She Loves You, She Loves You Not... (16 page)

“You’re wrong,” you told her.

M’Chelle picked at a bead on the pillow. “Look, I know what I saw. I just thought you should know.”

“You’re lying. You’ve always been jealous of everyone I’ve ever liked.”

“Alyssa—”

“Get out.”

M’Chelle slumped her shoulders.

“Get out!”

“Okay!” She threw the pillow on the bed.

After M’Chelle left, hours later, you were still numb and disbelieving.

You’d been driving Sarah home after school, stopping in the Starbucks lot to let her out. She kissed you. Every day she told you she loved you.

You know you promised not to call her, but… She didn’t answer. You wanted to try again but then thought,
no.
You trust her. She’d tell you the truth if there was anything to tell.

The next day she jabbered all the way to Starbucks, something about this discussion she was having in class about gay marriage, and a guy said it was unnatural and against God’s law, and other people were gay bashing, and Sarah wanted so badly to stand up and yell, “What do you know? How would you feel if everyone was against you?”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said. “People kept looking at me, expecting me to say something, and I couldn’t. I was scared to death. I thought, if I say one word, I’ll just start yelling and crying and lose it in front of everyone. Now I feel like I let down the whole GSA. Every gay and bi person in the world.”

“Are you seeing Ben?” you asked her outright. Because it was killing you inside.

Her expression was unreadable.

“M’Chelle told me she saw you kissing him.”

Sarah blinked once and then went, “What if I was?”

A million thoughts collided in your brain. She’d been lying to you. She didn’t love you exclusively. You were confused, angry. At her, and at Ben too. How could they betray you?

Sarah said, “He wanted to see what it felt like to kiss a girl. So I let him.”

That was all? It sounded plausible, you guessed. Ben had never asked to kiss you. Because—gross. Maybe he felt Sarah was safe to
experiment with. Maybe you refused to see what was right in front of your eyes.

“Alyssa.” Sarah ran her hand down your arm. “I love you.”

“I know.” You couldn’t doubt her. You loved her. You knew M’Chelle had ulterior motives.

Ben. The jerk. You’d strangle him.

Sarah’s watch beeped, and she said, “I have to bust.” She grabbed her backpack and scooted out of the car. She kissed her fingertips and blew the kiss to you. You caught it. You pressed it to your heart. You watched her round the building, and then you drove out the exit, the way you always do. But something, a nagging feeling, made you retrace your route.

Sarah trotted along the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Starbucks patio, stopping when a car pulled over. Ben’s VW. She got in.

Your heart raced, thrummed in your ears. You thought… you don’t know what you thought.

They didn’t kiss or anything. Of course they didn’t. Your imagination was in overdrive.

You called Sarah from your car. You couldn’t help yourself.
Just answer, Sarah.
You needed to hear her voice. But another voice sounded in your head—Dad’s—warning you never, ever to talk or text on your cell while driving.

Sarah answered.

“Hi, babe,” you said.

“Alyssa—”

“Can I talk to Ben?”

There was a prolonged interval. Ben came on. “Hey. ’Sup?”

You felt ridiculous. Unhinged. You couldn’t even think of one thing to say to Ben except “fag.”

You expected him to counter with “dyke.” The way you banter. He didn’t say a word. You swallowed and said, “Let me talk to Sarah.”

“It’s for you,” you heard Ben say.

Sarah came on. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Why is Ben driving you home?”

Sarah let out a long breath. “Because that’s what he does. My mom hasn’t asked me once about you since I started bringing Ben home. It’s working great. You’re the one who gave me the idea, Alyssa. Do you have a problem with it now?”

“No.” Yes.

Sarah said, “Is there anything else?”

It’s the same question you wanted to ask her.
Is
there anything else?

You hung up and hated yourself. You despised how jealous and bitter and resentful you felt toward Ben, her “convenient” boyfriend, and Sarah, her mother and your father, yourself. You were the one who was jealous. Of Ben! Your friend. The one person in the world who lived openly without fear, who never had to risk exposure and the consequent fallout from his family. Because they accepted him. They loved him. Ben, who got to love freely, who got to spend the time with Sarah you didn’t. You thought all this and more, and you felt so sick with jealous rage, you didn’t see the stop sign. The other driver in the intersection screeched his brakes and you swerved to miss him, running up on the curb and smashing into a tree. The impact crunched your hood, releasing your air bag and swallowing you, suffocating you until the only screams you heard were the ones inside your head.

