by Mimi Cross
Laurel sort of knows shaved-head guy—everyone calls him Bird. He graduated with her sister and is a monster guitar player. He didn’t always have a shaved head, but he’s always been fun to watch, talking about music or demoing guitars.
“He must have started working here when he was, like, six.” Laurel said once about two years ago, as we watched him from behind the W’s in the vinyl section.
“Weren’t we about that age when we started hanging out here?” I’d asked.
“Uh-huh,” she’d said, not taking her eyes off the boy. “Your dad brought us, remember?”
“Kind of.” I watched her watch the boy. “He’s gotten kind of hot, right?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Since when do you guess a guy’s hot?”
Laurel gave me an appraising look.
“L, what’s with the stink eye?”
“Well . . . here’s the thing.”
I waited, but she just stood there, looking at me.
“Hello? The thing?”
She took a deep breath then, and slowly blew it out before she said, “Cate, I’m gay.”
I opened my mouth. The word “Oh” popped out. And then there was a big old silence.
It wasn’t that I had a problem with what she’d said. It was the fact that she hadn’t told me as soon as she knew that got me, that jabbed me in the stomach like a finger. I was pretty sure she hadn’t just figured out she was gay while we stood behind the W’s in the vinyl section.
“So you decided this, when?” I asked. “Yesterday?”
“A while ago.” Laurel looked around the store at that point, so I did, too. But it was just the two of us and Bird, the guy whose hotness was possibly in question. “And it’s not something I decided,” she continued. “It’s something I am. It’s not a decision,” she emphasized, echoing what she had just said. “It’s something you know. Unless . . . you hide it from yourself.”
Neither one of us mentioned the time she’d made a pass at me.
Not that it had made me uncomfortable, it’s just that I’d thought she was joking, or had heatstroke, or had been in her parents’ liquor cabinet. Because none of those things were uncommon, plus Laurel tried on a lot of hats over the years while I’d been, well—solidly, and possibly boringly—me. Not that this was a hat, not at all.
“Okay, you’re gay,” I’d said. “Fine. But the last time we went to the beach, and every time before that, come to think of it, you always picked out the good-looking lifeguards—not that there’s a trick to that—which means that even though you’re into girls, your ability to appreciate beauty hasn’t diminished. So, what about Bird—hot or not?”
She’d shoved me into a display of Bruce Springsteen CDs then, and I’d shoved her back.
And that had been it. It wasn’t even a blip on my radar, although for her, telling me had been a big deal. Did she really think our friendship would be affected by whom she went out with?
Then again, she’s in love, really in love now, with Dee—who I don’t like, and who hates me. And this is the confusing part. Not the fact that Laurel’s a lesbian, but that she’d fall for such an asshole. L probably goes to Listen Up! with Dee now. We haven’t been since July.
Turning my face to the sun, I close my eyes, trying not to think about it anymore . . .
Sensing Kimmy walk over, I murmur, “So this is where summer disappeared to.”
“Yep. We hold it hostage back here for as long as we can.”
My eyes snap open—
David’s the one standing over me, not Kimmy. My stomach leaps— which annoys me.
“We keep the pool open until Thanksgiving,” he continues.
“Thanksgiving.” The single word seems to be the only one available.
“That’s right. We heat it, of course.”
I bet you do.
David Bennet has never seemed to take up so much physical space before. He’s wearing shorts and standing so close to me I can see the curling hair on his legs—one of them paler than the other—the way the sunlight turns it coppery gold. His eyes are golden, too, his hair edged with light. He brings a hand to his brow, shading his eyes, causing them to darken.
Then he starts to undo his shorts. Two points against me—or maybe for me, depending who you ask—I don’t look away. He’s wearing bright-orange swim trunks beneath them.
“Guess you’re ready to go swimming.” Duh. I’d like to disintegrate now, please.
He laughs—at me, I’m sure. “Yeah, I was home for lunch. The water was great, but I didn’t have time to change. Paid for that.” He scowls a little.
“What do you mean? Were you late?”
