by Portia Moore
“She’s just a girl, maybe not eighteen, nineteen, or twenty they think. She sits there, no longer a girl but a woman, the only woman noticed in the room.
Still the girl with a past. Who is she, they wonder, what has she done, how many hearts has she broken?
More than you’d think.
More than you could ever know.
That girl has a secret a secret that can only be told if you kiss her lips, slide your hands across the swivel of her hips.
Rocking- rocking faster and faster, the pleasure only leads to disaster. So many had to know, had to taste, had to see the recipe of she.
Who she is, what she knows, what she can give, but they give nothing in return, each time taking a peace of her soul, her energy goes and goes.
Until there’s nothing left, that recipe that they so wanted, her secret that they promised would never be told, and then they are done, that juicy news now old.
She’s just a girl, maybe a woman, she was noticed
Now no more.”
The quiet room bursts into applause. I stand, clapping excitedly. She smiles shyly, returning to who she was. The bold, vibrant presence she displayed as she read has evaporated back into her.
“Thank you,” she says before leaving the stage.
“That was amazing,” I tell Brett.
He smiles at me, and I hug him.
“I thought you’d like it. You can do that. You should do that,” he says, and I feel myself blush.
He remembered me mentioning I liked writing poetry. It was an offhand comment—I only mentioned it once—and maybe he notices all the writing I do in my journal before I rip up the pages and throw them away. He kisses me. It feels like a quick kiss but one that starts to linger, and though I don’t get butterflies, it’s nice. This time I don’t pull away.
IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since the disaster at the pizza shop and the poetry reading. Brett has grown on me. I still don’t have butterflies and just being around him doesn’t make me feel all warm inside, but he’s sweet and I enjoy being around him. He’s a good kisser, even if there’s nothing behind the kiss. I keep going back to the conversation I had with Aunt Dani, how she said that you don’t build a future based on lust, but that means that lust exists. If it does, why have I not felt it with anyone except Mr. Scott?
Brett asked me to go out with him . . . officially. It’s the first time I’ve ever been asked to be someone’s girlfriend. I’ve gone on a handful of dates, the normal amount for a teenager and maybe a little above average with my best friends being so popular. I’ve made out with some, refused to kiss others, but never, not once with any of those guys, did I feel what I feel when I’m around Mr. Scott. That means something, right? Or it means nothing. I like the idea of being Brett’s girlfriend, so I say yes, and afterwards I feel depressed and downright terrible.
His eyes see into my soul, or I fall into his. His voice wraps around me like a blanket when all else is cold. I don’t get his touch. It is too far and away . . .
I rip up the third piece of paper in my notebook. I have writer’s block . . . or Will block. Everything I write segues into being about him. Which is now starting to affect my grade in my creative writing class, and my math work hasn’t been stellar since I stopped seeing him for tutoring. I haven’t even been hanging out at Chris’s since I don’t want to see his dad.
“Hey, bestie!” Amanda whispers loudly, nearly scaring the crap out of me as she plops beside me in the library.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound chipper and not like the killjoy I’ve become.
“You writing something?”
I sigh. “It sucks.”
When she reaches for the crumpled paper, I try to beat her to it. She sticks her tongue out at me when she grabs it first. She straightens it and her eyes skim it and her face frowns.
“Are you still pining about this mystery dude? Is that what’s been wrong with you?” she asks impatiently.
I don’t answer. I just snatch up the crinkled paper and stuff it in my bag.
“Leese, you got to quit acting like this mopey zombie.” She pouts and sighs. “We’re worried about you.”
I roll my eyes. “Who is we?” But I already know the answer to that.
“Chris and I—and even Aidan.”
I have to chuckle at the fact that Aidan’s worried.
“Come on, spill it. I’m your best friend. I’m starting to be offended that you won’t tell me who this dude is,” she says with a slight frown
“I can’t.”
She rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “You’re selfish. And I’m not going to feel sorry for you,” she says in a forceful tone resembling someone’s mother.
My eyebrows rise as I give her an amused smirk.
“I’m serious. Here you are living in the greatest country in the world, you’re smart, and you have great hair and a perfect set of real boobs that I have to wear a push-up bra to get. You have this super cute college guy who wants you to be his girlfriend—and why wouldn’t he? You’re amazing—yet you’ve been moping and being a complete killjoy over some guy because he gives you butterflies but you can’t be with him because of some reason you won’t tell me, and you haven’t even done anything with this guy. It’s annoying!”
I laugh. I laugh hard, and it feels good. She grins at me. The librarian shoots us a warning glare, and we quiet down.
“You know what I think you should do?” she whispers.
It’s not often that I take Amanda’s advice, but she’s just made me feel better. What’s the worst she can say? She waits for me to ask her, and I oblige.
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think whoever this guy is, you need to push him out of your life,” she says.
“If it was that easy, I would have done it already,” I say.
“No, I think you have built up this boy and whatever you feel to be so much that your expectations won’t possibly live up to what it really is. Once you see that, you’ll be able to get over him,” she says.
I look at her, confused.
