Juliet

Juliet:  I will never take off these socks, I think to myself.

I will take them off, but I will never wash them, I’ll save them, the socks that are filling with dirt as I press my heels into the side of the hill, off the path that leads away from Griffith Park Observatory.

There are people just above us, looking out at the lights of L.A. in the distance I hope, and not down into the dark hillside to the dark shadows which are Raif and I.  This is not how I expected my first time to be.

My mouth is raw from kissing Raif, kissing that started outside the theater, as soon as we got into his car.  Kissing that almost got out of control in the parking lot outside Starbucks, then turned tender inside, where we sat in front of the fake fireplace and ignored our coffee.

I have to pee, I think.  My underwear, down around my ankles, is probably getting full of dirt.  This hurts.  I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.  I’m sliding a little down the hill and rocks are scraping my butt.  We didn’t go to Raif’s apartment because he said he wanted to take me someplace special.  This is special.

Stop complaining, Juliet, this is special.  We’re under the stars.  We’re in love.  I love Raif and he loves me.  How long is this supposed to last?

That’s not what you’re supposed to be thinking, Juliet.  You’re not supposed to be thinking at all!

This is so awesome!  I’m having sex!  Me, Juliet, Never Been Kissed Juliet. 

And Raif is not old, like Michael said.  He’s twenty-four. 

Raif grunts softly, then sighs, long and deep.  Rolling to the side, staying on the flannel shirt he laid down for us, he pulls me close.  He sucks on my neck, and I realize too late that he’s giving me a hickey, which I know I should be happy about because it means I’m his, and it’s not like he’s branding me like a cow, it’s not. 

Only now I have to tell my mother.

I worry too much.

“Your skin is so soft,” Raif whispers.

“My boot!” I say as I grab for it, rolling down the hill. 

Raif scrambles down a few feet after it.  His ass is pale in the moonlight.  Skinny, the knobs of his pelvis show when he turns over.  Like me, like me!

“I think I love you,” I say, my fingers holding tightly to my boots, nervous fingers because I never said that to a guy before.

Raif smiles and kisses me.  Crushing my Doc Martens between us, and we start to slide again.  My underwear is sticky and cold, and dirty and gross.  Raif didn’t say he loved me back, but that’s okay.  Of course he loves me, or we wouldn’t be here.

“I have to pee,” I say, giggling.  

Kayla

Kayla first appeared in OGW Oct.1.  She has also appeared as Rain’s best friend in OGW, Nov.12, and Dec.10. Both girls are friends with Nancy's daughter, Casey (OGW, Nov.5).  The setting is Saturday afternoon, before the three girls will go to a party on Saturday night, their first party with boys, alcohol, no parents and... I'll keep after this thread until their story together becomes clear.  I know where it’s going now, and you’ll want to keep up with these three girls.

Kayla:  Waiting, waiting, waiting!  I’m always waiting for something, like for instance, I remember waiting for my breasts to grow big like my mothers -- which aren’t huge, they’re only size C’s, but I only had size A pimples on my chest for it seemed like forever. I wouldn’t have even thought of falling in love with or even liking a guy like Brian Kepler until my breasts grew… only I did like him so thank God my breasts blossomed this summer.  So now is the time for us to fall in love, but it hasn’t happened yet.  Which is why here I am, waiting again, right now waiting across the street from Brian’s house for him to come home.

     I spin a pedal.  Yes, that’s right, I’m so lame I still have to ride a bike.  I have my learner’s permit, and I’m not stupid -- I know how to drive, okay?  But no, I don’t have a car, and no, my mother wouldn’t let me drive hers if I were twenty-one or forty-five or a hundred, so she’s certainly never going to let me drive her car when I’m still sixteen.  Just wait though, next year my Dad will let me drive his car anytime, just wait.

     OMG, waiting again!  Why oh why do I always have to wait for everything?  If Brian ever asks me to kiss him, I won’t wait, that’s for sure.  But he hasn’t asked, so I’ll wait. 

     Sweat slides in a thin river down between my breasts.  I spin the pedal on my bike again, peering through the spokes of the back wheel at Brian’s house.  When he gets home, I’m hoping he’ll see my bike upside down and come over to see what’s wrong.  Maybe he’ll invite me inside for a Coke.  Then he’ll admit he has loved me since last year when we had gym class together, and he doesn’t care if he’s a senior and I’m only a sophomore because age is just a number.

