Nothing but Your Skin (3 page)

That night, we didn't talk about anything else. You stayed on your path and I watched you disappear into the night. Your steps were slow, like the sound of our grandfather clock…
bong,
bong, bong
…the same rhythm as my heart when it beats quietly.

Later that night, I stood in front of my mirror and I wondered out loud, “How does Matt see me?” I put on my orange parka, my blue gloves, my black hat, and my brown shoes. Would I look all black and brown to you? I thought that autumn in the mountains was not a very good time for us to really get to know each other—you couldn't see any of my bare skin under all my clothes. But what brought us closer was something a bit hidden, deep within the two of us, something maybe a bit broken. I yell when someone comes up to me too quickly, and you can't tell the difference between the color of a zucchini and the color of a carrot. Also, we both liked winter, and snow, too. Because it was cold and it was white. And we were burning up inside, but nobody knew it, except you and me. You had come closer to me, slowly, and everything had changed. The snow was a sure color, and the world seemed sure, too.

Now, in the morning, it's like waking up after a storm. Everything is wrecked and I don't know if anything's left. So, lying under my covers, I search my memory. I try to find everything we said, and even everything we didn't say. The first times, the thousand first times. The first time you really talked to me, when you stopped to show me the bird. The first time you left your side of the path to come walk next to me. The first time you touched my gloves, without meaning to, to help me hold up my big umbrella that was protecting us from the rain and wind. The first time your lips brushed my hat, and my ear under my hat, one night when it was so foggy and I put my hand in yours.

The first time you took off your gloves so you could touch my skin better. The first time my lips found themselves pressed to yours, in one breath. We'll always have our first times, Matt, no matter what. I have to find them, one by one, and not forget any. I won't sleep until I've found them all.

The first time we kissed, Matt, it was like a door opening. I had talked to you for a long time. I had told you everything. That I was a difficult child, that as a baby I bit myself until I bled—you can still see the scars on my wrists—and that, most of all, I howled. Like a wolf. I told you that my howling even scares dogs, and that's why dogs don't like me and I don't like them either. I told you my parents dragged me from specialist to specialist, secretly, because they were ashamed that up in the town people were starting to gossip that their girl was howling at the full moon. I told you that, and I was afraid you'd make fun of me. But you placed your lips on mine and your kiss was real.

One night, you took me in your arms. “I have something for you. Close your eyes.” You kissed me. I laughed. I didn't need to close my eyes just for that. You reached into your pocket and you pulled out a wooden object. “Here, this is for you, it's a present.” Your outstretched hand held a little carved turtle. Suddenly, it made me sad that you were giving me a turtle. “You don't like it? I carved it for you.”

I didn't know what to say. I liked it, but it was still a turtle. I mumbled, “It's a turtle…”

You looked surprised, and you said, “Yeah! Turtles are strong and tough—that's why it reminded me of you. I sculpted it out of boxwood, it's a very hard wood. You don't like it?”

I told you yes, of course I liked it, and I thanked you. But deep down, I said to myself that maybe you were making fun of me for being slow. I didn't admit that to you until two days later. You were upset that I could think such a thing. I could see how unhappy you were. I hugged you to try to erase all that.

So I made the little turtle into a pendant and wore it around my neck. The next day, my mother asked me where it came from. I said they gave it to me at the school. “A turtle! It suits you.”

I pretended not to know what she meant. I just knew that the turtle made me feel prettier, because it reminded me of us.

Matt, do you know what drew me to you? Do you know what made up my mind? It wasn't your hands on my face. It wasn't your lips on my lips, or your caresses over my clothes, or even the little turtle. It was the injured bird…do you remember? One night, when the moon was shining on the snow, lighting it up like a streetlamp, you found a bird by the side of the path. His wing was broken and he would have died of cold, or else been eaten by another animal. You picked him up. He thrashed around a bit in your hands and you started talking to him, very softly. You said to him, “You have nothing to fear from me. I have big hands, but they're warm and they won't hurt you. You were afraid, you were getting numb from the cold, but that's over, I found you, I won't leave you alone. I can't fix your wing here, so I'm going to take you with me. But you'll see, everything will be okay. And you'll be able to fly again, soon.” And with your free hand you stroked his little head very gently, and he relaxed, like he had understood. And that's why I said yes to you. Because you were so gentle with the bird. I knew that you'd be the same with me. That night, we didn't kiss or hold each other, because there was the bird. But that night, I made my decision.

From then on, we saw each other every night. We waited for the bus to leave before taking each other's hand. In the town, people are always watching. But on the path leading to the valley, there's never anyone. So you would come close to me and I would come close to you, and I had waited all day for that moment and you had, too. I would take off the glove on my left hand, and you'd take off the glove on your right hand, and our hands would touch; they were hot. After that, we'd kiss—quickly, or for a long time, it depended on the weather. It was cold outside, and warm between us. Between kisses, you wouldn't speak much. The day after the injured bird, or maybe the day after that, I asked you, “Have you ever made love with a girl?” You answered yes, turning your eyes away, and I thought I saw something a little sad, a memory that wasn't very happy. “It wasn't good?”

“The first time, it can be a disaster.” Your voice was just a murmur, and a little river started flowing in my stomach, between my thighs. I shivered. I thought that you would be the first for me, and I was happy about that, and I thought with you it wouldn't be a disaster and you would never have sad eyes when you thought about it. At night, under my covers, I'd see your eyes in mine, and you were saying, “Yes.” But the question I was asking you wasn't, “Have you ever made love with a girl?” The question I was asking you was, “Do you want to make love with me?”

