Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  “Yeah, but my parents proved they were good enough to be onstage before they did other stuff. My uncle’s the only one who doesn’t have some sort of performance degree, and I know everyone thinks less of him for it.”

  “I just don’t see how anyone could think less of you for writing a show,” she says. “What you’re doing is ridiculously impressive.”

  “That doesn’t matter, though. I’m still failing at the career they want for me, you know? They’re going to find out I’m not good enough eventually when I don’t get into any acting schools, but is it so bad if I want them to believe I fit in for a little longer?”

  “They’re your family. Of course you fit in.”

  “I don’t, though.” I sigh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all angsty about it. I’m totally ruining our picnic. I think maybe I’m a little drunk?”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry. C’mere.” Zoe lies back on the blanket and holds out her arms to me, and I sink down and settle my body against hers. It’s weird how comfortable and familiar it already feels to lie like this, our limbs all tangled together.

  “Let’s not talk about it right now,” she says. “Let’s focus on the good stuff, okay? I bet I can cheer you up.”

  “I bet you can, too,” I say, because no matter what’s wrong, Zoe can always make me feel like I’m worth something. I wait for the pep talk to start, but instead she leans in and starts kissing me, warm and deep and unhurried. Her mouth tastes like champagne and chocolate frosting, and I tell myself this is good, too. I’m in the most romantic situation ever with a gorgeous, fascinating girl who loves making out with me. This is exactly what I should want, isn’t it?

  Zoe runs her fingers through my hair and kisses the spot where my ear meets my jaw. “Feeling a little better now?” she whispers.

  “Yes,” I say, because I’m trying to trick myself into believing I do.

  She pulls away and sits up, and for a second I think maybe she’s done kissing me for now and is ready to talk again. But then she straddles me, slips the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and pulls it down around her waist, eyes locked on mine the whole time. She isn’t wearing a bra.

  “How about now?” she asks, her voice low and sultry.

  My throat seizes up, and it’s suddenly very difficult to swallow or speak. It’s not that I don’t like what I see; Zoe’s skin is so beautiful in the candlelight that she almost looks more like a painting than a person, and her breasts are perfect. But there’s this sudden metallic tang at the back of my throat that overpowers all the fluttery feelings I should be having, the same panicky sensation I always get when the subway train stops in a tunnel between stations and I don’t know how long it’ll be before we start moving again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me; I’ve seen plenty of breasts in my life, and none of them have ever scared me.

  Then again, I’ve never been expected to do anything with them, either.

  “Um,” I manage. I wish I hadn’t drunk all that champagne. Or maybe I haven’t had enough?

  Zoe laughs, so low and deep, it’s almost a purr. “It’s okay,” she says. She takes my hand and tries to guide it toward her chest, but I resist.

  “We shouldn’t— I mean, someone could come out here and see—”

  “Brooklyn. Nobody’s coming. We’re completely alone.” She leans over and kisses me again, those warm, naked breasts hovering right above me, and I kind of wish I could sink into the ground. “Anyway, I don’t care who sees,” she murmurs against my mouth. “I just want you to touch me. Okay?”

  If I were Carlos, I’d flip her onto her back, strip her dress off the rest of the way, and kiss every inch of her body. She probably misses his mouth and his hands and all the things he did to her three days ago. He already has more of a hold on Zoe than I do, and I’m afraid that if I don’t cooperate right now, I’m not going to be allowed to keep her. If touching her and losing her are the only two options, I’m sure I can swallow down my discomfort. I love her, and she’s done everything she can to make me happy. I owe her this.

  Zoe sits up a little and takes my hands again, and this time I let her put them where she wants them. Her breasts are a little fuller and heavier than mine, but they basically feel the same, and I tell myself I can handle this. I trace the outer curves with my fingertips, and she closes her eyes and makes a little humming sound that tells me I’m doing something right. Before I can think too hard about it, I brush my thumbs over her nipples, and she sucks in her breath and arches her back. It makes me feel incredibly powerful, like the night I traced her tattoo, but this time all I want to do is put some space between us. That night in my bed didn’t feel sexual at all, somehow; it felt like a wordless way of discussing how we felt about each other. There was no end goal, just a wash of tingly warmth and closeness and magic. But what Zoe’s asking me for now feels totally different.

