by Radclyffe
“I’m just saying. She’s fucking shy.”
“The shy ones are the best ones,” Jamie said with her mouth full of sandwich.
“I’m just looking,” I replied, closing the conversation. Just looking for now.
The next day, Oksana wore a short skirt. She had legs for days. I stared at them as she shifted her Converse under the desk. I leaned over and put a paper flower I’d crafted on top of her history book. “So that guy. Does he have to pick you up?”
She shook her head. “No. I walk home when he’s working.” She picked up the flower and put it to her nose. She didn’t inhale, but her eyes closed for a moment, and she was somewhere else. My mouth popped open. When she looked at me, I managed to get it to work again.
“You want to come over tomorrow?” I asked boldly. In front of me, Brad twitched.
“I have to watch my sister.” She had a sister? This was new bit of information, but I didn’t want to tackle that family shit yet. I had to get her over to my house first.
“How about—”
“I can come over on Thursday.” She peeked up at me through her eyelashes.
“We’re taking the bus. That okay?”
“She lived in the Soviet Union, dude. The bus must be like a Rolls-Royce to her,” Brad teased.
I almost smacked him in the back of the head, but Oksana’s lip picked up at the corner in a little smile. “Yeah, the bus is fine.”
She bolted like usual as soon as the bell rang. At lunch she was right back over with Marni and her minions, doing her best not to look my way.
That night, I waited for Mom to get home before I ate dinner. We watched reruns of Friends and then I nudged her toward a shower and bed. She skipped the shower and was snoring before I finished the dishes. After, I spent a few minutes online. It only took a second to find some pictures of Oksana. She modeled bathing suits for some lame teen clothing line. I jacked off until I fell asleep.
When Oksana walked into homeroom on Thursday, I almost came in my pants. She’d dyed her hair all the way blond and straightened it. It looked good no matter how she wore it, but the shift in her look was just plain sexy. She was wearing an even shorter skirt, this microscopic pleated thing. Very schoolgirl, very porny. The whole class looked at her. The prissy bitches on the other side of the room started their whispers right away. Even Mrs. Porter looked twice. I started mopping up my drool. Oksana didn’t say anything when she sat down.
I turned to the front of the room and managed to get my shit together while the morning announcements were shouted out overhead. Finally I looked back in her direction. I wanted to say something witty and complimentary, but the bell rang. If it wasn’t for slow-ass Brad and Oksana’s super long legs I would have caught up with her.
During lunch she was the center of attention. I ignored Cara’s low whistle as I watched Marni fuss over Oksana’s hair and her outfit.
“Still just looking?” Cara joked. I didn’t answer.
After class Oksana met me by my locker. I had no idea she knew where my locker was, but she popped up at my side all packed up. I wasn’t sure if she was exactly ready, though. I couldn’t read her expression. She looked resigned, maybe? Almost a little scared or sad as she gazed at the floor. But when I nodded down the hall and said, “Let’s go,” she followed me without hesitation. We listened to some freshmen talking shit about their friends on the way to the bus stop. Once we were on the bus, she didn’t say a thing. When we got off it was only a few blocks to my house. I told her and she nodded. She didn’t say anything else until I unlocked the front door.
“Are your parents home?” she asked.
“Not until late.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s go to my room.”
“Okay.”
She followed me down the hall, and when I opened the door to my bedroom, I let her look around. I turned on my TV and flopped down on my bed.
“I don’t live too far from here,” she said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. We’re right over on Sweetzer.”
“Shit, that’s real close,” I replied. Then I got to the point. “Do you like girls?”
Oksana ran her finger over the base of one of my soccer trophies. She didn’t turn around so I started getting undressed. I knew she’d heard me kicking off my sneakers and unzipping my jeans, but she stayed put.
Finally she said, “I think so.”
“Have you ever done anything with a girl?”
She shook her head. “No, I—you’re not wearing underwear!”
