Saturday, September 30, 1993

F

or once, Nora was glad to have Tommy beside her in the family room. Pouring over some insect book, he was breathing too loud, making maddening little whistling sounds through his nose. But what mattered was that Tommy was the same as always, wearing the same checkered shirt and khaki pants, emitting his same musty, stale, and faintly sweet smell, sprouting the same dark fuzz on his chin and upper lip, erupting the same red pimples, and growing the same matted patch of dark curls and stubborn cowlick. Tommy’s presence was comforting. As familiar as the aging leather sofa cushions and the tired La-Z-boy chair, as unchanging as the slatted patio and patchy lawn outside the sliding doors, as homey as the aroma of roasting onions and beef wafting down the steps.

Luckily, he didn’t look at her. If he had, he might have noticed her over-bright eyes and red, chafed lips.

From upstairs, Marla called Nora to set the table for supper.

Oh man. What if her mother asked about the red patches around her mouth? Nora began concocting stories about walking into a pole, or how the redness must be an allergy. Or, even better, she could pretend that she had no idea that her skin was red, let alone why. But wait, she probably wouldn’t need to explain, because what were the chances that Marla would even notice? Absorbed in slicing pot roast and mashing potatoes, Marla would only glance at Nora—if she looked at her daughter at all.

Besides, the redness might not be all that noticeable. It must have faded by now. Half an hour had passed since she’d removed the wadded-up tissues from the bra Annie had lent her, unsnapped it and given it back. And that was after she’d scrubbed her face—especially her lips—with the harsh green hand soap from the mall’s ladies’ room, rubbing herself dry with rough paper towels until her skin was raw.

Even now, sitting with Tommy in the family room, her face burned. She touched her mouth, felt the stab of a split lip, the sting of Annie’s laughter when she’d found Nora bent over the sink, scrubbing.

“God, Nora.” Annie had stared. “What are you doing?”

As if Nora had been doing something bizarre and outlandish—which she had been, kind of, scrubbing her face off.

All Nora had known was that she had to get clean, wash off what had happened, and get back to the way she’d been before. So she’d rubbed her mouth again with a fresh paper towel and started over with yet another glop of bitter and unforgiving soap, even though she’d seen in the mirror that the makeup was gone completely. Because even if the makeup had washed away, the kiss, its taste and smell, lingered and tingled, clinging to her still, and so she’d scrubbed, desperate to get it off.

In a way, it was Annie’s fault. No, not in a way. It was totally Annie’s fault. Annie had been the one to suggest getting decked out and going to the mall. Annie had been the one to spot the boys in the food court, two of them, way older than they were—probably as old as Tommy. One was tall and dark-haired and had worn a letter jacket from Cardinal O’Malley High. Annie hadn’t hesitated. She’d grabbed Nora’s arm and headed toward the boys, stopping a few yards away, pretending she hadn’t noticed them.

“I’m dying. We need to find some fun.” She talked just loud enough for the boys to hear.

In a blink, the boys had joined them. They’d stood so close that Nora had had to crane her neck to see the tall one’s face, let alone to talk to him. Not that she’d had anything to say. She’d stood silent and awkward, not sure what was happening or what she was supposed to do. She’d copied Annie, her smile, the cock of her head, the way she put her weight on one foot and thrust her hip out. Nora had laughed when Annie laughed, and lied along with her when the boys asked where they went to school, pretending to be a freshman at Kingsley, three years older than she really was. Acting as if she knew what she was doing even as her stomach had flipped.

It flipped again as she sat next to Tommy, remembering what had happened at the mall, so she concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing. His stillness. Beside him, she began to relax.

He was probably the same age as those boys.

“Nora!” Marla called again, impatience clipping her words.

On the way to the kitchen, for a second, not much longer, Nora allowed herself to picture Tommy as a normal older brother, someone she could talk to. Someone cool, on the swim team or track, maybe even football. She imagined him as a high school senior, wearing his letter jacket to the mall. But the image of Tommy faded, replaced by that of Rick, the tall, cute one.

Rick’s blue eyes had twinkled when he’d said that he thought he’d seen Nora before. Maybe at Belmont pool? And she’d said something outlandishly stupid, that no, she’d just moved here from Maine. Maine? Really? When she’d said that Annie was actually her first friend in the area, her face had burned with lies and panic. But Rick hadn’t noticed, had asked her how long she’d lived here and whether she missed Maine. But while Nora was inventing an answer, Annie had slid between her and the guy named Rick. Annie had laughed, blinked her eyes, taken over the conversation and, a few awkward moments later, walked off with him, leaving Nora speechless and alone with the other one.

