tentatively put them on Battle’s head.
“Your hands are like ice!” she says. Her voice sounds very loud.
“Sorry,” I say, and immediately remove them.
“You don’t have to take them away—it was just kind of a shock,” she says quickly.
I put my hands back. Her head is warm, and her scalp is pink and looks a little raw. It feels smooth and strange. I move my hands over her head, feeling the skull underneath her skin, and I find myself wondering if my fingers will leave some kind of slimy track behind them, like ten snails.
I can hear her breathing—is it louder than usual? Faster? Or is that mine I hear?
I swallow a couple of times. I really should have gotten myself something to drink, too.
“I can’t feel any hair,” I announce, and step away.
I remember when I first saw Battle and thought of her as Beautiful Hair Girl. It seems so long ago. She’s still beautiful, of course. But now she looks much more vulnerable. Smaller. It makes me want to protect her. I don’t know from what.
“Ooh yuck, I have little tiny hairs all down my shirt,” Battle says rapidly, in a higher voice than usual. She uses both hands to pinch her shirt at the shoulders, then shakes it in an attempt to dislodge the hairs.
“That’s not gonna work, you’ll have to take a shower,” I say automatically. Then an incredibly vivid picture of Battle in the shower forms itself in my brain. Special effects, cue the Lancaster Special Neon Blush. Again? Yep, again.
“You’re probably right. I guess I will,” says Battle, after a moment. Did she look at me strangely before she said that? Oh, god. Please, let her not be able to read my mind.
“Get in the shower,” says Katrina. “Nic, let’s go to my room. I need another cigarette. That was hard work.”
Katrina seems to have forgotten my part in the enterprise. I don’t think I mind.
“Will y’all still be up when I’m done with my shower?” Battle asks.
“Are you kidding? The night is young! The riot has barely begun!”
“All right then.”
Almost immediately after we leave the bathroom, Katrina says, “Nic, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Would you have been happier if I left?”
“I—when?” I look intently at the carpet as we walk.
“You know when. When you were having your little balcony scene without the balcony. Should I have taken off?” Katrina sounds brusque, more New Yorkish than usual.
She unlocks the door to her room aggressively, and yanks it open, gesturing at me to go in before she does.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well, you better figure it out. I do not enjoy feeling like a third wheel.”
“Katrina, I’m sorry—but I don’t even know if there are two wheels for you to be the third of. I mean, I don’t know if it’s . . .” I don’t want to finish this sentence, but now that I’ve started I can’t stop: “. . .if it’s just me.”
“You mean you haven’t done anything?” Katrina sounds shocked.
I shake my head. Katrina collapses onto her beanbag chair.
“God, Nic—I thought you two were having this secret dyke thing behind my back, and you didn’t want me to know. I thought you thought I was this fucking homophobe or something.”
I have the tightness at the back of my throat and the sting behind my eyes that means I’m going to cry. “I wish,” I say. “I mean, not that it was happening behind your back—” I put my head in my hands. No tears come, yet.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Katrina launches herself out of the beanbag chair and hugs me. “Don’t take that as a come-on,” she says, giggling a little nervously.
“I won’t,” I say. “But listen, Katrina, I don’t know—”
There’s a knock on the door. Katrina and I step away from each other as though we’ve actually been doing something we didn’t want to be caught at. “C’mon in!” says Katrina, and Battle walks in.
She’s flushed from the shower, and her head is shiny.
I think about the
“Your hands are like ice!” she says. Her voice sounds very loud.
“Sorry,” I say, and immediately remove them.
“You don’t have to take them away—it was just kind of a shock,” she says quickly.
I put my hands back. Her head is warm, and her scalp is pink and looks a little raw. It feels smooth and strange. I move my hands over her head, feeling the skull underneath her skin, and I find myself wondering if my fingers will leave some kind of slimy track behind them, like ten snails.
I can hear her breathing—is it louder than usual? Faster? Or is that mine I hear?
I swallow a couple of times. I really should have gotten myself something to drink, too.
“I can’t feel any hair,” I announce, and step away.
I remember when I first saw Battle and thought of her as Beautiful Hair Girl. It seems so long ago. She’s still beautiful, of course. But now she looks much more vulnerable. Smaller. It makes me want to protect her. I don’t know from what.
“Ooh yuck, I have little tiny hairs all down my shirt,” Battle says rapidly, in a higher voice than usual. She uses both hands to pinch her shirt at the shoulders, then shakes it in an attempt to dislodge the hairs.
“That’s not gonna work, you’ll have to take a shower,” I say automatically. Then an incredibly vivid picture of Battle in the shower forms itself in my brain. Special effects, cue the Lancaster Special Neon Blush. Again? Yep, again.
“You’re probably right. I guess I will,” says Battle, after a moment. Did she look at me strangely before she said that? Oh, god. Please, let her not be able to read my mind.
“Get in the shower,” says Katrina. “Nic, let’s go to my room. I need another cigarette. That was hard work.”
Katrina seems to have forgotten my part in the enterprise. I don’t think I mind.
“Will y’all still be up when I’m done with my shower?” Battle asks.
“Are you kidding? The night is young! The riot has barely begun!”
“All right then.”
Almost immediately after we leave the bathroom, Katrina says, “Nic, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Would you have been happier if I left?”
“I—when?” I look intently at the carpet as we walk.
“You know when. When you were having your little balcony scene without the balcony. Should I have taken off?” Katrina sounds brusque, more New Yorkish than usual.
She unlocks the door to her room aggressively, and yanks it open, gesturing at me to go in before she does.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well, you better figure it out. I do not enjoy feeling like a third wheel.”
“Katrina, I’m sorry—but I don’t even know if there are two wheels for you to be the third of. I mean, I don’t know if it’s . . .” I don’t want to finish this sentence, but now that I’ve started I can’t stop: “. . .if it’s just me.”
“You mean you haven’t done anything?” Katrina sounds shocked.
I shake my head. Katrina collapses onto her beanbag chair.
“God, Nic—I thought you two were having this secret dyke thing behind my back, and you didn’t want me to know. I thought you thought I was this fucking homophobe or something.”
I have the tightness at the back of my throat and the sting behind my eyes that means I’m going to cry. “I wish,” I say. “I mean, not that it was happening behind your back—” I put my head in my hands. No tears come, yet.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Katrina launches herself out of the beanbag chair and hugs me. “Don’t take that as a come-on,” she says, giggling a little nervously.
“I won’t,” I say. “But listen, Katrina, I don’t know—”
There’s a knock on the door. Katrina and I step away from each other as though we’ve actually been doing something we didn’t want to be caught at. “C’mon in!” says Katrina, and Battle walks in.
She’s flushed from the shower, and her head is shiny.
I think about the
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