Little Do We Know
Tamara Ireland Stone
You have come here to find what you already have.
—Buddhist aphorism
There were thirty-six steps between Emory’s bedroom window and mine.
The first time we counted, we were six years old (forty-two steps). The second time, we were twelve (thirty-nine). The last time, we were fifteen. We pressed our backs against the side of her house, interlocked our arms, and heel-toe-heel-toed to mine, laughing and stumbling, starting over until we got it right.
That patch of grass knew everything about us. That was where we learned to walk, where we ran through the sprinklers on hot summer days, and where we held tea parties for our stuffed animals.
When we got older, a single text with the word GRASS! would send the two of us darting out our back doors, bound for our spot smack in the middle. We’d stay out there for hours—staring up at the stars, talking about music and books and boys, practicing our kissing skills on our own upper arms—until we couldn’t keep our eyes open or until our moms made us come inside, whichever happened first. Once we started high school, when we had bigger news and even more delicious secrets, we’d say things like, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” and we meant it deep in our souls.
But no matter how long two people have known each other, or how many times they’ve said those words, there are still some things you think but should never say to your best friend.
I know, because one day, I said those things.
And then Emory said those things.
And that was the last time either one of us crossed those thirty-six steps.
Mom was alone. I could tell by her shoulder. When David stayed over, it was bare, with a thin strip of pink or black silk peeking out from between the covers. When he wasn’t there, she slept in one of Dad’s old concert tees like she always used to.
I tiptoed across the room and sat on the edge of her bed, but she didn’t move until I rested my hand on her back and gave her a little shake. “Hey, Mom,” I whispered, “I’m home.”
She let out a groan and strained to open one eye. “Hi, sweetie. How was the party?”
“Fun.”
A chunk of my dark hair fell over my shoulder, and she reached up and pushed it back. “Did Luke drive home?”
“Yeah.” I felt a pang of guilt, but I ignored it.
“I like him,” she mumbled. “He’s a good guy.”
Her head sank back into the pillow, and her eyes fell shut.
“Yeah, he is.” I pulled the covers up to her chin and kissed her forehead.
She was snoring again by the time I shut her door behind me. As I walked back down the hallway, I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and texted Luke:
Goodnight.
We came up with the code word when we started dating eight months earlier, and we both thought it was kind of brilliant. If Mom happened to read my texts—which she did at random, ever since David convinced her that’s what “good parents” did—I imagined she’d let out a happy sigh and tell me she thought it was adorable that Luke and I texted each other before we fell asleep at night.
I closed my bedroom door, turned the lock, flicked the light switch on and off, and then walked to my closet and dug deep in the back, feeling for the metal stepladder. I carried it to the window.
Luke was already in position, pressed against the side of Hannah’s house, right between her mother’s perfectly manicured rosebush and some giant flowering shrub. When I had the ladder in place, he poked his head out and checked to be sure the coast was clear, and then he stepped into a sliver of light coming from the streetlamp.
He took off running across the lawn, his green-and-white scarf trailing behind him and his matching Foothill Falcons jacket catching the wind like a pair of wings. He played it up, throwing his arms to each side, flapping them like a bird. Or a bat. Or an insane person.
I covered my mouth to stifle my laugh as he climbed up the stepladder. “God, you’re a dork.”
He swung his leg over the sill and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Then he hooked his thumb toward Hannah’s house. “She doesn’t think I’m a dork. She thinks I’m dead sexy.”
The smile slipped from my lips. Across the lawn, I could see Hannah’s face, low in the bottom corner of her window between her curtain and the white-painted frame.
I started to say, “Ignore her,” like I always did, but then I changed my mind. If she insisted on watching us, we might as well give her something to see.
I unwrapped his scarf and slid his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor. I pulled his T-shirt over his head. “What are you doing?” he asked. I brushed my fingertips down his bare arms and over his chest, and then I pressed my body against his, kissing him as I eased him backward toward the window. I pressed his shoulders against the glass and kissed him even harder. He made a show of running his fingers through my hair.
Hannah was dying. I could feel her scorn and disgust all the way across the grass. I imagined her grasping that cross pendant of hers so tightly it left four little indentations in her fingers, as she prayed for my soul and prayed even harder for God to strike down my evil boyfriend, sneaking in my bedroom after curfew. But to be fair, the image was over-the-top.
I started giggling. I couldn’t help it.