SIX
Oleander
Friday...
Do you wanna go somewhere tonight? The unexpected text waits and I stare, examining the downstrokes of the Gs and sharply jutting T marking the end of “tonight.” It’s a few seconds before “Ethan” adds a follow up: I mean a real place, not some lot in the middle of nowhere.
Sitting on a bench in the quad, I let my thumbs hover over the screen while I think how to phrase my answer: Like a date?
An ellipsis bounces—he’s typing. Then it disappears—he deleted. I feel robbed. Finally I see his reply: Exactly like a date.
“Is that him?” Hannah snatches my phone.
I’m relieved that I thought to change Dan’s contact name to ‘Ethan’.
“Cute. Oh my god, he likes you.”
“Just please don’t scroll up,” I say. “It gets sort of private.”
“Dick pics?” She grins. “You whore.”
There aren’t actually any dick pics, just a few telling exchanges about our respective parents and Mom’s recent Brady Bunch fantasies.
“Okay, well just let me know what alibi you’re going with so I can corroborate.”
“Movies?” I suggest.
“Rookie mistake.” She shakes her head. “She’ll ask to see the ticket stubs. If you say you don’t have one, she’ll grill you about what you saw and where then look up theaters and showtimes to double check.”
“Okay. Um. Concert?”
“Same problem. The easiest lie is just to say ‘hanging out, listening to music’. Then there’s nothing to verify. Since it’s you, you could probably say ‘doing homework’ and she’d have to believe it.”
“You’re creepily good at this.”
“I know.” She smirks then throws her arm around my shoulder. “And I’m so excited to finally get to share my years of wisdom with you!” There’s a pause before she says, “So what’s his penis like?”
After school, Hannah gives me a hug and a condom before letting me go on my way. I wish she weren’t so obvious about it. After a lot of begging, I was eventually able to convince her not to tell Kayla or Davina. It helps that I haven’t seen much of either of them lately. If anyone in our class knows what “Ethan” means, it’s Kayla.
The bus wheezes to my stop and I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Hopping out onto the street, I open a new text from Dan.
Your momster is back. Meet at Webster and Ford in 15?
Shit. Something must be wrong if she isn’t at work. I tell Dan I’ll see him then and continue cautiously toward home.
Cigarette smoke already clouds the living room as she sits on the couch watching TV. A can of beer sits clutched in her skeletal hand. Probably not secretly pregnant then! When I ask her why she isn’t at work, she shows me a few bandaged fingers.
“Had to get six fucking stitches but I’m off with pay for the next few days.”
“Oh good,” I say. Then, “I mean that you’re okay and you get time off and stuff.”
She taps her wan cheek so I give her a kiss before heading to my room.
An odd sensation of giddiness overwhelms me. After so long knowing Dan, it’s weird to feel nervous. I never cared before whether or not I impressed him. Opening my closet, I flip through hangers of all the things I never wear. A strappy sundress soon catches my eye, black with pale-pink cherry blossoms. It’s something I haven’t worn in years. Something Dan’s never seen. Zipping it up, I discover it now fits me very differently. My hips are wider now, so the hemline doesn’t fall as low as it used to. The bodice fits tighter now, too—tight enough to press a furrow into my chest.
I open the rarely used makeup case Hannah gave me in eighth grade. Blue glitter eye shadow, pink lip-gloss and a few other cosmetic styles I’ve long since outgrown wait inside. Foregoing those, I swipe liquid liner onto my lids and brush on mascara before ruffling my hair. When I’m done, the girl in the mirror smiles. Even though I know she’s me, I can’t shake the sense that I recognize her. Like a face from a memory or a dream.
It’s been more than fifteen minutes so I tug on a long cardigan and creep out of my room.
“You look nice,” Mom says from the couch. “You going out?”
“Yeah, I’m meeting up with Hannah.”
“You two going somewhere?”
“Movies maybe.” Dammit. “We haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Okay. Well.” Mom stabs a fresh cigarette between her lips. “Don’t stay out too late.”
