Lessons from a Dead Girl(3)

“Let’s practice again,” Leah says, as if reading my mind. She moves closer to me. “I’ll be the husband this time. You’re my wife, and you have to do what I say.”

I start to say “OK” but Leah stops me, putting her pointer finger on my lips.

“Don’t talk,” she says. “I didn’t say you could.”

I stop smiling.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers a little more gently.

I close them and feel her move closer to me. Her breath is warm on my face. When she puts her hands on my knees, her electricity goes right through me. I get a tingly feeling low in my stomach.

She slides her hands slowly up my thighs.

I open my eyes for a split second. Her face is so close to mine, I can see the tiny blue veins in her eyelids. My heart thumps wildly against my chest.

She puts both hands around my waist. I still don’t move or dare open my eyes again.

Then she kisses me. This time, she doesn’t put her hand between our lips. Her mouth pushes against mine. She moans. I’m too scared to move. But I’m excited, too. Girls don’t do this. Leah must love me. Why? What does this mean?

A strange, prickly warmth spreads through my body. I sit perfectly still and let her kiss me. I let her hands pull me toward her until my chest presses up against hers and our hearts pound against each other. I keep my eyes closed tight and let her do what she wants.

When we step out of the closet, we don’t talk. I still feel her lips on me, her chest against mine. I wonder if she feels the same way.

I follow Leah downstairs and out to the backyard, where my dog, Seal, runs up to us, holding a stick in his mouth and wagging his tail. Leah tries to take the stick from him, but he steps back and runs. We chase him, but he darts between us.

I finally get close enough to touch his tail when Leah grabs my shoulders from behind. She pulls me backward and to the ground. I land with a hard thud. Before I can get up, Leah straddles me and pins my hands to the ground. She looks down at me and makes a face like she’s going to kiss me again. She looks like she wants to hurt me.

“Get off!” I say.

She laughs without opening her mouth. She pushes my wrists against the ground so hard I cry out, but she holds tighter. I try to pull my hands away, to wiggle my body out from under hers.

Then I feel it. Something warm and wet landing on my forehead. It rolls down my temple and into my ear, warm and cold at the same time.

Leah laughs out loud and climbs off me.

“You liked it,” she says.

I roll away and sit up, quickly rubbing her spit off my face.

“I did not!” I lie, trying not to cry. I get up and run to the back door.

“You know you did!” Leah calls after me.

I don’t turn around. I don’t argue with her again. I know it’s true. But what does it mean?

Later, after Leah’s mother picks her up, I go to my room. Christi and my mom and dad are all home, but they’re busy and don’t notice me. I listen to their usual sounds — my sister in her room singing to a CD, my parents downstairs listening to the news and arguing with the TV. My room feels different. Leah has touched everything in here. I can even smell her.

When I turn, I see my reflection in my dresser mirror. My hair is like a boy’s, short and brown and messy. My striped shirt is too small and has a grass stain on the front. Even my face is dirty. I look like a boy. An ugly boy. And I feel like one, too. Why would Leah be my friend? Why would she do those things to me? Was it all just a joke?

I grab my old Curious George and hide in my bedroom closet, where there’s only space for me. I press George’s face against mine.

Why did she do it? Why did I let her? What’s wrong with me?

My tears soak George’s fur, but he just smiles at me in the dim light, no matter how hard I cry.

That night, when Christi and I are in the bathroom getting ready for bed, she asks me what’s on my hand. I look at the slightly faded Fs.

“Nothing,” I say. I scrub the letters with soap as hard as I can, but they won’t come off.

“Must be permanent marker,” Christi says. “Way to go, Brain.”

“It will come off,” I say, scrubbing harder. But even when my hand is almost raw, I still see some of the red marker.

I go back to my room and hug George again.

“We won’t be friends forever,” I whisper into his fur. “We won’t.”

But he keeps smiling, like he knows better.

The next day at school, Leah waits for me on the playground. I try to go the other way, but she chases after me.

“What’s wrong?” she asks innocently.

I don’t say anything. She knows the answer.

“Oh, Laine, it was just a silly game. You need to toughen up,” she says.

“It didn’t feel like a game,” I tell her. I look at my feet, remembering her lips on mine, her chest pressed against mine, her spit on my face.

“OK, I’ll tell you the truth,” she says. “I was testing you.”

“What do you mean?”

She steps closer. “You know. To see if you trusted me. We have to practice for when we get older, remember? It’s what best friends do.”

“Then why did you spit on me?”

“I was afraid you’d tell our secret.”