by Ava Dellaira
“I need to take the SAT … it’s fifty dollars,” she blurts out.
“Fifty dollars for a test? What do you need that for?”
“To apply for college.”
“Well, chances are by next year you’ll be well on your way to becoming the next great Marilyn. I don’t think you need to run off to college.” Sylvie always thinks everything will happen just in time. She’d thought Marilyn would land an audition just in time to allow them to pay rent on their apartment. Now she thinks Marilyn will become famous just in time to keep her from leaving, to keep her within Sylvie’s own orbit.
“Mom,” Marilyn says, more quietly, “I want to go to school. It’s really important.”
Sylvie’s face freezes over into the familiar mask she wears when she’s upset.
“Meg Ryan went to NYU,” Marilyn tries. “Claire Danes goes to Yale.” She hates herself for this approach—though she likes both actresses, she doesn’t aspire to emulate either. But she’s desperate for the shortest route to her mother’s agreement.
“Well,” Sylvie says finally, “I think you should focus on something local—LA is the place to be, after all, in your line of work.”
Marilyn just nods. As Sylvie refills her wineglass, Marilyn goes, closes herself into her bedroom.
The next morning, when she finds a fifty-dollar bill pushed under her door, she shuts her eyes in silent gratitude.
Marilyn moves through the days at LA High, focusing on her classes, opting to eat lunch alone in the empty darkroom with her schoolbooks, conjuring images of James like a secret survival tool as she navigates the crowded halls. In AP US history, she hears his voice, his imagined responses, during their discussions. She does her work, watches him through her bedroom window, waits for the next Saturday to arrive.
When it does, she wakes at 7:54 a.m., before her alarm. The sunlight streaming through her window looks deliciously buttery today, instead of suffocating. Or maybe it’s just her mood—summer’s heat has clung relentlessly to the first days of October, and this one’s no different. She chooses a cotton dress, twists her hair into a bun, puts on lipstick and a pair of hoop earrings she’d slipped into the cart when she went to the 99-cent store with Sylvie this week. She likes the shiny glint of the cheap metal, the way it brings out the gold in her hair. Marilyn’s never wanted to be “sexy,” never tried at it; fussing over her appearance has always reminded her of auditions, of anxiety. But she feels something within her starting to shift: she wants to look pretty for the day with James, yes, but even more than that, she wants an outward expression of the way his presence makes her feel inside of her body—both newly self-possessed and ravenous.
When she comes out of her room, she finds Woody asleep on the couch and Sylvie dressed for work, eating a raspberry Yoplait and staring out the barred window, where the sun’s heat now announces itself on the street.
“Morning,” Marilyn whispers, and kisses Sylvie on the cheek.
“You look nice,” Sylvie says. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m going to study with a friend,” Marilyn says, a polite half lie. She’s invented a few companions for Sylvie’s sake—extrapolated from girls she sits with in the library during free periods. Easier not to confront her mother with her truth of the fact she’ll spend the day with James, though she assumes Sylvie must at least suspect.
“Well,” Sylvie says, after a pause, “it’s nice that you’ve started … taking an interest in your appearance.”
Marilyn smiles at her mom, privately wishing her out the door.
“You want a ride?” Sylvie asks with a sidelong glance.
“No, it’s okay. I can take the bus.”
Marilyn makes coffee, and when Sylvie finally leaves for work, she pours it into two mugs, adds cream to both.
She packs her bag and heads out, where she sits on the shaded part of the steps, sipping her coffee and waiting for James to emerge—this way he won’t knock and risk waking Woody. By the time he steps outside half an hour later, she feels herself already beginning to sweat through her dress. His gaze catches on hers like Velcro, and for a moment they’re stuck like that, staring at each other.
“What’s up?” he asks. “What are you doing out here?”
Marilyn considers telling him what her mom said about Woody, but she’s too ashamed by it. “Just wanted to get out of the house. I brought you a coffee?” She offers the mug. He smiles the smile she loves and sips. They get into his Dodge and ride to the library with the windows down, hot air loosening strands of hair from her bun. She wishes his hand that rests on the shifter would brush against her bare thigh.
