But halfway under Ms. Barnes's door, I heard another door open somewhere behind. My other half was sprawled across the hallway. If I went backwards, I'd get caught for sure. I did the only thing I could, and edged all the way into Ms. Barnes's dressing room.
My heart was pounding. I knew I shouldn't be in there, but I couldn't get myself to leave. It was like being on a giant roller coaster and seeing the bolts coming off the track. I was scared to death, but wanted to see if I could make it to the end of the ride before the whole thing came crashing down. I remembered to pick up my cell phone, but then I just stopped for a second to look at her things.
I realized, with a chill, that this wasn't her clothing.
There were some of the same colors, but it wasn't what she'd been trying on and it wasn't what she'd worn in. It was all bigger. A lot bigger.
I was confused. Honest to God, the only reason I reached down to pick up one of the lacy things was to try and piece together what was happening. Like picking up one piece of a puzzle to figure out how it fits into the whole picture.
I don't think this bit of lace was anything you would wear on the outside. I was staring at it when there was a click in the lock and the dressing-room door swung open.
It wasn't Ms. Barnes. It was the woman who actually belonged to this stuff, with the dressing-room attendant right next to her. At first, they were both as stunned as I was. But after a second, the girl gave me a look like, ooh, you're disgusting, and the woman began screaming.
Maybe I panicked. I lifted up my arms to tell her to stop, to say, “It's okay. It's okay.” But when I lifted my hands up, my pants fell to the floor.
Her scream got louder. What was I supposed to do? I ran. Or, at least, I tried. I couldn't really get by her because she was big and she was right there in the doorway. The only way to get out was to squeeze past her, but the second I touched her, she screamed louder!
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!”
“I DON'T HAVE MY HANDS ON YOU!” I was trying to use my hands to pull up my pants.
I pushed as hard as I could to get by her, which made me pop out of that dressing room like somebody squeezed a pimple. I stumbled across the hallway and slammed into the door of my dressing room which was now locked, with my wallet and school I.D. inside. The woman was still howling, but somehow, over all of this, I heard my name being called.
“Billy?”
Oh, God. Ms. Barnes.
I was standing there in my underwear, with those stupid pants around my ankles and that woman shrieking at me. Before I could try to explain (as if I could have explained), the security guard came up behind her. So, I bolted!
Considering that I was trying to keep the pants up, I did a pretty good spin move to get past the security guard. But when I ran into the mall, the device that was locked onto the pants set off the security alarm.
So … now I am a shoplifter, a peeping Tom, a cross-dresser, and something the therapist I have to see twice a week calls a very disturbed young man.
This is what I get for falling in love.
We get warned about everything strangers, drugs, alcohol. We get buckled into car seats; we can't go outdoors without wearing a helmet; and not one ray of sun has ever managed to penetrate the coating of sunscreen that gets lathered on every inch of my exposed skin. Can someone give us a hand with love?
It was my first love. And I was no more prepared for it than one of the mice they have in pet stores. You know, they're kept in those little cages. They get free food and water. They stay all nice and cozy. And then, one day, some kid comes along, buys one, and takes it home to feed to his snake.
That's all I'm saying.
This Boy
MARTHA SLAUGHTER
There's this boy.
Well, sort of. I mean, there definitely is this boy but he's a lot older than me. He's a senior, and I'm in ninth grade, turning fifteen in two months. I'm not sure how old he is probably seventeen. I know he drives because I've seen him in a green station wagon. It must be his mother's car.
The first time I felt he noticed me was in the front hall at school, where everyone dumps their backpacks. He was standing with his friends by the glassed-in bookcase, where they keep books with stiff unbendable pages and gold letters on the bindings. The kind of books you hope you never have to read.
The day this boy said hey, Evie to me and I realized he knew my name, well, I didn't say anything to anyone. I didn't even tell my friends Katie or Erica or Laura, even though we always tell each other when one of the older kids says something to us. It's like a joke with us.
“Oh my God, that kid Nick said hi to me. You know, the junior, the tall one, who always wears the Sixers jacket. I feel so special.”
Or, “Listen to this. I was walking to math. Well, just when I got there, that kid Phillip the cool kid on the basketball team was coming the other way and he smiled and said whut up to me. I felt so special.”
We are always feeling special for one tiny encounter or another. We don't really feel special, except for that minute when someone older notices us. It's just fun to tell each other when it happens.
Because it's scary, being in ninth grade. What they say is true when you're in eighth grade, you're the top of the heap. Then suddenly you're at the bottom. Once you know your way around its not so bad, but still, there are always those nerve-racking moments.
So I didn't tell my friends about this boy the one who talked to me in the front hall, because I wasn't sure how to tell it. It was different. Not like out of some sappy book or tv show; it just wasn't one of those funny I-feel-so-special encounters that happen like glimmery little splashes across the wide puddle of the day.
I did feel special when he said hey, Evie.
And there was no way I could tell anyone in my family about this boy. For all my life, my older brothers, Leo and Teddy, have joked about the violent things they will do to any boy who comes close to me.
Mom teases them, “Oh, it'll happen, boys. Don't talk that way because it will happen.”
