Love and Leftovers (12 page)

“Come on, Mahcie, I can see your granny panties,

every time you touch your toes.”

I whack him one on the shoulder.

“So I just thought . . .” he trails off.

“You didn’t think

I’d show them to you . . . on.

Did you?”

He just grins

big.

Friends with Benefits

Long after the cool sunlight has sunk below the trees,

after the darkness has seeped in through the cracks in
the summerhouse walls,

after our fire has dimmed to highlighter-orange coals,

J.D. slides behind me,

making a chair out of his knees,

a headrest out of his chest.

He wriggles from his sweatshirt,

then lifts mine off over my head,

kissing the back of my neck,

the muscles of my shoulders,

until tingles make me giggle.

I turn and kiss him,

his warm soft lips,

his pressing mouth,

pretending not to notice

the freeing spring

of my bra

coming

undone.

Thank God

Finally!

My second bases

have been rounded.

I was beginning to think

that there was something wrong

with them/with me.

Because, no boy

(not one single horny-assed teenage boy)

paid my breasts any attention

until now.

My Mother Is Wrong

about so many things.

Lingerie makes a great gift not an inappropriate one.

I should know. I own two pieces.

A camisole from Katie.

A pair of little black lace panties from J.D.

And when I put them on under my clothes I feel

soft and silky like I just took a shower

mysterious like I know a secret no one else does

sexy like I want to kiss J.D. passionately

for the next forty-five minutes.

Standing up for myself would be so boring.

I should know. I let J.D. touch me. A lot.

Above my knee under the cafeteria table.

Under my shirt in front of the potbellied stove.

And when he puts his hands under my clothes I feel

beautiful like a girl on the cover of a glossy magazine

desired like a tall glass of lemonade on a hot July

afternoon

sexy like I want to kiss him passionately

for the next forty-five minutes.

Hating men isn’t better than loving them.

I should know. I have been
almost
in love more than once.

With Linus Thomas.

With Jeremiah Delaney Gallagher.

And when I am with a guy I like I feel

special like a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day

valued like a string of pearls

sexy like I want to kiss him passionately

for the next forty-five minutes.

Hiding in bed all day isn’t better than living my life.

I should know. I tried it.

I had my covers up to my chin.

And my pillow over my head.

But when J.D. knocked on the door this morning I felt

my heart jump like I just heard a crack of lightning

my pulse pound like I just ran from here to the

summerhouse

my breath quicken like I had been kissing J.D.

for the last forty-five minutes.

Overheard

When I came in all sweaty and needing a shower,

I heard my mother say,

“I’ve got to go. Marcie’s home from her run,”

and she hurried to hang up the phone.

All I could think about while I washed my hair

was that she didn’t sound pleased.

I have a feeling that my mother doesn’t like J.D.

(Because she can’t possibly not like my jogging.)

J.D. Knows to Avoid the Potholes

and how to ease his Jeep

down the dark gravel lane

without making a sound.

He flashes me a grin in the dashboard light

that means he’d love to warm his hands

on the skin under my shirt.

He slams on the brakes.

My seat belt tugs me back to present tense.

“A deer?”

“No, look!”

I follow the high beams,

expecting a bear, or maybe a moose

or even a loose buffalo from the farm down the street.

Just about anything

but a Mustang

and my father.

“Hi, Daddy!”

I say as if I’m happy to see him

as if he isn’t interrupting anything

by parking his car,

and himself,

in the middle of the lane.

“Marcie,

how come your mother knew

that I’d find you here?”

“’Cause one of the neighbors called and said

that the kitchen window had come open

so J.D. and I thought we’d check on it?” I lie.

“So you have a key?”

“Huh?”

Dad takes my hand,

emptying it of its key-ring contents.

He inspects the keys by the headlights.

And I can tell that he recognizes the worn brass gem

that has been opening the door to the summerhouse

since 1954.

“I’m sorry, J.D.,

but Marcie and I have a little catching up to do.

Would you mind giving us a moment?”

“No prob, Mistah Fostah.

It was nice to meet you.

’Night, Mahcie.”

“’Night,” I say.

But scream in my head,

Don’t leave me!

Dad will start in on one of his

heart-to-heart conversations

about good friends, sex, and prophylactics.

My Father Wraps Me in His Long Arms

His fine wool sweater is

soft and warm on my cheek.

He smells like leather and cedar

and reminds me of home.

“I’ve missed you, Sugar Cookie.”

I try to tell him that I missed him too,

but sobs choke in my throat.

It feels so good to hug him,

I don’t want to let go.

I hug him tighter.

He pulls me closer

and wonders in a half whisper,

“Maybe I should have come

to get you sooner.”

Dad Doesn’t Lecture Me

He just asks

if I know what

Mom’s family meeting

is about.

Back at Our Apartment

I treat my father like a guest,

pouring him a glass of wine

because we don’t have gin.

“So, Charlene, you wanted to talk face-to-face?”

he asks Mom, looking cool and comfortable

while she paces and sweats.

“I—I—I found these in Marcie’s room!”

From her pocket, Mom pulls out

a stack of

condom

packages

that unfold

like an

accordion.

“Yeah,” Dad says.

“I gave them to her.”

“Ethan! What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I wasn’t going to count on

some seventeen-year-old jock

to remember them.”

“But she’s just a kid!”

“She’s sixteen, Charlene.

There’s nothing wrong

with giving her a parachute.”

Mom puts her hands over her ears,

and stomps back and forth in mad

half circles around the coffee table.

“Mom?”

“MOM?”

“MOM, STOP!”

She stops pacing and looks at me.

“I didn’t use them.

I mean,

I put one on a banana.

Just to practice.

But J.D. and I

don’t have sex.

And I’ve never slept

with Linus.

I mean,

we’ve slept together,

but we just slept.

With our clothes on.”