under my shirt. My father moved to Ohio for six months and came back. He said Cleveland was not the West and he was still working on getting out to the wide open spaces. I told him I might not go to college.
He said, “You do what you want to do. If you start school before you’re twenty, I promise you I’ll have enough money. Not after that.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I got to have a life, too, Lizzie.”
“I know,” I said.
I made some cross-hatching at the top of my thigh, and it hurt like hell and looked terrible. I didn’t do it again. I drank vodka and Hawaiian Punch with Eddie Sachs’ brother in their basement. I think that’s all I did the first year of high school.
Mr. Stone wrote to me in June, inviting me to make tapes of
Treasure Island
for his junior high literacy project. I threw out the letter.
“I’m going to be really busy next year,” I said when he called.
“Please. I can’t do it without you.”
“I don’t know.”
“Elizabeth, don’t make me beg,” he said.
Fare Thee Well
I lay on my back in the dark, Max’s head resting on my bare stomach.
He said he was sorry, he meant to wait until I finished high school, but he couldn’t. We always did it that way, me naked, him fully dressed, after the first time, Columbus Day my junior year. Greta and the boys were at a conference for gifted children. Max made me dinner at his house when my mother thought I was with Rachel, and he kissed me on the mouth when I went to put away the salad. The refrigerator door curved out cold behind me, and Max curved in, smelling just like he did when I was in ninth grade. I saw it coming, the hairy, fishlike opening, and I closed my eyes. The feel of his mouth wasn’t terrible—a soft bathing of Scotch from his tongue, his lips two slick bars of pressure.
“If you need to say no, say no,” he said. He was nervous.
I didn’t say anything. What would no get me?
He put his hand on my zipper and waited.
“No?” he said.
All right. “No.”
“Your no is very sexy. You know that.”
That helped. I leaned back to make him come closer, and then I leaned forward to leave. I made him nuts. Pathetic. My body said jump, his said how high. If I said no, the conversation would be over, I’d just be a scared girl. When I looked straight into his blue eyes, with the long lashes, I didn’t see the crumpled skin around them or the way his brow sloped over them or the deep dirty holes in his cheeks.
I lay facedown on his bed, their bed, pretending I was asleep, while he lay on top of me, touching me under my clothes. I pressed my body hard to the mattress, trying to drive my spine to it and keep some space between us. He slid his hand right under me, his fingers wrestling against me, his belly pressing on my back. My eyes kept opening onto one of Greta’s paintings, and I tightened my body until it felt like wood, and finally he said, “All right, go to sleep.” He was so old to me, dark freckles and grey hair on his shoulders and the back of his neck, not tons of it like those gross guys at the pool, but still. Little scoops of flesh pulling down under his arms, and lines creasing his back. And he saw how I looked at him; when I cracked my eyes open, he had his shirt and his pants back on. After that, I kept my eyes closed.
“What’s going to happen?” I asked a week later, thinking that he must know.
He laughed and lifted his head. “What’s going to happen? I’m going to love you as long as you’ll let me, and I’ll teach you a little about literature and about real music, and then you’ll break my heart. That’s the classic denouement.” He sounded cheerful. I thought he was teasing me.
“How am I going to break your heart?”
He kissed my stomach and pulled me up, deep into his lap.
“Like this, baby.” He kissed my cheek lightly. “Like this.” Again. “Very gently, I’m sure.”
“Maybe you’ll break my heart.” Half the time, I felt
He said, “You do what you want to do. If you start school before you’re twenty, I promise you I’ll have enough money. Not after that.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I got to have a life, too, Lizzie.”
“I know,” I said.
I made some cross-hatching at the top of my thigh, and it hurt like hell and looked terrible. I didn’t do it again. I drank vodka and Hawaiian Punch with Eddie Sachs’ brother in their basement. I think that’s all I did the first year of high school.
Mr. Stone wrote to me in June, inviting me to make tapes of
Treasure Island
for his junior high literacy project. I threw out the letter.
“I’m going to be really busy next year,” I said when he called.
“Please. I can’t do it without you.”
“I don’t know.”
“Elizabeth, don’t make me beg,” he said.
Fare Thee Well
I lay on my back in the dark, Max’s head resting on my bare stomach.
He said he was sorry, he meant to wait until I finished high school, but he couldn’t. We always did it that way, me naked, him fully dressed, after the first time, Columbus Day my junior year. Greta and the boys were at a conference for gifted children. Max made me dinner at his house when my mother thought I was with Rachel, and he kissed me on the mouth when I went to put away the salad. The refrigerator door curved out cold behind me, and Max curved in, smelling just like he did when I was in ninth grade. I saw it coming, the hairy, fishlike opening, and I closed my eyes. The feel of his mouth wasn’t terrible—a soft bathing of Scotch from his tongue, his lips two slick bars of pressure.
“If you need to say no, say no,” he said. He was nervous.
I didn’t say anything. What would no get me?
He put his hand on my zipper and waited.
“No?” he said.
All right. “No.”
“Your no is very sexy. You know that.”
That helped. I leaned back to make him come closer, and then I leaned forward to leave. I made him nuts. Pathetic. My body said jump, his said how high. If I said no, the conversation would be over, I’d just be a scared girl. When I looked straight into his blue eyes, with the long lashes, I didn’t see the crumpled skin around them or the way his brow sloped over them or the deep dirty holes in his cheeks.
I lay facedown on his bed, their bed, pretending I was asleep, while he lay on top of me, touching me under my clothes. I pressed my body hard to the mattress, trying to drive my spine to it and keep some space between us. He slid his hand right under me, his fingers wrestling against me, his belly pressing on my back. My eyes kept opening onto one of Greta’s paintings, and I tightened my body until it felt like wood, and finally he said, “All right, go to sleep.” He was so old to me, dark freckles and grey hair on his shoulders and the back of his neck, not tons of it like those gross guys at the pool, but still. Little scoops of flesh pulling down under his arms, and lines creasing his back. And he saw how I looked at him; when I cracked my eyes open, he had his shirt and his pants back on. After that, I kept my eyes closed.
“What’s going to happen?” I asked a week later, thinking that he must know.
He laughed and lifted his head. “What’s going to happen? I’m going to love you as long as you’ll let me, and I’ll teach you a little about literature and about real music, and then you’ll break my heart. That’s the classic denouement.” He sounded cheerful. I thought he was teasing me.
“How am I going to break your heart?”
He kissed my stomach and pulled me up, deep into his lap.
“Like this, baby.” He kissed my cheek lightly. “Like this.” Again. “Very gently, I’m sure.”
“Maybe you’ll break my heart.” Half the time, I felt
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