Lindsay is sitting next to me, and when I turn to look at her I notice that tonight she’s wearing makeup. Just a little bit, but her lips are pink and shiny. Her teeth don’t look so crooked anymore. I smile at her. I’m smiling at everyone. Jeremiah is talking about their goats and which ones they’re going to breed, and which ones they’re going to eat this winter, and how much hay they need to put away to keep them fed and comfortable.
“I love hay,” I blurt out. “It reminds me of hayrides.”
G and Jesse are looking at me like I’ve said something really funny, and Emily just looks annoyed. Jeremiah nods like he totally gets me and starts talking about the hay they’ve harvested that year. I feel a hand on my arm, and I look over at Lindsay.
“I could show you the hayloft later, if you want,” she says. This time I notice her eyes, which are green and sparkly. They’re lined with a little bit of purple eyeliner. It’s smudged in the corners.
“Okay,” I say. Because this sounds like a great idea. Suddenly there is a loud screeching sound of wood drawn quickly across wood and my chair is jerked backwards.
“Andrew and I will do the dishes,” Emily announces. She’s standing behind my chair with the collar of my shirt crumpled in a tight fist at the nape of my neck. I shake off her grip and nod good-naturedly. I don’t get that Emily’s annoyed until we’re back in the kitchen and she’s practically throwing wet plates at me to dry. Each plate is handmade and weighs about four pounds.
“Slow down,” I say. “I don’t want to drop anything.”
“Yeah,” she says acidly, “you don’t want to upset our hosts or anything. Not until after you screw their daughter anyway.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Oh please. Don’t think you were being subtle or anything. That girl practically had her hand down your pants at dinner, and you’re trying to pretend like nothing was going to happen. You don’t even know her. You don’t even care about her. You’re just going to use her and toss her aside. This is what alcohol does to people, Andrew. It takes really good sweet people and makes them do stupid insensitive asshole-ish things!”
I reach over in front of Emily and the mountain of bubbles about to overflow the sink and turn off the water. The super-focused power of the alcohol turns all my attentions on her, but instead of my brain going a million miles an hour with what-ifs and random thoughts, I just stare at her, my mind a buzzing blank space. I stare at her face, at the soft roots of her hair. She’s got a red spot on the top of one cheek that might turn into a zit. She’s jealous, and somehow it’s because of me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve never been drunk before.”
Emily sighs loudly. She’s studying me carefully, searching for any hint of insincerity. She’s worried about getting hurt. This thought hits me like an anvil in a Road Runner cartoon. She must care about me if she thinks I could hurt her, right? The conversation coming from the dining room is loud. I can hear Jesse and Jeremiah arguing about wind power versus solar power. “You could have really hurt that girl,” she says, but her tone is generous, like she’s already forgiven me for what I didn’t do. She turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the soapy water. I’m fixated on her neck. And I guess it’s the mead, because I’ve never been this bold before in my entire life. But before I can stop to consider whether it’s a good idea, I pull the dreadlocks off the side of her neck and kiss her right below the ear. I leave my lips there for a second before I pull my mouth slowly away.
The noise that comes out of her mouth is somewhere between a sigh and a moan. I jerk back, thinking she’s going to slam me over the head with a cast iron pan. Instead she turns and grabs the front of my shirt with her soapy hands and pushes me backwards into the wall beside the stove. She’s kissing me, but this time is different than before. This time she’s kissing me like she’s lost something between the back of my tongue and my tonsils. She’s pulling hard on my lips with her lips and she’s running one hand through my hair and pulling on the back of my head so hard it almost hurts. But I’m not complaining. It feels incredible. And when I’m not thinking about the way she’s grinding her legs into my legs, I’m half-wondering what I did exactly to provoke this reaction and how I’m going to get her to do it again and again for the rest of my life. Emily grabs my hands and shoves them up against her breasts. She’s kneading my hands into kneading her breasts. It’s kind of like I’m feeling her up, and it’s kind of like she’s feeling herself up. It’s a little weird but for whatever reason it seems to work for Emily because she’s still moaning like she did when I first kissed her neck.
