She Loves You, She Loves You Not... Read online

  “I could take you home,” I tell her. As a friendly gesture. Nothing more.

  She has the car door open, and she’s bending over with her back to me. “I need my bike,” I hear her say. She straightens up and hands me her shoes. “Trade,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Until you can go shopping.”

  I remove my flip-flops. She slips them onto her feet and then gets out and opens her mouth to say something. Whatever it is never makes it from her brain to her lips. She raises her hand in a wave.

  I watch as she shuffles to her mountain bike, loops a leg over, and pedals off.

  Her shoes are grody and worn, full of sand. A half size too small, but I can squeeze my feet in. Her giving them to me like that was such a total act of kindness. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anyone’s kindness; since anyone cared about my needs. My throat constricts, and it takes all the willpower I can muster to choke down a sob.

  “Sorry I missed your call today,” Carly says. “I was with a client and tried to get you later, but you didn’t pick up. Did you get a pair of shoes for work?”

  “Uh… yeah.” I gaze up the loft steps at her, speechless. She’s skanked up, meaning thick, black mascara and a short, stretchy red dress over fishnets.

  “Paulie called.” Carly hustles down the stairs, although you can’t really hustle in stilettos, can you? “He said he’d wait up for you to call him back.” She stops on the landing to insert huge, loopy earrings in her lobes. “What did your father think would be accomplished by taking away your phone?”

  I don’t want to think about Dad. I actually had a pretty good day.

  “Alyssa?” Carly bats fake eyelashes at me. I wedge past her and up the stairs. “You didn’t buy those shoes, did you? They look like Goodwill rejects.”

  The fumes in the loft are staggering. A sneeze backs up in my nose. Ugh. I hate that plugged-up feeling.

  “We can afford new shoes, you know. You don’t have to shop at thrift stores.”

  I say over the railing, “Can I have eight hundred dollars?”

  She swivels her head up, and I can see clear down her cleavage. “For shoes?”

  When I don’t answer right away, she says, “I’ve paid four hundred dollars for shoes before, but they were designer. For a special occasion.”

  I bet, I think.

  She cocks her head at me, batting her thick eyelashes. “Are you in trouble, Alyssa? Are you into drugs or something?”

  “What? No.” Why do parents always assume you’re on drugs?

  “You know you can talk to me….”

  “Never mind.” I stomp toward my room.

  “Alyssa!” she shouts.

  I let out an audible breath and return to the loft railing. I don’t want her stripper money, anyway. Or wherever it comes from. I’ll find eight hundred dollars someplace.

  Carly calls up, “I’ll leave you my ATM card. The pin number’s my birthday: 1013. But you can’t withdraw more than two hundred at a time. I’ll just write you a check.”

  I can’t believe it. Dad would never give me eight hundred dollars, no questions asked. Not only would he assume I was on drugs, he’d take me in for testing.

  Carly checks her cell and adds, “Call Paulie.” She leaves in a cloud of lavender.

  I lie down and plug into my nano. I look at my feet, at Finn’s shoes, and click my heels together. They’re not ruby slippers; they won’t take me to Kansas. But they feel magical. I fall asleep with the memory of my hip against her flat belly, my one arm curled around her, and the other stroking hard enough to keep us both afloat.

  Chapter

  11

  She left a note on my door.

  CALL PAULIE. TONITE.

  She can’t spell. She never finished high school, as far as I know. She got pregnant with me. Carly and Dad and I were a family for eighteen months.

  I sprawl on the sofa, thinking. Wishing I could go back in time to see how it all went down between Carly and Dad. Wanting to know the truth, to hear it from her. I heard Dad’s version: She left. It had nothing to do with you.

  I wonder now if he kicked her out, or bullied her out, the way he did to me.

  This house is so soundproofed you can’t even hear chipmunks chattering or birds singing. No passing cars drive close enough to see their headlights. It’s never this dark or quiet at home. There’s always a TV on, a video game, kids riding bikes in the neighborhood.

  I go back up to bed but can’t shut off my brain. What if Carly wanted to stay? Did she plead with Dad to keep our family together? I can’t see Carly begging. Did she want to take me with her, though? Was he the one who cut off all contact with her?

