We went to dances in the church basement. Other than walking around the neighborhood in packs when the weather was right and looking at the never-changing world from front porches, church dances were the only way to meet boys from outside the neighborhood. Boys who seemed different.
I met Sergio at a Halloween dance. I was Cleopatra; he was a zombie. His hair was high, his back was straight, and he smelled like falling leaves and overripe cologne. Even though he couldn’t dance, I liked his small bright eyes and the way he pressed into me as he moved to Chaka Kahn, so I followed him to the park after the dance was over. When he wanted to kiss, I said no, but a touch on my arm turned my no into a yes. He pushed me against the fence and groaned his way into my long white gown. It was nearly November and I didn’t even mind the warm fog of his breath, the pink of his fingers.
I’d been an Egyptian princess all night, snake coiled on my arm, eyes lined in black, but there I was, pressed against the fence, Sergio’s breath on my neck, with nowhere to go but down. But I was strong. I closed my eyes, pried my body from the fence, and ran all the way home.
Danny was a good boy. His family attended Corpus Christi and I met him at the next dance. He had big brown eyes and curly hair and I loved him instantly. He looked like Ray Parker Jr., I said to anyone who’d listen, and when he asked me to dance, I’d thought the night was perfect. I sucked in my cheeks, twirled my hair, tried to look mysterious in the church basement light.
And it worked.
He loved me, too.
He called all the time, gave me roses, told me my eyes were better than the stained glass at church, said my skin was like milk. He wanted me to meet his mother, his brothers, his aunt in from New York. He kept at me until I couldn’t take it any longer. I refused to let him touch me, didn’t return his calls, wouldn’t take the rides he offered after school.
Danny didn’t attend East High, but borrowed his brother’s car and drove across town to sit on the corner and wait for me. But I’d had enough of being adored; it had begun to feel like sandpaper against my skin. So I stood at the bus stop and waited, even in the rain, never once looking his way.