When Jennie comes to a stop in front of the house, I try to hide my surprise, but holy fuck, her house is huge. It's like the ones they use for exteriors in movies: pristine sprawling lawn, perfect white paint, and a green door with a summer wreath hanging on it.
Jennie casually lets her bike fall on the manicured lawn and strolls up the driveway as I hurry to catch up.
Inside it's even more beautiful, with a big staircase and sprinkled with furniture that's all old wood and antique-y. It's the fancy kind of furniture you don't buy, you inherit. There's even a chandelier in the living room.
"Jennie, is that you?" a woman's voice calls from another room. "Finally! I swear, you're always making me late!"
She strolls into the hallway and spots Jennie. "What in the world are you wearing?" She strides forward, her heels clicking against the wood floor. "I buy you so many beautiful clothes, and you wear these ratty—" She stops, her gaze falling on me, hanging behind in the foyer. "Oh."
In just a second, Jennie's mom's face shifts from disappointed to a bright smile. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Lisa."
"It's so nice to meet you, Lisa. I'm Amy. What a cute little jacket." She looks me up and down like she means the opposite of what she's saying.
My fingers curl inside the sleeves of my mom's jacket.
"Thanks."
"I'll be home late," Amy tells Jennie. "Your sister's in the den. Money for dinner is on the fridge. Bye, girls."
She grabs her purse and swishes out of the house.
"She's going to some women's thing. Charity or something," Jennie explains, crooking her finger and leading me into the living room. "My stepdad's out of town. Which is why I'm on Suzy duty." She bends down in front of a mirrored cabinet that has a fancy crystal decanter and mixers set on top. Jennie pulls the clip out of her hair, poking it into the cabinet lock.
"Are you seriously...?" I don't get to finish my question, because she's got the cabinet open with the ease of a practiced lock picker.
"I'm just full of surprises," Jennie says, grinning at me over her shoulder. She grabs a bottle from the shelf and locks the cabinet back up.
"They won't miss this one. It's plum dessert wine that someone gifted them a million years ago."
"If you say so."
"I do," she says, grabbing two glasses from the top of the cabinet. "Come on, let's go check on Suzy in the den."
She leads me through the house. Everywhere I look, there's something fancy and breakable that makes me want to tuck my elbows and never, ever bring a backpack inside because I'd accidentally sweep something off a table.
The den is more like a giant media room. The biggest TV I've ever seen on the wall, in the middle of a few plush white couches with all these cozy throw pillows and blankets. A little girl is sitting in front of the TV, wrapped in one of the blankets, watching The NeverEnding Story.
"Suzy, say hi to my friend Lisa," Jennie encourages, sitting down on the couch and pouring the wine. She hands me one of the glasses, and I sit down next to her.
"Hi, Suzy."
"Hi!" Suzy waves at me before turning back to watch the movie.
"How many times have you watched this today?" Jennie asks.
"Just this once," Suzy says.
"Are you lying?"
Her head hangs. "Maybe."
Jennie laughs. "You've gotta get better at it! I could totally tell."
Suzy doesn't answer, her attention drawn back to the screen.
"Teaching her your ways, huh?" I ask Jennie.
"Just preparing her for a life with my mom," Jennie says.
I lean back on the couch, clutching the bumpy crystal glass and sampling the wine. It's so sweet I can take only tiny sips, the taste of plum and spice almost overwhelming. I can smell it on the air as I breathe out.
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to ... be. Just be. Breathe here, next to her, because it's like I'm gonna fly out of my skin every time she moves even a little.
She's not feeling anything I am. She can't be. She's focused on the screen, her hand splayed out on the couch between us like she doesn't even think it's a temptation and a dare and a burning desire.
Her fingers drum against the cream suede of the couch, little tap-tap-taps that I fixate on instead of the TV. What would she do if I reached out and stilled her movement? Would she be warm, like she was before at the lake, holding me as if she knew how to already?
I want to find out—so badly my mouth's dry from it. I run my finger along the edge of my tattoo choker, suddenly too tight against my skin, and I remind myself to breathe. I'm being obvious. Can she tell? Oh God, please, let her never find out.