I knew that I wanted to, and I knew that you did, too. It made me dizzy to realize that I could make my own decision. It just took me some time, that's all! Before going to bed, I'd lock myself in the bathroom. I'd let the warm water run over my skin and imagine it was your hands on my body. I'd write your name on the bathroom tiles, in the steam:
Matt,
Matt, Matt.
Then I'd wipe it so it wouldn't leave a trace. I dreamed about making love with you, and I knew that dream would come true soon.

The days went by, not very quickly. You told me, “I wish it was summer.” And even though I love winter so much, I whispered, “Me, too.” Because then we wouldn't have to keep guessing everything about each other, guessing about your skin and my skin under our layers of clothes. One night in November, you had an idea. “We can go to the hunters' cabin. We can make a fire. We'll be warm.”

“I don't like that place, the hunters come there with the animals they've killed, they bleed them, they drink and shout…”

“I know, but we can make a fire there.”

I said yes to the hunters' cabin because it was night and no one would be there. We didn't have much time. Making a fire would take too long. And what if a hunter saw the smoke coming out of the chimney? We went inside the cabin; I took off my jacket and you took off yours. You lifted up your sweater, then took my hands and slid them under. I had cold hands, or else your stomach was burning. My hands warmed up very quickly, and then you did the same thing with me, and that was it. That was all we did that night, but it was nice to feel my body pulsing under your fingers, all the way down to my thighs.

“We have to go back.” I was shaking, and so were you. It was the cold, right? Or maybe it was something else.
Yes, I want to. Do you?
I don't know who said it first. Me, you. We both wanted to, and you would be my first. Those days, I felt like I was keeping a little bit of skin inside me, a piece of childhood that wanted to be erased.

We talked and talked about what we should do, and at night I replayed our words over and over in my head.

What about your place? Could we go to
your place?
No, we can't go to my place, Matt, because of the dogs. They'll smell you, they'll get all worked up. My parents will know that someone else was there. They'll ask questions, they'll accuse me, they'll look for traces, and they'll spy on me. All because of the dogs. I don't like the dogs, Matt, they'll give us away. What about at your uncle's?
It's too far, Lou, we'll never have
enough time. We have no car, no place
to go…in the spring, in the forest, we
can go anywhere…
But spring is far away, and it's especially far away here. Matt, do you remember the year it snowed in May?
Yes, I remember.
Everywhere else it was almost summer, and here it was still winter.
We
live in a funny place, Lou.
Yes, but it's ours and I love it and I love winter, too, even though it makes things complicated. And in the spring, you and I won't see things the same color anymore.
Then we'll find a place for
the two of us, where no one will find
us, where there won't be a dog or a
human, nothing but us, and our love,
and your body and mine and my hands,
and no more words… Nothing but your
skin, nothing but mine. You know, Lou,
the words to talk about love are really
disgusting.

I know. One day at school, a boy obsessed with sex listed them off: masturbation, intercourse, testicles, vagina… I don't know why, maybe it excited him. I thought those words were so ugly. But the slang words aren't much better. I know a few: screwing, dick, balls…that makes you laugh! We need other words…we need words for the two of us, Matt, that aren't ugly or cold. Words that are like your skin and mine, words like our hands. Words full of sure colors. Words of love that we'll both see the same way.

One Saturday, I asked my mom to drive me into town to buy a new bra. She said yes, sighing. She hates going shopping with me because I don't know how to choose. But that time, I knew what I wanted and I showed it to her: “That one, there.” It closed in front with a hook, and I thought it would be easier to undo if we ever went back to the hunters' cabin. My mom said okay and then begged me not to take three hours to decide on the color. There was white, beige, burgundy, and black. I picked the beige right away, and my mom looked stunned. That night, she told my dad that my obsession with colors was passing. He didn't understand what she said because he was watching TV, and my mom repeated, louder, “I think Louella's not obsessed with colors anymore.” My dad probably shrugged his shoulders to say he didn't care; anyway, he didn't answer. I was washing the dishes and I didn't see them, and I pretended not to hear them either. I thought my beige bra was beautiful, Matt, because you'd see that color the same as me.

But in the end, it didn't matter. When we went back to the hunters' cabin, just that once, you passed your hand under my bra, without unhooking it or looking at the color, and that was fine, too. You have a nice voice, Matt, and I liked listening to you talk. You said, “Soon the lake will freeze over, did you see? For a few days now, there's been ice on the surface. If the cold keeps up, the lake will freeze, and when the ice is thick enough, we can skate on it. Hand in hand. Body to body.”

“Matt! Are you serious?”

I remember the night you first talked to me about the frozen lake. And about your two big sleeping bags for sleeping in the cold that your father had brought back from a camping trip in the mountains. “You can sleep in the snow, and you're not even cold. Why are you smiling, Lou?”

“Because I don't want to sleep!”

Your laugh made a night bird fly from one tree to the next. I laughed, too, and I realized that, before you, I never laughed. Everything was sad: my dad's footsteps in the hallway, my mom's nagging, and the whole angry world around me. “Hurry up, make up your mind! You're driving everyone crazy! Quick, Louella, quick!” Nothing made me smile or made me happy. I was surrounded by colors that didn't get along. Only the snow made me feel calm. But I never laughed. You made me laugh, Matt, and that night in the cabin, I felt like a bird, flying from one tree to another, from a frozen lake to a mountain sleeping bag. I said, “It's a good idea, we'll have to wait until the ice is solid. And until the moon is full…well, not totally.” I waited a moment, then I came up close to you and I whispered, “Not totally because when the moon is full, I have my…” It's hard to say that to a boy, he might be embarrassed, or disgusted, or…I don't know. Does a boy know that about girls? “I'll have…um, my period.” I must have turned red, but it was so cold that my face was already red and it wouldn't have shown.