“You said this guy makes you feel all these crazy and surreal ways by not even touching you, right?” she asks, and I nod.
“Well, touch him.”
My eyes widen.
“I can’t,” she says with me in a teasing voice.
“You don’t understand. It’s a lot more complicated than you think,” I say adamantly.
“What I know is it doesn’t seem like you’re getting over this anytime soon. Your life has been at a standstill. You lied about being sick for homecoming—I know you weren’t—and I’m sick of it. I don’t care how complicated it is. Put your lips on his so you can see that whatever you think you feel for this guy isn’t real and you can move on!” Her big bright eyes narrow on mine.
It sounds crazy, but then I think I’ve always done things that are a little crazy. I bet Amanda is right. Maybe I have worked myself into such a frenzy that I’ve imagined what I’ve been feeling. It wouldn’t take much for me to figure out if what I’m feeling is real or imagined. A quick peck on his lips is all it would take. Of course he’ll probably freak out a little, but Will seems pretty laid-back. Afterward I could apologize and say I had no idea what I was doing and make up something about how I was upset with my boyfriend and it’ll never happen again.
Then I can stop imagining what it would be like to kiss him and stop wanting him, stop writing a story in my head of what it would be like. I just have to make sure no one’s around and that I have enough time to convince him afterward that it was silly, not premediated, a mistake, and get him to never say anything to Chris or Mrs. Scott.
It sucks. I’ve been trying not to think about her in all of this. . . .
Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do.
I’m going to kiss Will Scott.
“DO YOU KNOW how much I love you for bringing me my absolute favorite dish while I’m in the midst of starvation?” Gia says as she savors the pasta.
She means it as a rhetorical question, but the funny thing is, I don’t know how much she loves me. I know she loves me, but is she in love with me? Does a girl in love act like her? A woman in love says yes when you propose.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” she asks, her voice cutting into my thoughts.
I look at her, her long, dark hair tied in a bun at the top of her head, dark green eyes. When I saw her, she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She had a presence that made me take notice. She was smart, feminine, and looked as if she could be from a different time. If I had to describe her in one word, it’d be elegant or regal—something like that.
When I introduced her to my mom and stepdad, I knew whatever it was was real because they saw it too. Dexter Crestfield, who doesn’t think anyone is good enough, was impressed, impressed by my girlfriend. I was just the son he put up with because he’d fallen in love with my mother. Then he grew to love me and make me miserable my whole entire life. I remember what he said: “You’ve found something special, son. Don’t let her get away if you can.” His backhanded compliments were normal, but with her, there was no twisted insult in his words.
Gia’s an amazing woman, fit to grace anyone’s arm, yet she’s chosen mine though not officially. She wears my ring but not on her engagement finger. She had a way of turning down a proposal without making me feel like a loser—until I realized that maybe she hasn’t accepted because she’s looking for something better. But then she looks at me with those big green eyes and convincing smile, and I think, No way. She’s all in. She’s just waiting for the right time, then she’ll say yes. Then I realize it’s been nine months and counting, and she still hasn’t said yes.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” she says again. Her voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Nothing, just thinking.” I hear the dryness in my own tone.
Her eyebrow arches. She puts down her food, takes a drink of water, and sits on my lap. “About . . . ?” she says with a giggle, rubbing her hand up my arm.
“Gwen,” I say.
She looks perplexed. “What about her?”
I lean back into the couch. “She started crying today in the car about your dad.”
My eyes leave hers because I feel guilty about bringing up her sister while she’s sitting on my lap, because I’ve been thinking about her sister a whole lot more than I should be. We met while she was in the shower, go figure. Our meeting was a surprise, a mistake, unexpected, wild, and frenzied, which is fitting. That’s exactly how Gwen is—unexpected and wild. I thought she was Gia at first since she had long dark hair and she’s small framed just like her sister, but those eyes . . . something behind them was different even in the brief moment our eyes met. It shook something in me.
When Gia spoke about Gwen, it was always as if she was a little girl. I’m sure she mentioned her age at some point, but she always referred to her as little sis, little Gwen, cutesy nicknames that just sort of conjured up the image of a six-year-old in a pink fairy dress—the way Gwen was in the picture Gia kept on her wall.
When I saw Gwen, she was everything my imagination hadn’t thought of, and it caught me completely off guard. When we met under better circumstances, she’d opened the door to me, her bravado off the charts. She stood there, hands on her hips and unshaken confidence, but in those eyes, I saw something different again. She wasn’t all bravado and attitude. I know because I see the same thing in mine.
“I think it’s because of the move, then I gave her Dad’s necklace. She’s sleeping well, so I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Gia says. She shifts on my lap. “I’m glad you guys get on so well.”
I smirk. I search her face to see if there is any sarcasm in her comment, but there isn’t. No double meaning or jealousy there. She’s genuine, and that’s what I like so much about Gia. She’s forthcoming, no games or drama like I had with girls before I met her.
