Big Girl Small (14 page)

“So what are you?” he asked, gesturing to my dress. I had left my jacket open, in case he hadn’t noticed yet how cute I looked.

“A dwarf,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re pulling it off,” he said.

Then we sat there until I thought I’d die of either awkwardness or hypothermia.

“So, uh, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I asked.

He shrugged, like he didn’t know. “You?”

“I guess I’ll spend as much time as I can with my little brother, Sam. I guess I’ve kinda been ignoring him because I’m too busy with voice rehearsals and schoolwork and piano lessons and stuff.” I said this not only because I couldn’t shut up, but also because I wanted to remind Kyle that I was in senior voice, and that I was brilliant in school. That way how could he resist me? Kyle looked at me for a weirdly long time.

“How old is he?” he finally asked.

Other people began to invade our cold and dusty table.

“Hey, man! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Chris shouted at Kyle. When Kyle didn’t really respond, Chris and Alan started doing shots of Jägermeister from a bottle they’d carried out. Alan was bragging about how he was going to L.A. over Christmas break with his dad, and maybe he’d “take some meetings” while he was there. His plan, which I knew because everyone talked about it constantly, was to go to Stanford, major in film, and grow up to be an oily Hollywood producer. I had heard a rumor that Alan’s dad, who I guess was a big-shot rich guy of some sort, had lined up summer internships for both Alan and Chris at production companies in L.A. This would be a big promotion for Alan, who I knew, from seeing him and his blond leg hair all summer, had been a lowly lifeguard at Fuller Pool. I went there every day with my friend Meghan from California. Alan was always either reading or pretending to read what he called the “trades,”
Variety
and
The Hollywood Reporter
, and he and Chris, who was apparently going to go to UCLA and then be a famous stand-up comedian, were both also writing screenplays in their spare time. I had heard Chris talking before SV about how he couldn’t talk about his, the idea being that it was so great and high-concept that someone might steal it and get the movie made before he could graduate from high school and take over Hollywood while at his unpaid internship. I had overheard enough self-loving snippets to know that Alan’s screenplay was about a Stanford swimmer who is so irresistible and fabulous that some hot girl stalks him and tries to kill him. I guess no one told him that there’s already a very stupid movie about exactly that. I don’t know what Chris’s screenplay was about, because it was such a state secret—probably a gorgeous guy with huge muscles, short dark hair, and bruised-looking eyes who gets stalked by a desperate supermodel. I mean, come on.

“He’s almost twelve,” I said to Kyle about Sam, even though it was too late.

But he was still waiting to hear, his face calm and still like a lake at night. I thought how smooth Kyle was, and I don’t mean smooth in the terrible way. I mean like you could have skipped a stone across the surface of him.

“Twelve, huh?” he said, the corners of his mouth rising in a smile. “What’s he like?”

Kyle Malanack seemed so not like a fake person. I mean, he’s the kind of guy who asks what your little brother is like. And when he asks, you’re certain it’s because he’s curious. And he deserves real props for both things—I mean, for being curious and for asking. Most people aren’t curious about each other, unless there’s something sickening or hideous to be curious about. And most people talk about themselves endlessly without asking questions. Or when they ask questions, it’s like totally perfunctory and they don’t really listen to the answer. Kyle Malanack is the type of boy, and I mean, he’s a high school boy, who asks “What’s he like” about your little brother, Sam, and when you say, “He wants to be either president or a rap artist,” laughs with his head thrown back and you can see all his teeth and you can tell he sees how much you love your brother and that if Sam were his brother, he would love him too. And that’s why you believe, even after it turns out to be false, that Kyle Malanack loves you.

Then he asked, “Is he a little person like you?”

I felt my breathing get faster, my heart pop a little in its cage. I really didn’t like the question. But why? I mean, wasn’t he just saying what we’d both been thinking anyway, that if we got married and had kids, they might be dwarfs like me?

And how did he know to use the words
little person like you
? Did he even know that LP was a phrase with capital letters? Or was it just how he thought of me, as a person who’s kind of little, rather than a dwarf or midget?

“Nope,” I said, “both my brothers are tall.”

“Your parents, too?” he asked.

“Everyone in my family except me.” I felt suddenly drunker than ever and realized my wineglass was empty. I wanted another glass.