As soon as I think it, she looks at me. She smiles, her chin dipping, devilish as she sips the plum wine, and suddenly, all I can think is Please, please let her find out.
Please let her hand brush against mine on the couch.
It does.
Please let her pinkie hook over mine, an unspoken promise, just us two.
She does.
Please let her lean forward, dark spill of hair, eyes sweeping down to our hands like she's slipping into my thoughts.
She whispers, "Let's go up to my room."
The thought of it, soft sheets and sacred space ... the place where she takes off everything ... it makes me too aware of every part of my body. She's a chameleon, and I want to see her true colors again, not the act everyone sees. I got a glimpse, so I know I'll recognize her ... if she shows me.
I follow her up the winding staircase and down the hall, and when she pushes open a door to the right, there's a nervous smile on her face.
"Here we are," she says.
I step inside. It's big—like the rest of the house—and I don't know what I expected. Not the canopy bed and ballerina-pink bedspread. Her desk in the corner looks more like her—feathered pom-pom pens and DVDs stacked in a haphazard tower. There's a pair of black dance shoes hanging by their laces on the back of the chair, and notes folded into careful triangles scattered across the desk.
I recognize the notes: they're the kind popular girls traded with each other in my last school, secrets running along each fold of paper. I wouldn't even begin to know how to fold one; is it a prerequisite for being the it girl? Are they just born knowing these things? Folded notes perfect for shallow pockets and hair flicks that make your stomach drop and smiles that say I see you.
I turn away from the desk and focus on the other wall. There's a shelf set into it reaching all the way up to the ceiling, and it's absolutely full of trophies.
"Ugh," Jennie says, tossing the phone onto the bed. It skitters across the pink bedspread and hits me in the thigh. I can see the text it's still open to: Kai: Come Hang Out.
"Boys are so stupid, right?" Jennie asks me, looking down at the phone.
I bite my lip, not knowing what to say. Not knowing the answer, if I should agree or not.
She throws herself on the bed next to me, her hair spreading out on the comforter, strands of it so close I could almost reach out and touch them. I hold back the urge, even though my fingers itch, my mind full of questions:
What would it be like to tuck it behind her ear? Would my thumb catch on the bottom of her earring? They're little sparkly studs that I'm sure are real diamonds, now that I've seen her house.
"What do you think of my room, Lisa?"
"You're that invested in my opinion, huh?" I lie back next to her on the bed, and I wonder if our arms brush, she'll think it's on purpose.
"Good point. I haven't seen your room yet. Maybe you have terrible taste." She can't keep the smirk off her face.
"I have great taste, thank you very much," I say. "But my room was all boxes until yesterday, and now it's just a rickety dresser Marco bought me and this metal desk that looks like it was made in the 1950s."
"Your dad should be doing more to make you feel welcome," Jennie says, frowning at me, her head turning to meet my eyes, and shit, we're so close here on the bed. I shouldn't be lying back like this with her.
"Marco doesn't know how to 'dad,'" I say. It makes her eyebrows scrunch together, all angry. It's sweet, really. That's the thing about people who've had a good dad or a good stepdad, and it seems like Jennie has both. It's hard for people like that, people who have people to catch them, to imagine life without a net.
"Well, he should learn how to dad."
"I don't really want to talk about it," I say, and thankfully she drops it as I continue. "Your room is cool. Very award-heavy, what with your wall o' trophies over there." I push up on my elbows to examine the wall of gold and silver. A lot of the trophies have figures of girls dancing. "So, you're like a ballerina or something?"
"I'm a competitive dancer," Jennie says.
"What's the difference?"
She arches her eyebrow at me like she thinks I'm being sarcastic.
"Seriously!" I say. "I don't know."
"Well, for one, it means I'm there to win. And I do ... a lot," she says, with no false modesty. "But I'm not a ballerina. I do a lot of different types of dance."
"So you're, like, multifaceted."
She beams. "No one's ever called me that before."
"It sounds harder than just having one focus."
"It is in a way. Some of the girls I danced with when I was younger ended up going into ballet."
"But not you."
She shrugs. "My mom was more into this."
"What about you?"
She laughs. That nervous, uncomfortable burst I've started to come to know.
"I like being the best."
"Can I see?"
