FOUR
Gardenia
Friday...
The last late snow has finally melted. For the first time all semester, teachers crack open classroom windows to lure in the newly warm breeze. Tentative buds begin to unfurl on branches. Pallid arms finally hang exposed after months hidden under sweaters. I travel between classes like a sleepwalker, half in a dream.
Dressing-room-selfies of prom dresses have started popping up online. A string of texts from Stuart wait on my phone unanswered. I don’t particularly care about either.
For the first time in a long time, I feel solid. The ground feels steadier under my feet and my spine is a pillar of steel. I wear my still-swollen lips and sore legs like an amulet. A secret flame burns in my chest. When we play Pachelbel's Canon in orchestra, I bow fifty-four progressions of the same eight notes and let my mind wander. Every so often, an image wafts to the surface—a detail from our stolen hours. Dan’s hand on my cheek, his pinkie grazing against my teeth and tongue. Sandy hair falling loose over jade eyes. Hot breath against my ear. Each sudden vision makes my chest leap, like an elevator jolting up or a missed step on a staircase in the dark.
The fire inside is like an energy source, creating its own light and heat. And because it's a secret, it's all for me.
“Earth to Sophie.” Hannah waves her hand in front of my face. “Anybody home?”
Kayla and Davina stand before scratched mirrors in the girls’ bathroom adjusting hair and lipstick.
“Yeah sorry.” I shake my head. “What’s up?”
“Dude, seriously?” Hannah frowns. “What is up with you recently?”
“Sorry.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’m supposed to be writing this valedictory and I haven’t come up with anything yet.”
“Sure.” Davina’s reflection rolls her eyes at me.
“No one cares about the valedictorian’s speech,” Kayla says. “Just start with the definition of Graduation, thank a few teachers, make some jokes about how we’re always on our phones, then talk about how we’re the future or whatever.”
“They should make you valedictorian, Kayla,” I say. “You’ve got it down.”
“I know, right?”
“Hey, Sophie?” There’s an edge to Davina’s voice—I probably shouldn’t have complained about valedictory stuff in front of her. “Do you by chance have an extra tampon?”
“Uh, yeah.” I rummage through my purse for the zippered makeup bag where I’ve been storing them. “Here.”
No one speaks for a beat. Instead they trade knowing smirks.
“Called it.” Davina twists back toward the mirror.
I’m left holding the tampon out to no one.
“Dude!” Hannah slaps my arm hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Who was it?” asks Davina.
“How was it?” asks Kayla.
“What?” I splutter.
Kayla waves her hands like I’m being very thick. “You had sex.”
“Correction: are having sex,” Davina says. “As in, regularly.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh come on, Soph.” Hannah sighs. “It’s so obvious you’re into someone.”
“What?”
“Daydreaming during class, checking your phone all the time, tampons. Three months ago, you told me you still wore pads because tampons hurt.”
“Yeah well. That was three months ago. I figured it out.”
“You didn’t have it figured out last month,” Davina says, mouth hanging open as she brushes on mascara.
“It’s Stuart, isn’t it?” Hannah says. “He asked me a while ago if you were seeing anyone.”
“Ew, no. I don’t—I don’t have time for this.” I swing my bag over my shoulder. “I’m not hooking up with Stuart or anybody. You just…you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Davina catches my eyes in the mirror as I storm out. The lie burns on my face as bright as a beacon.
Saturday...
Mom and Frank are both home but they avoid each other like calls from collection agencies. Frank wiles away the hours in the garage out back, drinking and rummaging under the hood of a ‘74 Ford he can’t drive with a suspended license. Mom locks herself into the master bedroom—also drinking. While no real fight ever explodes, skirmishes of frustration and resentment break out whenever they cross paths. Silence rings in between.
The cursor blinks while I stare at a blank document. No inspiring words come to me. No funny anecdotes from the last four years materialize. I try to tap out a basic introduction, a beginning I might be able to riff off of. Clichés as trite as Kayla’s suggestions burn the page in black Times New Roman. I hold down the delete key until no words remain.