I do get on well with her sister—it’s the exact reason why I feel guilty. Not that we’ve ever crossed the line. Though we almost did that time at the carnival. We were sitting there, just talking, and the ride shook, and she landed right on me. We were close but far away, and if that ride had been still just a second longer, I would have kissed her. Her lips were like magnets drawing me in. I thought it was just because of us having a near-death experience, that biologically our instinct was to long for human closeness before our demise, which is being dramatic, but I latched on to that. I couldn’t regard the experience as anything else then.
But after getting to know her, I know it wasn’t just that. Around her, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t feel the need to be better, to be different. I can just be me, and she prefers me like that. Not that Gia doesn’t like me for who I am. I know she does . . . sometimes.
Gia keeps me on my toes. She pushes me to be a better man, or a different man, and that’s good. I think. I know I have bad habits and there’s definitely room for improvement, but it can be exhausting. With Gwen, I feel like I can breathe. I can be myself, the person I am when I go home and take off the tie and kick off the shoes. I can talk to her without worrying about if I sound smart enough or considerate enough, or if I’m interesting enough, which is why I like talking to her, hearing her voice, being around her.
And Gia’s cool. She’s not possessive or jealous. She’s fine knowing that we talk. What she probably wouldn’t be fine with is how much we talk, how much I look forward to talking to Gwen, how she’s started to cross my mind when we don’t talk, how I think about her a hell of a lot more than I should. How I found myself feeling slightly jealous when she talked about that Zach guy, her weird best friend/make-out buddy. I told her she deserved better than that, and I drowned out the small voice in my head that said I could give her better than that.
“I’m glad we get along too.” I fake a yawn.
“Tired?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m going to head home in a little while.” I see a flash of disappointment on her face, but it doesn’t stay long. Nothing affects Gia for long.
“I have a lot of work to do, anyway,” she says with a smile and gets off my lap. She starts to put away her dinner. “I wanted to ask you something. Gwen is going to go stir crazy in our house. I know there has to be some department position she can be squeezed into if you asked someone, right?”
I feel my heart speed up. “Yeah, they’re doing this big project in the library they need help with before school starts back up. It wouldn’t be a problem.” I try to hide my excitement, then guilt sets in. “You’d be okay with it?”
I realize my question sounds suspicious. Why wouldn’t she be okay with it? Really, there’s no reason she shouldn’t be. Or maybe I should be worried. I haven’t done anything too wrong, outright at least. Gwen and I have never crossed the line, and we never will. She loves her sister too much.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” she asks and looks at me questioningly.
I don’t answer her, but I rest my hands on her hips and give her a quick kiss.
“She likes you, and I know she doesn’t like a lot of people. Hopefully she’ll make some friends, and it’ll be good for her,” she says, pinching the bottom of my chin.
“As long as she’s okay with it.” I try to sound casual.
As I walk out of the house, I notice how my mood has changed, how I can’t stop smiling. I know it won’t take much to get her hired—the department head loves me—but is it a good idea? Something tells me it isn’t, but I ignore that.
“HOW’S MY WORKING girl?” Zach asks.
I sit in the empty classroom, using the phone on my break. “Fabulous, da’ling.” I twist the cord around my finger.
“That boring, huh?” He chuckles.
“Yeah,” I say with a laugh.
“Well if you’re bored, that means there isn’t much to do. So enjoy it.”
I miss Zach. I sort of miss home and lying in my bed when I thought my biggest care in the world was what I was going to make for dinner. Not much has changed�
�I’m not responsible for bills or anything like that—but things are so different than they were. I love living with Gia, having my big sister around and sort of being on my own. I like getting my own paycheck and not having to rely on anyone else for the things I want. Still, the job is boring. No one comes to the library in the summer, and it’s usually just Ms. Carmine and me cataloging books all day.
“I miss you, Zach. I wish you’d come down here,” I say for the hundredth time.
“Maybe I will.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?” I sound way too excited, but I am. If Zach comes, it will be beyond great.
I haven’t really made any friends here, and hanging out with Gia is practically out of the question with the way her schedule is. The other person I get to hang out with is fantastic, but at the same time, it’s gut-wrenching. I can’t tell Zach that though. It’s the one thing I feel uncomfortable bringing up. Not that Zach would judge me—he’s not the judgmental type—but he’d definitely tell me to do something. He gets irritated by inaction. And if there’s anything I can’t take action about, it’s this. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a distraction, but there are none. The job I hoped would keep me busy gives me way too much time to think and wallow.
“I’m thinking about it.” He chuckles, and I pout.
“Come on, seriously. Don’t get my hopes up if you’re not going to come,” I whine.
He laughs. “Maybe in the next two weeks, possibly.”
I squeal.
“You must really be bored,” he says, sounding flattered.
“I am.”
LUNCH IS UNFORTUNATELY something I look forward to. A little too much maybe. I pull out a bowl of the potato and bacon soup I whipped up yesterday. One of the best things about a job is having money to buy CDs and whatever food I like and try whatever recipes I want. I put the soup in the microwave, then I feel two hands grab my sides. My nerves shoot through my body, and I almost jump out of my skin. When I turn around and see Will laughing, I’m not surprised. I punch him playfully anyway.
