On Friday morning, Freddie and I have locked ourselves in the single-stall restroom at school reserved for handicapped students. No one really uses this bathroom much, though, except to hook up. I used to roll my eyes at couples stumbling out, but oh, how the tables have turned.
I’m sitting on the lip of the sink with my legs spread and Freddie kissing petals down my neck. “I’ve got our matching outfits under control, by the way,” he says, referring to our game of MASH.
“Do you?” My voice is uneven, clearly affected by his lips on my throat. But then I laugh at a memory so old I wonder if I made it up. “Do you remember that year on the Fourth of July when Agnes made us dress up like presidents for the parade?”
He pulls back for a minute, bracing his hands on my thighs. “Oh my God, yes. I was Roosevelt. You were Truman—”
“And Hattie was Lincoln, and she cried because her beard was itchy.”
He smiles. “Those suits were so hot. It was July. What was she thinking?”
It’s so hard for me to comprehend sometimes that we’re still the same people we were then. There’s just a lot more kissing, and Freddie’s not scared of the ocean anymore. “Hey, should I plan to be out all night on Saturday? I can get Hattie to cover for me. Not that my dad really cares if I’m out late.”
“That’s up to you,” he says coyly.
“Well, actually, that’s more than likely up to Agnes.”
He kisses my nose quickly like a pecking bird. “Curfews are made to be tested, right?”
On Saturday morning after my paper route, I work the breakfast and lunch shift at Boucher’s, so by the time I get home, it’s already two o’clock in the afternoon.
In my bedroom, waiting for me is Hattie, of course. She’s sprawled out on my bed, reading a paperback romance in a pair of cheer shorts and a sports bra. Her growing belly looks like a melting sun on the horizon of my bed. “Tyler’s at work,” she announces, as if I am at all concerned by the cretin’s whereabouts.
For a moment, I start to wonder how much time she spends in my room when I’m not here, but before I can get worked up, I remember that I’ve got to shower and change.
I don’t have time to bother with washing my hair, so I twist it in a knot and hop in the shower. The head on our shower is so low that I’ve actually got to go out of my way to get my hair wet if I want to. I scrub and rinse the smell of dirty dishes and sweat from my skin. As I’m getting out, the door swings wide open and then slams shut.
It was quick, but not so quick that I didn’t recognize Tyler in the doorway.
“You don’t knock?” I scream as I wrap the towel around my chest. Anger boils under my skin.
“It was unlocked,” he says from the other side of the door. No sorry. No excuse me. But of course he doesn’t say those things.
I swing the door open. “Well, you wouldn’t know it was unlocked if you hadn’t tried the handle, and besides, the lock doesn’t even work.”
“Damn,” he says. “I didn’t see anything. It’s almost like looking at a guy anyway.”
“How are you so ignorant?” All I can register is red-hot anger. I can’t believe the stupid dribbling out of his mouth, and just being in the same place as him makes me feel completely unreasonable. It’s one of those moments where I wonder how I can truly love Hattie if she honestly thinks this is a good decision.
He’s silent.
“What? Because I’m a lesbian? A dyke?”
“What’s going on out there?” calls Hattie.
“Your little sister’s overreacting.”
Hattie sticks her head out my bedroom door, the yellowing paperback dangling from her fingers. “Are you being an asshole to my sister?” She looks to me. “Is he?”
I glance between the two of them. “It’s fine. Just a misunderstanding.”
She gives him a pointed look and shuts my door behind her.
I check the towel to make sure it’s tight around my chest before I point my finger right in his face and say low enough that Hattie can’t hear, “Don’t forget whose house this really is, you piece of shit.”
Back in my bedroom, Hattie is sitting on my bed with her book.
“Where are you off to?” she asks.
“Hanging out with Freddie.” I turn my back to her and put my bra and underwear on, before opening my tiny closet. Most of my clothes reside on the floor or in the never-ending cycle that is my laundry basket, but the good stuff—and there’s not much of it—stays hanging because I don’t get around to wearing it much.
I pull out a yellow-and-black-striped trapeze dress and a peach shirtdress with little white cats all over it. I know Freddie’s taking care of our outfits (whatever that means), but I still want to look different when he first sees me.
“Whoa there,” says Hattie. “Are you getting dressed up?” She stands up and leaves her book facedown on the bedspread.
“If by dressed up you mean I’m wearing a dress that doesn’t have pizza grease stains on it, then yes.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m hanging out with Freddie.”
She glances to me and then to the two dresses in my hands.
“We’re going out and I don’t know where, so I don’t want to look stupid.”
“It’s not like it’s a date or something,” she says.
And when I don’t respond, she takes the dresses from my hand and hangs them on the doorknob before forcing me to sit on the bed.
“When you say you two are going out . . .”
I take a deep breath.
“Ramona Blue, you know this house is too small for secrets.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why I haven’t told anyone about what’s happened between us, because for once I’d like to have a secret to myself. But Hattie is my sister, and hiding from her is as easy as fitting a car through a keyhole.
“Freddie’s taking me on a date. I think.”
Her face looks like I’ve smacked her with a frying pan. “What does that even mean?” she finally asks.
“For me?” It hits me like a brain freeze. Part of me thinks I’ve been avoiding this question all week and part of me thinks the only reason I feel the need to answer it is because someone asked. But regardless, I don’t know the answer.
“Listen,” she says, “I get that your options here are limited, but you don’t want to mess stuff up with Freddie just because you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored,” I tell her. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I’m here if you want to talk.” She tucks her paperback under her arm. “Wear the cat dress.”
After she leaves, I slip the cat dress over my head and glance in the mirror. She’s right.