Gravity (19 page)

“Hi, Ima.”

“Hey.” She looks up from her pad.

“How’s your voice?”

“Better.”

I put down my bag. “So, are you going to school tomorrow?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Her eyes are vacant.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” I stand tapping my toes, my coat still on. Then I turn and march to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Abba appears in the hallway wearing Bubbie Rosa’s purple apron with the ruffle on the bottom.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I slam the door behind me.

Out into the freezing dark afternoon, I wrench my scarf around my neck. I slide over the icy patches all the way to the video store near the subway station to rent three of Ima’s favorite old movies:
Singing In the Rain, Roman Holiday
and
The King and I
.

Back at home, I knock on Neshama’s door.

“Come on in.”

“Good, you’re here.” I settle on her bed.

“What do you want?”

“I need your help. What are you doing now?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. We’re going to kidnap Ima.”

“Who’s we?”

“You, me and Bubbie. Pass me the phone.”

Neshama stares at me as she hands me her pink phone.

I dial Bubbie’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Bubbie, it’s Ellie.”

“Hi, dear.”

“Can we come over and watch movies at your house tonight?”

“Sure.”

“We’re bringing Ima.”

“Your mother wants to watch movies?”

“Well, she doesn’t really know she wants to watch movies. We’re going to try and cheer her up.”

“Okay, how about eight? I’ll get some ice cream.”

“And one of those squeezy bottles of chocolate sauce?”

“And some Amaretto.”

“Perfect. See you then.”

I hang up the phone and look at Neshama. “Are you in?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

In the living room, I hand the bag of videos to Ima. “I brought you something.”

She looks at the bag. “What’s this?” She unfurls her limbs, sits upright on the sofa. She takes out
Roman Holiday.
“Audrey Hepburn. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I thought we could go over to Bubbie’s.”

She blinks back tears. “That would be great.” She stands up and wraps her arms around my waist, reaches up to kiss my cheek.

“Ima?”

“Yeah?”

“You could find a new
shul
, couldn’t you?”

Tears start to flow down her cheeks. “I suppose I could.”

MONDAY I SNEAK
out of class early to meet Lindsay. I take the subway to Rosedale and make my way through the maze of Lindsay’s neighborhood. I catch up with her just before her house.

“Hi.”

“Hi. You’re earlier than I thought.”

“Oh.” I blush. “I didn’t want to be late.”

Lindsay turns the key in the giant oak door and guides me into a large, wood-paneled, front hall. A staircase curves up to the second floor. Light streams over a window seat surrounded by potted jade plants at the side of the hall. She starts unlacing her high, black, Doc Marten boots. I take off my coat.

“Is that your school uniform?” she snickers.

I look down at my creased pleated skirt, cringe.

“And I thought kilts were bad.”

“I was going to change, but I forgot.” I brush my hands down my skirt, clench them behind my back.

Lindsay reaches down to pull off her boots, her hair falling forward, revealing the delicious curve of her neck. I quickly turn away and peer through leaded-glass doors into a high-ceilinged living room. Two overstuffed sofas dominate the space, saggy and threadbare, surrounded by antique
tables and bookshelves. Faded red drapes cover the windows at each end of the room. A water stain mars the far wall by a piano, like an oil slick on the sea.

Lindsay yanks off her boots and leaves them lying in a wet puddle by the door. “C’mon in,” she says.

I follow her through the spacious hall past a dining room with an ornate crystal chandelier hanging over a long polished table. Floral wallpaper—large red roses on a cream background—covers the bottom part of the walls. Above the wallpaper, golden-edged dinner plates rest on a plate rail.

Lindsay leads me into a large kitchen, surprisingly similar to our own, but a lot bigger. The white-painted cupboards are too high, the counters the same rippled gold-flecked Formica. A faucet drips on a sink full of dirty dishes, the open door of the pantry revealing cereal boxes askew, overturned spice bottles, bags of rice and pasta spilling open.

“Yolanda comes tomorrow,” Lindsay says, nudging an over-full garbage bag closer to the back door.

I lean on a stool, looking at the ample counter space. “My father would love to cook in this kitchen.”

Lindsay eyes me skeptically. “It’s a total time warp.” She yanks open a sticky cupboard and gets two glasses. “Juice?”

I nod.