More eyebrow scrunching. She's cute when she's confused.
"You want me to dance?"
"I've never seen any competitive dancing before," I point out, keeping my face straight. "How will I know the difference between competitive and just regular dance if you don't show me?"
Her mouth tilts, skeptical. "You're fucking with me."
I grin. "Maybe a little. But it doesn't mean I don't want to see you do your thing. See how you earned your wall o' trophies."
"You're such a brat," she shoots back, and she sticks her tongue out like a real brat.
"Come on!" I urge, loving needling her. "Show me how to spin!" I raise my arms into a little moon over my head and she dissolves into laughter as I tilt my head back and forth.
"Okay, fine, fine, I'll do one of my old solos. Just to appease you."
I clap my hands together. "I win!"
The look she shoots me is all fond exasperation, and it makes me feel like I'm eating melting chocolate, the rush of it thick and too sweet, sticking to every part of me.
"This one solo was actually kind of cool," she continues, shuffling through her CD case, looking for the right song. "I just learned how to do a triple turn, and it was kind of special because I was the first to do that on my team."
"There are teams?" I ask, bewildered.
"It's competitive, Lisa. Who do you think I was winning the trophies against?"
"Right."
She plucks a CD out of the case, slips it into her boom box, and presses PLAY. She kicks at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, tossing them out of the way of her makeshift dance floor as the music begins to play. Then tinkly piano chords flood the room, and her body stills in front of me, her eyes closing.
"I can't do this if you're judging me," she insists.
"I'm not judging you," I tell her. And I'm not. All I really want is to see her. That's why I'm here. That's why I let her drag me out of my house and into shoplifting and down those railroad tracks and then back here.
She starts to move to the music, her body swaying and dipping as she spins and turns, her leg rising impossibly high. How the hell did she get so bendy?
Her hair whips across her face, her head swirling as her arms shift up and her leg rises in anticipation of that infamous triple turn. She spins, once, twice—
Bam.
Her elbow slams into the side of her bookcase and the trophies rattle, one of them falling off and crashing to the floor. Jennie grabs her arm, her fase screwed up trying to fight it as her cheeks flood with red.
"Fuck," she mutters, her face flaming further.
"Shit! Are you okay?" I leap to my feet, hurrying over to her, and I don't think it through when I reach out and grab her unhurt arm, pulling her out of the way of the still-wobbling trophies.
"I'm fine," she says, in a choked voice that tells me the opposite.
"You were great," I insist.
"Fuck," she mutters again. "My elbow."
"Do you need ice?"
She shakes her head. That red isn't fading on her cheeks, and all I can think is I want to make her feel better. To tease her out of her humiliation.
"Thank you, competitive dance champion, for showing me such a competitive dance. I can absolutely see the difference between it and normal dancing now."
"Hey! I won for that song!"
It's working.
"I've no doubt you won."
Her smile fights itself. "If you're gonna be that way, you dance."
"Me?" I mock-gasp and press a hand against my chest. "But I don't have any trophies or titles to defend! Do they have competitive dance titles? A sash you wear? Are you queen of something?"
She snickers. "If you're gonna make fun, you better be able to back it up."
"Okay," I say, rising to her bait. "Fine. Pick me a song." I shimmy my shoulders at her. "Something sad, achy, and raw."
"So something just like you?"
"Ooh, finally showing your claws, huh?"
She paws the air at me with her periwinkle nails, and I laugh, glowing.
Jennie bends down and grabs the CD case, shuffling through it and then grabbing one with a truly wicked smile. "I've got the perfect song." She pops it in the boom box and presses PLAY. Imogen Heap's very achy vocals fill the room, wrapping around us.
"So," I say, standing in the middle of the room, channeling Jennie. "This is kind of a big deal, 'cause I was the first one on my dance team to lift my arms like this." I fling them dramatically up and give her spirit fingers, waggling furiously, which makes her howl with laughter, clutching her
stomach, her entire body writhing with joy. I've never understood triumph until that moment.
"And then when I coined this move at competition..." I bring my hands down in exaggerated flaps like a baby bird that hasn't quite learned how to fly yet. "My coaches were actually weeping at the swanlike beauty of my choreography."
