Rules of My Best Friend's Body

by Matthue Roth

  Today there were no old people. We had the whole pool to ourselves. I followed Larissa’s lead and planted myself in the corner. The smell of chlorine comforted me. Whatever I was going to say to Larissa, whatever the result, we would always have chlorine.

  “I hate my parents,” she said. “They get in the way of everything.”

  “They can only control you physically,” I told her. “They can’t control our thoughts or the songs we sing in our heads. The second we turn eighteen, we’re on a collision course with New York City.”

  That was our mantra. We had to keep repeating it, to keep reminding ourselves that it was real.

  “I know that,” she said crossly. “But how are we supposed to make it that long? What if something happens before then?”

  “Of course we’re gonna make it.”

  “I have something to tell you,” she said.

  “So do I.”

  “You do?” Larissa looked up in surprise, at me. It might have been the first time that day she realized I was really there.

  “You first,” I said. It felt like I was sitting on dynamite. All it would take was a slight raise in temperature, and it would detonate. My pulse was rising steadily. My body grew hotter.

  “No, you.”

  She was slouched against the wall. Aquamarine and pink tiles. Her back was on a vertical incline against the floor, and her knees were pulled up high. She tucked her hands underneath her head, between her calves.

  “Really?”

  “Arthur.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Arthur, don’t torture me. Just say it.”

  I leaned forward. I needed eye contact for this one. She turned around, summoned by the length of my pause, and gave it to me.

  “I wanted to tell you on Friday,” I said. “Probably after everyone left. I was going to tell my parents to pick me up late, so I’d stay after and help you clean up from the party. I—I really like you.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Not as friends. Although, that too. I really like you. I like everything about you, and when I spend time with you it’s like I’m bigger than myself in real life, and like I’m somehow a different person, specialer—” I stopped. “What were you going to say? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I’d meant to say that as a joke, but now that the words were out, I was getting a sick, slimy feeling in my stomach. Hanging in the air, unanswered, it didn’t feel like so much of a joke at all.

  “No, no, Arty,” she said. “It isn’t like that, it wasn’t that at all.”

  But she was still looking like a master of ceremonies at a funeral.

  “So...what do you think?” I paused, waited, felt like a circus performer who’d just done a double aerial somersault in reverse for the first time ever, and the audience wasn’t clapping. Why weren’t they clapping? I’d just made the most major confession I’d ever had to give. My chest was throbbing. My heart felt like it had exploded, like a little baby alien from the movie Alien had birthed, ripped right out of me and landed, still beating and squirming, on the floor between us. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. Said my feelings out loud, shaped them into words and breathed them out of my lungs to fly into the world. To Larissa. It wasn’t even practice, a drill. This was the real thing. I’d told her how I’d felt. Why wasn’t she reciprocating? Didn’t she feel it too?

  “Do you feel it too?” I said. “I mean, are you okay? What do you think about what I...” I fumbled. Saying it once had ripped my heart out of my body. I was not going to say it again. I couldn’t.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t talk. Her mouth hung open like she was going to cry.

  “What is it, then?” I said. “What did you have that you were going to tell me?”

  She slid herself up, back against the wall for real now. Turning her head to focus back on the swimming pool, and away from me, she closed and opened her mouth a couple times.

  And then she said it.

  party

  Mitch Martin showed up at Larissa’s house shortly after 7:30, she told me. He didn’t want to look bad by being the first one there, but he also didn’t want to miss the cocktails. The night’s drinks weren’t alcoholic—we were odd kids, not bad kids—but Larissa had gone overboard in her research and preparation. She blended piña coladas from actual coconut shavings, and lime rickeys using the juice and zest of over forty limes. Larissa and I had juiced them ourselves after Hebrew School last Sunday. On Tuesday morning my hands still smelled like lime.

  Mitch had driven over in his own car. He was three months older than Larissa; the car had been his birthday gift. Larissa’s mother discovered him at the door. An apron covered a $700 casual evening gown; she was friséeing appetizers for the dinner party. Mitch extended his hand. His autumn gloves were a leafy brown polished leather, tight. They curved with his palm.

  “Mrs. Fleishman!” He tried not to show his surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us tonight.”

  Larissa’s mom smiled at him indulgently. She got on well with his parents, not friends, but close. They talked on the phone occasionally. Every year at synagogue, they sat together in the benefactors’ section.

  “We didn’t realize it either, until today,” she said. “Larissa is working in the basement. You can go down and say hello for a minute if you’d like.”

  At this point I sort of picture him flashing her a bucktooth smile, Geez thanks Mrs. F., maybe threw his coat on the railing of the spiral staircase as if he owned the place as he shot down the stairs. Mitch was a basically cool guy. He always looked straight at you when you spoke. He’d always been like that: eager to entertain, on everyone’s good side. Everyone was always saying that. If you’d known him, you’d be nodding right now and saying that exact same thing to yourself right now: Mitch Martin is a solid guy.