The sound of more chairs scraping backwards breaks the spell. She pulls away from me, and we’re both panting and a little bewildered. Everyone brings in the rest of their dishes but Emily and I are quiet. Everyone must know what was just going on, but no one says anything. Even G has no snarky comments to offer. Lindsay lingers in the kitchen for a little while, putting away the dry plates and rearranging things on the counter. But when it’s clear she’s not going to get any kind of attention or conversation from either of us, she leaves to join the others in the living room.
Jesse is tuning his guitar, and when I glance around the corner I see Jeremiah hunched over a banjo and Tim with his recording equipment out. Skye has a pair of spoons in her lap, and Lindsay is curled up on the couch with a book. When she sees me, she looks up hopefully, but I avoid her eyes and scurry back into the kitchen.
The sounds of the music take the place of any conversation between me and Emily. I’m super aware of every movement she makes and any little noise or cough that escapes her lips. Dishes have never been so clean. A kitchen has never been so expertly scoured. When we’re finally done, we stand and stare at one another. Please don’t let this be it. She takes my hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go back to your tent.”
We sneak out the kitchen side door and run through the yard and down the road toward the tents. We stop every fifty feet or so and mash our faces together. I don’t make the mistake of grabbing her face again, but I grab her everywhere else, pulling her back towards me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoulders. My chin is wet from our dripping kisses. I feel like I’m going to explode.
We practically dive into the tent, shoving my backpack and clothes to the side. Hopefully she doesn’t notice how much it smells like my feet in there. Emily pulls her shirt over her head and I take that as an okay to do the same. It’s dark inside the tent, but there’s no mistaking the soft feel of her nipples when they brush my chest. I reach up and cup one of her breasts in my hand. But Emily isn’t really much for the soft touch. She grabs my hand and mashes it against her chest again. She’s got her other hand at the back of my neck and she’s sucking voraciously at my face again. This is all pretty straightforward, and so far my complete and total lack of sexual experience hasn’t interfered with either one of us having a good time, but I’m a little nervous about what comes next. It turns out, at least with Emily, not too much more information is needed. She grabs my hand and thrusts it between her legs, writhing and moaning without me doing much more than wiggling my fingers so they don’t break between the viselike grip of her thighs. She does this for a while. She’s still kissing me with the same ferocity, but every time I try and move her hand below my belt line she quickly moves it away again. So I give up on that end of things. Finally she gives a long, almost bovine, moaning sigh and rolls away onto her back.
I’m quiet. I’m not sure if it’s over, and I have no idea what to say. The steamy air in the tent cools quickly. Emily reaches down for my sleeping bag and pulls it up around us. She drapes an arm across my chest, and I snuggle her in close. I’m trying to think of something to say, some way to explain what it means to me to be close to her like this. But before I can completely compose my thoughts, I realize she’s snoring.
I take care of things on my end and eventually fall asleep myself.
THE OTHER OFFER
When I wake up the next morning
the walls of the tent are covered with condensation, threatening me with a clammy canvas touch. I don’t shy away or move a muscle, because in the night Emily flung an arm across my bare chest. It was the first thing I was aware of when I opened my eyes, the weight of that arm just below my nipples. I stare at that arm, a girl’s arm touching any part of my skin. It seems like a miracle. I lie there, staring at the arm and the back of Emily’s head, which is twisted away from me, until I think my bladder might explode. I sadly lift the arm, which flops almost lifelessly on its owner, and sit up.
“Gotta pee,” I say. Emily murmurs something incomprehensible, which I take for agreement that yes, it would be best if I didn’t pee right here in the tent.
