Stripped Down (33 page)

“Feel mine,” said Kay. “Seriously. It's a wooly caterpillar.” She took my hand and thrust it down her back end. “Tell me if you think I'm revoltingly hairy.”

It was a sinful invitation. There were too many potential butterflies down there. Then, my hand slipped down her crack to her wettest spot. “It's not worth pissing yourself over,” I teased, yanking out my fingers. I pushed her away with so much freaked-out force she fell against the clothesline and grabbed a pair of shirtsleeves to steady her body. I dove after her, giggling. Before I knew it, we were wrestling the phantasmal shirt on the ground, playing sumo with thread ghosts instead of shoving the men of the cloth from our minds. At one point, Kay slipped her hand under my waistband. She tickled my badlands. Her finger flitted against a nerve that shot through me like a diamond blade, and I couldn't help but gasp—her hand down there felt amazing. The sun surrounded her molasses skin and tight braids. I leaned close like I was going to kiss her.

Then the screen door banged. “Kay? Ally? What are you two goofing about?” It was her dad. He still resembled a rodeo clown. He knew there were bulls that needed the distraction of hyperbole. He squinted at us on the lawn, the shirt and our bodies all akimbo. “The shirt attacked us,” said Kay. “It was an ambush, Dad.”

“Stop your tomboy roughhousing and run it through the wash,” he chided. “I need that shirt for church tomorrow.” Then his eyes crossed from Kay to me, and I saw his shoulders buckle, the invisible oxbow of insight bearing down on him. I hated watching men go limp. It was easier to see their
rage, the way they punched their hands through the veneering of thin signatures, goading girls along. That night I curled up next to Kay in Grandma's spare bed, rubbing on a pillow between my legs as she slept. I felt the heavenly spirit light up my groin. I wanted Kay to watch me.

In the morning, Kay and I zipped up our desire in Sunday clothes. Church was a reminder that we didn't believe in the literal body and literal blood. We didn't think Jesus inhabited stale crackers the way Catholics did. Instead, we put our faith in symbolism. In the hard pews, our bodies were sterile Mason jars of seductive fruit, in cellars for times of famine. We let hunger build in us until tornadoes pushed us down into places of relief. We waited until the funnel clouds unleashed their angry cunts on tiny houses that fell like paper screens. Then we still ate bland casseroles.

In spite of our lawn wrestling—and whatever he thought he saw—Kay's dad was kind to us. Kay had washed and ironed and starched his shirt and laid it out that morning. She made him Sunday breakfast of sausage and eggs and orange juice and milk. She put triangles of toast on four points of the plate, like black tabs that hold yellowed photographs. A sweet man, he knew the world was made of bulls and cowboys, and one could only stave off the bulls for so long. He sensed the way things were moving, and he directed the flow then scurried over fences, so as not to be gored. He let Kay go her own way. After church, he wiped his brow and said, “This is some lunatic heat. You girls ought to head to the swimming hole.”

“You think?” Kay said giddily. On Sunday, we always helped our aunts with chores—sorting Amway goods, mashing potatoes, snapping the ends off of beans. Although the city was sprawling, and our church had a brochure in Japanese,
life on the farms hadn't changed much. Kay and I liked the routine, the old houses dotting the landscape and the mores that held us safe and still.

“When your folks were young, it was a veritable tradition,” he said to me. “Swimming after service. They called it ‘into the baptismal.' I used to go with them too, before I ran off with the rodeo.”

I found it peculiar that Kay and I were still modest enough to turn our backs when we changed into swimsuits. Hadn't I touched her wet spot the day before? Thinking of how I touched Kay made me feel a psychotic hunger in my crotch. I turned my back and stuck my legs through my swimsuit, looking at the prayer hands. When I straightened up and spun around, Kay was gawking. She looked flustered. She gathered her clothes and towel and said, “Your boobs look huge in that, you know.”

I hadn't noticed but she was right. Our bodies were filling out. I couldn't remember a time in life when I didn't feel watched, and yet, the awareness that Kay had ogled me made me unduly shy. We walked on the grass beside the road to avoid hot asphalt but then got scratched by weeds and a few disorderly cornstalks. At the swimming hole, Kay grabbed the rope and swung into the water with a splash. “Come on, cowgirl,” she said, grinning. It was too early for the gossipy crickets, and the pond was as smooth as a rolled crust. I was self-conscious about the way my boobs jiggled as I flew through the air and splashed in next to her.