“No, but my trunks were still wet, so by the time I got to science . . .”
I grin.
He starts toward the deep end. “Go ahead, yuk it up. At least tomorrow when you hear the rumor that I wet my pants, you’ll know it’s not true.”
Rumor. The word makes me go still. Has he heard the rumors about me?
The diving board shudders.
“Cannonball!” Kimmy yells from over by the pool house.
And I’m soaked.
“Who’s laughing now?” David says as he comes up by my feet. He hadn’t bothered to take off his shirt and it sticks wetly to his chest, his arms. His hands close around my ankles now, thumbs fitting perfectly in the hollows just below my anklebones.
“Cate!” Kimmy calls from over by the pool house. “C’mere!”
Cupping my hands, I scoop as much water as I can hold— and dump it on David’s head.
Blinking water from his eyes, he grins, tugging on my ankles. “That the best you’ve got?”
Kimmy calls for me again.
“Look!” I point across the pool, and David’s head swivels. Quickly I pull my legs up out of the water, my feet slipping through his fingers.
“Hey!” he shouts in surprise.
Laughing, I jump up and follow Kimmy into the pool house. The sink is set into a surface of smooth river rocks instead of tiles. A mirror hangs above it. Shining eyes peer out at me. My skin is flushed, my dark hair beaded with water droplets.
“Change.” Kimmy presses a suit into my hands and pushes me into one of two booths with swinging saloon-style doors.
“Kimmy!” I wave the two tiny pieces of bright-red cloth above the doors. “I can’t wear this! Bryn will kill me.” And I’ll basically be naked.
“Sorry, you can’t come out till you change!” She giggles, holding the doors closed.
Muttering, I strip down and slip into the microscopic bikini. David’s the only one who’s worse than I am at saying no to Kimmy. Looking in the mirror, I suck in a breath— I actually fill out the top, and then some, but the bottom? It hangs on my hips. The suit is not sexy like it would be on Bryn—it’s slutty. I groan.
Kimmy yanks the door open. “When did you grow boobies?”
Heat spreads up my neck. “I’ve always had . . . breasts.” Pushing past her, I grab a towel from a stack next to the sink. When I turn around, she’s staring at me, at my face.
“David’s right.” A little grin creeps across her freckled face. “You are the pretty one.”
“Um, thanks.” I wrap the towel securely around my waist. Had she been there? In my memory, it’s always just the two of us, David and me.
One Saturday last winter, before we’d moved here full-time, Laurel dragged me to Saks to go shopping. She needed a dress for her older sister’s party, which was going to be a big deal, because Grace was graduating early, leaving high school and heading off to Cornell University.
We ran into Bryn and her friends Stephie and Niffer, who were planning for the party as well. Kimmy floundered in their wake under an armload of outfits.
Feeling sorry for Kimmy, I took half the load, which is how I wound up playing minion, fetching dresses for the girls while their mothers chatted over the nearby jewelry counter.
Out of nowhere David had appeared in the ladies’ lounge, a da
rk suit thrown over his arm. He’d flung himself onto one of the pink padded benches.
“Are you going to the Ridgeways’ party?” he asked as I hurried by.
For some reason, the way David sat there in the women’s dress department—looking way more comfortable than I felt—got to me. Plus I was pissed to be taxiing dresses around. Giving Kimmy the seriously garish gown that Stephie had asked for in a smaller size, I sat down.
“Of course I’m going,” I said. In retrospect, I sounded pretty snotty.
“So how come you’re not part of the parade?” David waved a hand, indicating the other girls. And as Niffer made a show of adjusting her cleavage, he grinned in appreciation.
“I’ve already got a dress.” Why do you care? And why do you have to leer at Niffer like that?
“Cool.” He pulled an iPod out of his pocket, started scrolling. “Bet it looks good on you.”
I stared at him. “What?” The t at the end of the single word sounded sharp enough to skewer something.
“Oh c’mon.” He scowled slightly, glancing at Bryn’s friends preening in front of the mirrors. “Don’t pretend you don’t know it. Games like that.” He shook his head.