And this is how they spend the next three Saturdays: together in the library, studying for SATs, comparing notes on the reading for their US history classes, thumbing through the Fiske Guide. Since the night they kissed, they haven’t so much as touched again. Why not? she wonders. During one of their study dates James made reference to cruising the mall for girls with his friends—“They’re hella thirsty,” he’d joked, “’cause Immaculate Heart is an all-boys school.” Why not just make a move herself, then? She doesn’t know; perhaps she’s afraid of growing attached to him. All her life, she’s only allowed herself one hunger: for her own distant future. But now, her vision blurs; she wants James.
The most maddening: the occasional trace of his lingering smell. What to compare it to? For Marilyn he conjures the clean cool of the fall air she longs for, burnt sugar, a penny in a fountain—copper and water at once. And yet, she can get so wrapped up in showing off during the vocab quizzes they give each other, so lost in a conversation with him over colonial history, or in a discussion of the latest from Slouching Towards Bethlehem, that she can nearly forget the ache of desire inside her. They’ve taken to reading one essay aloud every week; when the afternoon begins to shift into evening, they buy coffees from the snack bar downstairs and go out to the courtyard, where they settle on a bench beneath the wide leaves of a travelers palm, and Marilyn’s voice carries them through magic hour. Often, on their way home, with just the littlest light left in the sky, James pulls over in their neighborhood and lets her drive the rest of the way. She loves the feel of the wheel in her hands, the gas pedal against her sole. Most of all, she loves the sound of his voice, deep and calm, as he gives her instructions, and finally congratulates her on a job well done.
* * *
SAT day: the twenty-fourth of October brings the relief of one of the season’s first foggy mornings. The low clouds and chilly air are a salve to their nerves as Marilyn and James drive to Los Angeles High School, sharpened number two pencils in their bags, “Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down” turned up on the stereo for motivation, bananas in hand. (Marilyn brought one for each of them after reading they’re good for the brain.) Just before they go into the testing room and take their seats, James reaches out, squeezes her hand. Marilyn feels it like an electric shock. Her body is still buzzing as she finds her desk, grateful that James sits behind her so she won’t have the opportunity to stare at the perfect back of his neck (she loves the half-moon curve from his head to shoulder, the exposed skin at the end of his hairline). Instead, she channels the energy of his touch, still hot inside of her, to focus; she feels laser sharp.
When they’re released four hours later, Marilyn finds him waiting for her at the door.
“How’d you do?” she asks.
“I don’t know, my brain feels like jelly.”
But Marilyn can see from his expression that he’s confident. She grins back.
“You wanna get some food?” James asks.
She does. (She would go anywhere with him, wouldn’t she?)
The fog has burned off while they’ve been inside, leaving the sky a clear California blue, pouring out golden light. When they step into the crowded parking lot at In-N-Out, Marilyn can feels the hints of fall in the softest touch of sun on her skin, the leaf-like smell in the air mixing with the scent of grilled meat. People spill out the door, crowd around the tabl
es outside. James goes in to get lunch while she saves the only open seats. She raises her hand and takes a mind-picture of a woman in a blue hijab, printed with moons and stars, holding a french fry, a wide-eyed boy next to her, staring up at the sky. Groups of dreamy, greasy teenagers sit on the lawn of the park across the street with their burgers in baskets, palm trees overhead to match the ones printed on their cups. Marilyn takes another mind-picture of a girl in braids, swaying with her arms around herself—Holding Her Own Body and Learning to Dance would be the title of the photo, Marilyn thinks.
“Mari Mack, I wish I could see the pictures in your head,” James says, coming up beside her with the food.
“One day.” She smiles.
* * *
When they finish eating and walk to the car, James reaches out, hands her his keys.
“You drive,” he says.
