stomach. I leaned into him. He kissed me, and I felt like
I was being pushed to the bottom of a swimming pool, everything distorted, unfocused yet clear as glass. I felt myself moving
through years and years, coming up different all of a sudden.
Once, in P.E. class, I watched Jonah running laps. He was falling behind, the other boys were far ahead of him, but he kept
on, one hand grasping his chest then blurring down. He ran past me, breathing hard, but he blew me a kiss from the center
of the palm of his hand. When I sat in front of him in French class, sometimes he whispered small requests, an eraser, an
extra pen, and I passed them back without looking. But how I loved to look at him. He had dark hair and his eyes were round
and dark and lovely. He had a soft body, not pounded immovable by sports, just regular and wide and comfortable.
Paula smirked when I told her this. She said, “That isn’t any reason to love someone.”
“It is for me.”
She bent her head down. Now that Jonah had entered my life, she no longer approved of him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You
don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked at me, her face blank, then turned and left. I didn’t follow.
Later on, when Jonah and I slept together in his bedroom, I imagined looking down on us from the ceiling, I pictured how dark
and naked our bodies must be, how small the two of us were. Right then I wanted to tell Paula that there are some things you
have to go through on your own. Some relationships withstand life, some are there for a moment, a stepping stone, and then
you push away from them.
But I never did because Paula said, “Don’t talk to me about Jonah. I don’t want to know.”
“I won’t tell you anything then.”
“I thought you were going to move in here. I thought you were unhappy at home and you wanted to live with me.” She lay down
on her bed, yellow hair spreading in a circle. We had learned about Joan of Arc, and I imagined holding a match to Paula’s
hair; it was so dry it would catch in an instant, sprout into a ball of flame. “Don’t lie to me any more,” she said. “Just
say whether you will or not.”
“I have my own family, Paula.”
Some part of her seemed to give way. “But I need you here.”
“Why?” I said, exasperated.
She turned away. “Go home then. I don’t want to see you.”
I wanted to tell Paula what was happening, how one thing leads to another. How a boy like Jonah feels like a necessary thing.
He has a way about him, like acurved handle, so easy to hold, so easy to see. He can smile and something flares up in you, catches on your heart, opens
you up to things you wanted but never asked for. He can change the way your mind forms words, shapes sentences, imagines their
capacity. He has a heart you think you can drink from. I’ve heard that it’s common, there are lots of boys, and girls too,
who are like this. Their faces have promise in them, but how can you be promised something you will never stop wanting?
Once, after Jonah and I had sex, he said, “You really like it, don’t you? It scares me how much you like it.” He smiled at
me knowingly, and I nodded. I never knew what to say.
I slept at Paula’s house less and less. At school, she would corner me in the bathroom and ask me to come over. I never gave
firm answers. I was waiting for Jonah to come by, sweep me into his car, forgive me. It seemed like I was always doing something
wrong — I held him too tightly, told him I loved him. It never came out right. When I said it, the words sounded more like
a plea.
“I’ll see,” I told Paula.
She nodded her head. Her hair was a different shade. Clairol “Stardust,” she told me. She was losing weight, too, and it made
her face thin and freakish.
I did go over, and that night we lay outside on the back porch, the stars muted by the city lights. She said, “I’ve been thinking
I was being pushed to the bottom of a swimming pool, everything distorted, unfocused yet clear as glass. I felt myself moving
through years and years, coming up different all of a sudden.
Once, in P.E. class, I watched Jonah running laps. He was falling behind, the other boys were far ahead of him, but he kept
on, one hand grasping his chest then blurring down. He ran past me, breathing hard, but he blew me a kiss from the center
of the palm of his hand. When I sat in front of him in French class, sometimes he whispered small requests, an eraser, an
extra pen, and I passed them back without looking. But how I loved to look at him. He had dark hair and his eyes were round
and dark and lovely. He had a soft body, not pounded immovable by sports, just regular and wide and comfortable.
Paula smirked when I told her this. She said, “That isn’t any reason to love someone.”
“It is for me.”
She bent her head down. Now that Jonah had entered my life, she no longer approved of him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You
don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked at me, her face blank, then turned and left. I didn’t follow.
Later on, when Jonah and I slept together in his bedroom, I imagined looking down on us from the ceiling, I pictured how dark
and naked our bodies must be, how small the two of us were. Right then I wanted to tell Paula that there are some things you
have to go through on your own. Some relationships withstand life, some are there for a moment, a stepping stone, and then
you push away from them.
But I never did because Paula said, “Don’t talk to me about Jonah. I don’t want to know.”
“I won’t tell you anything then.”
“I thought you were going to move in here. I thought you were unhappy at home and you wanted to live with me.” She lay down
on her bed, yellow hair spreading in a circle. We had learned about Joan of Arc, and I imagined holding a match to Paula’s
hair; it was so dry it would catch in an instant, sprout into a ball of flame. “Don’t lie to me any more,” she said. “Just
say whether you will or not.”
“I have my own family, Paula.”
Some part of her seemed to give way. “But I need you here.”
“Why?” I said, exasperated.
She turned away. “Go home then. I don’t want to see you.”
I wanted to tell Paula what was happening, how one thing leads to another. How a boy like Jonah feels like a necessary thing.
He has a way about him, like acurved handle, so easy to hold, so easy to see. He can smile and something flares up in you, catches on your heart, opens
you up to things you wanted but never asked for. He can change the way your mind forms words, shapes sentences, imagines their
capacity. He has a heart you think you can drink from. I’ve heard that it’s common, there are lots of boys, and girls too,
who are like this. Their faces have promise in them, but how can you be promised something you will never stop wanting?
Once, after Jonah and I had sex, he said, “You really like it, don’t you? It scares me how much you like it.” He smiled at
me knowingly, and I nodded. I never knew what to say.
I slept at Paula’s house less and less. At school, she would corner me in the bathroom and ask me to come over. I never gave
firm answers. I was waiting for Jonah to come by, sweep me into his car, forgive me. It seemed like I was always doing something
wrong — I held him too tightly, told him I loved him. It never came out right. When I said it, the words sounded more like
a plea.
“I’ll see,” I told Paula.
She nodded her head. Her hair was a different shade. Clairol “Stardust,” she told me. She was losing weight, too, and it made
her face thin and freakish.
I did go over, and that night we lay outside on the back porch, the stars muted by the city lights. She said, “I’ve been thinking
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