I take a walk, timing it so I’m there right at the same time. Sure enough, a silver Civic comes around the bend, then slows onto the shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. His eyes twinkle.
“Hey,” I say. This time I’m not walking away. I move around to the passenger side and open the door. Inside it smells like car freshener and French fries and something musky I don’t recognize. I push a crumpled McDonald’s bag aside with my foot. Fm wearing the black high-heeled boots I wore for Halloween last year, when I was Catwoman. And a short black skirt that Fm regretting. He reaches down to grab the bag, brushing my leg as he does, and he throws the bag into the backseat. I glance back to see a tremendous pile of fast-food bags and empty soda bottles. I also see a car magazine jutting out beneath a bag—a woman’s leg on top of the hood of a car. Heat creeps up my body. So does the realization he could be a serial killer or a rapist. This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. He smiles at me.
“I haven’t cleaned it out in a while.” This close I can see stubble on his chin. He moves the gearshift, his forearm tensing. There’s a spattering of freckles beneath the hair. I don’t say anything, my heart banging at my chest like a drum. I keep my eyes on my legs, which look fat spread out on the vinyl seats. He watches me for a long minute.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t be nervous. We’re just getting something to eat.”
I still can’t look at him.
“Or we can do something else,” he says. “Whatever you want.”
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says. When I still don’t say anything, he places a gentle finger beneath my chin. On his hand I smell the scent I can’t recognize. It’s him, his particular scent. He turns my face toward his. His eyes are beautiful and kind. I take a breath, and he smiles. I smile back. “How about ice cream?” he asks, and I nod.
At the ice cream parlor he steps out of his car. He is shorter than I had imagined, but he is still attractive. His name is Ted, He’s twenty years old.
We walk inside. With my two-inch heels, I am almost as tall as he is. I can feel his eyes on my body. I consider what an eighteen-year-old would order and decide on mint chocolate chip in a dish. He gets a double chocolate cone. We sit at a table by the door, even though anyone from school could walk by. Elisabeth could come in with her mother. Dad and Dana could come in. How do I know what they do when they’re not having sex? Amazingly, no one I know comes through the door.
An hour later we’re sitting in the Civic a few houses down from mine. I tell him the big brick one is my house. The Gibbonses live there with their twin baby boys. I babysat for them a couple times over the summer. While I consider saying something about my baby brothers, just in case they come out of the house, Ted leans in and kisses me. It takes me by surprise, my first kiss. Warm and wet. I can feel his stubble on my cheek. His tongue darts into my mouth. A jolt of energy runs from my mouth down to my legs. When he leans back, I put my hand up to my mouth.
“I’m glad you were there today,” he says.
“Me too,” I tell him.
“I’ve been back there every day looking for you.”
“You have?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” he says. “Look at you. You’re irresistible.”
Nobody’s ever said anything like this to me before. I smile, unsure what to say.
“When can I see you again?”
The sky is darkening, turning to evening. I have homework to finish and school tomorrow. And then there’s the contest, for which I still have nothing. “I don’t know,” I tell him.
He frowns. “Come on,” he says. “Give me your number.”
“How about you give me yours?” I say, knowing I have to keep Ted a secret at home.
“If you aren’t interested, just say so,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t want to play games.”
“Really,” I say, thinking fast. “We’re having some trouble with the phone company. Our number’s not working.”
He watches me, trying to gauge whether to believe me. Finally he gently takes my hand and turns it over. He pulls a pen from his dash and writes his number across my palm. I close the door and walk toward the Gibbonses’ front door, until he takes off. Then I head home, my fingers closed in a fist over his number.
At home there are two messages: one from Elisabeth and one from Dad. Elisabeth wants to tell me about practice. Dad says he expects to be a couple hours late to get us on Friday. He doesn’t say so, but it has Dana written all over it.
I look up at the mirror in the front foyer. I put my fingers to my mouth. I’ve been kissed. These lips have been kissed. Elisabeth would freak if I told her. But I can’t.
“Mom’s out.” I turn around to see Anne. My hand drops from my face, and I close it so she can’t see the number written on the palm.
“So?”
“She had a date.” She waits. When I don’t say anything, she says, “I’m supposed to make us dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say. I head for my room. Anne just stands there. She’s been waiting here, I guess, for someone to come home. Since the divorce she’s spent all her time with Mom. I stop at the stairs, guilty. “What are you making?”
“Macaroni and cheese.” Her short dark hair hangs flat against her face. If I glanced quickly at her, she could almost be Mom.
I move off the stairs, my hand still in a fist.
“Who’s Mom dating?” I ask with a grimace.
Anne looks pained. She pushes her hair behind her ear. “She met him at the grocery store. He told her she looked like Judy Garland.”
I wait. Anne obviously has something to say about it. “She thinks that means something,” Anne says.
“Maybe it does,” I say. “Why not be happy for her?”
“She needs someone who will love her for her, not for how she looks.”