Mom's friends say, “I don't envy the boy who wants to go out with Evie.”
It's all a big joke, especially since my brothers wouldn't have a clue how to beat someone up. They argue plenty about sports, music, more sports, more music but, picking a fight with someone? I can't imagine.
Even so, there's no way I am going to tell anyone about this boy who keeps talking to me.
And he does. He finds me at odd times during the day. I'll be walking to the cafeteria and I'll see him, coming from another direction. I'm usually with Laura or Katie, and he walks along with us. If we're heading to the lunchroom, he doesn't come in. He'll say, “See you later,” and head off to wherever he's going.
At first it made me nervous, his talking to me, I think because he's a senior. He's not that tall. He's got curly dark hair and brown eyes. It's surprising how easy it is to talk to him.
A while ago, he asked for my cell phone number. I felt a little uncomfortable giving it to him, but I did.
He calls me now and then, but mostly he sends funny text messages, like about his mom's cooking or what tv show he's watching. Things like, “my momz food sux all she mks is fish ’sup with tht?” or, “check out channel 254 watch him hit ice cream truck best crash ever.” Really, he writes about nothing at all, but that's what text messaging is for.
One night we both had on the same tv show and we texted back and forth. I was watching with Leo and I felt disloyal, texting while I was sitting next to him. I realize if I tell anyone about this boy it will be Leo.
By the way, his name is Ben.
The other day, we had a huge snowstorm. The world was silent and white, and school was closed. Late in the day, I got a text message, “want 2 go sledding w us?”
I wrote back, “sure.”
“we'll come scoop u in 15.”
“k meet u outside,” I wrote.
How could I tell him, No, don't come anywhere near my house. My family might see yo
u and wonder who you are.
I ran upstairs and put on warm clothes. I stood by my window, where I could see the driveway. The snow had stopped, and the world was turning blue. Branches, bushes, streetlights, gutters, and lawns looked like darkening blue sweeps and curves. There were no sharp edges anywhere. It was heading towards evening easier to slip out. When I saw them come, Ben and two friends, I ran down the stairs.
“Mom, I'm going sledding!”
“Who are you going with?”
“Kids from school!” I shouted, and slammed the door behind me.
Ben was wearing a green army jacket and a black hat. His nose was red on the end. His friends were older kids from school. I already knew their names, Jimmy and Quill, but Ben still introduced me. They said hi, and I said hi.
Jimmy was lugging a toboggan. We tromped through the snow to the big hill near my house. Their low, boy voices were hushed in the blanketed world. When we got to the top of the hill, Jimmy fumbled in his pocket. He carefully pulled out a fat white joint, put it between his lips, and lit it. In the quick flare of the match, I could see freckles on his nose. He inhaled and handed it to Quill, who took his turn. I hoped they wouldn't ask me. Quill offered it to Ben, but Ben shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. I shook my head when Quill raised his eyebrows at me.
They didn't smoke much. Just a couple of drags each before Jimmy snuffed out the end with his fingers and put the cigarette carefully back in some safe corner of his big pocket.
“Evie, you're so lucky having this hill two minutes from your house,” said Jimmy. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Not much,” I said.
The last time I'd come sledding was years ago. I came with Leo and Teddy and a bunch of their friends. They were in high school, which means I was still the round little girl who sucked her thumb and never combed her hair, who spent every minute of her life as sidekick to her big brothers. I must have been six, maybe seven, and I was probably wearing that blue-checked jacket with the sticky zipper and the bear on the inside label.
We didn't have a toboggan; we had bright orange plastic flying saucers. It was early evening, just like now, that time on a winter day when blue blends snow and sky. We were at the top of this same hill. I remembered the flare of the match, the passing of the fat joint among the boys, how they laughed and joked and took turns tucking me onto their laps and spinning us down the hill. They wrapped their arms around me and held on so tight. The snow sprayed in my face and they wiped it gently out of my eyes at the bottom. They pulled me back up the hill with a frayed, red dog leash looped through the handle of the flying saucer.
“Let's try this,” said Jimmy.
He was steadying the toboggan, pushing it down so it was anchored on all sides by the thick soft snow.
“Get in the front, Evie,” said Quill. “You're the smallest.”
I scrunched into the front.
“You get behind her, Ben,” said Quill.
Ben climbed on behind me. His foot slid on the slippery wood and he fell forward against me.
“Ooh, sorry, Evie, sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”
I said I was fine, and as the other boys climbed on, I was squeezed further up front. Ben had his legs on either side of me. His blue jeans were already wet and crusted with snow.
“Ready?” shouted Quill.
“Ready,” we all said.
Quill got up and pushed the back end of the toboggan to get it going. As it picked up speed, he jumped on and everyone lurched forward. Ben's chin jabbed my right shoulder and I could feel his chest against my back.
“Hold on!” shouted Quill, and Ben put his arms around my waist.
The wind was sharp and clear; the snow sprayed in my face; the toboggan flew down the hill. We all yelled as we slipped past the trees.
“Lean right!” shouted Quill. “Lean left!” and we did. It was fast forward to slow motion as the toboggan slowed down at the bottom of the hill. When it stopped, we all toppled off into the snow.