She opens the refrigerator and gets a carton from the almost barren shelves. “My mom’s been trying to decide whether to renovate or sell for the past ten years.”

“Oh.” I sip my juice.

She grabs a box of crackers from the counter. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” I look at the dingy dishes. “So, who cooks, you or your mom?”

Lindsay opens the freezer to show me stacks of frozen dinners. “Yolanda also makes stuff for us a few times a week.” She finishes her juice and stuffs a few more crackers in her mouth. “So, what do you want to do?”

I grind my teeth. “Um, I don’t know.”

Lindsay’s eyes light up, her lips sliding into a grin. “I know.”

I bite my lip, gulp down the rest of my juice. “You like games, right?” Lindsay stands, hands on her hips, in the middle of the kitchen.

I lean against the counter. “Sure. Like, um, like dare?”

“Yeah, like dare, except this is a little different.”

I crack my toes on the linoleum. “Um, sure.”

Lindsay stacks our glasses on the pile in the sink. “C’mere.”

I follow her back to the hallway. “Okay, here’s what you do. You stand here and count to ten with your eyes closed, then you have to find me.”

“Like hide-and-go-seek?”

“Yeah, kinda like that, but it’s a little different.”

“How so?”

Lindsay smiles. “You’ll see. Just stand here.” She positions me on the thin circular carpet. “Close your eyes.”

I glance around at the maze of closed doors. “I’ll never find you.”

Lindsay steps closer to me. Her huge eyes make me hold my breath. She places a hand on my shoulder and leans toward me. “Yes, you will,” she whispers.

Her voice sends tingles down my back. The skin on my legs and arms is alive. I close my eyes and start counting. O
ne, two, three.
I hear the stairs creaking, Lindsay’s footsteps light and quick.
Four, five, six.
My heart pounds.
Seven, eight, nine
. Silence around me.
Ten.
I open my eyes, wipe my sweaty palms on my pleated skirt. I creep up the stairs, the wood groaning under my feet.

Upstairs I tiptoe down a hallway, my heart thumping. I pause at a corner, my hands clenched at my sides, press my back against the wall. Slowly I peer around to the left. Lindsay pops up in front of me, grabs my arm. “I got you.”

I gasp, take a step backward.

“I got you,” she giggles, her hand wrapping tight around my thin wrist.

My heart races. “I thought I was chasing you.”

“And me you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Now what?”

“You take off a piece of clothing.”

I flush, a queasy feeling rising up my torso. “Here?”

Lindsay nods.

I rub my foot up my calf, take a small step back, Lindsay still holding my arm. “What if your mom comes home?”

Lindsay leans against the wall. “She won’t. She never gets here before six thirty.” She licks her lips, then pulls at the sleeve of my cardigan. “It’s just a sweater. Don’t you want to play?”

I let her tug my sleeve over my hand. I shrug the cardigan over my shoulders, the warm wool slipping down my back, dropping around my ankles. Lindsay’s eyes graze my thin
white blouse, my nipples tightening against the blue satin cups of my bra.

“Okay,” Lindsay says. “It’s my turn to count. You hide.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

My hand reaches out to the hem of Lindsay’s kilt, tugging at the edge. “I found you too,” I whisper. I can’t believe what I just said.

Lindsay frowns. “So you think I should take off something too?”

I cross my legs, press one shoulder up to my ear. “Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible. I look down at her stocking feet.

“Fair enough.” She smiles and starts pulling off her vest. Then she stops, raises one eyebrow. Her hand slides down her blouse, over her kilt, snakes up one bare thigh. My mouth drops open as she hooks a thumb under her panties. She wiggles them, white and lacy, down her legs, and lets them drop down to her ankles. She calmly steps out of them and shoves them in her cardigan pocket. I draw in a deep breath and lean against the wall.

“So I can tag you and you can tag me?” I ask, swallowing.

“If you can find me.” Lindsay’s fingers trace the bony ridge of my now naked wrist.

“Is this hide-and-go-seek or tag?”

“Both—neither.” She smiles. “Whatever you want it to be.” She slips her fingers between mine, her palm pressed tight against mine.

Lindsay cocks her head to the side, a finger at the corner of her mouth. “You’ll figure it out—you’re smart.” She tightens
her grip on my hand, pulling me toward her. “Catch me if you can,” she whispers. Then she pulls away, her hair streaming loose behind her. I lunge down the hallway, my fingers grazing her waist by the open door of the bathroom.