I looked down at my body, laughing at the ghastly expression on her face. “Yes, I am.” I still had my sports bra on too.
“I mean, you’re wearing boxers. I—”
“They’re more comfortable, but I don’t think they would look good on you.” She looked down, like she was analyzing her underwear. “Come sit over here.” I sat down on the bed and waited for her to join me. She folded her hands in her lap.
I had no idea what to do. My crotch was telling me to jump her, but I seriously couldn’t get a good read on what she was thinking or feeling.
“Do you want to be here?”
She nodded, then said quietly, “Yes.”
“And you get why I asked you over?”
“Yes. I’m just, how do you guys say it, hella nervous.”
I laughed as she did her best Valley girl voice. “Don’t be hella nervous. We don’t have to do anything, I just wanted to open the door.” Fuck, the fact that I’d gotten her to talk was a small miracle. I deserved a genius grant for getting her into my bedroom.
“I want to do something,” she replied, her voice sounding sweet and eager. “I just…” My hand on her thigh stopped her from finishing. Her skin was so soft and warm. She tensed at my touch, gazing down at my blunt fingertips, but I could tell by the way her breath skipped she didn’t want me to stop.
“I like your hair like this.”
She looked up and met my eyes. Hers were so green. “My baba—I mean my grandma gets itchy with hair dye every once in a while. I volunteered to be her guinea pig this time.”
“It looks good.” My fingers wandered a little higher up her leg. I flicked the edge of her skirt. “Did you wear this for me?”
She hesitated before she said, “Yes.”
I kissed her. It was a little awkward at first. She wasn’t a good kisser. She kept her lips pursed too tight and she didn’t grasp the concept of head angling, but soon I stopped, and she let me give her some direction.
“Just relax. Relax your mouth. Here.” I brought my hands up to touch her. “Even relax your shoulders.”
“I’m sorry.” She blushed, looking away.
“Don’t be sorry and don’t be nervous. This is supposed to be fun, so just have fun with it.”
She stood suddenly and started shimmying out of her skirt. My throat was suddenly dry.
“Will you finger me?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Uh…yeah. Come back over here.” When she’d stripped down to nothing but a small pair of pink underwear, that’s what she did.
With her lying beside me I was suddenly doubting my skills, but that didn’t stop me. And her fears didn’t stop Oksana from opening her legs for me either.
*
“I should get home,” Oksana said some time later.
“You want me to walk with you?”
“No. I’m okay.” This was supposed to be casual so I didn’t push. I pulled some clothes on though and walked her to the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said expectantly, like I was freaked that she’d transfer schools or something.
She nodded, keeping her eyes down. “Will you show me how to do stuff on you? I want to know what you like.”
I almost passed out. Dry humping was my favorite pastime. I could definitely show her that. “Yeah, um…yeah. We can do that.”
“Okay. Night.” She kissed me quickly on the cheek, then bolted down the stree
t.
This went on for two weeks, though the routine was nothing close to dull. We’d see each other at school. Sometimes I’d flirt with her in homeroom, even though she never really flirted back. I’d watch her with no subtlety whatsoever during lunch. That guy still picked her up from school, but a few times a week, after the final bell, she’d come home with me. She got a hang of the kissing, though nothing turned her on more than my dry-humping technique.
When we caught eyes between classes, she wouldn’t smile, but she’d blush like crazy and I knew she was picturing the things we’d done the afternoon before. I know I was. I liked to tease her about it ’cause that just made her blush even more. The guys asked questions. They got the feeling something was up, but with Oksana I didn’t want to kiss and tell. I respected her too much.
Mid-April, things changed. She was quiet until we got to the bus stop. Traffic was backed up. When she figured we’d be waiting a little while for the next bus, she pulled out a little notebook from her bag.
“You wanna see my baby sister?”
