Inside Madeleine (14 page)

She called Jennifer every day after school. When they spoke, Jennifer spoke of all the boys she knew, who was going out with whom, which girls did what with which boys, and Madeleine listened hungrily, curled up in the back of her parent’s closet so nobody could hear her, the phone held tensely on her lap, surrounded by her mother’s shoes.

Yeah, Marion is a slut. Last year she fucked half of the senior class at the high school. She thinks no one remembers because they’ve all graduated. But a slut’s a slut, said Jennifer.

Yeah, and I can’t believe she fucked that guy in his car, said Maddy.

What do mean you can’t believe it?

I just can’t believe it. How gross. Where were they?

I just said for the millionth time, they were in his car.

I mean, where was the car. Were they parked?

No, dumbshit, they were driving around while they fucked. What’s your problem? Of course they were parked. You can’t fuck someone when you’re driving around. You’re such a virgin.

Fuck you, I am not.

Yes you are. A fat virgin.

Fuck you.

Fuck you
, Jennifer mimicked.

I am not a virgin.

Okay then. Who have you fucked?

I fucked Tim Spencer last year, lied Madeleine.

The previous year, while playing five minutes in the closet, Tim, a nervous, skinny boy with protruding front teeth that obviously bothered him, had groped at her breasts and put a twitching hand between her legs on the outside of her jeans.

No way. Tim Spencer couldn’t fuck no one if he tried. No way in hell. That nerd doesn’t have a dick.

Fuck you. You’re a bitch.

I gotta go.

Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Bye.

After they talked, Madeleine would sit in the closet for a while, her heart beating fast, her lips moist, her mouth full of saliva. She’d stay there until her mother would come to the closet door, yelling, asking her what on earth she was doing, and Madeleine caring little about her mother’s frustration, stumbled
out and into her own room and planned out what she would wear the next day. She fingered her clothes, spreading pants and sweaters out on the bed; she’d look at an outfit and change her mind, deciding on another sweater. Meanwhile, images of Marion fucking someone in a car raced through her head. And as she lay in bed, curled up in a big, cozy ball, with a warm hand between her thighs, she thought of Jennifer; of the way Jennifer held her body tight and erect, with her shoulders slumped slightly and self-consciously, of the way Jennifer walked down the halls, her bowed, short legs gliding quickly, her feet hitting the shiny, hard tiles and clicking solidly.

Now at lunch time, Madeleine without question joined Jennifer at a table in the back of the cafeteria. It was known as the freak table. The table differed from the other tables in that it never lined up in quite the same direction as the rest, rather it pointed in a strange angle, and the lunch trays were extraordinary in their sloppiness. Food was left uneaten and graying, feet were propped up on the table despite this being against the rules. Bags of pot and switchblades and dirty magazines were passed from one dirty fingernailed hand to another. Everyone who sat there owned a blue jean jacket, preferably an old beat up one, and all of the boys wore their blue jean jackets year round—even in the worst months of winter. After they finished poking at their lunch, the crowd gathered around by a side entrance of the school and smoked joints and cigarettes. Conversation and eye contact were spare—lots of gravel was kicked. Madeleine never spoke at all, but
by the time she entered her next class, she felt powerful and dangerous. She was aware of her growing reputation.

Madeleine’s parents began noticing the change in her, which her father tried to ignore and her mother occasionally yelled and cried over. Madeleine became unrecognizable to her family, her hair burnt and twisted from the curling iron, her face orange with cheap make-up, leaving a trail of Coty musk perfume behind her as she awkwardly roamed the malls, fast food restaurants and skating rinks of South Bend, two steps behind Jennifer wherever they were. They shopped together at the discount stores, buying the same outfits in different shades—Jennifer’s in purple, Madeleine’s in pink. They took Polaroids of each other and had people photograph them together when they were at the mall, leaning against each other in their matching outfits, their arms folded against their chests, one foot crossed arrogantly over the other.

