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Show Jeff Salmon gooses me while I am looking for something to eat in the refrigerator. His hand, it seems, fits easily into the bow of my bottom, fingers almost touching my vagina, sending a shiver through my body. Ah! is all I manage to say, protesting, but not really. He is fifteen, the older brother of my friend Karen, and lives in the green house next to ours in Maloelap. Though his face is covered in acne and he is fanatical about the Phillies and playing Dungeons and Dragons, I am thrilled by any notice that he pays me. Because in general boys don't. Notice, that is. My friend at school, Kate, French kisses Robert Hunter in the halls after school, so that I can watch from the shadows. How is there room for all those tongues, I wonder, how long can you remain on tip toe. She shares the notes he passes to her in history beneath the notice of Ms. Mousette. Give me head, he writes, and we have no idea what to say in return. You do it first is what we finally decide upon. The closest I come to kissing is when Michael Brown takes me into the bushes near the border of Halsey Terrace and kisses me on the forehead, sealing the fact that we are "going out." I return with a kiss to his forehead, the field of tiny pimples rough against my lips. We date for a week. Glasses, braces, a bad complexion, hair falling in my face, I attract little notice at school or at home. Or the notice I do attract is unwanted: David George asks, Sinor, wanna dance, during the square dancing portion of PE. Instead I feed off the stories of my more experienced friends, read romance novels, and daydream about Mark Hamill. But Jeff attends and because he does, he arrests. Sometimes he chases me around the yard, sometimes he threatens to pull down the elastic top of my romper, sometimes he 158 |