The sky is an early morning gray, the kind that could turn deep blue by midmorning. The grass is still soaking wet and cold against my feet. I take a minute to roll up the bottom of my pants so they don’t get soaked before finding an agreeable tree to water. Leaning against a peeling birch, I realize that my head is pounding. Every step I take sends a thud through my sinuses. After rummaging around in the van for a sweatshirt, I head into the farmhouse to see if anyone else is awake. Skye is up and making coffee. She hands me a steaming mug without a word and before I can protest that I’m not really a coffee drinker. “Will this help my head?” I ask.
She smiles. “Jeremiah’s mead is strong stuff. Especially if you’re not used to it. Coffee will take the edge off.”
I sit down at the table and interlock my fingers around the heavy earthen mug. It’s got a blue-green glaze on it that reminds me of the color of the ocean. “Are you the only one up?” I ask.
Skye shakes her head. “Jeremiah’s still sleeping, but I think I heard Lindsay get into the shower a little while ago. We’re trying to conserve the water in the rain barrels for eating and washing dishes, but try telling a teenager she can’t shower every day and you’ve practically got a revolution on your hands.” She rolls her eyes.
I shrug and smile. I know we both know that I’m a teenager too. But it’s nice that for right now, I’m some other kind of teenager, the kind you can tell your problems to. I’m staring at my mug, feeling pleased with myself. The coffee is hot and bitter, but I force myself to drink it without grimacing and without asking for sugar. I look up to ask Skye about the plan for the day, but she’s left the room.
I turn around when I hear footsteps, but this time it’s Lindsay, wearing ripped jeans and a faded gray T-shirt advertising some kind of agricultural fair. Her dirty blonde hair is wet, and she’s running a big plastic comb through it, sending splatters of water on to the floor. There are still traces of last night’s purple eyeliner around her eyes. She pours herself a cup of coffee and dumps three heaping spoonfuls of sugar in it. She slurps when she sips. “I could show you the hayloft now if you still want to,” she offers.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
She shoves her sockless feet into a pair of knee-high rubber boots that are sitting by the door and hands a similar pair to me. “Here, wear Jeremiah’s.”
“Do you always call your parents by their first names?”
“I don’t know, sometimes.”
The boots are caked with mud on the outside but surprisingly warm and comfortable to slip on. I follow Lindsay into the barn, where she climbs the narrow spiral stairs to the hayloft without spilling a drop of her coffee. Once we’re up there, she sits down on a bale of hay and I choose one opposite her. “So this is it,” she says.
“It’s nice.” There’s a skylight above us, and the sun is high enough to send in a shaft of buttery light flecked with dust and chaff from the hay. Lindsay takes another slurp of her coffee and sets the mug down beside her. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and looks at me.
“You can have sex with me if you want.” Blood rushes to my face and pounds in my ears. When I don’t immediately respond she continues. “I mean, I won’t tell your girlfriend if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, whatever she is, she’s definitely the jealous type.”
I’m wondering if I have to answer the original question or if Lindsay will just let it go and assume I’m not interested. I’m more interested in the way she said it than anything else. Kind of the same way she offered me a pair of her father’s boots.
“So do you want to?” she asks.
“We probably shouldn’t,” I say. There’s a lot of daylight right now, is what I’m thinking. I’m picturing the two of us fumbling around in this hayloft, and it just seems awkward and uncomfortable and maybe a little bit awful. “I mean, I’m staying with your parents,” I say as if to align myself with the other adults.
Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Not like they’d care. They’re the ones who gave me the condoms anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say, although this idea is a little shocking to me. I try to imagine the headmistress giving me condoms. “But they probably didn’t mean for you to use them with someone you just met.”
Lindsay sighs like I’m totally missing the point. “There’s nothing wrong with having sex.”
“Is that what Skye and Jeremiah say?” I smile like I’m making a joke here. Like the conversation isn’t that serious. Like she hasn’t just seriously offered to have sex with me.
“Basically, and that it’s like an act of divine love and deep emotional intimacy or some bullshit like that,” she adds.
