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Show for with my own money. I grab the pendant from his fingers. You are sick, I say. But my skin is warm from where he has touched me; the feel of his fingers remains, damp, soft. At his touch, I remember the final eighth grade dance, and the way Marc Coleman, a tall boy and the only one who asked me to dance that night, looked down my dress to see my breasts. Or maybe my shoes. I was never sure of the intention, the violation, what I imagined, or what I sought. Should I be offended or pleased? Come here, he says, I won't bite. You are bad, I say but move back next to him, my legs touching his, ants crawling along the gutter and over my bare feet. A bad boy, yes I am, and you like it. No I don't. Let me show you how bad I am, and he leans his body close to mine, really close this time, pulling me toward him. His green eyes are open as are his lips, full lips, that look soft and warm like his fingers, they glisten with saliva. In a few weeks his family is moving to Virginia Beach. We will follow later in the summer. I know already that I will miss him, miss his attention, miss the way he tickles my neck when no one else is looking. But I break away, run from boys who lurk in the bushes, the blue veins on my Grandpa's hands, notes reading Give me head, and the stranger at the mall who traps me in the cosmetics aisle and spits profanity into my ears, from Mr. Grunawalt's slippery lips and the man who runs his fingers against the crease in my bottom as he brushes past me 164 |