spending time in this house. Sometimes on a Saturday night Ben and I would pull out the sleeping bags and watch late movies. We’d fool around and fall asleep with popcorn still in our teeth. When we woke up, Connie would make French toast, and wrapped in sweaters we’d eat on the porch with the morning light washing over us.
I wondered how much Connie knew about me and Ben, though her knowing everything might have changed things between us. I wanted to tell her this: As my friend, Ben had a life and there were other things in his line of vision. But as his girlfriend, his life shrunk and I was the only thing playing on his screen. Seeing Ben at the end of the day waiting by my locker became as ordinary and predictable as rolling out of bed in the morning. I just thought I wanted
more
. I didn’t know what, but was pretty sure I’d know if I found it, or if it found me.
Connie came up behind me and kissed me lightly on top of my wet head.
I snuggled with Daffodil on the couch in the den while Mom and Franz fought in the living room. They’d been having spats all week, and they’d stopped smiling at each other and started rolling their eyes when they thought the other wasn’t looking.“Trouble,” Dorrie said, from the other end of the couch, where she chewed on a strand of hair.
Daffodil wore a sequined purple bodysuit, and her dark, shiny hair was pulled into a ponytail. Violet eye shadow sparkled above her long lashes. “What’s this?” I said, wiping her face clean with the bottom of my T-shirt.
“Get off,” she yelled.
“You want to turn into a slut?”
“No,” she yelled.
“Then clean up your act.”
She already had boys calling the house, but it wasn’t anything really. She’d say, “You’re a faggot.” Then he’d say, “No, you are.” “No, you.” “You.” “You.”—like that until one of them would get tired and say, “See you tomorrow.” Now she rubbed up against me. She wanted to be me; she would tell me this. “You’re going to be Miss Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You’re the prettiest,” she said. Her teeth were tiny and white, her eyes all dark pupils. Her head lay in the crook of my arm, and she motioned for me to bring my ear close. I leaned down and she told me how she and some of her older friends, girls in the fourth and fifth grades, had gone to every store on Main Street and voted for me, filling out a white slip and dropping it into the box beneath our pictures. “Idisguised my handwriting,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”
After my sisters and I had pigged out on pot roast and gravy, I started wondering if Ben might call me. I lay on the couch, shaving my legs and dipping the razor into a Dixie cup filled with soapy, hairy water. Dorrie and Daffodil lay on their backs on the carpet, painting their fingernails red. After a bitter fight, Mom and Franz were out to dinner. The phone was silent.
Inggy walked through the front door. “Hey, Dan,” she yelled, coming into the den and spreading college catalogs all around the coffee table. We had to start thinking of these things, she told me. Look at this, check this out—she spoke a mile a minute. “This one has environmental science.” There was a picture of a weenie kid standing in a sludgy bog, holding a beaker. “What kind of science do you like best?” she asked me. I shrugged, dropping the razor into the Dixie cup.
“Dorrie,” I said, “go get me some socks, will you?”
“Get your own,” she said, blowing on a nail. “I’m not going down there.”
“We’ve got a stink,” Daffodil told Inggy. Inggy opened the cellar door and gagged. “Come away from there,” Daffodil said, taking her hand.
“Are you guys waiting until the whole house is a giant stink bomb? Let’s see what it is, Dani.”
“Inggy,
sit down
,” I said, getting pissed off. She came over here, waving catalogs, telling me to be some scientist, telling me what to do about the stink. I
I wondered how much Connie knew about me and Ben, though her knowing everything might have changed things between us. I wanted to tell her this: As my friend, Ben had a life and there were other things in his line of vision. But as his girlfriend, his life shrunk and I was the only thing playing on his screen. Seeing Ben at the end of the day waiting by my locker became as ordinary and predictable as rolling out of bed in the morning. I just thought I wanted
more
. I didn’t know what, but was pretty sure I’d know if I found it, or if it found me.
Connie came up behind me and kissed me lightly on top of my wet head.
I snuggled with Daffodil on the couch in the den while Mom and Franz fought in the living room. They’d been having spats all week, and they’d stopped smiling at each other and started rolling their eyes when they thought the other wasn’t looking.“Trouble,” Dorrie said, from the other end of the couch, where she chewed on a strand of hair.
Daffodil wore a sequined purple bodysuit, and her dark, shiny hair was pulled into a ponytail. Violet eye shadow sparkled above her long lashes. “What’s this?” I said, wiping her face clean with the bottom of my T-shirt.
“Get off,” she yelled.
“You want to turn into a slut?”
“No,” she yelled.
“Then clean up your act.”
She already had boys calling the house, but it wasn’t anything really. She’d say, “You’re a faggot.” Then he’d say, “No, you are.” “No, you.” “You.” “You.”—like that until one of them would get tired and say, “See you tomorrow.” Now she rubbed up against me. She wanted to be me; she would tell me this. “You’re going to be Miss Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You’re the prettiest,” she said. Her teeth were tiny and white, her eyes all dark pupils. Her head lay in the crook of my arm, and she motioned for me to bring my ear close. I leaned down and she told me how she and some of her older friends, girls in the fourth and fifth grades, had gone to every store on Main Street and voted for me, filling out a white slip and dropping it into the box beneath our pictures. “Idisguised my handwriting,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”
After my sisters and I had pigged out on pot roast and gravy, I started wondering if Ben might call me. I lay on the couch, shaving my legs and dipping the razor into a Dixie cup filled with soapy, hairy water. Dorrie and Daffodil lay on their backs on the carpet, painting their fingernails red. After a bitter fight, Mom and Franz were out to dinner. The phone was silent.
Inggy walked through the front door. “Hey, Dan,” she yelled, coming into the den and spreading college catalogs all around the coffee table. We had to start thinking of these things, she told me. Look at this, check this out—she spoke a mile a minute. “This one has environmental science.” There was a picture of a weenie kid standing in a sludgy bog, holding a beaker. “What kind of science do you like best?” she asked me. I shrugged, dropping the razor into the Dixie cup.
“Dorrie,” I said, “go get me some socks, will you?”
“Get your own,” she said, blowing on a nail. “I’m not going down there.”
“We’ve got a stink,” Daffodil told Inggy. Inggy opened the cellar door and gagged. “Come away from there,” Daffodil said, taking her hand.
“Are you guys waiting until the whole house is a giant stink bomb? Let’s see what it is, Dani.”
“Inggy,
sit down
,” I said, getting pissed off. She came over here, waving catalogs, telling me to be some scientist, telling me what to do about the stink. I
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