“I won’t.” With that I step out onto the porch and close the screen door behind me.
Shadows stretch long over patchy lawns and American flags flutter on their poles. I pass between identical bungalows sprawling the length of East End and, for the first time, start to wonder what secrets lurk within. How many hundreds of dramas have played out on this seemingly anonymous street? How do they compare to what I do now?
Turning onto Webster, I quickly spot Dan’s turquoise panel truck waiting in the distance. My heart knocks harder against my chest with every footstep. The distance closes, closes, closes, until I’m tugging open the passenger-side door and climbing inside. A stack of library books sits wedged between the seats—Help at Any Cost; An Eternal Golden Braid; Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media. I also spot a battered Moleskine notebook—Dan’s journal, I think.
“Oh man.” His hands reach out to me like an instinct, brushing over my waist, under the wire of my bra. “You look… Wow.”
“Aren’t we going somewhere?” I say.
“Right, yeah.” He grips the steering wheel again and shifts into gear. “You’ll be a pool shark in no time.”
We’ve only just merged onto 75 South when I get a text from Hannah. U fail. Guess we’re going to the movies now. I tell her I’m sorry, that I panicked, and begin to genuinely worry about my mom’s newfound interest in checking up on me. Luckily, Hannah’s is the only number she has. Just check local movie listings and read the spoilers on Wikipedia. Nuclear option: come home crying and slam ur door shut.
Tucking my phone into my purse, I can’t help but laugh. Before the tape ends, we’re snaking past construction sites and liquor stores. A flickering neon sign down the street reads, “The 27 Club” and it occurs to me that I’ve never really been in a bar before. At least not properly. I’ve been inside the neighborhood pub on account of my mom but I never had a drink or anything. Besides, I think at that place, barring minors was more of a suggestion than a rule. I guess they thought it was safer for the occasional kid to come inside to fall asleep on one of the torn vinyl booths than for their parents to leave them in the car.
“Don’t worry,” Dan says, pulling the keys from the ignition. “I know the people here. The door guy doesn’t show up until like nine.”
I don’t even realize I’m lagging but suddenly Dan is opening my door for me. It’s almost an unconscious gesture when he holds out a hand to help me out. Then he swings an arm over my shoulder.
Tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, I feel a thrill of anonymity. Our context, our situation is back in the suburbs. Maybe it doesn’t have to be something we bring with us. Here I can just be a girl and he can just be a guy.
“Hey man!” he says as he pushes through the door. “How’s it going?”
“Yo!” A guy jumps up from a nearby table.
It’s so dim inside that it takes a second before I notice he’s even more extensively tattooed than Dan is. Black cursive swirls over his arms and neck but the contrast is so low against his skin I can scarcely make out what it says.
“How it do, how it do?” The guy trades an intricate handshake with Dan. “I haven’t seen you ‘round here in a minute. Yo, who’s the lovely lady?”
“This is Sophia,” Dan says. “I think I—”
“No shit? This’ Sophia? Your roommate Sophia?” He takes my hand in both of his. “Hello, gorgeous, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’m Tyrell. Ethan said you were a real classy lady. Not like yo—” He turns back to Dan. “What’s that fool’s name you been staying with? Frank?”
“Frank,” Dan says, and he looks embarrassed.
“Frank!” Tyrell claps. “I heard some stories about Frank. And then there’s the other one; you never talk about her too much.”
“Audrey,” I supply. “She’s a bitch.”
Tyrell laughs and gives a wide grin. “Well I know you were always Dan’s favorite in that house. Only nice things.” He claps Dan on the shoulder. “Only nice things. Yo, are you two together now?”
Dan wipes his hand over his eyes and I blush.
“Yeah,” he says after a stretch. “We’ve uh… We’ve been hanging out.”
“Well that is beautiful.” Tyrell grins. “I’m happy for you two. Come on, let’s get y’all a drink.”
He cuts a path toward the bar while Dan and I fall back.