Carly left clothes in the dryer, so I fold and stack them while my laundry is in the washer. I drag out the box of baby clothes and sit there, taking out each piece and smelling it. A faint odor of baby remains. One little sweater has an
A
embroidered on the front. I wonder if Carly did that, if she knows how to embroider. There’s so much I don’t know about her.

I refold every garment lovingly. I never wanted kids, but I’m starting to rethink that. A crunching sound from the driveway alerts my senses, and I shove the box back into the closet.

The garage door doesn’t open, the way I expect for Carly to drive in and park. She must’ve forgotten something. The doorbell chimes, and I about jump through the ceiling.

Silence, but I can see a shape through the tempered-glass door panel. I tiptoe upstairs to the first landing, then stealthily make my way to the main level and peer out the front picture window. A guy holding a bowling ball is heading back to his motorcycle. Wait. That’s not a guy. Or a bowling ball.

I rush down the stairs and fling open the door. “Finn!”
She’s already on the bike, making a wide arc in the driveway. I windmill my arms, and the bike grinds to a halt. She putters back to the entrance.

I step outside. “You got it.”

She removes her helmet, beaming. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” She props the motorcycle with the kickstand, or whatever it is, and steps back to admire the bike.

Fireball red. Enormous. It’s no scooter or ATV. “Sweet,” I say. Then I say what I’m really thinking. “Tell me you’re not a dyke.”

She pretends not to hear, moving to the other side of the bike, putting space and steel between us.

“What kind is it, again?” I ask.

“Kawasaki Concours. Dual overhead cams. It’s a 1998, but it’s in pristine condition, and I got a dream deal.” She fondles the front bumper. “Gets about two hundred to a tank.” She rubs off a smudge. “Want to take a spin?”

“Oh my God. Really?”

“Put shoes on.”

I’m barefoot. “I’ll be right back. Oh”—I pivot—“you want to come in?”

Finn eyes the house.

“She’s not here,” I say. I don’t know where Carly is. Personal masseusing, I assume.

Finn doesn’t make a move, but I leave the door open. Behind me I hear footsteps. Finn whistles.

“Yeah, it’s a mansion,” I say.

She stands in one place for a moment, soaking in the AC or the panoramic view of the interior.

“There’s soda and Vitaminwater in the fridge. Help yourself.” I lift the basket of clean clothes. “Oh, wait. You like the hard stuff.”

“Shut up,” she growls.

I sprint up the stairs to the main level with Finn on my heels. This jittery excitement bubbles in my blood, and I try to suppress it. She just came to show me her bike. How cool. Biker dyke. I smile as I dump the basket of Carly’s clothes and mine on my bed, slip on Finn’s shoes, and run a brush through my hair.

As I thump down the stairs, I see her standing at the French doors peering up the mountainside. She’s cradling her helmet under her arm.

“Not much of a view,” I say, opening the fridge for a bottled water. I snag two. “If it was me, I’d have built the deck facing south. This way it feels like the mountain’s right on top of you.”

“They probably wanted privacy.” Finn waves off the water. “I don’t do plastic,” she says.

That makes me feel guilty, like I’m polluting the planet, so I return both bottles to the refrigerator. “What do you mean ‘they’?” I ask.

She meets my eyes and then averts hers. She heads for the front door.

Behind her, I say, “You said ‘they.’ Do you mean Jason and Carly? Did you know him?”

“Ask Carly,” Finn says.

“I did. She kind of lost it.”

Finn says, “I’m not surprised.”

“Why? Where is he?”

She stops suddenly, and I almost plow into her. “It’s not my place, and I don’t know all the facts. Ask her.”

I’m afraid to even bring up the subject.

Outside, I shut and lock the door. The smell hits me again. “Do you smell smoke?” I ask Finn.

She sniffs the air. “No.”

“I swear I smell smoke.”

“There’s a fire near Georgetown, but that’s on the other side of the Continental Divide.”