  He came downstairs to where Larissa was. She was sitting on the ’70s fire-hydrant-red squeaky vinyl couch with electric blue trim, the one her mom kept threatening to get rid of and Larissa kept bargaining with her to save. We called it SuperCouch. It was only a loveseat, but horizontally, it was massive; you could surround yourself with books. Right now binders full of homework ringed Larissa’s crisscrossed legs. When she saw him, she shot up.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “The party was canceled! I left you a message!”

  “What, on my phone?” he said. “I never check messages.”

  “My mom’s gonna kill me. She said I have to stay down here for the next three hours and pretend I don’t exist. I can’t even use the upstairs bathroom,” she said. “And I have this term paper I’ve been neglecting. I have to get it done before the weekend.”

  “Your mom doesn’t care if I’m here. She likes me.”

  “She’s just being polite. The second you’re gone, she’ll change into Imperius Rex mode. She’ll start screaming that it’s my fault you came.”

  “It’s not your fault. I didn’t get the message.”

  “Yeah, but you’re committing the grievous error of assuming that my mother uses logic to make her decisions.”

  “At least let me sing you ‘Happy Birthday’.”

  “Ugh.” Larissa fell back into the pillows. “Whatev.”

  Mitch threw off his coat. It landed on the floor behind him, lifeless, as though it was disposable and now he had no further need of it.

  “Happy BURTH-day, Miss President...”

  He settled down into the couch. Larissa moved aside some of her books. It was a two-person couch, but Mitch sat right in the center, not off to the other side, so that the triangle of her folded legs brushed him. Larissa wore black leggings, skin tight, the around-the-house kind, but still sexy.

  Usually, when you bump into someone, you retreat away, but this time Mitch didn’t. He was the kind of guy who, if there was a sandwich lying on the table, assumed that somebody put it there for him. He just left his knee there, in the center of the pillows, brushing up against Larissa’s leg. They were already to
uching, and he pushed this further by doing an exaggerated Marilyn Monroe dance, wiggling his pudgy babyfat body, using comedic effect in order to gain valuable millimeters of physical contact. He sang the chorus again, just in case she missed it. Happy burrrrth-day to yoooooooo...

  “You dork,” she said, giving him a shove. “Okay. Thank you. Now get out.”

  “You don’t want me to do that.” He smiled that smile that said he knew everything. He grabbed her hand, as it was already on his knee, mid-shove. He caught it and he didn’t let it go.

  “Ha ha. It’d be great if you didn’t have to, and I was allowed to just have a party, and then you could stay all night. But, unfortunately, you can’t be here...”

  “But I am here.”

  “Yes, you are here.”

  He was still holding onto her hand. She wasn’t holding back onto his, but she wasn’t pulling it away.

  He moved forward. He kissed her.

  It was her birthday. Her party had been canceled, and she had homework to do.

  She closed her eyes and kissed back.

  He might have said something next, when they separated for air. That was good, maybe, or I’ve been wanting to do that for so long. And maybe she agreed. Maybe she said something like that on her own.

  What happened next, according to what she told me, was this:

  He kissed her again. She kissed back. His tongue came inside her mouth, and hers welcomed it. (“Ew,” I said. “Larissa, you really don’t have to provide all the explicit play-by-play—” “Arthur,” she said. “Stop. Just wait.”)

  His hands went under her top. She did not stop them. It was uncomfortable. The shirt she was wearing wasn’t meant for it; it was too starchy, too tight—if that was possible—and not stretchy enough, not enough room for both of them. And then her bra.

  She pushed them away, his hands. He thought she was playing with him. He moved them to her hips, then to her back, just above her buttocks. She thought he was just trying to cuddle.

  So they did. He was calmer at first. They pressed against each other, still, except for the rocking of his body. She tried to ignore it. Except for that, they were basically just hugging. His arms around her. Hers around him. This was what she could be sure of, the friendship that they had. Holding onto each other. Her fingers gripped him tight. Friends.

  Then she felt his fingers. They were at the hem of her shirt, worming their way underneath. Searching for her leggings. Pulling them down.

  No, she said.

  Let me. Please.

  This is too much.

  I want this so much, Larissa.

  He started to move again.

  Don’t do that.

  Let me.

  Please.

  Come on.

  Stop it.

  Stop fighting it.

  Mitch.

  Larissa.

  MITCH.

  She could feel him, now. There was no barrier of clothes now, just him. He was on her. He was on top of her. The more she tried to move her legs away, the more he buried himself between them.

  Her hands struggled beneath his body, struggled to push at his bare chest. She could barely move.

  I want you so bad. I’ve liked you for forever.

  I like you too. But not—

  Ssh.

  He was heavy on top of her. He was naturally a big guy. Born big, well fed. She tried to push him away. He thought she was writhing against him. He went to kiss her again. On top of her, pressing her head into the vinyl sofa fabric. He kissed so hard that he couldn’t feel she was trying to pull her head away.