“Yeah, see that’s the part I don’t think we’d really be getting.”
“Whatever,” Lindsay shrugs. “They were like two years older than I am now when they had me. You can’t tell me they were out for divine love and deep emotional intimacy when they were sixteen. Besides, I just want to see what all the fuss is about. But if you don’t want to, that’s cool.” She looks down at the hay beside her and starts pulling individual strands out from beneath the twine.
Then I say something that I mean to be snarky. At least I think I do. “I think I’ll hold out for deep emotional intimacy. You know, just in case it’s worth it.”
“Do you love her?” Lindsay asks.
“Who?”
“Emily, duh.”
“Oh,” I pause. “I don’t know.” What would I have said last night in the tent?
“Do you want a blow job?”
YES! I think. “Um, now?” Idiot, idiot, of course she means now. “I probably shouldn’t um, wouldn’t be a good, to do that I mean.” I stammer out some poorly assembled words of rejection. Idiot. How can I say no? What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe Annaliese Gerber isn’t the curse. Maybe I’ve been the curse all along and I just didn’t know it.
Lindsay sighs again. “All right, well, I told Skye I’d collect the eggs for breakfast so I should probably go do that.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Yeah, it is okay.” She looks annoyed. “Can you take my mug back to the kitchen?”
Finally, a simple question to which I can give a simple answer. I nod and take the empty coffee mug from her hand. I follow her down the metal stairs, the adrenaline shaking my hands, wondering with each step if I’ve made a huge mistake. But I don’t think so.
THE GEMINIDS
For the rest of the week, I spend my days carefully avoiding being caught alone with Lindsay or Lyle, and my nights sweating up the Boy Scout tent with Emily. I learn how far apart to space beets and broccoli, how to cold-water wash greens and arugula, and what it feels like to fall asleep with someone’s soft breath against my earlobe. All additions to my list, which I decorate with tiny sketches of the different vegetables we plant and harvest. There’s not much to do on the farm at night. Some nights Jesse and Jeremiah play music, and one night we play team charades, an activity Lindsay declares unbelievably dorky before she joins in. Most of the time I stare across the group at Emily, waiting for her to yawn so we can both make excuses and head back to our tent. I try and tell myself that the physical part is as amazing as I want it to be, but it’s pretty much always the same. After th
e third night I finish myself off keeping one hand cupped around Emily’s breast. I think she pretends to sleep through it.
On the morning of our last day, we help Skye put together the orders for Hot Springs. Once we load everything into the walk-in, there’s not much to do except pack up our tents. The afternoon air is cool and crisp, and a warm sun hangs low in the sky even though it’s only two o’clock. Emily and I wander back up to the apple orchard. After we pass Gus’s sheep pasture, Emily takes my hand, loosely interlocking her fingers with mine. The sun warms my face, and I take deep breaths as if happiness were something I could store up and hold on to. I show her my spot in the apple tree, and we climb back up and lie across the branches, our legs overlapping. I close my eyes and try to feel the tree breathing again. It’s so quiet. I’m aware of the crinkling of every dried-up wrinkly leaf that twists and rubs against the bark.
“Drew,” Emily says, breaking the silence. “You really like me, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I say without opening my eyes.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” There’s a scary quality to this question and answer, and I don’t want to be the curse in my own life anymore.
“Never mind,” Emily says quickly. But there’s a space that’s opened up between us. A space for me to say just the right thing. And I know I have the right thing to say, because it’s truly what I feel.
“Because you’re strong. And you’re fun, and funny. Because you care about things and believe in things, even if they’re not the things I believe in. And that makes you beautiful, so amazingly beautiful. And you are, beautiful I mean. Like physically.” I can’t open my eyes. I’m afraid to see how she’ll react to all this. When I finally work up the courage to open my eyes, Emily is looking away. She’s biting her lower lip and staring down at the grass. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and finally looks at me.
The Other Way Around Page 16