“What? I can’t.” She’s practiced only in their neighborhood.
“Yes you can. You’re getting good.”
She wants to validate his confidence in her, so she gets into the driver’s seat, adjusts her mirrors, and starts the ignition. But as she reaches the edge of the lot and waits to turn into traffic, her heart thuds too loudly, her chest tightening around it like a cage. The truck behind her honks impatiently.
James puts his hand on hers over the wheel.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “You got this.”
As she exhales and pulls onto Sunset Boulevard, like magic, a sense of calm comes over her, a singular focus.
It’s not until she parks back on Gramercy that she allows herself to feel the exhilaration—she drove! For real. On busy city streets. She unbuckles her belt and turns to James, grinning. She leans forward and impulsively places her lips against his neck. All at once, they are devouring each other. Lips on lips, hands grasping, his biceps in her grip, his shoulders, his hand on her waist, in her hair, breathless. All the pent-up sexual tension of the past month coming out in a series of sustained explosions—she feels it like a fireworks show—burst after wondrous burst setting off inside her body. She doesn’t know how long they are locked together like this, soaking in flame.
ANGIE
Angie’s not sure where the story starts—the one that’s led her to this moment in Sam Stone’s Jeep, speeding down I-40, whatever sense of security she’s been able to take for granted melting away as quickly as the city dissolves into desert. Perhaps there’s a beginning somewhere, but it stretches into a past she can’t see, through the lives of her parents, her parents’ parents, and generations of invisible ghosts.
She glances over at Sam, his mirrored glasses reflecting the distant mountains, his hair falling messily over his forehead, his arm resting casually on the steering wheel. He has not yet uttered a single word to her. Certainly almost all of the seven billion people in the world have been heartbroken before, but how many of them have been stupid enough to do it to themselves?
* * *
Angie first met Sam five years ago, the same day she learned to shave her legs. She’d been one of the few girls in her sixth-grade class who still had hair (as a consequence she wore only pants that year), and she was determined to get rid of it before seventh grade began. Marilyn insisted she was too young; she was perfect as she was, her mom said. But after weeks of pestering, Marilyn finally caved, and Angie sat on the edge of the bathtub with her leg lathered in shaving cream as Marilyn showed her how to glide the blade. She passed Angie the razor, and after a magical stroke the hair was gone. Delighted, Angie turned to her mom, only to find her eyes were full of tears.
“What’s wrong?” Angie asked, her chest tightening as it always did at her mom’s unpredictable sadness.
“Nothing,” Marilyn replied quickly, as she reached out to brush Angie’s forehead. Angie understood then, even if she didn’t have the words for it, that every step she took forward into the world of being an adult would hurt the person she loved most.
On the next stroke she cut herself. She could hardly feel it, but there was so much blood, pouring bright red down her leg. Marilyn stopped crying and went into mother mode, like she did when Angie was a kid with a scraped knee.
That afternoon Angie wore her favorite pair of cutoffs, and though she had a dull, lingering feeling of guilt, she kept running her hands over the smooth silkiness of her legs. She was at the park with Vivian, a girly girl whom she’d been friends with since the fourth grade, when they’d choreographed a dance routine to Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” They were lying in the grass drinking slushies and watching a few boys kicking around a soccer ball.
When the ball flew in their direction, nearly hitting Angie in the face, it was followed by Sam—tall, lanky, thirteen, with a huge grin, floppy hair, and golden-brown skin.
“You guys wanna play?” he asked.
Vivian half tried, her boobs (which were much further along than Angie’s) bouncing as she squealed and chased. But Angie lost herself in the game, laser focused on the ball, her body pushing against its limits. She scored the winning point, and bent over to catch her breath, when all at once she was aware of Sam looking at her new legs falling out of her shorts. Where just moments ago they’d felt strong—inevitable and invisible—suddenly they felt like Jell-O. When he looked up and his eyes met hers, she thought of the summer lightning storms she’d watch with her mom from their porch.