Random chores offer a perfect diversion. Loading my laundry basket into the washing machine, I notice a lump in the pocket of pajama bottoms. Cellophane crunches under my fingers as I probe inside. An inviting spiral of red and white waits in my palm. When sugar hits my tongue, I realize how hungry I am.
In the kitchen, I open and close every cabinet even though I know I’ll inevitably end up making ramen. The only other option appears to be spaghetti with a sauce of mustard, Parmesan cheese, and stale marshmallows. There’s a dusty can of government tomatoes that lives behind the cinnamon, but I think it’s been there since the Clinton administration. I give in and grab the last package of Sabor de Kimchi.
When Frank slides open the yard door on one of his resupply expeditions, he gives me that choked look he always wears when there’s no one else around. He’s lived here for three years but I can count the number of conversations we’ve had on one hand. Before he moved in, when he and Mom first started dating, he made a big deal about how many books I owned and talked a lot about teaching me how to drive. He never did.
I put on a pot of water to boil while he stares into the fridge. Only a fraction of that day's twenty-four pack remains. I suspect he's calculating drinks, trying to figure out whether Mom had more than her fair share.
The door to the basement stairs swings open just as Frank tries to balance three cans on a package of bologna. Dan and I trade conspiratorial smiles—fuel for fire.
“Fuck!” One of Frank's beers tumbles to the ground and springs a hissing leak. Foam sprays onto linoleum.
“S'cuse me.” Dan opens a cabinet, pressing against me more than is expressly necessary to reach for a glass. I suck harder on my mint.
The sleeve of his t-shirt pulls back as he stretches his arm. There's a mark on the inner biceps—a circle of pink dashes—indentations from my canines and incisors. It must be from two days ago. I vaguely remember biting down to smother a moan, but I didn’t realize I’d done it so hard. The candy cracks in my jaw.
Sorry! I mouth with a cloud of peppermint, then clap my fingers over my lips.
“Don’t be.” His breath makes my hair flutter. “I fucking loved it.”
I glance at Frank to see if he noticed anything but he’s still scrambling to prevent further beer loss. It doesn't occur to him to set down his condensation-slick cans and shrink-sealed meat product. He finally sorts himself out and returns to the garage. All of three seconds elapse before Dan and I burst out cackling.
“Idiot.” Dan shakes his head and wrenches open the fridge. “Wanna beer?”
We crack one of three remaining cans and take turns chugging it, letting a good amount spill onto the already slippery floor. It's not even that I want any beer (the musky flavor is repulsive against the sweet mint coating my tongue), more that I don't want them to have it.
Only after we finish vigorously shaking the last two cans do I realize that my ramen has long since boiled over.
Sunday...
The floorboards creak as Mom paces the house. Half an hour now she's been looking for her misplaced cigarettes. Before that, she spent another half hour begging me to watch TV with her. Only the mumbled curse words stand out from her unending, under-her-breath monologue.
I sit on the couch, flipping channels, and try to ignore her. Every time I stand up to collect my homework from my room—possibly pass the time in a productive manner—she snaps her head up and asks me where I'm going.
“Just sit down, sit down.” One claw-like hand presses me back into my seat. “I'll be over in just a sec.”
I think I might be looking at things differently now. Like I've only just come back after being gone for years. Watching something happen over time makes it harder to see, the way you don't notice your favorite sweater beginning to unravel. But if the change happens while you aren't looking—a best friend returning from Missouri, braces swapped out for a bra, for example—the transformation can be shocking.
I'm starting to notice how much my mom's wrinkles have deepened. The bags under her eyes no longer fade after coffee and her cheeks are so hollow I can trace the outline of her skull. In my mind, I somehow kept alive the fiction that she was a blonde. Dark roots have been growing for over a year and what remains of her ancient bleach job is brassy from nicotine.
“What're you watching?” Dan appears in the kitchen.