My nose never lies.

Finn opens the cargo bag and pulls out a helmet. She hands it to me. We climb onto the bike, and I clamp onto her waist as we putter down the winding access road. She puts a hand over one of mine and yells, “Hold on,” as we hit pavement.

All at once we’re flying, and I hold her tight, pressing my front to her back. The world skims away.

I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. The noise is deafening. Every bump and thump in the road rattles my teeth. The wind rips at my knees and shoulders and head, so I burrow into Finn’s back. She holds up two fingers, which means absolutely nothing to me.

The engine vibrates, and my butt buzzes. She holds up three fingers, and I brace against her, my helmet to her back, my arms so tight around her middle I can feel every rib.

I shout, “We’re going to die!”

Finn leans into a curve on the outskirts of Majestic and we nearly tip over. Then she steers us onto a straightaway and accelerates again. Once her hand covers mine in front, and she taps with a finger. Does that mean hold on or loosen up?

At the stoplight for Summit Boulevard, Finn idles. She twists around and says, “You all right?”

All I can do is grin like an idiot.

The light turns green, and Finn hangs a right, accelerating to, like, Mach 1. Ten or fifteen miles down the road, she turns onto a dirt trail and through a copse of pines. She downshifts. Then again. She maneuvers the bike up a steep bank and onto a narrow path, over washboard ruts in the hard-packed dirt. We ride up and up, over a hill. The trees clear, and we draw up to the mouth of a cave, where Finn cuts the engine.

We both remove our helmets at the same time, and I ask, “Where are we?”

“The old silver mine,” Finn says. She gets off the bike and holds out a hand to help me.

Warning signs are posted everywhere:
DO NOT ENTER. DANGER. NO TRESPASSING
.

Finn starts for the entrance.

“We’re not going inside, are we?”

She says over her shoulder, “It’s cool. You’ll like it.” She ducks under a crossed pair of planks, where orange painted letters spell out
DO NOT ENTER
.

“Finn,” I call.

“Alyssa.” Her voice echoes in the mine.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “I have to pee.”

She calls back. “Pick a tree. Hurry up.”

God. I hate going in the woods, especially knowing there are snakes and mountain lions and wasps. I finish in a rush and then duck in under the planks, the way she did. Almost immediately the temperature plunges ten degrees. A hand
reaches out to grasp mine. “It narrows pretty fast,” Finn says. “Watch your head.”

I don’t let go, and she tugs me forward. The walls and ceiling close in.

She’s right; there’s room for only one body, like someone chiseled out the entire route by hand. I have to let loose.

“Keep talking so we don’t lose contact,” she says.

“This is insane.”

“Watch your head here.”

A spiderweb tickles my face, and I squeal, flailing my hands across and over my head. A movement catches my eye. “What was that?”

The shape of a hand appears, and I grab it. I latch onto Finn’s arm.

“They’re just bats,” she says.

I scream.

Finn claps a hand over my mouth. “You’re scaring them. You’re scaring
me
.”

I claw her hand away. “I’m not going any farther.”

She keeps going.

“Finn!”

“Go back, then.” Her voice reverberates.

Damn her.

I hurry to catch up, stumbling and scraping my elbow against a protruding rock. The light is dim and growing dimmer, but I catch up to Finn climbing over a heap of rubble, and I quickly scramble up behind her. Then we’re up and over.

On the other side is a clearing with a fire pit.

Hazy light seeps in from somewhere above, a kind of frosted, skylight effect. The clearing is tall enough for us to stand, at least, and I rise slowly. It’s like a secret hideaway. And it would be totally cool if there weren’t bats glomming onto every ledge.

“I hate bats,” I say in a small voice. I’m scared of flying, creeping, crawling creatures of any kind.

“They won’t hurt you,” Finn says. “They’re sleeping. At least, they
were
before they were so rudely interrupted by someone’s screaming. You probably woke up the vampire bats, and now they’re thirsty.” She makes a slurping noise.

“Shut up.”

She creeps up behind me and goes, “Boo!”

I jump. “Stop it.” I reach out to slap her, but she’s gone. She’s lowered herself to a log at the fire pit, which is the only place to sit. “Scoot a little,” I say.