“So,” Dan says with an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. I kind of said…”
“We’re all roommates, your name is Ethan, and you’re probably like thirty. Anything I need to know about me?”
“Only that you’re over twenty-one. The rest is up to you.”
Even though his kiss is chaste, a simple peck on the cheek, it burns as hot as a first kiss would. I realize this is the first time anyone has ever seen. Could see. Tyrell hands us icy glasses of something before offering us more kind words and returning to his table. The drink tastes a lot like lemonade. I decide I like it. Since the pool table is open, Dan feeds in a few quarters and there’s a crash of balls tumbling down.
It’s barely after five but inside the bar it feels like night. No windows welcome light and the graffiti-crusted walls scream of after-hours. This isn’t the sort of place I should like—or maybe it’s the sort of place I’ve never had the chance to have an opinion about. In the last few weeks, doors have opened inside me that I never knew were there. Parts of myself I would never have thought possible have revealed themselves. Maybe this is exactly the sort of place I would like. Right now, all I know is that it’s Dan’s. And because it’s his, I love it.
“Okay, so.” He arranges the last pool balls into the triangle and jiggles it a few times until they’re compact. “I racked so you should break.”
I pick a stick at random and he shakes his head. Then I pick another and he scrunches his nose. Apparently, there is only one decent stick in the whole bar. I lean down over the table and he stretches his arm out beside mine. After arranging my fingers in the right position, he guides my arm back and forth in a fluid motion. It’s a lot like drawing a bow over a cello.
When he decides I’m ready, I thrust the end of my stick against the cue ball. It bounces, slamming down hard against the green felt, and barely knocks the others in their triangle.
“Shit!” I bow my head. “That was embarrassing.”
“It’s okay.” His arm snakes around my waist as he takes the stick. “Only scumbags are good at pool anyway.”
When he hits the cue, the triangle scatters and a red ball knocks down into the corner. I can hear it grinding through the table with a final, satisfying clunk. On his next move, the balls marked three and six follow suit.
I’m up again so Dan stands opposite me and lays a stick across the table, showing me the angle of my best shot.
“Just tap it here.” His breath is warm against my ear. “And imagine a straight line going right through the ball into the pocket.”
His hand is still on my lower back when I stab the point of my stick against the cue. The striped fourteen dunks right into the corner.
“Holy shit!” He grins. “That was really good!”
Since there are only a few people in the bar, we’re free to play game after game. By the third, I start to catch up with him. Then again I’m pretty sure he’s going easy on me. The first time I win still feels spectacular.
“No!” Dan drops to his knees and shakes his fists over his head. “The student has become the master.”
I laugh hard and fall into a silly curtsy. The bartender gives me a celebratory whiskey sour on the house. The bar starts to fill up and Dan greets more people he knows. Soon the space is buzzing with a small crowd of leather jackets and pierced faces. They fit so perfectly against the graffitied walls and vintage punk posters. They look like they could have grown here like plants.
“And what do you do?” asks a guy in a GM uniform.
I recognize the tattoo of uneven stripes inside his forearm as the Black Flag logo.
“Sophia goes to Stanford!” Dan announces. “Rick goes to Michigan.”
“Grad school.” Rick nods. “Working my way through. What’s your major?”
I say, “English,” without thinking even though I know I’m supposed to be choosing computer science.
“With a math minor,” I add as a small concession.
“Ho-ly shit, wait. Is this that Sophia? Damn.” He slaps the table. “I can’t believe you guys got together! I thought you were Puerto Rican?”
Just as I try to say I am, the gruff sound of the Germs gives way to a few twinkling high notes on piano. Dan recognizes the song just as fast as I do. Eyes snag, jaws drop.
He says, “No!”
I say, “Yes!”
Kate Bush’s ludicrously high falsetto warbles and I grin. They’re playing Wuthering Heights.
I twirl on the spot and start to sing along. He tugs at his hair as though in agony. Everyone in the bar laughs and after a few measures, several adopt falsettos too.
“How does everyone know this?” he begs.
