The Other Way Around (21 page)

Jeremiah offers us all wine after dinner. It's mead, actually, he tells us proudly, that he made himself from honey harvested from their bees. The Freegans all nod appreciatively, but of course no one asks for any. It seems like Jeremiah really wants us to try some. So without thinking too much about it, I thrust my cup forward and say I'll try it. I've tried beer before, but I never really got the appeal. Every once in a while, when I'm
really bored on a Friday night, I'll drink some of Mom's red wine and enjoy the spins while I watch stupid stuff on YouTube.

This stuff is strong. It's sweet too, and it warms my whole body. Before I can refuse Jeremiah is refilling my cup to the brim. I smile and shrug. I've never been drunk before, so I guess I don't really see it coming. It's weird. I feel super focused on whoever is talking or right across the table from me. But at the same time I start to lose awareness of what's going on to my left and right. Everything in my peripherals gets kind of fuzzy. And yet I can't help staring intently at the person talking. I think I'm listening, except I'm not really sure what Jeremiah is saying. These little thoughts keep floating through my mind like subtitles in a foreign movie. They say things like “I'm really warm.” Or “I feel comfy.”

Lindsay is sitting next to me, and when I turn to look at her I notice that tonight she's wearing makeup. Just a little bit, but her lips are pink and shiny. Her teeth don't look so crooked anymore. I smile at her. I'm smiling at everyone. Jeremiah is talking about their goats and which ones they're going to breed, and which ones they're going to eat this winter, and how much hay they need to put away to keep them fed and comfortable.

“I love hay,” I blurt out. “It reminds me of hayrides.”

G and Jesse are looking at me like I've said something really funny, and Emily just looks annoyed. Jeremiah nods like he totally gets me and starts talking about the hay they've harvested that year. I feel a hand on my arm, and I look over at Lindsay.

“I could show you the hayloft later, if you want,” she says. This time I notice her eyes, which are green and sparkly. They're lined with a little bit of purple eyeliner. It's smudged in the corners.

“Okay,” I say. Because this sounds like a great idea. Suddenly there is a loud screeching sound of wood drawn quickly across wood and my chair is jerked backwards.

“Andrew and I will do the dishes,” Emily announces. She's standing behind my chair with the collar of my shirt crumpled in a tight fist at the nape of my neck. I shake off her grip and nod good-naturedly. I don't get that Emily's annoyed until we're back in the kitchen and she's practically throwing wet plates at me to dry. Each plate is handmade and weighs about four pounds.

“Slow down,” I say. “I don't want to drop anything.”

“Yeah,” she says acidly, “you don't want to upset our hosts or anything. Not until after you screw their daughter anyway.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Oh please. Don't think you were being subtle or anything. That girl practically had her hand down your pants at dinner, and you're trying to pretend like nothing was going to happen. You don't even know her. You don't even care about her. You're just going to use her and toss her aside. This is what alcohol does to people, Andrew. It takes really good sweet people and makes them do stupid insensitive asshole-ish things!”

I reach over in front of Emily and the mountain of bubbles about to overflow the sink and turn off the water. The super-focused power of the alcohol turns all my attentions on her, but instead of my brain going a million miles an hour with what-ifs and random thoughts, I just stare at her, my mind a buzzing blank space. I stare at her face, at the soft roots of her hair. She's got a red spot on the top of one cheek that might turn into a zit. She's jealous, and somehow it's because of me. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I've never been drunk before.”

Emily sighs loudly. She's studying me carefully, searching for any hint of insincerity. She's worried about getting hurt. This thought hits me like an anvil in a Road Runner cartoon. She must care about me if she thinks I could hurt her, right? The conversation coming from the dining room is loud. I can hear Jesse and Jeremiah arguing about wind power versus solar power. “You could have really hurt that girl,” she says, but her tone is generous, like she's already forgiven me for what I didn't do. She turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the soapy water. I'm fixated on her neck. And I guess it's the mead, because I've never been this bold before in my entire life. But before I can stop to consider whether it's a good idea, I pull the dreadlocks off the side of her neck and kiss her right below the ear. I leave my lips there for a second before I pull my mouth slowly away.