  Everything I knew, everything I believed, could all be a lie.

  I wonder where Carly dances and when she started. Before Dad or after? She said something earlier, before she left the other night. Willy’s. “I have to dance tonight at Willy’s.”

  I sprint downstairs and find the phone book, page to… what? Strip joints? Not a category. Men’s clubs?

  There are no Willy’s, but under Bars there’s a Wet Willy’s on Blue Spruce Road. I didn’t see a Wet Willy’s on Blue Spruce Road today. But then, I wasn’t looking. I was under Finn’s spell.

  How can I go to a strip club? I’m underage.

  Carly’s left a bottle of wine on the wet bar, corked, but half-full. I pour myself a glass and down it. Then another. My fear or apprehension is slowly replaced with courage or need. I don’t want to see what she does. And I do. I have to know the truth about who I am and where I came from.

  The access road down the mountain isn’t lit, and I miss the turn, swerving into a patch of scrub oak. I hear it scrape the paint on Carly’s Mercedes. Shit. I shouldn’t do this. I’m not drunk, but I’m not completely sober either.

  I have to do it. The AC’s cranked up to freezing to keep me awake and alert.

  It takes me a year to figure out how to turn on the brights. My brain jumps back to the car accident, to Sarah, but I force myself not to think about it. Think of Carly. The way she was dressed tonight, like a whore. I hate that word.

  Think of Finn. How could she not know the fundamental truth about herself? It’s so obvious to me, probably to everyone in town. It’s hard coming out to yourself, but if I’d waited until I was twenty-one, I never would’ve known Sarah. Which would’ve been a blessing.

  No. She loved me once. We were in love.

  I wonder as I’m driving through Majestic if Finn’s ever had sex, if she’s a virgin. I’m glad I got that out of the way.

  Sarah’s parents’ forbidding her to see me hadn’t stopped her from coming over or calling. I loved her for putting me before them. She said when she told her dad she was bi, he said, “What does that mean? You’re half girl, half boy?”

  We all had a good laugh over that. Especially Ben. I still felt sort of betrayed by Ben for breaking our confidence and telling Sarah he was my “convenient” boyfriend, but I felt more guilty about not telling her myself.

  Did everything happen during that time I was sick? Maybe she needed me, and I couldn’t be there for her. I know I missed her birthday, January 11, because I was still in bed with mono. I did text her fifteen times, for fifteen years old, with a picture of a burning birthday candle and the message MAKE A WISH, but I wanted to do more. When I could finally stay on my feet for more than an hour, I went to the mall and bought her the white-gold necklace and diamond earrings she’d been drooling over. I didn’t care how much of my savings I was using. Sarah was worth it.

  Even if I wasn’t a hundred percent available, that was no reason to do what she did.

  And Ben. It’s ridiculous to have to make up a boyfriend. The whole time I pretended, I felt I was betraying my and Sarah’s love for each other. I’ll never do that again. Still, when did he decide it was okay to ruin my life?

  Tanith said to me one day, “Your dad wants me to take you for birth control pills.”

  I was shocked.


  She added, “Do I have to take you for birth control pills?”

  I couldn’t even look at her. I shook my head no.

  She knew the truth. Why didn’t she tell him? Tell him so he’d take it out on her and not me.

  I’m such a coward. A fraud. I deserved what I got.

  There are no streetlights on this stretch of road, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I haven’t been paying attention. Two motorcycles roar up behind me, so close that I’m blinded in the rearview mirror. They pass on my left. The one biker is wearing a sleeveless leather vest with no helmet. A girl is clinging to his waist.

  My first impulse is to follow them, so I step on the gas. They round the mountain curve and evaporate. Where did they go? Red taillights flash to my right, where I see the Blue Spruce sign. Damn. I missed it.

  I have to drive to a gas station near I-70 to turn around, and I see a couple of cars parked on the side of the building with people about my age inside. In the backseat of one car are a guy and a girl, making out. Or it might be two girls. God, I think it is.