     Oh shit, that’s his car!  I’m so startled to finally see him pull around the corner I fall back onto my butt.  Scrambling up to my feet, I find my legs have stiffened up from squatting next to my bike watching his house for the past whatever, half-hour?  I’m all knees and elbows and I feel like a scarecrow and wearing this tank top was so stupid, but it shows off my breasts and makes me look older I think maybe, except I also don’t think I’m really pulling it off with my stick legs barely holding me up.  I am not looking like a woman.  I’m not looking like the girl Brian will fall in love with, and shit crap damn!  There’s Amber and Caitlin.  They do look old enough.

     Amber and Caitlin giggle and follow Brian inside.  He doesn’t even see me!  And… now he’s gone.  I wait some more, in case he’ll come back, but of course he doesn’t.  But I’m going to his party tonight.  I’m going, and he’ll see me then.

     I hope he sees me then.

Jenna

11/25/09

Jenna:  Jenna is from the novel I’m writing, Spun.  Jenna is a recovering meth addict and poet.  Here she writes about being in love, of course, but also about being straight, and reconnecting with her mother.

     Me,

       I totally

       think love

       is like a heartful

       of pregnant dreams, a

       waiting room full of worries,

       hungry and hoping for something,

       like the red-faced baby who

       changes the trauma of

       laboring birth into

       a life full of

       believing.

Juliet

Juliet struggles to find her own voice, while caring for her bipolar mother.  Juliet began as a character in a novel, Let Her Cry, which is waiting for a rewrite, perhaps will be my next big project.

Juliet:  Last night I was writing a song.  It was about Michael, and it was going along fine, if a little corny.  I was singing and strumming my guitar, “You are the riches/You are the king/You are the future/Whatever that brings…”

     Slam!

     Then came pounding on the front door, and Dad trying not to yell, just to be heard – “Marnie, open up!  Marnie, please –“

     Dad’s river-wild, stage-strong movie voice was cut short by the door

     Slamming!

Open again, and then

     Slam!

Shut.

     My mother was crying in her show-voice, the one I think of as her desperately-crying-for-attention-and-love voice, this time melting into her for-the-audience-in-the-back-rows-too-darling voice.  Her combat boots pounded down the hall past my room and on into her own, where I heard her throwing, tearing, destroying.  And of course crying.  Gasping, sobbing, sucked-up screaming…

     My strum changed to minor chords, loud and abrupt and accompanied by “Shut up shut up shut up now!” angrily sung by me in my quietly-absorbing-everything-and-never-complaining voice.  My parents wouldn’t hear me.  I didn’t want them to.  I didn’t want to make things worse.

     But of course my mother couldn’t keep everything to herself, nope, she had to begin shoving photo after photo under my door, pictures she’d torn herself out of.  She knew how to make an entrance.  I wished I could be so talented, grabbing all the attention for myself -- and then Michael would love me, I thought as my mother scratched the outside of my door with her long fingernails. I dropped my guitar and my selfish thoughts, and ran to her, flinging open my bedroom door and allowing her to fall against me.  She was so tiny, and I was so gi-normous, her head tucked under my chin, and her drippy, sobbing, scrunchy-face pressed against my chest as if she were the child and I were the adult.

     “She shouldn’t – you shouldn’t –“ My father said from just behind her.

     “It’s okay, Mama.  I’ve got you now.”

     “They hated me!  I hate myself!  Everyone hates me!”

     “I don’t hate you Mama—“

     “Jules…” my father said, then sighed and backed away, disappearing back down the hall and into the living room.

     He turned on the stereo, and now it was as if Mama and I had a soundtrack.  Our lives were a play or a movie, and maybe this wasn’t how normal kids lived, but at least in this movie, I was a star.  Not like my mother, but a leading role at least.  A pivotal part.

     “Let her cry… if the tears fall down like rain/ Let her sing… if it eases all her pain/ Let her go…”

     Oh no!  Not Hootie!  I stepped back into my room as my mother ran down the hall to go and kill my father.

     “And if the sun comes up tomorrow/ Let her be…”

     “Oww for fuck’s sake Marcie, you—“

     I closed my door, realizing sadly that I might have to settle for a supporting role after all.