Ghosts of Tom Joad by Peter Van Buren Page B

while the girl waited to see if you could, but Angie just that night reached back with one hand and changed all that too in my mind. Looking at the faint red lines left on her, I never got to second base faster or easier, and I never felt stupider again for thinking of it as second base. She had shoulders, soft curves I was pretty sure I never noticed on girls before. Boys is all about parts, boobs and butts and legs and hips like a bucket of fried chicken being divided up, but Angie changed my eyes. She taught me to trace the outline of her with my hands like a whisper, a breeze, one finger, my tongue, always saying slower, softer, let’s enjoy the trip. God, I could drink a whole bottle of her.
    I thought I knew what to do, indeed had had some significant practice alone (99 percent of people do and the other one percent lie about not doing it) and with girls by that point, but the more I pressed with the urgency of having 99 percent testosterone in my bloodstream the more Angie would move slower, press back softer, remind me we had hours until curfew and that we were sixteen and naked and alone together, slowly and perfectly. Her skin was so warm it scalded me. She held out the rubber in her cupped hands, like we used to do with the grasshoppers. I lost the push-pull and melted into her, and as quickly started to apologize for how I was over and she just smiled and said, “Well, you sweet boy, we’ll just have to do it again. It’s not fattening.” I have no more powerful image notmessed up by a photograph available to me after fifty-two years and nor would I want one. I couldn’t help thinking this was as close to Heaven as I was ever gonna get, things so warm I hadn’t yet dreamed of them.
    I wasn’t sure what it was that I smelled, but it was familiar growing up around Mom at home, them things in the bathroom waste can, a little sweet and a little coppery, not typical among blackberry bushes but not entirely out of place or something worth slowing down because of. I found her. I heard a song in my head,
So, play on, I’ll dance for you.
Angie took my finger in her mouth, I felt her tongue, warm, and she whispered to me that she wanted to curl around it until it’s all inside of her.
    I wondered if there was yet something else I did not know that could cause sex to be even more messy. Well, indeed there was and for Angie it was just another part of her, her naturalness, her liquidity. I felt dirty but she didn’t, I felt unsure in her confidence, but with her saying it felt best really around the same time each month and finding some tissues in her twisted up pants to end the matter softly as she reached up to touch my ear, then near my lips. I felt her nails trace up the back of my neck, a path miles long that seemed to just go on and on until I was dizzy for it. Her happiness became essential to my own.
    â€œThat felt different that time Earl, like something happened.”
    â€œA’course something happened Angie.”
    â€œNo, I mean different than just that. I don’t know, felt like something. Something special between us.”

    â€œS OMETIMES WHEN I was sad I cried to myself,” Angie told me, “and I wished I had a twin sister. The boy next door would hit me, and I’d hit him back and I’d tell my mom and she’d just only say ‘be nice.’ That’s when I knew I wanted more boyfriends and fewer husbands.”
    We were alone, snuck off in the daytime into the woods. Being out there without darkness as a blanket was electricity between us.
    â€œWe’ll whisper to make it more romantic,” said Angie. “Now Earl, let me see it.”
    â€œNo, it’s embarrassing,” I answered her, looking away like something so fascinating was over there, I wanted her to look too.
    â€œOver here, Earl. Now, c’mon, you’re willing to put it in me, so at least let me see it up close.”
    Most Reeve girls had