  I move my hands down to her sides, into safer territory, hoping she’ll notice something is wrong. But instead, she grabs one of my hands and moves it to her inner thigh, way up under the tulle lining of her skirt. Her skin is as hot and damp as a feverish forehead. She reaches down and starts undoing the buttons on my shirt, and I reflexively start to sit up. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think, silly?” She pushes the fabric out the way with one finger and exposes my bra, which is light blue with darker blue polka dots. It’s not sexy at all, but this isn’t what I expected to be doing when I put it on this morning.

  “Ooh, cute,” she says.

  I pull my shirt back into place. “Zoe…I don’t…”

  She sits back, the tulle under her skirt scratching my legs. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just…I don’t think I can do this right now.”

  “Of course you can.” She moves toward me again and presses her hips against mine. “Come on, Brooklyn. Can’t you tell how much I want you?”

  “I mean, I…I don’t feel ready, I guess.”

  Zoe deflates a little. “I’m not trying to have sex with you,” she says. “I’m trying to take your shirt off. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I know, but…I don’t know. It feels like too much.”

  “Really? We’ve been hooking up for two weeks, and all you’ve really let me do is kiss you.”

  The things I’ve done with Zoe feel so momentous to me that it’s weird to hear her belittle them like this. “You know I’ve never been with a girl before,” I say. “I need to go slowly.”

  “Carina had never been with a girl before, and we were doing a lot more than this after two weeks,” Zoe says. “And you’ve done all kinds of stuff with guys, right? So I don’t get why it’s different.”

  It’s true; if she were a guy, my shirt would be in a crumpled heap on the ground right now. “I don’t know why it’s different,” I say. “It just is.”

  “Are you not into me?” It sounds like a challenge, but Zoe’s face looks vulnerable all of a sudden.

  I touch her cheek. “Of course I’m into you,” I say, but even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I start to doubt them. I love her, and she’s beautiful, and I want to tell her everything and be with her all the time, but that’s not really the same thing, is it? I don’t need to touch her at all for those things to be true. I definitely don’t need to put my hands up her skirt.

  “I’m really sorry, but can we put this on hold for right now?” I ask. “I worked for fourteen hours today, and I’m kind of drunk, and I’m so tired. I don’t feel like myself.”

  It’s a total cop-out, and I know it, and I’m sure she knows it, too. But she says, “Okay,” climbs off me, and pulls her dress back on. It’s embarrassing how much better I feel once she’s covered up.

  “I didn’t mean to ruin everything,” I say, and it comes out choked.

  “You didn’t,” she says. “It’s fine.” But instead of lying back down with me, she stands up and starts packing up the leftover food.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, even though she’s really the
one who should be asking me.

  “Yeah. It’s late, though. We should go back.”

  “Probably.” I start blowing out the votive candles, and once we’re in the dark and she can’t see my face, I let a couple of stray tears escape. I thought it might ease the tightness in my chest to get them out, but it doesn’t help at all.

  We’re silent all the way back to Ramsey. Zoe and I each have a free hand, but she doesn’t reach for me, and I don’t reach for her, either. When I come back to the room after brushing my teeth, she’s lying in her own bed for the first time in weeks. I want to tell her she can still sleep over here with me. Curling up together, warm and safe, doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all. But I know I’ve hurt her, and the least I can do is leave her alone to lick her wounds.

  I pull my blanket up over me and switch off the light, and we lie there in the dark, awake but separate. Neither of us even says good night.