The two girls usually spent the weekends at Jennifer’s house, side by side in the bathroom, applying and reapplying eye shadows. On Friday nights, they skated at Howard’s Park ice rink. The two rink guards who worked there, Scott and Oz, were in their last years of high school after having repeated a few years. They drove loud cars that had red stripes painted on the sides and they spoke with deep weathered voices. Jennifer talked with Scott and Madeleine talked with Oz by default, he being the less attractive one. Madeleine followed Oz around the rink just enough to annoy him rather than amuse him, laughing at inappropriate moments, staring at him, slack-jawed. She was somewhat aware
of her effect on him and she continued to pursue him with the belief that next time, she’d say the right thing. And on occasions, Oz would look upon her with some sign of interest, or something that appeared to be interest, and Madeleine would get dizzy and skate away, covering her broad, uncontrollable smile with large, mittened hands. Every hour on the hour the Zamboni would smooth the ice and the two girls would convene in the bathroom, their tarted-up faces red from the cold, and comb their hair with combs they kept in their back pockets.

I think he likes me, said Madeleine.

I think he likes me
, mimicked Jennifer, her voice high and nasal.

Stop it, you bitch. I think he does.

Jennifer continued primping in the mirror, tucking her tight, fluffy acrylic sweater into her jeans and then she slapped Madeleine on the shoulder.

I think he does
, Jennifer squawked.

Madeleine ignored her taunting for a moment and assuredly stated: I’m going to lie to him and tell him I’m fifteen.

I’m gonna lie to him and tell him I’m fifteen
.

Stop it!

Stop it!

Madeleine didn’t tell Oz she was fifteen that night, but she skated around slowly, her hands deep in the pockets of her turquoise ski jacket, planning the perfect way of telling him, how she would toss her hair, how he would smile at her. That night, like most Friday nights Madeleine and Jennifer slept together
on Jennifer’s narrow mattress, their skin damp and swollen with sleep, their bodies tired from skating. Madeleine had trouble sleeping. She lay quietly next to her friend, imitating the way her breath came and left, the way her stomach rose and fell, aware of herself and Jennifer’s body next to her. She woke up that Saturday morning and her arms and legs ached and she was quieter than usual as she and Jennifer ate their cereal together.

The next weekend they went skating again and Madeleine wore a brand new pink velour V-neck sweater that made her self-conscious of her large breasts. It was tight and shiny and her cleavage was prominently displayed. Before they left Jennifer’s house, Madeleine stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom and practiced saying, I’m fifteen, and, I bet you didn’t know I was fifteen, and she put her hands on her hips and then on her thighs, tilting her hips this way or that, and she smiled at her reflection with her head turned downward, looking up at herself coyly. She sprayed an extra squirt of Coty musk perfume on her neck, telling herself that it was for good luck. It was a particularly cold November evening and she skated up to Oz soon after they got there.

Hey Oz, she said, reaching out awkwardly to grab the sleeve of his leather jacket.

What?

I’m fifteen.

No you’re not.

Oh yes I am. I swear it.

Then how come I’ve never seen you at the high school. Huh?

I don’t know, Madeleine said, looking down at her skates and touching her toes together, the blades scraping against each other.

You’re not from this part of town, are you, he said, looking straight at her and it unsettled her but she was flattered. He had never spoken so many words to her before.

I
am
fifteen.

He laughed, saying, Well, you’re tall enough. He wet his lips and appeared as if he had decided on something.

I am. I was born in 1965. That makes me fifteen.

Well, if you say so sweetie. That still makes you a lot younger than me, almost five years younger. Now what do you think of that?

I think that’s just fine.

Madeleine smiled broadly, unable to refrain from doing so and she lifted her colorful, wool knit mittens to her face.

You think that’s just fine!

He laughed, throwing his head back, his mouth open wide, revealing more fillings than she’d ever seen.