“You'd better be careful at the city pool,” said Kay. “If you dive in that suit, those melons will pop out.” She wouldn't stop talking about tits. She was leading me into a corral of wild horses with her. “How come yours are so much bigger,
anyway? It's not fair.” She grabbed one of her own while she spun her legs underwater like an eggbeater being slowly hand-cranked.

“No, yours are nicer,” I said, a little too rhapsodically. “They're so even. They're like halves of a whole.”

“A whole what? A whole Ping-Pong ball?” she replied. She created a fury of water, pushing it up into high feathers with her hollow palm. “Water fight!” I yelled. I lunged for her swimsuit to pull her under. And then one of her perky tits popped right out, and my hand accidentally scooped around it. Buoyancy directed everything, and I felt out of control, like I hadn't even guided my own hand until it was feeling her up. Kay looked stunned, staring at my fingers. I felt her nipple harden and I rubbed some friction against it with my palm. “Are you crazy?” she said angrily, and shoved me away.

But it was obvious that my hand and her breast belonged together, the way certain eggshells once held hardboiled eggs. She was my cousin but was adopted, so the fit did not feel familial. Her skin was as black as night-burned country asphalt, and mine was pale as flour: nobody mistook us for blood kin. I wasn't hurt by her rebuff. I felt calm right then. Kay was kicking to the side of the pond, her tits tucked properly back in her suit. Until that contact, I had felt the uneasiness of being lost. It was what I often felt when I rode my bike along unmarked roads through the uniformity of cornfields, and then suddenly, saw the sun pass the crest of the sky and fall west, so that west was a definite direction. I always knew to turn west then, even if I didn't know which road I was on, and the turning made the journey more enjoyable, better than one without the scramble and fear.

On the bank, the weeping willow did not look sad anymore.
It was a cabaret wig of leaves. I wanted to touch Kay's hair but she looked delicate and mad. She was carving roughly into the dirt with a stick. Her suit clung to the rounds of her stomach. The sun flitted through the leaves to cover her in confetti of dappled light. I knew I shouldn't talk or comfort her but the silence was awkward. Normally, I would have put an arm around her shoulder but now, I stood several feet away and yanked leaves off of branches, making them bow backward and snap. “Did you hate it?” she finally asked.

“Hate what?” I answered dumbly, ready to blame it on buoyancy.

“Did you hate my breast? Is anyone ever going to want to touch it?” She looked anguished.

“I told you it was nice,” I said, distantly. I didn't want to squabble.

“Nice is not much of a word,” she answered. “Sometimes I don't want to be the obedient Christian. Sometimes I don't want to recruit virgins. I mean, what if I'm boring, down to the boobs?”

“You certainly aren't that,” I said, softening my tone. Kay was staring at her chest. “Close your eyes for a second.”

Skeptically, she sank into my instructions. Her lids shut. I grabbed her hand and smoothed her palm around my boob. I lifted my hand and put it on her breast. Kay squeezed her eyes at that moment, and her breathing changed. Aside from that, we were completely quiet, like deer that trance hunters with their eyes. I worked her nipple with my thumb the way I might work the edge of dough, then just held my palm there and breathed. Touching her tit was like holding my hand over a globe as it was spinning and taking me to new hemispheres. Kay made whimpering noises that sent a tingle down
my spine. “You see?” I said knowingly. “They're both nice and not boring at all.” I didn't dare move her hand anywhere else, even though her touch was too light. My boob filled it out completely. I felt naïve for not knowing how much I had wanted it there. We'd talked a lot about the evidentiary, such as broken hymen and blood on a sheet, but we couldn't pretend that this was meaningless.

Her eyes popped open. “Ally,” she said seriously. “This is not what nice girls do.” She yanked her hand away and started putting her clothes back on over her suit, even though it was still wet. It left two ovals where her butt was and it was soaking through her shirt. She looked ridiculous. I followed her lead and put my clothes on, and we headed quietly back to the house. I moved a stick along cornstalks as if they were pickets. “You think it's going to storm?” I asked, if this was the reason for her hurry. “I'm not a meteorologist,” she replied tersely. The clouds were so unfettered that they grew to celestial proportions, casting huge shadows. I began to shiver, and Kay sped up so fast I could barely keep up. Right before we got to the house, she spun around. I almost slammed into her. “If this is what you are, I want to know,” she said. “If you're some kind of a dyke, you better tell me now.”

