Phoenix Rising by Cynthia D. Grant Page A

he’d tailed us in an unmarked car .
    Bloomfield was wearing his jeans jacket and looked ultracool in blue .
    It was the first time we’d ever gone out of town together and I felt like — It’s a good thing nobody can read my mind. I was pretending we were married .
    Oh, I have gotten so sappy lately! I want to touch him and hug him all the time! The other day he said, “Why are you smiling?”. “No reason,” I said. “I’m just happy.”
    The car ride made me a little nauseous. For a few dangerous seconds, I thought I was going to puke. Then I told myself: Will you please calm down? And miraculously, I did .
    It was BEAUTIFUL at the beach! Clear and breezy, not too cold, and not many people around. We unpacked our stuff between two big rocks that shielded us from the wind .
    We’d brought chicken and French bread and apples and cheese. Bloomfield ate like the world was on fire. He’s always in a hurry; like, if he doesn’t grab fun fast, someone might snatch it away. I guess that’s what happens when you have a lot of brothers. Bloomfield is the runt of the litter .
    After we ate I felt a little urpy, but the feeling passed in a while .
    We walked along the shore and looked for bottle glass and shells. Bottle glass is my favorite; it’s jagged edges smoothed soft by the waves, smoky-colored and mysterious .
    Bloomfield talked and I listened. If Jessie read that, she’d say, He’s such a chauvinist! But he’s not; he hardly ever talks. When he does, it’s precious as a soap bubble. The moment is that fragile .
    Besides, there’s so much I can’t talk to him about. Bloomfield’s body is hard and strong. He has no patience with patients. He suggested we climb some cliffs, but I pleaded fear of heights. My legs have become undependable .
    Later (here it comes, Ma) we lay down on the blanket and looked into each other’s eyes. Or tried to; he had on mirror sunglasses .
    Him: “What’s the matter?”
    Me: “Nothing.”
    Him: “You look kind of strange.”
    Me: “I’m staring at myself”
    Him: “You mean my glasses?”
    He took them off. His eyes looked like chips of the sea .
    He said, “I like you, Helen.”
    Me: “I like you, too.”
    Him: “You’re not like most girls. You’re — I don’t know.”
    He kissed me, deeply, sweet and warm. A current was carrying me. We floated away, our arms around each other .
    Bloomfield was on top of me .
    I freaked out. I got scared. He said: “Don’t worry; I brought a rubber.”
    I said: “That’s not it.”
    â€œIs it the place? Is it too public? We can go back to my house.”
    â€œNo,” I said .
    â€œDon’t you want to?”
    â€œI do,” I said. “But I’m just not ready.”
    Bloomfield looked into my eyes as if he was reading my mind. “Are you a virgin?” he asked, and when I said yes, he got this look on his face that I couldn’t name. He sat up and took my hand and said, “Let’s walk.”
    We walked along the shore, the wind in our faces, and I finally asked him, “Are you mad?”
    He stopped and held me, his breath warm on my cheek. He said, “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Helen. You’re so special.”
    â€œHow?” I asked, wanting him to shower me with compliments, but he just kissed me .
    We sat beside a tide pool, holding hands. I pressed my lips to his starfish palm. I wished that we could stay there forever, in a driftwood house with bottle glass windows spilling jewels of light on the polished stone floor. We would fall asleep cradled on the breast of the ocean, knowing that our love, like the breath of the tide, would live on and on .
    Instead, we went back to my house and listened to Lucas and Dad argue. Lucas can be such a mutant. Then Dad said something about Cretins Clearwater.… They’re