One by one, we stood up. I wiped the snow out of my eyes with the back of my wet glove, and the four of us began the long trek back up to the top of the hill.
A few weeks later, Leo and I were watching tv. Mom had gone to dinner up the street, to welcome some new neighbors. When we heard her fumbling with the lock on the kitchen door, Leo and I looked at each other. He snickered.
“Mom's been knocking back the vino,” he said.
“Evie!” called Mom, from the kitchen.
“We're in here, Ma.”
Mom came in. She looked pretty sparkly, her cheeks rosy. We could tell she'd had a good time.
“Evie!” she said again. “What's this I hear about you?”
“Mom is definitely shlizzered,” Leo whispered.
“Mom, we're watching this tv show,” I said, feeling slightly panicked.
“Leo,” said my mother. “Did you know Evie has a boyfriend?”
“Mo-om!” I moaned.
“Sylvia Caldwell told me,” said Mom. “She said, ‘How about your daughter. Going out with a senior boy!’”
“What?” said Leo.
“Mo-om! He's not my boyfriend!”
“Oh,” said Mom. “Well, that's not what they were saying at this party. It was only slightly embarrassing to have someone I hardly know tell me my daughter has a boyfriend three or four years older, and me obviously not having a clue. Only a little embarrassing.”
Mom was laughing. She seemed to think it was just short of hilarious, but then again, she'd obviously had a few glasses of wine.
“So they tell me this boy's name, but I've never heard of him. How would I hear of him? It's not as though you ever tell me Word One about anything.”
“Word One?” said Leo. “Mom, what the hell have you been drinking, anyway?”
“Just wine,” said Mom. “Only a couple of glasses. Enough so that I didn't actually fall over when this woman I've said maybe two sentences to in my entire life informed me that my fourteen-year-old daughter has an eighteen-year-old boyfriend.” Mom was sounding less amused.
“He's not my boyfriend!” I said again, a little louder. “And he's not eighteen. He's seventeen.”
“Oh,” said Mom, collapsing onto the old brown couch. “Well, that makes a huge difference.”
Leo looked straight at me and raised his eyebrows. I looked back at him, not so straight, and shrugged.
“Leo, she's fourteen years old!”
“Lighten up, Mom,” said Leo.
“Leo,” said my mother, “I am her parent.”
“I'm just as much her parent as you are,” he said.
Mom and Leo have this argument regularly. When Teddy's around, she has it with him too. My brothers are nine and ten years older than I am. As far as I'm concerned, they are as much my parents as my parents. In fact, I like them better for parents. They don't panic when they're lost on the highway. They don't fret over phone calls.
And last year, when I was going through that whole bad scene of cliques and bullies, they told me that mean girls were jerks and left it at that. It made me feel a hundred times better than any of the rationalizing or empathizing my mother tried to do, when she finally found out about it from Erica's mother.
I myself didn't tell her Word One.
“Mom,” said Leo. “Tell me this. What exactly is the problem here?”
“I'm trying to say that it's a big difference, fourteen to seventeen … and … and you know that, Leo! You know that perfectly well!”
“What I think,” said Leo, “is that you're more upset about Evie not telling you about this boy than you are about her seeing a boy who's older.”
Poor Mom! She can't argue. She gets flustered and her voice squeaks, whereas Leo can argue forever, about anything.
“Well,” she said. “Maybe you're right. I just feel as though I should know about something like that.”
“But it's her business,” said Leo. “It's her business whether she tells you or not.”
&nbs
p; “Some things, Leo,” she said, “a parent should know.”
“Mom!” I went over and sat next to her on the couch. I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “He's not my boyfriend! Can we please just watch the rest of this show and stop talking about this?”
“Fine.” Mom glared at Leo. “You don't know absolutely every thing,” she said, shaking her finger at him.
“I know that, Mom,” he said. “I never said I did.”
“Little sis,” said Leo, a week later.
He had picked me up at Katie's, late. It was dark in the car, except for the passing orange brushstrokes from the streetlights as we drove by.
“So, what's the deal with this boy at your school?”
“I don't know,” I said.
“You mean, it's just nothing?”
“Well, I guess it's not exactly nothing.”
“Does that mean it's something?”
“Well, I guess it's kind of something.”
Leo was quiet for a moment. Then, “It's just that Mom is kind of right, Evie,” he said. “Seventeen is a lot older than you.”
“I'm almost fifteen, Leo!”
“You know what I'm saying. It's cool for you to hang out with this guy … if you like him….”
“He's nice,” I told Leo. “He's in a band.”
“Oh, no,” said Leo, and we both laughed. Leo and Teddy used to complain endlessly about their friends who were in bands.
“He plays the bass,” I said. “I've never heard his band. I was going to go hear it this one time, but I couldn't get there.”
“A band,” repeated Leo, and we laughed again.
“Do you like him because he's older?” said Leo.
I knew Leo was driving slowly because he wanted to have this conversation. If I ever wanted to talk to someone, there was no one easier than my brothers. They knew things about me without my having to say them.
So when Leo asked me, I tried to give him an honest answer. It did make me feel special, that an older boy had picked me out to like. But was that the only reason I liked him?
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