You'd Be Home Now (57)

“Go.” Nana points to the pile.

“Um, what?” Joey says.

“Run through them. Dive into them. That was your favorite thing as a little boy, do you remember? Your father would bring you over, he’d rake leaves, and you’d run pell-mell through them. I loved the sound of your laughter. Do it now. Remember what that felt like, when you had no worries. For me.”

    Joey hesitates and then takes off running, a gray-hooded blur. He flares out and then lands, hard, in the mound of leaves.

And just lies there.

“Joey?” I say hesitantly, wondering if he’s hurt.

There’s no sound from the pile of leaves.

“Oops,” Nana says. “Perhaps I’ve hurt him.”

I run over to the pile, pushing leaves out of the way. “Joey, are you okay?”

But my brother isn’t hurt. He’s crying, his face encrusted with dried leaves.

“She was right,” he says. “It was glorious. And I’m going to do it again.”



* * *



—

After dinner I sit in my closet, the tips of my clothes tickling my nose, as I text Maddie.

I’ve been thinking about the dance, about Gage. And Nana saying someone should take your hand and walk next to you. The whole Liza telling me to grow a spine thing.


Hey

Hi! What’s up? How’s Joe?

He’s good

How’s dear old Heywood High?

It’s ok

You ok



    I take a deep breath.


I might have a sex problem.



Immediately, she video calls. I debate not picking up, but finally, I do. I turn on the tiny lamp I have in the closet. I spot my old blue bear and cradle it in my arms, like it can protect me. I haven’t been in my closet in a long time. I missed it.

Fuzzy walks in and nestles at my feet.

Maddie says, “What. Is. Going. On. Are you in your closet?”

“Yes.”

In the background, I can see the walls of her dorm room: band posters, pictures of yoga poses. Filmy scarves hung up everywhere. Bunk beds.

“Are you actually having sex? Is that the problem?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t think it’s sex. Maybe. This is kind of embarrassing.” My face flushes.

“This is very confusing, sister.”

“We do things, but, like, there hasn’t been…penetration.” I whisper that word.

“If you can’t say that word in a normal voice, you shouldn’t be doing whatever it is you’re doing, that’s rule number one.”

I hold my breath. I really have no idea how to phrase, out loud, to my sister, that I’ve been making out in a pool house with the town baseball star and that sometimes we masturbate together in front of our windows.

There really isn’t a good way to say that.

“Emmy.”

“What.”

“You texted me. You have to talk, or I can’t help you.”

“We don’t take off our underwear. We make out, mostly. Things happen.”

    “They call that dry-humping. You’re welcome. But you can still get pregnant that way, because sperm can travel through underwear. Unless we’re talking about a girl. Wait, let me correct myself. Does this person have a penis?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

I hesitate. “No one you know.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“We aren’t technically dating.”

Her face changes. She gives me a stern look.

“So, you’re just hooking up?”

“I…guess. Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Well, that’s sex, Emmy. Sex is sexual activity. Virginity is different. Virginity is an idea, a construct. A level of purity created to make girls not get too lusty, frankly. To make them prizes. Congratulations, you’re a sexual person. When I come home for Thanksgiving, I’m taking you to the clinic in Dover for the pill. Do you know about Plan B? Do you have cond—”

“I’m kind of sorry I asked now,” I interrupt. “This is kind of overwhelming.” My head is spinning. This is a lot to take in all at once.

“How long have you been hooking up with Mr. No-Name?”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Last spring.”

Maddie says, “Oh, dear.”

She pauses. “I’m just trying to get to the heart of this, so bear with me. This is all consensual, right? Like, you like this, he’s not pressuring you? Emotionally?”

“I don’t think so. I like what we do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I start to cry.

    “Oh, honey, what is it?”

“I don’t…I think…I might like him more than he likes me. Maybe. I’m not sure. But we agreed to keep it a secret, but I’m thinking…I mean, it would be nice, right, to go somewhere together, where people could see us.”

“That’s called a date.”

I wipe my face with the hem of a dress. I’m pretty sure my sister has never had to deal with anyone who wanted to keep her a secret.