to...,” my lips fumble. Lindsay waits for me. “I want to touch your hair,” I blurt. Heat climbs up my cheek. I stare down at the carpet.
She stops laughing. “So touch it.”
I breathe in deep, pausing a moment before stepping closer to her. I run my fingers tentatively over the top of her head, let them trail down the long soft strands to her shoulders. Lindsay watches me curiously, her huge eyes fixed on mine. I gather a thick lock of her hair and bring it up to my face. “I love your hair,” I whisper. It smells like the day we lay in the wild grass in the field with the sumac. I close my eyes, inhaling her scent, burying my fingers in the strawberry-blond waves until I feel her fingers on my hip, edging my blouse out of my uniform skirt.
My eyes fly open. “You didn’t tag me back.”
She spreads her cool hands over my bare narrow stomach. “I’m tagging you now,” she says. Her hands reach up to my breasts.
I gasp, my nipples stabbing into the palms of her hands.
Our fingers work the buttons on our blouses, pushing plastic through the cotton holes. Lindsay wears a white bra, lace petals around her puckered nipples. I hold the weight of her breast in my hand, heavy and white, feel its round bottom curve, watch the nipple crease tighter under my gaze.
Lindsay sighs. “Tag me,” she murmurs, “please tag me.”
Nine
Nose deep in the sofa, my cheekbone rests against Lindsay’s warm shoulder, our legs entwined.
“El?” Lindsay nudges me.
“Hmm.” I bury myself deeper in the velvet cushions.
“You need to go.”
I sigh. “Time?”
“Five thirty.”
I slowly get up from the sofa, twist my school skirt straight, pick panties from my bum.
I’ve gone to Lindsay’s every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three months. I haven’t been to the Science Center since the winter break, and Becca has almost given up on me. I try and see her on the weekends or call in the evenings, but I know she is hurt. She hangs out with Esther most of the time now.
Lindsay and I spend the afternoons watching TV in the den on deep white couches, the blinds drawn. With a velvety blanket over our laps, our fingers stroke the edge of a hem, a knee, our breath heavy and warm. Hands travel up smooth white tights to cotton underpants, the sharp gasp as fingers delve between warm wet folds, legs splayed, breath muted. Mouths hang slack, too busy breathing to kiss.
Lindsay watches me comb my hair. “What do you tell your parents?”
“Library.”
“And they believe you?”
I nod.
“Mine wouldn’t.”
“I’m the good girl. Besides...”
“What?”
Ima sits in her office every evening, scribbling. Abba spends long hours at school, working on an article. “They watch Neshama more.”
“Is she as bad as you?” Lindsay grins in the dark.
I tuck in my blouse. “She has other agendas.”
“Like?”
“Money and school.”
“And you?”
I almost say “love,” the word on the edge of my lips. “I have, I have other...”
“More physical concerns?” Lindsay reaches out and strokes my knee.
“What’s your agenda?” Say love, say it’s love. I stop dressing and watch her.
Lindsay stretches lazily on the couch. “Oh, I don’t know. Stripping.” She grins.
I sulk into the couch.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
Lindsay walks me to the subway. It’s already dark outside, the night air damp, the streetlights casting pools on the snow. We walk silently through the quiet streets.
“What do you think your parents would do if they found out?” she asks.
I think about this for a moment. “Cry.” “Cry?”
I nod slowly. “Yours?”
Lindsay shrugs. “I’ve never thought about it.”
Every night I lie in bed worrying, what if they find out? I buy more teen magazines and plaster my walls with stupid glossy centerfolds. I even buy a Patrick Swayze Dirty Dancing poster. If we were still going to Beth El, Mrs. Bachner would sniff me ou
t, her hooded eyes staring into me until she figured out what it was. “Oh, that Ellie Gold, she walks different than she used to.”
I’ve started going swimming on days I don’t go to Lindsay’s. Another lie to Abba: I tell him I only go to the women’s swim, which isn’t true. Every second week I think, I won’t go back to her, I just won’t. But I do. January and February has been full of slow, sweet kisses and crawling fingers.
I say good-bye to Lindsay at the subway entrance.
“Where are you going now?” I ask.
“Just out.”
“Oh.”
“Come by next week.”
“Okay.”
“See you.”
“Yeah, see you.” I try to keep disappointment out of my voice.
I pause at the subway entrance to watch Lindsay. She rounds the corner to Yonge Street and heads down the block, away from her house. At the crosswalk she takes off her toque, shakes out her hair. She extends one arm, her gloved thumb lifted away from her closed fist.
Eyes open wide, toes curling in my boots, I press myself against the wall of the station. Cars pass, throwing slush into the snowbank under the streetlights. People pass in chic overcoats carrying briefcases or shopping bags. I hold my breath, shivering. A Corvette slows down, and Lindsay turns her head to follow it, her stance wide. She runs her hands through her hair, her huge eyes staring at the car. It slows down at the corner near the subway. I sneak behind the entrance, my hand over my mouth. My knees lock and my arms are rigid as she leans into the car window. A sick feeling rises up my throat as she opens the door and slides in. I catch a glimpse of a guy in a baseball cap.
I stare at the departed car, the snow falling over me. My breath melts on my scarf, the wet wool chafing my chin. A wave of warm stale air hits my nostrils as I push my way into the subway.
My hands come up in the air and slap down against my legs. She dared me to hitch at the cottage. The time she came to my house, the bruises on her side. She just happened to be in the neighborhood. Who drove her then? When her mom called that time, was she in some guy’s car, with his hand between her legs? My teeth chattering, I step onto the northbound train and slump into a seat, staring straight ahead. Anger slowly seethes inside me, my fists forming tight bundles at my sides. This is what I get for being with a girl. Tears start to well up in my eyes. I squeeze my lids tight, but the tears edge their way down my cheeks. A woman taps me on the shoulder, her face kindly. “Have a tissue, dear.”
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