The noise that comes out of her mouth is somewhere between a sigh and a moan. I jerk back, thinking she's going to slam me over the head with a cast iron pan. Instead she turns and grabs the front of my shirt with her soapy hands and pushes me backwards into the wall beside the stove. She's kissing me, but this time is different than before. This time she's kissing me like she's lost something between the back of my tongue and my tonsils. She's pulling hard on my lips with her lips and she's running one hand through my hair and pulling on the back of my head so hard it almost hurts. But I'm not complaining. It feels incredible. And when I'm not thinking about the way she's grinding her legs into my legs, I'm half-wondering what I did exactly to provoke this reaction and how I'm going to get her to do it again and again for the rest of my life. Emily grabs my hands and shoves them up against her breasts.
She's kneading my hands into kneading her breasts. It's kind of like I'm feeling her up, and it's kind of like she's feeling herself up. It's a little weird but for whatever reason it seems to work for Emily because she's still moaning like she did when I first kissed her neck.

The sound of more chairs scraping backwards breaks the spell. She pulls away from me, and we're both panting and a little bewildered. Everyone brings in the rest of their dishes but Emily and I are quiet. Everyone must know what was just going on, but no one says anything. Even G has no snarky comments to offer. Lindsay lingers in the kitchen for a little while, putting away the dry plates and rearranging things on the counter. But when it's clear she's not going to get any kind of attention or conversation from either of us, she leaves to join the others in the living room.

Jesse is tuning his guitar, and when I glance around the corner I see Jeremiah hunched over a banjo and Tim with his recording equipment out. Skye has a pair of spoons in her lap, and Lindsay is curled up on the couch with a book. When she sees me, she looks up hopefully, but I avoid her eyes and scurry back into the kitchen.

The sounds of the music take the place of any conversation between me and Emily. I'm super aware of every movement she makes and any little noise or cough that escapes her lips. Dishes have never been so clean. A kitchen has never been so expertly scoured. When we're finally done, we stand and stare at one another.
Please don't let this be it.
She takes my hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let's go back to your tent.”

We sneak out the kitchen side door and run through the yard and down the road toward the tents. We stop every fifty
feet or so and mash our faces together. I don't make the mistake of grabbing her face again, but I grab her everywhere else, pulling her back towards me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoulders. My chin is wet from our dripping kisses. I feel like I'm going to explode.

We practically dive into the tent, shoving my backpack and clothes to the side. Hopefully she doesn't notice how much it smells like my feet in there. Emily pulls her shirt over her head and I take that as an okay to do the same. It's dark inside the tent, but there's no mistaking the soft feel of her nipples when they brush my chest. I reach up and cup one of her breasts in my hand. But Emily isn't really much for the soft touch. She grabs my hand and mashes it against her chest again. She's got her other hand at the back of my neck and she's sucking voraciously at my face again. This is all pretty straightforward, and so far my complete and total lack of sexual experience hasn't interfered with either one of us having a good time, but I'm a little nervous about what comes next. It turns out, at least with Emily, not too much more information is needed. She grabs my hand and thrusts it between her legs, writhing and moaning without me doing much more than wiggling my fingers so they don't break between the viselike grip of her thighs. She does this for a while. She's still kissing me with the same ferocity, but every time I try and move her hand below my belt line she quickly moves it away again. So I give up on that end of things. Finally she gives a long, almost bovine, moaning sigh and rolls away onto her back.

I'm quiet. I'm not sure if it's over, and I have no idea what to say. The steamy air in the tent cools quickly. Emily reaches down for my sleeping bag and pulls it up around us. She drapes
an arm across my chest, and I snuggle her in close. I'm trying to think of something to say, some way to explain what it means to me to be close to her like this. But before I can completely compose my thoughts, I realize she's snoring.