  The longing seeps back in. After Sarah was out out, she had nothing to hide at school, so she cuddled with me at my locker, and I let her. We held hands in the hall. People said stuff, called us dykes, lezzes. Disgusting names, like cunt lickers and munch fuckers. Sarah put on a brave face, but I knew it bothered her. I tried to tell her she’d become immune to the harassment, that there is a never-ending supply of ignorant bigots in the world. That’s the truth.

  One day after school these two guys came up behind us—I had Sarah’s hands in my coat pocket, and we were nuzzling and kissing—and one guy went, “Lesbos make me sick.”

  I said to him, “Go to hell.”

  The other guy yanked on Sarah’s hat and pulled it off. She cried out because he ripped some hair with it. I lashed out at the guy but missed. The other guy wedged between us, pushing Sarah to the wall and holding her arms. He said, “Do you even know what you’re missing, babe?” and smashed his mouth on hers.

  With superhuman strength I didn’t know I had, I wrenched him around and kicked him in the balls. The other guy clenched my arm, but I kicked him too. Next thing I knew, Sarah and I were flying out the exit, running for our lives.

  Was that the day I decided to get my driver’s license? A car would’ve been a godsend. Those jerks didn’t catch up, but they could have.

  Sarah broke down. She started crying uncontrollably.

  “Baby, it’s okay.” I held her. “They’re just assholes.”

  She pushed me away. “I can’t do this!” she yelled in my face. “It’s too hard!” She turned and fled.

  I caught up with her at Gracie Field, and she whirled on me. “I hate this! I hate the way people look at me and the way they treat me and what they think of me. I hate lying to my parents and sneaking around.”

  “I thought you told your parents,” I said.

  “I didn’t tell them everything. They know you kissed me.”

  “You kissed me first.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  She did. But what difference did that make? I wanted it.

  “It doesn’t matter what people think,” I said.

  “Yes it does!” she shrilled.

  I tried to calm her down. She was crazy. “I hate it! I hate living like this!” She kept screaming, stomping her feet on the dirt like a little kid having a temper tantrum.

  I shouldn’t have laughed.

  Sarah stopped immediately. Her eyes hardened and she said, “I can’t do this with you anymore.” She stormed off.

  “Sarah,” I called after her. She wouldn’t slow down. “What are you saying?”

  She stopped and twisted around. “I can’t, Alyssa. I’m sorry.”

  My stomach was in my throat. Did she mean we were over?

  A car turned the corner and honked at us. Sarah’s father. She ran over to him. Out of cars and vans, hordes of kids in baseball uniforms streamed onto the field, and Sarah disappeared into the crowd.

  That night was the worst night of my life. I called and called and called her cell. Sarah’s voice mail picked up every time. I lost count of how many times I redialed. The last time her mother answered.

  “Is this Alyssa?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Is Sarah—”

  “Stop calling her. She’s not allowed to see you or talk to you. Do you know how old she is? Barely fifteen. You can destroy your own life, but don’t take my daughter down with you.”

  I felt humiliated. Ashamed. Why? I’d never made Sarah do anything she didn’t want to do. She’d decided. Fifteen was old enough to decide.

  Twenty-one is definitely old enough. Finn should be living out and proud. Last year M’Chelle dated this college girl, and that was cool. She didn’t have to play out her whole love life at Homophobic High.

  Finn’s face materializes in my head. She isn’t beautiful in a classic way, like Sarah. Finn has that gorgeous skin and hair and those eyes. I could lose myself in those bottomless eyes.

  Forget Sarah. And Finn too. Finn doesn’t need her first girlfriend to be some reject on the rebound looking to avenge her ex. And I don’t need or want a girlfriend.

  I see the sign to Blue Spruce Road and turn left. After a few feet, the pavement ends. Over a blind hill the topography flattens out, and I spy the building ahead. The neon sign: WET WILLY’S. Underneath, flashing naked women and curlicue lights that read: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.

  God, Carly.

  A hundred vehicles are parked in a dirt lot. Cars and trucks and motorcycles. Music blasts out the open door.

  I should bail. Do I really want to see this?

  Yes.

  I park in the hinterlands and hike up to the entrance. The bouncer, who’s ear-gauged and tattooed head to toe, says, “Can I see your ID?”