“So it’s not genetic?”

He asked this in a kind way, the way you might ask someone about her job, or dog, or vacation. I shrugged unhappily. “It might be, I mean, you don’t have to have a genetic condition to pass it on to your kids.” I couldn’t help but feel like now he might not want to have kids with me.

He took a swig of beer, noticed I had no drink, offered me a sip of his. I took the beer, so excited that he’d offered me a sip that it overrode my hatred of the taste.

“Do you have siblings?” I asked.

He looked confused by my question, but only for a moment, and then he looked totally freaked out. I had no idea how this could have been an offensive question, but I was instantly sorry I had asked.

“I’m an only child,” he said. He took another gulp of beer, and something about the way he drank it made him seem like a little kid to me, like it was milk or something.

“So are you in town for Thanksgiving too?”

“Nah. I think I’m going with Alan to his grandparents’ in Grosse Pointe.” He said this as if he had just decided it, finished his beer, pulled another out from under the table.

I didn’t say, “What about your family, aren’t they in Ann Arbor?” I knew from Ginger and his Facebook page that Kyle had lived in Boston until this year, that he was new in the school. Past that, I knew nothing about him.

“Oh, cool,” I said.

“Yeah. Maybe me and Alan’ll catch a game or something.”

“You like football?”

“I like to watch it,” he said.

“Ann Arbor’s a good place for you, then. We have season tickets to the Wolverines—”

I almost got to “if you want to come sometime,” but before I made it there, from across the table where Chris and Alan had started a game of quarters, Chris threw a coin at Kyle, hard, but Kyle dodged it and then got up and put Chris in a headlock. Then they jumped off the deck and started rolling around in the yard. Alan shouted out to Tim Malone, “Dude, look at the lovebirds.” Everyone looked, of course, so Kyle and Chris let go of each other right away and came back up to the tables and resumed their conversations or drinking or whatever they were doing.

Teenage boys are hybrids of people and monkeys. This kind of interaction was a daily occurrence at school: the homoerotic banter followed by physical contact, followed by someone calling the whole thing what it was (love, desire for contact, although put in fouler terms, usually), and then an embarrassed retreat back to the solo corners of teenage boy– dom, the lone seat at the lunch table, or the classroom desk, or wherever. I sometimes think, especially now after the whole sex thing, that life would be easier for all of us if boys just had sex with each other. I mean, I guess lots of them do do that, but I mean the ones who don’t, the ones who think they’re so straight, so into girls. Because maybe sometimes it’s what they want. And if straight boys want to sleep with their friends once in a while, that would be fine, right? I mean, other than ruining their idea of themselves, it wouldn’t cost anyone else anything. Then they wouldn’t have to use girls, or sex with girls, as a way to bond with each other instead of bonding with the girls. Because I know I’m not the most experienced person in the world, but that’s what I think guys are doing sometimes. I don’t know why no one told me. No one ever talks about this stuff . And maybe it’s surprising to everyone and not just me, because the brochures and website for Darcy are all full of pictures of people dancing across stages, singing in brightly colored musicals, or studying on the neon green lawn, but there are a lot of sketchy things happening there, and I don’t just mean people fucking and then never talking to each other again—I mean, like, gang bangs.

And when I say “gang bang,” I mean any sex that involves one girl and more than one guy. Because even though I’m only almost seventeen now I know what that kind of sex means. I didn’t even know the term
gang bang
until I heard it in a song Chad was listening to, and when I asked him about it, he said, “Oh, that’s group sex.”

And I was like, “What is group sex?” because I was only thirteen when this happened.