“It’s a real song!” I shout, dancing like a silly ballerina around him. “People like it! Kate Bush is super fucking punk rock!”
This is no dead heat. This is no stalemate. I’ve won the war and he’s lost. The people who are supposed to be his are on my side. On Kate Bush’s side. Because she rocks. Sensing his defeat, he gives in. One tattooed hand takes mine and gives me a spin. While I know the words better than anyone else, the bar swells into an off-key harmony for the chorus. Dan just laughs and laughs, tossing me into twirls under his arm and pulling me back against his chest. When the lyrics fade away and the instrumental sequence takes hold, we close into something like a waltz.
“You’re amazing,” he tells my ear, neck bent low to match my stature.
I realize that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel completely and totally myself. We kiss in front of several dozen watching eyes.
Out of breath and pink in the cheeks, I head to the dingy women’s room and splash icy water over my face. Someone very different looks back at me from the scratched mirror. She has a mole on her right cheek and a burn on her left elbow. She plays pool and fucks Dan and majors in English. Right now, she feels more real to me than the girl giving the speech no one will actually listen to at graduation.
The bathroom walls start to throb with the Misfits. Confidence flares in my chest. I push open the door back into the buzz of the bar.
While these past weeks have been marked by desperation—longing and wanting and mischievous touches when watching eyes avert—I now sit beside him in a wooden booth, his arm slung over my shoulder. I slide my fingers in and out of his. Jokes crack, greetings trade, we graze each other’s lips whenever we feel like it. To the people around us, there’s no strangeness here. We’re just us, through the looking glass.
While I might still be lying, I’m not lying because of who he is to me. The details aren’t even really lies anyway, just things still in the process of becoming true.
I dip my straw into melting ice for a while before Dan wrests a wallet from his pocket. Right now, it doesn’t matter if people see my eyes slide over his hiked-up shirt, black ink fading to green across his abs.
“One last drink,” he says, pressing soft leather into my hands. “I don’t want to be too bad of an influence on you.”
The feeling of his teeth against my ear sends a shiver down my skin. It takes a lot to pull myself away from the warmth radiating from him.
Leaning against the bar, I order one last round of whiskey sours. When I open his wallet, I find a thick wad of cash. All twenties. Our cocktails sweat rings onto the counter and I leave a tip before returning to our table.
“Why do you have so much cash?” I say but it’s hard to focus with his arms threading around my waist.
“I don’t usually carry so much.” His breath tickles my neck. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it here.”
“Where else would you have taken me?” I ask, curious about the pieces and edges of his world.
“I dunno.” He smiles against my lips. “Paris?”
I realize I’m kissing him only when I pull away. “You have enough money to go to Paris?”
His thumb drags over my lower lip.
“You’re a drug dealer, aren’t you?”
“Not anymore,” he whispers.
Fingers brush my thighs and wanting erupts.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
“I’m a little too messed up to drive.”
“I wasn’t suggesting we go very far.”
Dan smiles and his eyes droop with seduction. His fingers lace into mine and he draws me up. The sound of Iggy Pop acts as our exit music. Two untouched whiskey sours sit abandoned on the table. An electric sky blazes above us as we step out into the night.
Even after I’ve climbed into the back of his Chevy, I feel the bassline pulsing from inside the bar. I want him…here. City light filters blue through the windshield. When he peels back his shirt, he’s a web of glow and shadow. I lie back on the mattress, my new favorite place, and I’m only slightly dizzy. The movement of his muscles becomes hypnotic. The space between us shrinks. He moves as if I am a conjurer and he’s a cobra. My bare legs spread for him.
He whispers, “What do you want?”
I say, “You.”
“How do you want it?” His lips trace the curve of my throat.
I say, “Heavy.”
He kisses me hard. Then comes a sting in my scalp as he grips me by the hair. Instead of calling out, I hold his gaze steady. I’m ready.