“What are you talking about?”
“You. I’m talking about you.”
He sat back then, like he wanted to see me from a different angle, and made a vague gesture that began at the other girls but ended at me. “You’re the pretty one.”
Time slowed just a little as I looked at him, and he held my gaze. That’s when I noticed the perfume. Freesia. Or grapefruit. Something fresh, and just the tiniest bit peppery. Then he leaned toward me, and I smelled him. Soap and sunshine and chlorine from the pool—
I stood up abruptly.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Then, I walked away. I hadn’t believed him, not for one second.
What if I had?
Kimmy and I head back outside now to the winking turquoise pool.
The water rocks with movement. David must have just left.
I’m relieved. And disappointed.
NYLON
DAVID
Cate, in Bryn’s suit, does not look like Kimmy’s babysitter. Does not look like a still point. She’s all flowing movement and blowing hair, and yet—
“Hang on.” Bryn comes up behind me. Her eyes flick from the window up to my face, then back again. “You’re being all pervy over Cate, what the fuck?”
“No, I—I’m not. I wasn’t. I just—I couldn’t do laps with Kimmy in the pool, so—”
“So, what? You’re visualizing them?” She narrows her eyes. “David. Cate’s, like, twelve.”
“Actually, she’s sixteen.”
“How do you—wait, why do you care? She’s like, our sister.” Bryn stalks outside, letting the screen door snap behind her. Her voice is only slightly muffled through the glass. “Hey, that’s my suit! What the fuck, you guys, just help yourself to my stuff.” Bryn points at Cate, insisting she change, then starts giving Kimmy a hard time. But her eyes dart from the two girls to where I stand behind the glass.
My lips twist. I want to call out, “Our sister? Really? Like you and Kimmy are sisters?” Lately, Bryn hasn’t given Kimmy the time of day. It pisses me off. But I don’t say anything; instead, I wonder if this is how Bryn really sees me, a lowlife who wants to boff the babysitter.
Then I feel this new thing. Embarrassment. All the girls I’ve been with . . .
Not that I was ever like Rod. I never took advantage, always got a resounding yes. It’s just, there were so many.
Now, all of a sudden, I’m wondering why. Why so many?
Because it makes you different than Jack.
Not good enough. Not anymore.
Because it feels good, idiot. Because you can. And because you’re good at it.
Definitely not good enough. Not good enough for Cate.
She’s still in the pool. Bryn has relented and let her keep the suit on. It doesn’t really fit her, and the way it slips around her hips makes it easy to imagine tugging it down—
I run my hands over my face. Then I look at her face. She’s laughing with Kimmy, water dripping off the tip of her nose.
My stomach feels weird. Like I’m driving Dad’s Porsche too fast over Blue Meadow Bridge. The idea of Cate, with me, makes me horny. And sick at the same time.
Like I’d be lucky to have sex with her, but she’d just be . . . screwed. Like all the others.
I’m not going to touch her. I’m just—not.
ICE
DAVID
Oblivious to the golden autumn afternoon, Sunday skaters pack the old armory.
Kimmy’s here somewhere, gliding—and tumbling too, I’m sure—around the professional-size ice rink, with her friend Sam. I’m to taxi the two of them up to the house, along with Cate Reese, who’s been watching them.
I scan the ice, looking for Kimmy’s pink jacket.
In the hall I’d passed a group of guys I know, suited up, ready for hockey. Which means free skate is just about over. I keep looking as I step into my skates.
I don’t miss hockey, but I miss skating, so I’d purposely arrived a few minutes early. Now I step out onto the ice, part of me wanting to fly, to blow by these Sunday-afternoon drivers. But there is another part of me that is wary. Worried my leg will betray me.
I see Cate now, standing on the rubbery floor by the gate, watching the skaters through the tempered glass above the boards—watching me, I think. I skate over to her.
“Oh, hey,” she says. Her tone is casual, her gaze flickering past me now. Maybe she wasn’t checking me out, but I smile anyway. Can’t seem to help myself despite the fact I’ve decided not to flirt with her.
