the top of a house, jump off. Die in an aerial display. I know what happened to the girl in Go Ask Alice . But I don’t know the difference between acid and alcohol—I don’t know what anything can do.
In French class, Sharee chooses me as her friend. She gives me Victor Hugo’s poem, the easy one, in a competition for ninth graders, held at a university on another coast. She takes the harder one, for tenth graders, lets me get the ribbon. We are l’école numéro huit. Together, we climb a statue of a man, fling our arms out. Sometimes we just sit in the grass at night. Once when it’s getting dark, she says, “Your teeth are so white.” Next door is a boy we don’t like much. Not actively, he just loiters on the periphery in too-short running shorts, falling into view like some kind of pale shellfish. He has a party one night, the boys with motorcycles invited. They are all brothers, ranging from men in their twenties to boys younger than me. The night of the party, Sharee has to babysit at a neighbor’s house. I keep her company there.
“You should still go,” she said. I didn’t really want to. We find a copy of Butterfield 8 in a wooden drawer—I borrow it. “You’ll have to have a drink first.” I’ve never had a drink. But it makes sense the way she explains it, getting ready for the party. It isn’t like I’m not curious. The kitchen is white. Sharee opens cabinets, finds a bottle of rum. “I can make a rum and Coke,” she said, gets a can from the refrigerator. I’m impressed that she knows how to do this. But she won’t drink with me, because of the babysitting. She takes the responsibility for kids seriously. I will too, when Iget the babysitting job with the people who call me Helen, who have the Cat Stevens album—I’ll steal their alcohol, but won’t drink it while I’m working. But I’ll learn that really that’s because I don’t like to drink alone.
Sharee hands the drink to me—it tastes like very cold Coke. The thick transparent glass is like a piece of ice against my lips, something I can bite. “Maybe you should drink another one,” she said. I didn’t really feel very different, not party-ready. She makes me another. I drink it. Both drinks hit at once. My chest radiates, a sun inside. I leave for the party, a few houses down the sidewalk. Speak to one of the older motorcycle brothers. He sits hunched over on his bike, as if the air is too heavy. Only his head lifted up like a snake. He has to raise his eyes to see me. Though he is one of the friendlier brothers, he isn’t attractive. Less raw than the others, he pouts about some problem that could prevent all the brothers from attending the party—some indignation one brother has suffered. The pouting biker has beer with him, and he’s going to leave with it, his trail of siblings. “Stay,” I said. It’s 1976. I’m fifteen now. Counseling him. Sharee’s neighbor inside the house, still wearing his wretched shorts. There’s a beer bottle in my hand. And then we’re all in the house, and drinking is the only thing that made it—or me—interesting.
Drinking is easier than I’d imagined, less dramatic. I feel myself cohere around a radioactive center, my arms reaching out like bright flowers. Where I end blurs. When I climb the stairs after the neighbor to see some drawing, and he kisses me—this boy I’d mocked for falling out of his shorts—it is brand new, this kind of wanting from another person. The pressure of his body alongside me, like matching sarcophagi. Though I don’t like him much or even have anything to say to him, I feel powerful in a way I never have before, with his body wanting mine. There is no way in, I’m only on display. Ornamental. Sharee and I have discussed this.We’ve decided that we have to be seventeen before we have sex. I’m not sure I would have thought of that on my own, but now it’s a pact. He’s all over me like a din of insects. And where he touches me, I
In French class, Sharee chooses me as her friend. She gives me Victor Hugo’s poem, the easy one, in a competition for ninth graders, held at a university on another coast. She takes the harder one, for tenth graders, lets me get the ribbon. We are l’école numéro huit. Together, we climb a statue of a man, fling our arms out. Sometimes we just sit in the grass at night. Once when it’s getting dark, she says, “Your teeth are so white.” Next door is a boy we don’t like much. Not actively, he just loiters on the periphery in too-short running shorts, falling into view like some kind of pale shellfish. He has a party one night, the boys with motorcycles invited. They are all brothers, ranging from men in their twenties to boys younger than me. The night of the party, Sharee has to babysit at a neighbor’s house. I keep her company there.
“You should still go,” she said. I didn’t really want to. We find a copy of Butterfield 8 in a wooden drawer—I borrow it. “You’ll have to have a drink first.” I’ve never had a drink. But it makes sense the way she explains it, getting ready for the party. It isn’t like I’m not curious. The kitchen is white. Sharee opens cabinets, finds a bottle of rum. “I can make a rum and Coke,” she said, gets a can from the refrigerator. I’m impressed that she knows how to do this. But she won’t drink with me, because of the babysitting. She takes the responsibility for kids seriously. I will too, when Iget the babysitting job with the people who call me Helen, who have the Cat Stevens album—I’ll steal their alcohol, but won’t drink it while I’m working. But I’ll learn that really that’s because I don’t like to drink alone.
Sharee hands the drink to me—it tastes like very cold Coke. The thick transparent glass is like a piece of ice against my lips, something I can bite. “Maybe you should drink another one,” she said. I didn’t really feel very different, not party-ready. She makes me another. I drink it. Both drinks hit at once. My chest radiates, a sun inside. I leave for the party, a few houses down the sidewalk. Speak to one of the older motorcycle brothers. He sits hunched over on his bike, as if the air is too heavy. Only his head lifted up like a snake. He has to raise his eyes to see me. Though he is one of the friendlier brothers, he isn’t attractive. Less raw than the others, he pouts about some problem that could prevent all the brothers from attending the party—some indignation one brother has suffered. The pouting biker has beer with him, and he’s going to leave with it, his trail of siblings. “Stay,” I said. It’s 1976. I’m fifteen now. Counseling him. Sharee’s neighbor inside the house, still wearing his wretched shorts. There’s a beer bottle in my hand. And then we’re all in the house, and drinking is the only thing that made it—or me—interesting.
Drinking is easier than I’d imagined, less dramatic. I feel myself cohere around a radioactive center, my arms reaching out like bright flowers. Where I end blurs. When I climb the stairs after the neighbor to see some drawing, and he kisses me—this boy I’d mocked for falling out of his shorts—it is brand new, this kind of wanting from another person. The pressure of his body alongside me, like matching sarcophagi. Though I don’t like him much or even have anything to say to him, I feel powerful in a way I never have before, with his body wanting mine. There is no way in, I’m only on display. Ornamental. Sharee and I have discussed this.We’ve decided that we have to be seventeen before we have sex. I’m not sure I would have thought of that on my own, but now it’s a pact. He’s all over me like a din of insects. And where he touches me, I
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