In the kitchen, Nora took plates out of the cabinet and silverware from the drawer. She answered Marla’s questions. Yes, Tommy was downstairs. Yes, he was reading. Yes, she’d remembered to put out the water pitcher. Did her mother really think she’d forget how to do what she did every single night?

Nora pressed her burning lips together and felt a throb. She should have walked away. Should have come home. But, she hadn’t. On unfamiliar turf and without Annie to give her cues, Nora had been paralyzed. She’d stood there with tissues wadded and crumpled into her borrowed bra and borrowed makeup painted on her face, wondering where Annie and Rick had gone, when they’d be back. And what she was supposed to do in the meantime.

But the other boy, the shorter, not-so-cute one with gelled hair and a smattering of forehead pimples, had taken her hand. His palm had been damp, and Nora’s breathing had become rapid and shallow, rabbit-like, as if her body was standing beside this boy but she was out of there, gone, having left it behind. She’d hoped that that feeling—of exiting her body—was a sign that she was going to faint. Not that she’d ever fainted before, but she’d wanted to, because if she had, then that sweaty hand would have let go of hers. People in the mall would have noticed her passed out and come to her aid. The guy—his name had been Anthony—would have backed away.

Anthony had smelled dizzyingly, cloyingly, sickeningly of the ocean, of geranium, a blend of salt and sweet. He led her out of the food court to the adjacent long hall near the restrooms. Into a corner, where he’d pressed her against the wall and said,
“Welcome to the neighborhood, Nora from Maine.”

He’d clasped her butt, tightly, painfully, and at the same time crushed his lips stiffly against hers. The smell of cologne had mixed with his lunch (Chinese food?), and his tongue had jabbed her mouth, tasting of half-digested egg roll and something with soy sauce. Nora hadn’t been able to breathe. She’d turned her head for some air, and he’d snickered.

“What? Come on, little frosh. Nobody likes a tease.” He’d laughed then, revealing silver braces with tiny yellow chunks of food caught in the wires.

“I don’t feel well.” Nora had gasped and pushed him away. She’d hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room where she’d huddled on a vinyl upholstered sofa for an immeasurable time, shaky and sickened, not sure when it would be safe to go back out. Where had Annie gone with Rick? And how was she supposed to reconnect with her? Should she just forget Annie and go home? And how would she ever get rid of the smell of Anthony’s cologne, or the feeling of his wormy tongue, or the taste of his Chinese food?

Nora was filling water glasses when her father walked in, announcing that there had been a detour on his drive home. He’d had no idea they were digging up Old Gulf Road. Her mother pecked his lips and said she hadn’t either. But never mind, he was just in time for dinner.

Nora steeled herself for a meal with her family. She’d act as if nothing had happened. Well, in a way, nothing had. It wasn’t as though she’d been mugged or mauled or kidnapped. But her face still hurt, a reminder of how she’d scrubbed to wash off that kiss.

She wasn’t sure how Annie had found her. Maybe Anthony had told her that Nora had run to the bathroom, sick. Or maybe Annie had just wandered in. Either way, Annie had appeared in the ladies’ room, unconcerned at finding Nora with soap suds across her mouth and soggy used paper towels all over the
countertop.

Annie had laughed, not waiting for an explanation, and kind of danced toward Nora and the row of sinks. “How cool was that? They really believed we were in high school!”

Her lipstick had been smeared, her hair and shirt disheveled. She’d made no apology for stranding Nora with Anthony, the butt groper with braces, no excuses for claiming Rick, the tall good-looking one that Nora had been talking to. Annie had not hesitated, had just led him away as if Nora hadn’t been in the middle of telling him about winters in Maine and how she loved skiing. But it was no big deal. They’d just been goofing around, playacting that they had boobs and were freshmen.

Tommy shoveled chunks of beef and potatoes into his mouth, lips smacking with each bite. Her father helped himself to seconds, asking Nora to pass the green beans. She did. He asked how her day was. She said fine. He asked for the salt. Marla and Philip exchanged news of their days. Everything was like always, except for Nora. She chewed the pot roast, still unable to re-inhabit her body. She’d ventured into territory where she hadn’t belonged, and from which she couldn’t quite return. She felt sullied. Stained. Worse.

But she was overreacting. She needed to move on and forget the whole thing. Really, it had been nothing. Neither she nor Annie would ever see those boys again.

Still, she couldn’t stop reliving it, replaying what had happened. The revolting wet tongue. Annie stranding her. And worst of all, Annie stealing Rick from her without a thought or apology, on a whim, for no reason. Just because she could.