  It’s like the entire world has been flipped onto its head. For the last six weeks, Zoe has made me feel confident and worthwhile, like I was doing everything right by being myself, and being in the theater has made me feel exactly the opposite. But now I can’t wait to get to Legrand for Bye Bye Banquo every morning, and I try to stay there as late into the evenings as I possibly can. I tell myself I’m hiding in the rehearsal studios because Russell and I have so much work to do. But deep down, I know I’m avoiding being alone in the room with Zoe.

  I expect her to be sulky after our failed picnic, and I spend days waiting for my punishment to start. But the other shoe never drops—if anything, Zoe’s even kinder than usual. She moves back into my bed the next night, gives me sweet little kisses, and whispers that she loves me, but she doesn’t try to take off my clothes again. She brings me offerings whenever I have breaks from rehearsal—iced coffees, doughnuts, funny notes folded into origami shapes—and she surreptitiously holds my hand under the table while we eat dinner. This is exactly the friendship-plus-more situation I’ve been wanting from her, and I know I should be happy. But I can’t relax into it, because I never stop wondering how long this reprieve is going to last. We’ll be living together for only a few more weeks, and there’s no way Zoe’s going to let them pass without trying to push things forward again. It feels safer to stay in public, where we have to act like we’re nothing more than good friends.

  Fortunately, it’s easy to stay out of the room. The music director cedes more control of Bye Bye Banquo to Russell and me every day, and eventually he abandons the piano altogether and lets us teach our parody songs to the actors ourselves. Being in charge is a challenge at first, mostly because it’s hard to act confident enough that people twice my age will accept me as a leader. But after a few days, I find my rhythm, and I start to love the feeling of shaping a show into exactly what I want it to become. After rehearsals, the cast always unwinds at a pub called the Bronze Pineapple, and I’m surprised and pleased when they invite Russell and me along right from the first night and treat us like part of the group even though we’re not actors. Even Jessa jokes around with me when she joins us after her Dreamgirls performances. Zoe’s always there, too, of course, standing close enough to me that she can unobtrusively touch my hand or my waist while she chats with the cast. We usually stay out late enough that I can feign exhaustion and go to bed the minute we get home without seeming like I’m rejecting her.

  I know this comfortable limbo won’t last, but I try to enjoy it while I can.

  And then I get to the Bronze Pineapple on Saturday night and find that Zoe is already there, waiting for me at a table for two instead of with the other actors near the bar. The whole time we’ve been at Allerdale, I’ve been the one waiting for Zoe’s undivided attention while she finished her important work, and it’s weird to be on this side of the equation. It’s flattering that she wants to be alone with me, but it also puts me on edge.

  She slides a ginger ale across the table as I approach. “Hey! This is for you. Sit with me for a while?” She sounds casual, but her smile looks too-bright and pasted-on.

  I sit down across from her anyway. “Of course,” I say. “Thanks for the drink.”

  A waitress comes over and drops off a spiral wire stand holding a cone of curly fries. “Those are for you, too,” Zoe says. “I know you always want salty stuff after rehearsal.”

  I’m starting to get really nervous now; it’s like she’s buttering me up before she delivers bad news. I wonder if she’s cheating on me or something—I mean, with more people than Carlos. But I force a smile anyway and say, “You’re the best. Here, have some.”

  We eat the fries and chat about nothing while I wait for her to drop whatever bomb she has in store for me. But there’s no big revelation, and after a few minutes, I can’t stand the suspense any longer. “So…why are we all the way over here?” I prompt. “Is there something you want to talk to me about?”

  She shrugs. “Not really. I just miss you, I guess.”

  “You saw me this morning in rehearsal, silly. We were together for, like, six hours.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re never really around anymore.”

  I reach across the table and take her hand. “I’m sorry. We start rehearsing onstage tomorrow, and there’s been so much work to do. It’s not like I’m avoiding you or anything.” I’ve never told her an outright lie before, and it takes everything I have to maintain eye contact.

  “It kind of seems like you are, a little,” she says.

  “No, I’ve just been really tired and overworked. I’m sorry if it’s getting in the way of us.”