I blow a long breath between my lips. “No idea.”
Our parents have been home all weekend. A guilty part of me wishes they’ll crack and go to the bar. It’s hard not to think of them like slothful prison guards keeping vigil. Watching eyes push Dan downstairs. Listening ears restrain me from following. His nearness feels like torture. His distance feels even worse.
The sofa cushions bounce as he collapses next to me. Eventually, I give up my aimless channel surfing and land on an episode of Friends. Mom slides open the yard door to check the trashcans for her cigarettes. Dan gives my shoulder the gentlest nudge. White-and-emerald-striped cardstock peeks out of his jeans pocket—her missing Maverick Menthols. I press my smirking lips together.
When the show cuts to a car commercial, I start to feel a creeping under the crocheted blanket. Dan's first two fingers climb up the slope of my skirt like little legs. The breath catches in my chest when the relative cold of his hand meets my bare thigh.
I glance over at him and raise my eyebrows. Seriously? Now?
He replies with a mischievous smile.
It's almost impossible to keep a straight face as his fingers slip between my legs. My skin quickly comes to life, responding to the feeling of my clothes and changes in the air. All down my arms, every hair stands on end. His fingers soon slide into my panties. The pulse against his hand is so strong it's like a second heartbeat. I try to keep breathing normally.
Dan makes a show of acting casual. He nods along to the TV and scratches his neck as if nothing is happening. It's just distracting enough to keep me from making some sound, some indication. Every time he catches my eye, all I want to do is melt into him. I can feel my nipples hardening against my bra. My body aches to be touched.
One finger slides into me and I sniff, struggling to stay still. He pretends to text, leaning over his phone to disguise the way his hand moves under the blanket. There’s a yellow popcorn kernel still buried in the yarn. I rest my chin in my hand in order to force my mouth shut.
"Well shit." Mom yanks the back door shut with a slam.
Dan's hand vanishes from me, pulling away so casually no one would have ever guessed what was going on. It takes all of my self-control to remain still and unmoved. Mom circles around to the couch and in one swift movement, Dan pushes her cigarettes between the sofa cushions.
I snap up to standing just as soon as she sits down.
“I'm gonna go to bed. I'm really tired.” I can tell I'm acting stiff and robotic but that’s the best I can do right now.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom whines. “I just sat down.”
“Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm just really tired.”
It’s only eight o’ clock.
Inside my room, I lean against my door and finally let myself take several shaking breaths. Shivers rack my body like I've been out in the cold for hours but my skin burns as hot as a fever. My phone hums and I start. Jesus. I'm so tightly wound that even an unexpected sound practically triggers an orgasm.
The text is from Dan. Remember when I asked if you thought about me when you touched yourself?
My stomach tightens as I thumb my reply: Vividly.
An ellipses bounces on the screen, then: Do it for me now.
Breathless, I struggle to phrase my response before settling on simply, OK.
You won’t be able to type, he says. Just listen.
…
Do you promise to follow my instructions?
My answer flows quickly: Yes.
Three dots tease and I almost can’t bear the wait.
Take off your shirt.
I glance at the door to double check that it’s locked then lean my phone against a pillow like a piece of sheet music. Concentrating hard on every movement, I let my fingers climb to the top of my blouse. The first button slips through its hole. I work just as carefully as I would if he could see me. My hands waver with anticipation even before my shirt falls open. The feel of fabric gliding off my shoulders quickens my heartbeat.
Unhook your bra.
Cool air against my breasts hardens my nipples. The thought of him knowing what I’m doing—telling me how to do it—starts a ripple in my stomach. I want so badly to cup my hands around the mounds of my breasts. To know it’s him making me. Instead, I wait.
Wet your fingers with your tongue before you touch your nipples.
Cold meets hot as my fingers glide over each sensitive point. My eyelashes begin to flutter but I’m careful to keep an eye on the screen.
Now pinch them.