Like you’re the expert on love, I want to say. I know how good it can feel to have a man tell you something nice, like when Ted told me I was irresistible. Instead I say, “Why don’t you focus on what you need and let Mom focus on what she needs?”
Anne walks away, her brow furrowed. But I’m happy for Mom. Dad was cheating on her for three years before he announced his plans to leave. Surely she knew but didn’t want to accept the truth. Surely that cut away at her self-esteem, knowing he was choosing another woman over her. Maybe Anne’s wrong. Maybe having a man tell her she looks like a beautiful star is exactly what she needs.
That night, though, when I’m already in bed, I hear Mom come home, then the click of the door as she goes into Anne’s room. Soon after, I hear her sobs as they float through the door, and I pull the pillow down over my head.
“Where were you yesterday?” Elisabeth wants to know. We’re in biology class, but Mr. Landon is so old he can hear us only when we talk really loud. That can be a pain, but it works well when we just want to chat.
“I was holed up in my room,” I lie. “Working on some things for the contest.” Which is what I should have been doing.
“Anything?”
I shake my head. Two seats forward and one to the left sits Jason. He has a blue cap on. His leg stretches into the aisle and bounces slightly. I know someone else has just kissed me, but Jason trumps Ted every time. I slip my digital out of my pocket and zoom in on the back of Jason’s neck, which is visible through the wisps of blond hair sticking out beneath his cap. Elisabeth leans over and looks into the screen.
“He moves through girls like they’re potato chips,” she says.
“I know,” I say defensively.
“He can have anyone he wants.”
“I get it,” I say. “So why would he want me?” I watch as he points his toe in and out, in and out.
“I just don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Lizzie,” I say, “you don’t have to worry about me.”
I can feel her staring at me.
“He’ll be at Ashley’s party,” she says.
“I know.” I’ve already picked out my outfit: the black miniskirt and a ripped concert tee.
Jason turns his head as though sensing my camera’s gaze. Heat comes into my face when he smiles in the screen. I snap a picture before he can look away.
Ruth once told me a photograph can capture the truth, but only if the photographer is willing to see it first. I think of this now as I position my manual Canon and set the timer.Am I willing to see who I am? I stand before the camera, my arms at my sides, my gaze level with the lens. I wait for the snap! Then I set the timer again. I am determined to fill a whole roll of 35 millimeter if that’s what it takes, I go back and forth, standing, sitting, kneeling, hands beside me, behind me, underneath my chin. I am single-minded in getting to the right picture, in capturing the truth.
Three-quarters through the roll something catches my eye out the window. It is a silver Civic, idling in front of the Gibbonses’ house. Oh, God. I throw on a hoodie, tie my hair back, and apply some eyeliner so I look closer to eighteen. I race out the back door and, hiding behind bushes, get myself into the Gibbonses’ backyard. Then I saunter up to the Civic.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He smiles. “What do you think I’m doing?” He leans to the passenger side and opens the door.
I stay still, my heart beating quickly from running over here. I glance back at the Gibbonses’ house, hoping no one is looking out a window. “You can’t just sit here like this,” I tell him.
“You didn’t call me.” He’s wearing sunglasses. It’s obvious he isn’t going anywhere, so I go around to the passenger side and get in.
“Drive,” I say.
He moves toward me. “One kiss,” he says, “and I’ll do whatever you want.”
Our lips meet. I pull back, not wanting anyone to see, but his mouth is insistent. He presses his tongue into my mouth.
“I can’t stay long,” I say once he’s pulled the car off my street.
I watch as his jaw muscle jumps. “Why are you like that?” he says.
“Like what?”
“Why are you always wanting to get away from me?” He slows through a stop sign, and the car juts forward when he presses on the gas.
“That’s not it,” I say. I reach up to find the handle above the window. The Oh-crap! handle, Elisabeth calls it. She never uses actual swear words. “I’ve just got a lot going on.”
“Don’t you think I have stuff going on?” he says. “I work at the Shopmart all day.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
“Well,” he says. He shifts gears, and we slow down a bit. “I hate it. I don’t want to work there my whole life.”
His finger traces the Honda symbol on the steering wheel. His shoulders slump forward. I see in this brief moment that he doesn’t like himself. It is something my camera might catch if I had it with me. Then the moment is gone. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m twenty years old and I have no clue what to do with my life.” He glances at me. “How sad is that?”
I bite the side of my cheek, trying to come up with something to say. “I’m sure you’re not the only one,” I say finally.
He puts a hand on my jeans. “I knew you weren’t like other girls.”
I look down at his hand, at the veins crawling beneath the skin. The warmth from his hand seeps through my jeans and creeps through my body all the way to my fingertips. Sometimes I don’t like myself either. I want to tell him, but I wouldn’t know how.
So I say, “Pull over.” And when he does, I lean into him. This time I’m the one with the insistent mouth. I can practically feel him melting beneath me.
After a few minutes he pulls back.
“Man,” he says, laughing. “What are you trying to do to me?”
When he drops me off, I tell him to meet me at the community college on Friday, right in time for my class. Then I navigate my way through the backyards, my body still buzzing.