Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman Page B

minutes we shift so that we’re lying side by side. The couch isn’t quite wide enough, but we squeeze to- gether anyway. We close our eyes and listen to the hum of the computers and the sounds of the city.
    It should feel weirder than it does.
    It should feel much weirder when he leans over and kisses the corners of my eyes, my cheeks and then my lips. It doesn’t feel nearly weird enough.
    “Erik,” I say.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean.. .” “No, it’s not that.”
    Our faces are inches apart. His breath is on my face and his eyes look huge.
    “What then?”
    “You’re just... not supposed to kiss like that.” “You don’t like it?”
    “Um.. .”
    He does it again.
    “You can stop me anytime,” he says.
    “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I slide underneath him and bring my lips back to his.
    He moves slowly, watches my face and parts of me un- ravel with every touch.
    “Jesus,” I say, even as I slide a hand into his pants. “You’re scaring me.”
    “Don’t worry,” he says and moans as my fingers close around him. “I’m still the same old Erik.”
    He is and he isn’t. We’re both too far gone to care. Just for now, just for this night, I close my eyes and arch against him, letting the tender mix with the fierce... and pretend it doesn’t matter.

    Chapter Nine

    Y ou are fourteen and nobody fucks with you anymore. Your best friend is awesome, you can drink without puking your guts out, and your mother has a Master’s degree.
    Never mind that she’s become a feminist and stopped wear- ing a bra to the grocery store, which is seriously embarrassing.
    You say “fuck” these days and sound like you mean it. You wish your dad were more like Bernadette’s, though.
    Bernadette’s dad takes care of the yard, helps with meals, plays tennis and golf, and discusses the Political Situation at the dinner table. Bernadette’s dad would never go a week without changing his clothes or cry to Bernadette about how his life stinks.
    Your dad does.
    You never know, when you arrive on a Friday night, if you’re going to get Hyper-Fun Dad or My-Life-Is-Over Dad, and nothing you do seems to make a difference.
    At first with Bernadette, you try to pretend nothing is wrong, but she goes to his place with you, and it gets hard not to notice.
    “It could be his apartment,” she says one sticky Friday afternoon when you’re on the subway toward Dad’s.
    “What d’you mean?” “Well, no offense, but.. .”
    “Yeah ... ?”
    “The place is ugly.”
    “Ha. True. You think it—” “Bums him out, yeah.”
    “I don’t think he can afford to move, Bee.”
    “Hello, budding artist? I’m not talking about moving.”
    6
    Dad is totally agreeable and even lets you paint your bed- room walls purple with silver moons and stars, in honor of Prince.
    On Saturday morning, while Bernadette covers the kitchen walls in Sunlight Yellow, you prepare to begin your first mural. Dad is hanging out watching you while he waits for the first coat of Romanov Red in his bedroom to dry.
    “So you’re big in art class,” he says. “I didn’t know that.” “I don’t know about big.” You shrug. “I just like it.” “Well, Bernadette says you’re big. Talented.”
    “I just look good compared to everyone else because they all took it to have an easy pass, Bee included.”
    You pick up a medium-size brush and step back from the wall. What kind of scene would cheer Dad up when he’s here by himself?
    “Does your mother know?” “About art class?”
    Would a baseball field look good? Hm. No.
    “No. About me being, uh, a little bummed out some- times.”
    “What? No. No, I don’t talk to her about you.” “Oh. Okay, good.”
    “Besides,” you say, “you’re okay. Managing a bar is tough. You just get tired, stressed out. Right? I mean, every- body gets stressed out.”
    “Does she?”
    “Who?” you say, like you don’t know he means Mom.
    If you say Mom is having a hard time, then you’d be