The instruction comes as a shock. It’s only my desire to be his that pushes me on. When I pinch my fingers together, I’m overcome by unexpected yearning. The rush lures the beginning of a moan from my throat.
Time for some music...
How did he know? I fumble with my speaker cord and scroll through my library, knowing he won’t go on until I’ve finished this step. Massive Attack or Air’s Moon Safari would be too much of a give away. Desperate, I play the first thing that comes to mind—Clair de Lune, arranged for cello.
Good choice. Lie down.
I do.
…
Now slide one hand down and play with your clit.
My hips are already rolling by the time I reach between my legs. My breaths grow deeper and my body writhes. An ache swells, spreading out from my center.
Faster.
I obey and my mouth falls open. Brows knit together while I sway to his rhythm. My neck curves but I keep my eyes focused on the glowing screen.
Harder.
Teeth dig into my lower lip. My stomach tightens. The merciful groan of cello covers the sound of my mattress moving.
Pinch your nipples again.
The sting of it makes me bite my lip harder, holding back a swelling moan. Want and need course through me until I’m dizzy. I think about his cock, the thickness of it, and cherish the remembered sensation of his body against mine.
Slide two fingers into your pussy.
The words come just as soon as I need them. My face presses into the sheets and I imagine it’s him inside me.
Fuck yourself.
My hands become his hands, his cock. Thighs tremble, opening for him. Shoulders quake. I fill my need, remembering how it feels to have his weight on me.
Circle over your clit again.
Muscles tense and twitch out of my control. His guidance propels me toward furious passion. Spread out on the sheets, I arc and flash like an exposed wire.
Now slap your pussy.
My stomach jolts with surprise but I'm too enthralled not to try it. When I do, a powerful shockwave courses through me.
Again.
My chest lurches.
Again.
Longing explodes.
Fuck yourself.
His timing is inspired. Doors inside me open for him and I feel myself the way he feels me. I fuck myself like he would, like I never have before. It’s better.
Clit.
I curl tight against my leaping muscles. The whole universe contracts to a pinpoint between my legs.
Faster.
Cold air floods my lungs. I gasp and my eyes slip out of focus. Lights seem to flicker as my spine arches.
Faster.
It starts to be more than I can take. Debussy only obscures so much and there’s a maddened call shaking the cage of my teeth. I’m pulled so tight I’m close to splitting and I don’t know what will happen when I do.
Bite the pillow.
Fabric bunches as I bury my face, closing my teeth around a mouthful of daisy-print. I’m a boiling kettle, whistling. A rubber band, snapping. Thighs close tight over my hand. Cloth and feather absorb my cry. With it comes a flood, breaking through the levies at last. Its violence crashes over the whole of me in a final, ecstatic shudder.
I deflate, drained, and my quavering muscles quiet just as the last quavering note of Clair de Lune fades away. Each breath comes sharp and sudden.
The screen of my phone had gone dark, so the next message vibrates the blankets.
How was it?
What is this sorcery??? I reply, then add salrghfbmbdgslkhsdbghbkm
I glance at the window but my curtains are closed, there’s no way he could have seen me. Sweat beads at my nape like dew and I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to manage a movement more sophisticated than flopping. I still haven’t caught my breath when another text blinks.
I want proof, please.
A soft laugh tumbles from my smiling lips. Lifting my phone over my head, I turn on the camera. The framing is tasteful, I think, and there’s enough light to see the pinkness in my cheeks. An artificial shutter sound effect accompanies the flash. In a second, the photo is with him.
Beautiful, he says. My turn.
Footsteps pad outside my door, creak through the kitchen, and echo down the basement stairs. I roll over on my back and vague thoughts drift untethered. Sleep starts to rise around me like a tide.
Some ten minutes later, there’s a photo on my phone. It makes me laugh. Dan holds a thumbs-up, eyes bleary. The grooves between his hip muscles are only just visible above the sheets. Actioni contrariam semper et æqualem esse reactionem—for every action, an equal and opposite reaction. Lucky, that.