Angie and Vivian started coming nearly every day to join in the soccer games, until school started back in the fall and Sam returned to his mom’s. After his parents’ divorce earlier that year, his dad had moved into an apartment at the edge of the park, but Sam was only there for summers and weekends. Though Angie often ran by just to check, she didn’t see him again until one Saturday in November, when, miraculously, he was in the park dribbling the ball around by himself. Something about him looked at once beautiful and terribly lonely under the falling leaves, the gray sky.
“What’s up,” Sam said as he kicked the ball to her.
She shrugged and kicked it back. They passed like that, until Angie called out, “Goal between those two trees!” She kicked hard, Sam blocked, and they played until they both collapsed onto the grass from exhaustion. Angie was aware, with every sense she possessed, of his body breathing next to hers. And then his hand came to her face. His lips were on her lips, and she could feel herself falling through space.
“Sam!”
They both looked up to see Sam’s dad, Mr. Stone, standing at the edge of the park, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, car keys in hand. “Let’s go!” Angie later learned that Mr. Stone is considered a “sexy” English teacher at Albuquerque High, known for his meandering poetry lectures. He has a pale face and dark, mussed hair, a tall frame usually draped with a rumpled linen shirt. Sam looks a lot like his dad, though his skin is a shade darker to match his mother’s—a petite woman from Oaxaca, Mexico, who’d been a bodybuilding champion back in the day and now runs an art gallery.
Angie could see the blush rising into Sam’s cheeks. “Gotta go, I’ll see you later,” he said, and jogged over to his dad, leaving her in the grass. She stayed like that until it started to get dark, staring up at the leaves falling in slow motion, the branches growing slowly naked against the paling sky. She kept brushing the tips of her fingers over her lips.
* * *
When Angie finally got up and ran home, Marilyn was already there, back from her Saturday shift.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked.
“Playing soccer in the park. With Sam.”
Angie remembered the look on Marilyn’s face when they shaved her legs, and decided against telling her she and Sam had kissed.
But later that night, when Angie was lying under her covers retracing the details of the afternoon in her mind—the way he tasted like the clean air of a forest, his warm breath on her cheek—Marilyn knocked on her door and came in to sit on Angie’s bed.
“So do you like this Sam?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Angie was surprised—she felt
like somehow her mom could see inside of her.
“And what do you like about him?”
Angie thought about it for a moment. “We match.”
Marilyn looked back at her, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“We’re the same speed. We’re the same height,” Angie said.
She knew it was more than that, but she couldn’t find the right words. Finally she told her mom, “We kissed.” A pause. “And our lips fit.”
Marilyn looked stricken. “I love you so much,” she said.
Angie was afraid her mom might cry, but then she smiled.
“This calls for a celebration. Your first kiss!”
Angie got out of bed and they drove to Baskin-Robbins, hurrying in before closing time. She got a waffle cone with pink bubble gum ice cream, which has been her favorite since she was a kid, and her mom got mint chocolate chip. They ate them in the car together, trading a bite for a bite. They kept the heater running and rolled the windows down, and though it was fall, the air smelled like fresh grass. It was a perfect night.
* * *
Two hours into their trip to LA: a blast of warm air hits Angie as Sam cracks his window, lifts his sunglasses, and rubs at his eyes. Angie stares out at the red cliffs rising in the distance and remembers how she went to search for Sam at the park after their first kiss. They’d never actually exchanged numbers, so she spent successive Saturday afternoons sitting on the swing, her nose growing cold, hoping for him to appear.
Weeks later, she finally discovered him huddled behind a tree with a girl who looked older, a full figure visible under her hoodie, smooth hair rippling over her shoulder. Sam looked up; Angie thought he saw her on the opposite side of the field before she turned and ran.
Stop it, she’d said in her head, wiping the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Stop it. And she did. She stopped crying. At thirteen, she was already becoming well versed in the art of self-control, taking the unwanted emotions, stuffing them into little boxes, and sending them into some unreachable depths.