  “Sure.” I finger my billfold in my bag, fumble around, pretend I can’t find it. He keeps waiting. Grabbing my billfold, I flip it open and flash my license at him. I go to flip it closed, but he snatches it out of my hand. “Sorry, sweetcakes,” he says, handing it back. “Kinder Care is that way.” He thumbs toward the road.

  “I promise I won’t drink,” I tell him. “I just want a Coke.”

  “There’s a 7-Eleven in Frisco.”

  How bad do I want in? Bad. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stick out my boobs. I shimmy up close to the bouncer and say in his ear, “Please?” My fingers trickle down his arm. I sort of vomit in my mouth.

  A group of rowdies surge out the door, squeezing us together in the tight opening. Then a van pulls up, and an entire construction crew piles out.

  The bouncer calls, “Hold up, boys,” and I slip inside.

  Behind me, I hear, “Hey, where’s that kid?” I skitter behind a booth, between tables, keeping my head down.

  The bar is straight ahead. I glance back once and don’t see the bouncer, because the place is packed. He’ll never find me. I look up and freeze.

  Finn’s behind the bar. Her eyes rise, and I duck down, scuttling sideways toward the wall, weaving through a clot of hairy bikers and slinking along the perimeter.

  I should’ve made the connection. Finn knows Carly. Finn tends bar. Finn knows more about Carly than she’s letting on.

  There’s a dark corner by the ATM machine, and I huddle there. I can watch Finn without her seeing me.

  She’s dressed in black. Black jeans, black tee on her lean, narrow frame. She’d be completely androgynous without the braid.

  A pair of guys at the bar begin to talk her up. She pours whiskey into a glass of ice with one hand while drawing beer from the tap with the other. One guy makes a joke, and Finn smiles.

  Not with her eyes. She just looks tired.

  She glances my way. I dodge her gaze, but it doesn’t matter, because the lights go out. A blaze of red light strobes in front of me, and a screech, like a flock of seagulls, makes my ears squinch. Guys start hooting and whistling, and I can’t see what’s happening.

  I peer
around a beefy dude. There’s a stage, and on the right, lit with a red spotlight, is a pole. Dry-ice fog rolls across the floor, and Carly appears onstage. She’s changed her clothes—into practically nothing. I have to cover my ears, the whistling is so shrill. I can’t see clearly through the mass of smarmy bodies and smoke and haze. A bass beat pounds, and then this oily music comes on.

  I sneak a peek at Finn. She’s stopped working and stands motionless, eyes glued to the stage.

  People begin to sit, opening a view of the stage to me, where Carly squats, her knees apart, behind the pole. She reaches up her long fingers and grabs the pole. Then she slides herself to an erect position and raises her head.

  Through the mist and haze, Carly’s eyes travel the room, stop, and fuse to my face. No words are exchanged, because none have to be.

  It’s not all Carly’s show. A blue light illuminates the left side of the stage, where there’s another pole, and Geena appears. Guys whoop and catcall. She and Carly must’ve rehearsed this number, because they slide up and down their poles in unison. So raunchy. At one point they hang off their poles by one hand, lean over, and kiss each other.

  That’s enough for me. I’m gone before I see how far they’ll go.

  Chapter

  12

  I bury my head in my pillow, amp up my music, and cover the earbuds with both hands. I can’t shake the image of Carly with her legs spread, clinging to that pole. How could she—how could anyone—sink so low? I had an idea what stripping or pole dancing was, but it’s worse than I imagined. My own mother. I have absolutely no respect for her.

  A hand touches my arm, and I startle. Her cloying perfume bites my nose, and I roll over in bed. Carly stands there in broad daylight, her arms crossed. “Paulie’s left two messages on the machine. You never called him back, did you?”

  Shit. I’d spaced out. I wait for her to say more—about last night.

  She leaves, and I blow her smell out of my nose.

  What time is it? If it’s light, I’m late! Then remember I don’t work today.

  I sit up and see Carly didn’t go far—to the doorway. Her hair is down, and she sweeps her too-long bangs across one eyebrow and over her ear. “Are you going to call him?”