And he was like, “More than two people having sex,” and I couldn’t even imagine what that meant, really, because my parents had read me that stupid body book for girls, and it had “sex” in it, but only the kind where you and your husband are in love and then you make a baby, by putting that in this, yadda-yadda. The body book for girls did not have gang bangs in it. And either Chad didn’t really know what he was talking about or he wanted to protect me from the truth, because gang bangs aren’t just a group of people having sex because everyone wants to. At Darcy,
gang bang
means boys and other boys having sex with a girl—and really, she’s just a fake thing, a conduit between the people who want to have sex with each other but can’t—Kyle and Chris, for example. Or Kyle and Alan. Or Alan and Chris. Maybe those are just the guys’ way of experimenting, or “practicing,” as we used to call it when I was twelve and thirteen, at Tappan, and we used to gather in Stacy Levinson-Monroe’s basement and French kiss each other and slide our nightgowns off our thin chests and “practice.” But we never used real guys in those experiments, just played a little bit with each other, seeing how it would feel, making sure we’d be “good at it” if the need ever arose. We never talked about those nights after they happened, not once. Or acted them out at parties. And we didn’t take it to mean we were gay, even though the kissing felt good. And I’m not saying that Kyle or any of his guy friends is gay, because I think they’re straight if what that means is that they’ll marry girls and have kids and live in the kinds of places where no one’s allowed to admit to being gay anyway, even if they are. I just mean I don’t get why they have to use girls instead of just admitting they’re sometimes in love with each other. Maybe it’s because they’re teenagers, or maybe guys are just chicken in general. But for whatever reason, the boys I know were too scared to use each other for their practice.

Ginger invited herself over the Monday after the party. I wondered if she had seen me on the porch with Kyle and that was why. Like maybe because he was interested in me, she suddenly found me interesting for real too. Because I had invited her over once before, but she’d said she had to be somewhere else and not said where and I’d assumed it was a lie and that she just didn’t want to come to my house. But then during lunch, she came over to where I was sitting with Goth Sarah and Molly and stood in front of us.

“Hey, Judy, I could come over this afternoon, if the invitation still stands,” she said. I was pretty surprised, but I tried to shrug and said, “Sure,” like it was nothing. I didn’t have a voice rehearsal that afternoon, because the freshmen were apparently not at all ready for their fall concert and were having extra rehearsals in the auditorium. And I could give up my practice room time for Ginger.

Molly didn’t care at all—but I could tell Goth Sarah didn’t like Ginger coming over to talk to us and also probably noticed that I was happy not to go to the practice rooms for Ginger, even though I never skipped that hour for Goth Sarah. Sarah kind of had a thing about some of the other girls at D’Arts, even though she was big on women uniting and taking over the world together instead of fighting with each other. I guess someone had started a rumor about her at Scarlett Middle School, that she had gotten crabs at Interlochen summer camp. Which is completely stupid—I mean, she was twelve. Maybe it was lice or something, and they blew it out of proportion. Everyone gets lice at camp. I know the one time my parents let me go to overnight camp for one traumatic week, I came home with bugs absolutely leaping off my head. Or maybe she didn’t even get lice that time; maybe it was nothing at all and those girls just made the whole thing up, I don’t know. But I guess everyone believed it and thought Sarah was dirty and gross. And Sarah still held a massive grudge, which I could kind of understand, even though it was clearly time to let it go. Ginger could also just make you feel bad about yourself, even though she didn’t mean to. Something about her reminded me of the Cheshire Cat, maybe her ability to materialize suddenly, looking somehow more than three-dimensional. Her ratty clothes felt like an insult to the rest of us, a statement about how easy it was for her to come to school in her pajamas and still look a thousand times more gorgeous than any of us (except Elizabeth Wood), no matter how much effort we put in.

I knew I should invite Goth Sarah and Molly to come over to my house that afternoon too, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t think Molly wanted to come or that Sarah would be able to be nice to Ginger, and I didn’t want the whole afternoon to be an awkward nightmare. And isn’t it okay to have more than one group of friends? So we said nothing about it for the rest of lunch, just rehashed the fun, mundane matters of our party: Tim Malone had flirted with Molly all night, and we were sure he was about to ask her out. Kelly Barksper had unbuttoned her shirt all the way down to her jeans and done a dance standing on the couch in front of a group of guys; Chad’s friend Santana humped everyone in sight like Sarah’s house was the dog park. Susie Schultz had made out with both Mike Conner and Ian Sarbell; Elizabeth Wood had passed out, but not before barfing all over Tyler Phillips and the jade plant in Sarah’s parents’ foyer. Another giant stain had appeared mysteriously on the living room rug, so Sarah and I had moved the couch over two feet to hide it. Maybe her parents would never notice, or we’d say Sarah got food poisoning from ordering pizza too many times while they were gone. It had taken nine hours to clean her house on Sunday, and Chad had come to pick up the kegs.