I take care of things on my end and eventually fall asleep myself.

When I wake up the next morning the walls of the tent are covered with condensation, threatening me with a clammy canvas touch. I don't shy away or move a muscle, because in the night Emily flung an arm across my bare chest. It was the first thing I was aware of when I opened my eyes, the weight of that arm just below my nipples. I stare at that arm, a girl's arm touching any part of my skin. It seems like a miracle. I lie there, staring at the arm and the back of Emily's head, which is twisted away from me, until I think my bladder might explode. I sadly lift the arm, which flops almost lifelessly on its owner, and sit up.

“Gotta pee,” I say. Emily murmurs something incomprehensible, which I take for agreement that yes, it would be best if I didn't pee right here in the tent.

The sky is an early morning gray, the kind that could turn deep blue by midmorning. The grass is still soaking wet and cold against my feet. I take a minute to roll up the bottom of my pants so they don't get soaked before finding an agreeable tree to water. Leaning against a peeling birch, I realize that my head is pounding. Every step I take sends a thud through my sinuses. After rummaging around in the van for a sweatshirt,
I head into the farmhouse to see if anyone else is awake. Skye is up and making coffee. She hands me a steaming mug without a word and before I can protest that I'm not really a coffee drinker. “Will this help my head?” I ask.

She smiles. “Jeremiah's mead is strong stuff. Especially if you're not used to it. Coffee will take the edge off.”

I sit down at the table and interlock my fingers around the heavy earthen mug. It's got a blue-green glaze on it that reminds me of the color of the ocean. “Are you the only one up?” I ask.

Skye shakes her head. “Jeremiah's still sleeping, but I think I heard Lindsay get into the shower a little while ago. We're trying to conserve the water in the rain barrels for eating and washing dishes, but try telling a teenager she can't shower every day and you've practically got a revolution on your hands.” She rolls her eyes.

I shrug and smile. I know we both know that I'm a teenager too. But it's nice that for right now, I'm some other kind of teenager, the kind you can tell your problems to. I'm staring at my mug, feeling pleased with myself. The coffee is hot and bitter, but I force myself to drink it without grimacing and without asking for sugar. I look up to ask Skye about the plan for the day, but she's left the room.

I turn around when I hear footsteps, but this time it's Lindsay, wearing ripped jeans and a faded gray T-shirt advertising some kind of agricultural fair. Her dirty blonde hair is wet, and she's running a big plastic comb through it, sending splatters of water on to the floor. There are still traces of last night's purple eyeliner around her eyes. She pours herself a cup of coffee and dumps three heaping spoonfuls of sugar in it. She slurps when
she sips. “I could show you the hayloft now if you still want to,” she offers.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

She shoves her sockless feet into a pair of knee-high rubber boots that are sitting by the door and hands a similar pair to me. “Here, wear Jeremiah's.”

“Do you always call your parents by their first names?”

“I don't know, sometimes.”

The boots are caked with mud on the outside but surprisingly warm and comfortable to slip on. I follow Lindsay into the barn, where she climbs the narrow spiral stairs to the hayloft without spilling a drop of her coffee. Once we're up there, she sits down on a bale of hay and I choose one opposite her. “So this is it,” she says.

“It's nice.” There's a skylight above us, and the sun is high enough to send in a shaft of buttery light flecked with dust and chaff from the hay. Lindsay takes another slurp of her coffee and sets the mug down beside her. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and looks at me.

“You can have sex with me if you want.” Blood rushes to my face and pounds in my ears. When I don't immediately respond she continues. “I mean, I won't tell your girlfriend if that's what you're worried about.”

“She's not my girlfriend.”

“Well, whatever she is, she's definitely the jealous type.”

I'm wondering if I have to answer the original question or if Lindsay will just let it go and assume I'm not interested. I'm more interested in the way she said it than anything else. Kind of the same way she offered me a pair of her father's boots.

“So do you want to?” she asks.