driver's attention, clamoring for their fifteen minutes and wanting to thrust Gaia's upon her.
There was a bright white light. A couple of flashes.
"Ed?" Gaia yelled, searching the crowd for him.
"I know," he said, right at her elbow. "Let's go."
ALMOST ABUSED
THERE WERE JUST WAY TOO MANY piles of clothing on Heather's bed. When she'd walked into her room after midnight on the night of the party, she didn't even have the energy to shove them all to the floor, so she lay down on top of them -- face first. She felt like someone had hit her with a steamroller, backed up, and hit her again. Twice.
"Tired Heather," she croaked into her pillow. "Very tired."
Something was stabbing her in the stomach. Just a belt buckle. Or a hanger. Nothing compared to the overall ache that was crushing her into her center.
Her throat was incredibly dry, and her face felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Raw and itchy. Heather rolled over onto her back and felt like she was leaning on a small pillow. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her hair, tangled into a knotted ball at the top of her head. She gingerly touched her hand to it. That was going to hurt like hell to brush through. She tried to kick off her shoes, but her legs yelled out with pain, her thighs quivering like she'd just run a couple of miles.
"Don't move," she told herself. "Better not to move."
Better not to move so that she could think. Lie here and think and try to remember how, exactly, she'd ended up having sex with Charlie Salita.
There was kissing. That much she remembered. Lots of tongue and saliva. Groping. She'd even been quite helpful and popped open the ever-male-confounding front closure bra for him. He'd had a very smooth chest. Smooth and muscular and brown.
And there were a lot of pillows. Flowery ones with this ugly purple pattern that made it look like the Fruit Of The Loom grape guy had barfed all over the bed.
Bed. Okay, she remembered that, too. Heather squinted at the stucco ceiling, her eyes playing games with the swirly patterns and making her whole body spin. She felt very nauseous. Very spent. Almost abused.
She'd had a crush on Charlie in the eighth grade, worshiped him from afar in the ninth grade, almost gotten him to kiss her in the tenth grade, and then been totally humiliated and heartbroken when he'd told her he just wanted to be friends. A teenage boy who refused to even kiss her and leave her. Hormones didn't even play a role. Very ego damaging.
It was a long, sordid history of daydreams, doodled hearts, and tears.
She was a senior now. She had a boyfriend.
Maybe.
She didn't care about Charlie anymore.
But she wouldn't have minded being able to remember the sex.
THE BIG TEN
THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PARTY?
Mary Moss had never seen anything so pathetic in her life. A couple of kegs. A few tonsil hockey games. Bad music-store-compilation CD. It was no wonder Gaia thought this would be funny. These people must have learned how to party by watching reruns of
The Wonder Years.
A dorky guy with a completely over-it Caesar haircut sidled up to her and held out a beer. "Night owl." His head bobbed up and down like it was hanging from a piece of elastic. "I like it," he said.
Mary took the beer, chugged half of it, and handed it back. "Do you know Gaia Moore?"
His eyes roamed up and down her body, and he leered a smile. "Of her," he said.
Suppressing an eye roll was almost painful. Mary's consistently small store of patience was nigh gone. "Is she here?"
"Saw her somewhere," he said with a little shrug.
What she was actually there for obviously had no bearing. All he could see were the possibilities. Little did he know there were none. "Why don't you come sit down?"
"No, thanks," Mary said. "I wouldn't want to bother you. I can see you're really busy wasting space." His face registered no recognition of the insult, so Mary just snorted and walked away. This was a big apartment. There had to be someone here
There was a bright white light. A couple of flashes.
"Ed?" Gaia yelled, searching the crowd for him.
"I know," he said, right at her elbow. "Let's go."
ALMOST ABUSED
THERE WERE JUST WAY TOO MANY piles of clothing on Heather's bed. When she'd walked into her room after midnight on the night of the party, she didn't even have the energy to shove them all to the floor, so she lay down on top of them -- face first. She felt like someone had hit her with a steamroller, backed up, and hit her again. Twice.
"Tired Heather," she croaked into her pillow. "Very tired."
Something was stabbing her in the stomach. Just a belt buckle. Or a hanger. Nothing compared to the overall ache that was crushing her into her center.
Her throat was incredibly dry, and her face felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Raw and itchy. Heather rolled over onto her back and felt like she was leaning on a small pillow. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her hair, tangled into a knotted ball at the top of her head. She gingerly touched her hand to it. That was going to hurt like hell to brush through. She tried to kick off her shoes, but her legs yelled out with pain, her thighs quivering like she'd just run a couple of miles.
"Don't move," she told herself. "Better not to move."
Better not to move so that she could think. Lie here and think and try to remember how, exactly, she'd ended up having sex with Charlie Salita.
There was kissing. That much she remembered. Lots of tongue and saliva. Groping. She'd even been quite helpful and popped open the ever-male-confounding front closure bra for him. He'd had a very smooth chest. Smooth and muscular and brown.
And there were a lot of pillows. Flowery ones with this ugly purple pattern that made it look like the Fruit Of The Loom grape guy had barfed all over the bed.
Bed. Okay, she remembered that, too. Heather squinted at the stucco ceiling, her eyes playing games with the swirly patterns and making her whole body spin. She felt very nauseous. Very spent. Almost abused.
She'd had a crush on Charlie in the eighth grade, worshiped him from afar in the ninth grade, almost gotten him to kiss her in the tenth grade, and then been totally humiliated and heartbroken when he'd told her he just wanted to be friends. A teenage boy who refused to even kiss her and leave her. Hormones didn't even play a role. Very ego damaging.
It was a long, sordid history of daydreams, doodled hearts, and tears.
She was a senior now. She had a boyfriend.
Maybe.
She didn't care about Charlie anymore.
But she wouldn't have minded being able to remember the sex.
THE BIG TEN
THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PARTY?
Mary Moss had never seen anything so pathetic in her life. A couple of kegs. A few tonsil hockey games. Bad music-store-compilation CD. It was no wonder Gaia thought this would be funny. These people must have learned how to party by watching reruns of
The Wonder Years.
A dorky guy with a completely over-it Caesar haircut sidled up to her and held out a beer. "Night owl." His head bobbed up and down like it was hanging from a piece of elastic. "I like it," he said.
Mary took the beer, chugged half of it, and handed it back. "Do you know Gaia Moore?"
His eyes roamed up and down her body, and he leered a smile. "Of her," he said.
Suppressing an eye roll was almost painful. Mary's consistently small store of patience was nigh gone. "Is she here?"
"Saw her somewhere," he said with a little shrug.
What she was actually there for obviously had no bearing. All he could see were the possibilities. Little did he know there were none. "Why don't you come sit down?"
"No, thanks," Mary said. "I wouldn't want to bother you. I can see you're really busy wasting space." His face registered no recognition of the insult, so Mary just snorted and walked away. This was a big apartment. There had to be someone here
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