“Why aren’t you out on the ice?” I ask. But before she can answer, Kimmy slams into me, like she still hasn’t learned how to stop.
“Omigod, Davey. Sunday free skate has the most obnoxious kids! You should have come earlier! Hi, Cate!”
“Hey, Nanook.” Cate ruffles Kimmy’s hair. Kimmy’s friend, Sam, comes to a stumbling stop next to her. The two look up at Cate with adoring eyes and I get the weirdest news flash.
Cate would make a great mom. I swallow.
As if I’ve said something, Cate’s eyes lift to mine. I grin, can’t help it. But so does she.
Kimmy glances back and forth between the two of us.
“Um, you guys?”
“Ah—time,” I say. “Time’s almost up. We’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay, Cate?”
She nods and I set off with the kids for another turn around the rink, which is how we wind up being the last ones on the ice.
We’re about to exit through the narrow gate when a knot of hockey players starts through.
The goalie is a padded giant. The rest of the team looks slightly robotic, I think, for the first time—all big black skates and dark uniforms. The wire cages set in ebony helmets give the players a menacing look—hard to believe any of these guys are in high school—and they all resemble Darth Vader. This, I think, is what it looks like from the other side. Or maybe I just know these guys too well. There isn’t a Luke Skywalker among them.
A few of the guys slap my palm in greeting.
“You screwed us, Bennet,” says another. He taps the ice with his stick.
Finally, Kimmy and Sam are heading through the gate, stepping out onto the rubbery floor. Behind Cate, the last hockey player decides she is in the way. He pushes past her. It’s Rod.
Only, he doesn’t really make it past her, doesn’t go through the gate. Instead, he kind of stumbles—
His hands land on Cate.
She jumps back.
He laughs, then he steps onto the ice—
Where I block him.
“Whitaker. Say sorry.” My gaze flicks to Cate, who gives a little gasp. It’s hard to believe she hadn’t recognized Rod until I said his name, but I can tell by her reaction that it’s true. It’s like she’s blocked him, too, from her mind.
“You can’t be serious.” The bulk that is Rod Whitaker moves surprisingly fast now, ducking under my arm, slicing circles around me.
Then he lets his skates scrape sharply on the ice, coming to a quick stop.
“No way,” he says.
I press my lips together. Don’t want to say anything in front of the kids.
Cate says, “Kimmy, Sam, meet me in the warm room.”
Rod swings his stick, hitting an imaginary puck in her direction. Then he smiles at me broadly, and says, “If you’re planning on doing that girl, you might want to get her away from the ice. She’s already one frigid bitch. Gave her a try at Hall’s party.” He skates halfway across the rink, shouts over his shoulder, “You know, the one where I got cozy with your sister?”
I shoot after him.
Out in the middle of the rink I catch up to him, but before I can say anything, he shoves me, hard. Then he throws one hand up. A signal.
“David!” Cate screams.
I spin around. Another black-clad boy is skating fast in my direction.
Fiery pain burns through my leg as I crouch, then slide, not away but toward the boy. When he’s close enough, I grab his stick, and with a quick movement, jerk it up—
His weight shifts into his heels, his breath escaping with a grunt as he lands hard on his back— goes skidding across the ice.
Somewhere a whistle blows. Players swarm the rink. The boy who’d gone down so hard gets up— cheeks reddened with more than just cold. Rod yells a string of obscenities at him, skates away.
“That was messed up,” Cate mutters to me as we pass the crowded benches in the hallway leading to the warm room.
“Whitaker’s a lot more than messed up,” I say in return, the ice of the place in my voice.
Kimmy and Sam are standing at the window that overlooks the rink. Kimmy is wide-eyed, but she doesn’t say anything, just sinks onto the bench.
Sam flops down next to her, says to me, “You’re like, a hockey ninja. That was cool.”
“Yeah, not really. Don’t ever date a hockey player, Kimmy.” I sit, too. Take off my skates. “Actually, don’t ever date, period.”