“Yeah.” She opened the notepad, maybe a journal or something. None of the writing on the first page was in English, but there was a Polaroid taped to the inside cover. She was in the picture too, holding a little girl in her lap. It was crazy that that much pretty had been pumped into one family. “She’s cute. What’s her name?”
“Ekaterina.” Each syllable rolled off her tongue. It was crazy hot. “I’ve been calling her Katty or Pooh. She’s three.”
“She looks just like you.”
“No.” She shook her head. “She’s prettier.”
Oksana was crazy, but I let her have it.
When we got back to my house, I made us a snack that we ate while we watched TV in the living room. I made the first move again and this time we ended up on the floor. She was shy at first, as usual, but she let me go down on her. When we finished, I could tell something was wrong.
“Is this all you want to do?” Oksana asked as she buttoned up her jeans.
“What do you mean?”
“Fool around.”
She’d been over a handful of times. And each time I’d just been focused on getting her naked. We were strangers with benefits. I couldn’t help how hot she was or how bad I wanted her. It never occurred to me that she would want more. The secrecy and the casual tone of our relationship seemed to suit her reserved nature. Then it clicked.
“You like me, don’t you!” I said a little too loudly. It came out totally fucked up, like I’d been trying to play her from the beginning. After her eyes popped open wide with shock and embarrassment, she quickly grabbed for her shirt. I dashed to her side before she could slip it on.
“I like you,” I said quickly. I was practically in love with her, but I wasn’t going to say that out loud.
“Or you like hooking up with me?” She glared at me. It was the most direct eye contact we’d ever shared. She wasn’t about to let me slick my way out of this one, but I didn’t need a way out.
“I like you. The hooking up is nice too, but I actually like you.”
“I like you too, but I want to hang out with you. Like how couples do. Like girlfriends maybe, with talking and going on dates with the fooling around. Maybe you could come over my house and help me babysit. We have to keep our clothes on, but we can hang out. Katty’s a good kid.”
“We can definitely do that,” I replied. That was when I realized I really did want to meet her sister. I wanted to spend more time with Oksana, period.
It was subtle, but she exhaled. “Okay. I better go.”
“You want me to walk with you?”
She thought for a minute. “Yes.”
The whole way, I held her hand. My palm was sweating, but she didn’t seem to notice.
That night, I found a piece of paper half-crumpled and wedged in my Spanish book. I had no idea how long it had been there, but when I unfolded it, I found Oksana’s phone number. Just call before eleven it said below her digits. Maybe that’s why she finally asked. She’d given me her number maybe months ago and I hadn’t done anything but mount her at every turn. I looked at the clock. It was 9:45.
I called her, of course, psyched that Oksana answered on the second ring and a little turned on that she purred out some sexy greeting in Russian instead of saying hello.
We stayed up all night talking.
The next day, Oksana actually talked to me in homeroom and she let me walk her to class. She didn’t hesitate finding me in the lunchroom. She ignored the curious stares from the guys and plopped down beside me. I was in heaven until Marni made a direct line for our table.
“Hey?” Marni said, her hands on her hips.
Oksana looked up and smiled at her like nothing was out of place. “Hi.”
“Um. Why are you sitting over here?”
“I wanted to sit with Tracy,” Oksana replied before she took a bite of her sandwich.
“Why?” I hadn’t ever seen someone so confused and a little offended. Marni’s world was slowly tilting upside down. I did my best not to laugh in her face. Under the table, I slid my hand into Oksana’s lap. Marni saw.
Oksana turned her head up and looked Marni straight in the eye. “’Cause she’s my girlfriend.”
Marni’s face fell off her fucking head. “Oh.”
“I’ll see you in class,” Oksana said, giving her the official shove-off. I didn’t bother hiding my asshole grin when Marni glanced at me. She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder and stormed back over to her clique.
“Trace?” Cara gasped across the table. “You’re gay?”
“Shut up.” I laughed, but I felt Oksana get all rigid beside me again.
“Was that okay?” she said quietly. She was so cute when she got all bashful. “I didn’t just out you, did I?”