"Ohmygod, Lisa, stopppp! Icanbarelybreathe!" she shrieks, laughing even harder.
I fling myself onto the ground, sliding a little on the rug on my knees toward her, pressing my hand to my heart. "You gotta have a big finish."
She claps her hand over her mouth, trying to hold in the hysterical, halfdrunk giggles. She hiccups beneath her fingers, swaying a little, and her eyes widen.
"I'llberightback," she says in a rush, lurching through the open door and running out of the room.
Oh shit. I watch her gallop away. Casting a glance at the bottle of plum wine on her dresser, I'm suddenly grateful I'd taken only a few little sips. Rising to my feet, I peek out of Jennie's room to the end of the hall, wondering which direction she went. I take a gamble and go right.
"Jennie?" I call softly, but I don't get an answer.
There are pictures all along the hall, a carefully selected gallery wall that's so perfect it looks like it's out of a magazine. Beautiful black-andwhite posed portraits of Jennie's family, and a glamour portrait from the sixties that must be Jennie's grandmother—her winged eyeliner is Elizabeth Taylor–thick. A series of photos of Jennie's mom and her stepdad getting married, followed by maternity photos, followed by baby pictures of Suzy and Jennie. The entire family at Disneyland, Jennie's grandmother, now silver-haired but still rocking the eyeliner, next to the family. And finally, something that has me rooted there for a moment: a cluster of Jennie's school photos.
It's a timeline of her, from pigtailed kindergartener to perfect competitive dance champion. The last picture has to be recent; she looks almost exactly the same but her hair's maybe a little longer now. She stares a little off camera, posed against a tree, in clothes that are so not her: a white cable-knit sweater and dark denim, her hair held back with a headband, of all things.
She's thoughtful and poised but distant. There's no sparkle in her eyes, like earlier when she was fighting her laughter and failing. The moment when she let go, when she let it in—let me in ... I think that girl, that was the real her.
Or maybe I just hope it.
So why am I the only one who saw it? Jennie is like that card game in which the dealer sets three cards down. Keep your eye on the left one. Queen of hearts. Shuffle. Shuffle. Misdirect. Where is it now?
You always pick wrong. But today I somehow picked right. I saw her.
And she ran.
Where is she?
I turn around, intent on going the other direction, and I almost run into Suzy, who's standing there, holding a bag of chips.
"Hi."
Suzy just stares at me.
"Did you see where your sister went?"
"She's in the bathroom," Suzy says, pointing behind her.
"Thanks." I pause. "Do you need help or anything?"
Suzy shakes her head.
"Okay."
I walk past her, heading to where Suzy pointed. The door's closed, the light on. I tap lightly on the door.
"Jennie?"
There's silence, and then a faint "Yeah?" floats through the door.
"Are you okay?"
Another pause. "Yeah. I just ... I'm kind of sick. The champagne and Cheetos combination was not a good idea."
"The wine probably didn't help," I add.
"I never get sick off wine," she insists, muffled and miserable. "I'm just ... I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's fine," I assure her. "Do you need anything?"
"No! No!" she says hastily, like she's afraid I'll barge in. "Everything's fine. I can deal. I'll AIM you, okay?"
"Yeah," I say. "Okay."
I bite my lip. Leaving her seems wrong. I've left my jacket in her room, so I go back to get it, and for a second, I stand in her room alone, staring at all those trophies, because if I don't stare at the trophies, I'm going to stare at the bed, and that's just ...
Not gonna go there, Lisa.
I move the bottle of water from her dresser to the little table next to her bed where she can see it. There's a pad of Post-it Notes on the end table, and I grab it, along with a pen from her desk. I scribble down:
Left water by the bed 😊 AIM: Lalalalisa_97
As I pass by the bathroom, I almost knock again. But I can hear her retching inside and I don't want to bother her, so all I do is slip the note under the door and go downstairs.
"Bye, Suzy," I tell her when I pass by the media room and find her sitting there, watching The NeverEnding Story again.
"Bye," she says.
I'm halfway down the street with my bike before I realize that I still have the pad of Post-it Notes clutched in my palm.
I slip it into my pocket, and my hand burns all the way home, as if just touching something of hers heats me from the inside.