“Come on, Kay.” I dodged and tried to weave around her but she stuck her arm out, stopping me. She raised one finger up and pointed it at me. She was really pissed off now.

“You said you'd only give it up for God,” she said. “You
signed
.” Her voice was trying to squeeze itself into a fevered whisper.

“Nothing is broken yet,” I answered sharply. “We're still intact. Good lord!” Before we could go further, the sky broke open and it rained. I smelled the scent of rain on new cement
because her dad had poured a patio last month. We bolted for the house. The screen door slammed behind our dripping bodies as we hurried in.

 

What we did seemed innocent enough, nothing a doctor wouldn't do. I closed my eyes and rubbed my lower lip against my palm, to feel its strange pink texture. Even that made me feel so amazing, especially if I thought of kissing Kay. The days were like notes held too long by a soprano in a house of clear glass.

Grandma loved hawking Amway in the rain, because more people were home, and they were grateful for any company. Plus, being industrious in poor weather earned good standing with God. “You poor girls are rained in and reined in,” she said cheerfully as she bustled out the door. We should have been miserable to be cooped up in the trailer but we weren't. Kay had softened toward me, though we avoided talking about our outburst of lust while we read magazines on the bed. Kay methodically studied an article on how to pluck eyebrows. “The family's chicken pluckers from way back,” I assured her. “It's our legacy.” Every time one of our legs got lazy, our calves or feet banged together, and then we pulled away, electrified. I imagined myself stroking the cocoa skin of her thighs and kissing her elegant collarbone. Kay sprung up and paced around the room nervously. She held Grandma's costume necklaces to her neck and put them down. She fiddled with some decorative bells. Finally, she picked up the prayer hands.

“Maybe we should test your faith,” said Kay, mischievously. “Do some kind of trial by fire.”

“Like what?” I answered neutrally, my body stiffening. I
hoped her game was some spin-the-prayer-hands that involved groping and tongues.

She smacked the prayer hands into her palm. “These are small enough, and one of us should know how it feels,” she said.

“How what feels?”

“It, Ally
. It
,” Kay said patronizingly. “How many
its
are there? Don't make me spell it out.”

“As previously noted, I've got meeself two big 'its,” I said, trying to break her with a stupid joke. But Kay wasn't having it.

“Be serious,” she said. “I am.”

She shoved the magazine to the ground so it was flapping like a bird held by its feet. Chickens are slaughtered that way: inverted and desperate. Minutes earlier, Kay and I had been savoring girl talk about makeup and celebrities, chattering in a parlor of easy commonality. Now, she had assumed a different posture, slinking low toward the chicken coop. She got right up on top of me. “We'll just see if you like it,” she said. “Okay?” She tucked the prayer hands into the elastic of my shorts, so they pressed cool and firm on my waist. “It's better to try these things with someone you know, so you'll be ready when the big day comes. Who do you know better than me?”

“Not even myself,” I replied, terrified of her sudden assertiveness. Kay began rubbing the prayer hands lightly against my skin, which made me tingly. Then she set them on the bed.

“Come on, Ally,” she soothed. “Don't be chickenshit. You're the brave one. Someone's got to try it. They say not to sign a contract unless you understand the terms. How can we
be good virgins if we know nothing of the alternatives?”

“That doesn't make sense,” I answered. I felt a powerful convection heat cooking me from the inside out. I wanted her so bad.

Then she kissed me on the cheek and assumed the pragmatic planting and sowing tone we'd learned from our family. “I know what to do,” she whispered authoritatively. “I've been reading magazines all day.” One hand reached down and opened up my shorts. I couldn't believe what was happening. My brain floated on top of me like a doomed dirigible. Her fingers slid beneath my underpants, into the gasping canyon that had formed slowly from an unheralded stream. “Does this feel good?” she asked timidly, as she was tracing patterns with her fingers, looking for a place to put them in.