  “Mitch!” She bit his lip. His head yanked back.

  “Mmm.”

  “Stop it. Get away from me.”

  “I can’t stop this now,” he said. He had her pinned down. More flesh touching than clothes. “Come on. I want this so bad. I need this too much to stop.” And he was inside her, and he would not come out, and he kept going.

  i need to be

  alone

  When Larissa started talking, her voice was heavy with phlegm, about to cry but never actually crying. By the time she had finished it was craggy and dry and worn out. The whole time, she didn’t look at me at all. She stared straight ahead and talked to the pool. The water I stopped focusing on her. My eye contact drifted away. After a while, I stopped listening to her voice and instead read her lips as they curved around each word.

  “Are you okay?” I asked when it was apparent that she’d finished. “Do you want me here? Or do you need to be alone?”

  She shrugged. “I’m fine. It’s over. I don’t need anything now.”

  There was this space between us. I hadn’t noticed until now, but it was greater than usual, like we’d never touched before. I looked uncomfortable. I felt miserable. “Can I hug you?” I said, not even sure whether I should be asking for permission.

  “Yes,” she said. Reaching over, grabbing me, squeezing her negligible presence between my arms until she was sticklike, almost nothing. Her hands looped my around my waist and hugged hard, hugged violently, hugged like the apocalypse was coming. I hugged back lightly, less full-bodied than her, partly because I didn’t want to suffocate her or squeeze her or hurt her, and partly because I was (I’m sorry, but it’s true) embarrassingly hard at that moment.

  We broke apart. I separated first, released her fast, leaping back from her skin to the reassuring air. I didn’t want to scare her. I shouldn’t be touching her at all. My mind flashed back to the things I knew. What did she need? What was I supposed to say, to do? “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling weak as I said it, insufficient. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “I know,” she said. Her voice had been shaky and intimate during the telling, her fingers moving in a quiver as she spoke, her lips ready to cry. Now she was still quiet, but it was an empty sort of quiet, like she didn’t have any sadness left. “It was such a stupid plan. We shouldn’t have had the party in the first place. What were we even thinking?”

  “It was your birthday,” I said weakly. It didn’t feel like an answer at all. It felt like a trap.

  “It was a nightmare,” she said, even quieter, and hugged herself. She was shaking. She was trying to hold herself still.

  “Do you,” I said, being careful, trying not to make her upset—trying not to show how upset I was. “Do you want to talk to the police?”

  “No!” she yelped.

  The noise bounced off the empty pool walls and the high chambered ceiling, and she turned a bright beet red.

  “No, Arthur,” she said, a throaty whisper this time, compensating. “I mean—it’s not a police thing. It was just a misunderstanding. It’s not like—he’s not a criminal. He’s not going to strike again.”

  “Are you sure?” My hands clenched and unclenched, wishing I was holding something hard or sharp. I wanted to lash out, to hit something. Larissa didn’t sound like she wanted to hit anything at all. “Larissa, we should do something! We need to take care of him.”

  “This isn’t a gang war, Arty, it’s Mitch. He’s not a criminal. He might not even know it happened.”

  “He is a criminal! He did something criminal and he should be punished. I’m sure that monster knows exactly what he—”

  “Don’t be that way, Arthur! He knows what he did. I’m just saying—I don’t know if he realized it. How I felt. When it happened.”

  “He’d have to be pretty dense, if he was that close to you at the time.”

  “He had...other things on his mind.”

  “But you said no.”

  “It’s complicated. A—a lot was going on. idontknowifheheardme.” This last part she muttered through tightened teeth, and mostly to herself.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, what did you say just now? You can tell me.”

  “I’m just, I’m not sure if Mitch heard me.”

  “But, like, of course he heard you. You were in the room. There’s no way he
could not be paying attention to you, Larissa, you’re perfect—” I stopped.

  “Arty,” she said. “Please. Don’t. Don’t say that, it’s not true.”

  “You don’t even know how awesome you are, Larissa. You don’t deserve this. You’re the most incredible person ever….”

  I stopped, not knowing what I was saying, not knowing how to stop myself. I was in awe of her. I was sad and angry and jealous. In the middle of this, between my confession and Larissa’s confession and what was supposed to be just a normal Sunday at Hebrew School, I could still feel my desire straining at the limits of myself, wanting to be made manifest. As she sat there, curled into a ball, her arms pulled into her chest, I thought of her hands wrapping around her breasts, the way that they might feel. If she’d ever hold them like that to show to me. No. That was not how I was supposed to react. How was I supposed to react? My mind raced to health classes, afterschool specials, the only places I’d ever heard this talked about before. Only, this felt less real. I needed to be spineless, blindly supportive, robotic. “Just tell me what you need,” I said to her. “What do you need?”