She was so sweet and considerate, she didn’t realize how silly that sounded. The doctor who delivered me knew I was gay the minute I popped out. But I melted a little as she blushed and nibbled her lip a little more.
“I think you may have outed yourself, but don’t worry about me. It’s totally okay.”
“Okay,” she said with her slight smile. And then she moved a little closer to me.
Chili Powder
Anna Meadows
Mamá never warned me how different it’d be in a gringo town. She dyed my hair the color of corn tortillas, cut me bangs like Zooey Deschanel, and taught me to use a curling iron, like that was all it took.
My first clue should’ve been all the blues in my closet, how nobody in Kendall wore them except at night. Back home, my jeans and my denim skirts looked like nothing, but here, all the denim made me stick out like I was going for Madonna circa “Don’t Tell Me.” Mamá wouldn’t let me wear jeans after she caught me watching the music video on TV when I was four because she said Madonna could make anything slutty, even Levi’s. I got all the way to seventh grade before she lifted the ban.
Las camisolas I wore under my jean jacket worked back home too. Hell, they even had lace along the edges, and that made them good enough to wear lipstick with. In the gringo town, though, in the middle of all those sweater sets and starched collars, they made me look barata, like I had on lingerie to go to church. It wasn’t like the girls in Kendall never wore spaghetti straps, but there was something about the bright colors and splashy flower prints that made it okay, that made it look cute and tropical instead of cheap.
But cheap was pretty much how I looked anyway, with my bleached-out hair and eyebrows (Mamá said they had to match), my lipstick that feathered when the other girls’ stayed glossy as the hood of a waxed car, and my new push-up bras that Mamá said all the gringa girls wore (they didn’t; most of them were too bony to have any chiches to push up).
The worst was when I made the jokes about fags or queers, los maricónes or los playos, whatever you wanted to call them. Those cardigan girls and Dockers boys looked at me like I was mean and stupid and inculta. I thought they’d know I didn’t mean nothing
by it. Boys who did stuff with boys and girls who did stuff with girls had to make the jokes first so nobody else got the chance. Back home, I’d gotten called la tortillera every time anybody saw me getting out of Reyna Soccoro’s backseat, my lipstick smeared, her belt half-buckled. Only thing to do was wave, or say, “Yeah, so what?” or curtsy like the Queen of fucking England if I had on the right skirt for it. It was how to get by, how to make sure nobody said nothing about me spending the night at Nikki Quintana’s, or getting behind the back chemistry lab counter with Daniela Concepción. I learned early that if I made fun of myself first, it took the fun out of it for everyone else.
But in Kendall it meant getting iced out of every table and bleacher during lunch. Those gallinas and their boyfriends looked at me like I’d spit on the shrine of la virgen and her roses. Like they’d never said anything about los mariquitas in their whole twin-set life. I would’ve sat down anyway, just to get to them, but they might’ve henpecked me to death and broken their special diets just to eat me.
They never would’ve made it a year at my old school. Back home, if somebody’s mother heard from anybody else’s mother that her son was una mariquita, or worse, her daughter una tortillera—a pretty son was better than a daughter who wouldn’t wear a dress—she would’ve rounded up the church ladies to cast out el demonio. Salt on the pilot light and readings from Eclesiastés and making you say the names of los apóstoles over and over until you can’t remember your own, let alone some girl in a gray hoodie who smells like her brother’s aftershave.
I wasn’t sitting inside for lunch, though. Nobody but freshmen ate inside, and the dozen girls who thought Mr. Hemsley was so guapo they brought their Wonder Bread into the biology lab. Plus Mamá warned me it snows here in the winter, so I better get my time outside now before the whole world iced over. I found a spot under a tree so big and fluffy that with its leaves turned chili-colored, it looked like the biggest marigold. It cast a ring of shade that nobody else got near. They must’ve thought they’d catch the meanness.