  Zoe turns my hand over and runs one finger along the inside of my wrist. “You’re not working right now.”

  My heartbeat speeds up, but I force my voice to stay bright and cheerful. “No, I’m eating these delicious fries you bought me because you’re the nicest person ever.” I almost say nicest girlfriend ever, but I’m still not sure if I’m allowed to use that word.

  “When you’re done, maybe we could go hang out.”

  “We are hanging out.”

  “Maybe we could hang out alone. Back in the room.”

  “You don’t want to bond with the cast?”

  Zoe rolls her eyes. “Brooklyn, I’m with those people twelve hours a day. I’m so sick of them. I want to bond with you. Unless you don’t want to.”

  “No, I do.” I glance over at Russell and send him a telepathic message to come save me, but he’s having an animated discussion with Olivier in the corner and doesn’t even notice me.

  I eat my fries as slowly as possible, but there’s only so long I can make them last. Zoe has already paid our bill, and she’s on her feet the second the basket is empty. “Ready?” she asks.

  If she had suggested we abandon the group and hang out alone four weeks ago, I would’ve been out the door before she was even done asking. It seems so wrong that I feel more apprehension than excitement now. I’m suddenly nostalgic for the night we yelled affirmations into the mirror, when our friendship was heavy with possibility but nothing was expected.

  But I still say, “Ready.”

  Zoe slips her arm around my waist the moment we’re outside, and as we walk back to Ramsey, her fingers stray down until they’re tucked into the back pocket of my skirt. Every so often she gives my butt a gentle squeeze, and I make myself smile, but if she’s acting like this in public, it’s going to take some serious effort to deflect her advances once we get home. I check my phone to see if it’s late enough that I can claim exhaustion again, but it’s only ten-thirty. I consider saying I don’t feel well, and then I wonder when I turned into the kind of person who fakes illness to get out of kissing her girlfriend.

  The door of our room has barely shut behind us before Zoe has me pressed up against it, her teeth tugging at my bottom lip and her hands sliding up my sides, under my shirt. After a minute, she walks me backward toward the bed and lowers me down onto it, and even through my anxiety, I’m impressed by how smoothly she does it. I wonder how much practice
she’s had. Before I can even catch my breath, her mouth is on my neck and her hands are creeping up over my ribs, pushing my shirt out of the way and tugging my bra down. I’m pretty sure my heart is going to burst straight up out of my chest, but I close my eyes and try to stay calm. Just let her touch you, I tell myself. What’s the worst that can happen? Pretend she’s a guy if you need to.

  The thought is so startling that my eyes snap open. Being touched by someone I love should feel natural, like it used to feel with Jason. It shouldn’t be something I need to pretend away or get used to. If I’m really attracted to Zoe, I shouldn’t like her better when she’s six inches away than when she’s right on top of me. I’ve been telling her I’m not ready, that it’s not the right time, but maybe there’s never going to be a right time.

  I tug my clothes back into place, and Zoe sighs with frustration. “Brooklyn, what’s the problem now?”

  “I’m really tired…,” I say, and it sounds lame even to me.

  “It’s ten-forty-five. That’s why I wanted to come back early, so you wouldn’t be tired for once.”

  “Can’t we talk for a little while or something?”

  “I don’t want to talk. We talked for an hour at the bar. Right now I’ve got an extremely hot girl in my bed, and I want to take advantage of it, okay?” But she doesn’t say it like it’s sexy; she says it like I owe her something. Her hand glides up my thigh, under my skirt, and I squirm away.

  “But we never talk about anything important anymore. Don’t you miss the conversations we used to have? Sometimes I wish we could play Love or Hate like before, when I felt like you were actually paying attention to me.”

  “I always pay attention to you,” Zoe says. “I’m not thinking about anything but you right now.”

  “But you’re thinking about this.” I gesture vaguely to my body. “You’re not thinking about what I’m saying.”

  Zoe sits up. “So, what, you want me to stay on the other side of the room and pretend we’re just friends?”