Straps slip down over my shoulders. Fingers press into my cheeks and draw my face up. When I think he’s going to kiss me again, he bites my chest instead. His skin slides against mine, smooth and languid. Goosebumps shiver down my arms. I’m already wet for him when his hand slips between my thighs. Warmth spreads beneath my breasts, down my stomach and meets him at my center. The pressure on my clit makes my pulse throb. He tightens his fist around a handful of hair, wrenching me so we’re face to face.
Green eyes smolder in the half-light while he fucks me with his fingers. Electric jolts flare in my stomach. My muscles spark. His lips part, curving into a devilish smile. I writhe for him.
Underwear rolls down and I feel him hard against my entrance. His hands grip my face, my neck, as he moves against me. There’s another tug at my hair and he draws me into an S. I feel myself pulse for him. Smooth skin slides against my waiting clit. All I want is for him to fuck me hard.
Gruff hands seize my shoulders and throw me onto my back. My hair slaps into my face. Just the sight of his contoured body in the twilight drives me wild with desire.
“You want me to fuck you? I’ll fuck you.”
Lips close on my throat then on the hills of my breasts while he unfurls a condom. One hands slithers up my arm, finding both my wrists, and closes. Pinned down like this, I remember the first spark between us. Just like then my body rises and falls against him, only this time it’s harder. And this time his cock charges all the way into me. I moan.
Another hand presses down on my chest, just under my neck. His face hovers over mine while he fucks me, turning and twisting to take me in. Each push comes slow, rhythmic, and deep. He’s an irresistible force.
Fingers tangle in my hair, forcing me to face him again. My eyebrows knit and my mouth won’t close. Fevered gasps escape. He watches, savoring my tremble from his every thrust. I feel myself contracting against him. Tighter, tighter he pulls at the back of my head while harder, faster he fucks me.
He fucks me to the edge. Every muscle tenses as I feel it speeding closer.
“Come for me,” he breathes and the command is hard.
It forces me over. I plummet into crashing waves of pleasure.
Both his hands seize my face, digging into my cheeks, and I crackle and flash before his eyes. His expression stays firm but I can feel him flicker inside me.
“Oh.” The word falls from his mouth. “Oh.”
I’m lost in the folds of his arms, closing tight. My desire tears out of me, fleeing the confines of my body. We mesh, skin on skin on skin, and boundaries blur into nothing. His kiss connects the circuit.
“How do you do that?” I say, breathless, as he pulls me into the curve of his chest. “And when I was in my room and you knew exactly when…”
The words are hard to trap. My mind still spins.
“You mean how can I tell when you’re gonna come?” he supplies helpfully.
“Essentially, yes. Do you have some sort of extra sensory orgasm perception?.”
“Not exactly,” he laughs, pushing hair out of my eyes. “You’re a musician. I just play along to the music.”
Inside the bar, I can hear the applause dying out from the end of the live, extended recording of Iggy Pop and the Stooges. My jaw drops and I slap his shoulder. “So sneaky!”
He smirks.
“God.” I burrow my head into him. “Sometimes it feels like you know things about me even I don’t know.”
“I’ve had a while to figure you out,” he says.
“Well.” I try to think of something about Dan. “I know it takes you forever to get the temperature right in the shower. You spend like ten minutes screwing around with the knob to get it right every time.”
“Fuck that shower.” He laughs. “There’s like this much difference between freezing and boiling.”
“And I know you’re a lot smarter than you want people to think.”
“I dunno about that.”
“You probably have creepy-good test scores,” I say.
By the way he squints his eyes, I can tell I’m on to something.
“Otherwise, you never would have gotten a tuition break at St. A’s,” I add. “And all the teachers really wanted to like you.”
“All right, you can have that one.”
“Um.” I glance up at the vaulted ceiling of the panel truck. “You have a good singing voice but you never, ever sing along to songs if you think someone’s listening. You suck at Soul Calibur. You don’t own a comb. You have enough money to go to Paris. You used to get into a lot of fights but haven’t in awhile. You have a library card and you check out really random books…”
His breath slows under my cheek. I fall asleep reciting his details.