Lindsay stands, laughing. “Okay, you got me,” she says.

Suddenly I’m embarrassed to have caught her so fast, my face crimson. “I...I...You don’t have to take off anything. I just, I just want to...,” my lips fumble. Lindsay waits for me. “I want to touch your hair,” I blurt. Heat climbs up my cheek. I stare down at the carpet.

She stops laughing. “So touch it.”

I breathe in deep, pausing a moment before stepping closer to her. I run my fingers tentatively over the top of her head, let them trail down the long soft strands to her shoulders. Lindsay watches me curiously, her huge eyes fixed on mine. I gather a thick lock of her hair and bring it up to my face. “I love your hair,” I whisper. It smells like the day we lay in the wild grass in the field with the sumac. I close my eyes, inhaling her scent, burying my fingers in the strawberry-blond waves until I feel her fingers on my hip, edging my blouse out of my uniform skirt.

My eyes fly open. “You didn’t tag me back.”

She spreads her cool hands over my bare narrow stomach. “I’m tagging you now,” she says. Her hands reach up to my breasts.

I gasp, my nipples stabbing into the palms of her hands.

Our fingers work the buttons on our blouses, pushing plastic through the cotton holes. Lindsay wears a white bra,
lace petals around her puckered nipples. I hold the weight of her breast in my hand, heavy and white, feel its round bottom curve, watch the nipple crease tighter under my gaze.

Lindsay sighs. “Tag me,” she murmurs, “please tag me.”

Nine

N
ose deep in the sofa, my cheekbone rests against Lindsay’s warm shoulder, our legs entwined.

“El?” Lindsay nudges me.

“Hmm.” I bury myself deeper in the velvet cushions.

“You need to go.”

I sigh. “Time?”

“Five thirty.”

I slowly get up from the sofa, twist my school skirt straight, pick panties from my bum.

I’ve gone to Lindsay’s every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three months. I haven’t been to the Science Center since the winter break, and Becca has almost given up on me. I try and see her on the weekends or call in the evenings, but I know she is hurt. She hangs out with Esther most of the time now.

Lindsay and I spend the afternoons watching
TV
in the den on deep white couches, the blinds drawn. With a velvety blanket over our laps, our fingers stroke the edge of a hem, a knee, our breath heavy and warm. Hands travel up smooth white tights to cotton underpants, the sharp gasp as fingers
delve between warm wet folds, legs splayed, breath muted. Mouths hang slack, too busy breathing to kiss.

Lindsay watches me comb my hair. “What do you tell your parents?”

“Library.”

“And they believe you?”

I nod.

“Mine wouldn’t.”

“I’m the good girl. Besides...”

“What?”

Ima sits in her office every evening, scribbling. Abba spends long hours at school, working on an article. “They watch Neshama more.”

“Is she as bad as you?” Lindsay grins in the dark.

I tuck in my blouse. “She has other agendas.”

“Like?”

“Money and school.”

“And you?”

I almost say “love,” the word on the edge of my lips. “I have, I have other...”

“More physical concerns?” Lindsay reaches out and strokes my knee.

“What’s your agenda?” Say love, say it’s love. I stop dressing and watch her.

Lindsay stretches lazily on the couch. “Oh, I don’t know. Stripping.” She grins.

I sulk into the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

Lindsay walks me to the subway. It’s already dark outside, the night air damp, the streetlights casting pools on the snow. We walk silently through the quiet streets.

“What do you think your parents would do if they found out?” she asks.

I think about this for a moment. “Cry.” “Cry?”

I nod slowly. “Yours?”

Lindsay shrugs. “I’ve never thought about it.”

Every night I lie in bed worrying, what if they find out? I buy more teen magazines and plaster my walls with stupid glossy centerfolds. I even buy a Patrick Swayze
Dirty Dancing
poster. If we were still going to Beth El, Mrs. Bachner would sniff me out, her hooded eyes staring into me until she figured out what it was. “Oh, that Ellie Gold, she walks different than she used to.”

I’ve started going swimming on days I don’t go to Lindsay’s. Another lie to Abba: I tell him I only go to the women’s swim, which isn’t true. Every second week I think, I won’t go back to her, I just won’t. But I do. January and February has been full of slow, sweet kisses and crawling fingers.