Well my little fifteen-year-old girl, it looks like it’s time to get off the rink. It looks like it’s time for the Zamboni to clean off the ice, he said and then paused a beat, and looking away from her, added: Why don’t you come with me. He skated around in a small circle and she couldn’t catch his eye.

Come with you? Where to? Maddy asked. She put her toes together and then slid her heals together, toes then heals, without looking at her skates.

To the rink guard’s station, where else? Where did you think I meant?

Oz brushed his hair away with black, dirty leather gloves and revealed a small forehead and tired, gray eyes and for a moment she was alarmed.

I don’t know. How was I supposed to know.

Her cheeks felt puffy, like baby’s cheeks, and her face was hot with blood that had rushed to it.

Let’s go.

He skated over to the rink guard’s station, with its
PRIVATE
sign on the door.

Fifteen-year-old girls aren’t as shy as you, he said. Then he snickered, quiet and light, and she looked at his teeth. They were tobacco-stained and too small for his head. Her ankles wobbled as she followed him.

I’m coming.

He held on to the sleeve of her ski jacket, coaxing her firmly yet softly into the room, and it occurred to Madeleine that no one had ever been that gentle with her before. A fluorescent light hung from the ceiling, giving everything a hard, green appearance. There was a bench and a desk with a chair, a girlie calendar on the wall, and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Oz lit a joint, sat on the bench, and pulled her next to him. He grinned, the light making his face veiny and green. She smoked, aware of his hockey skates, and she noticed that his feet were actually larger than hers.

You have big feet, she said.

You’ve got big eyes, he said, laughing quietly, nicely and added, They’re pretty. I like them.

He grinned and his grin seemed permanent, endless, and she tried not to stare at his teeth.

Come here, he said, I want to touch you. That’s a girl.

She scooted closer to him, their bodies were touching and his arm was heavy around her shoulder. His arm felt protective and affectionate, and she liked it, but the inside of her mouth was swollen and dry, making her uncomfortable. He leaned into her face, kissing her ear and she sensed a tension in his body.

Relax, he whispered hoarsely, but his body was far from relaxed, it was tight and rigid and he kissed her ear again and Madeleine’s heart slammed against her breasts as she looked down shamefully on the whiteness of her swelling cleavage. Oz ran his hands over her neck and his fingers were slightly damp and cold. Oh baby, he murmured, biting his lip, just relax, that’s it, I won’t hurt you.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her muscles twitched under her skin; she felt each one jerk, her shoulder, her stomach, her thigh. Oz reached toward the zipper of her jeans and she opened her eyes and put her hand out halfheartedly to stop him and he gently put her hand away. He undid her jeans and quickly slipped a clammy hand into her underwear, saying, that’s it. You like this don’t you?

Madeleine tilted her hips upward, letting her thighs spread to accommodate his hand. A warmth ran through her body and suddenly the light hurt her eyes so she shut them again.

You’re wet, baby. God you’re wet, he said, grinning, and she opened her eyes and looked straight into his mouth, straight at his teeth. Then his hand was in front of her face, glistening and mossy smelling. Look at how wet you are, he said and touched her lips with his damp hand. He put his fingers back inside of her and she felt them hard this time, scraping against her soft, swollen flesh.

Ouch, that hurts, she said and Oz grinned, removing his fingers.

I want to fuck you. Okay?

He stood, pulling down his tight pants. He put out his hand and she reached up and held on to it, careful to look at his face, at his tired eyes, and he pulled her up off the bench. Then he pulled down her jeans and underwear and she twisted and squirmed to help him along. He pulled them down around her ankles, like his were, and he sat down, pulling her on his lap, with her back facing him, his long fingers gripping her already broad hip bones, sliding himself into her.

That feels good doesn’t it, he said, you are a big girl aren’t you, a big, big girl.

He moved her then with his strong, gripping hands, back and forth, then up and down, then back and forth again.

You’re as big as a woman, big there where I’m in you, big as a woman who’s had three kids, he said laughing and though she couldn’t see him, she knew his head was thrown back and she saw his fillings and his awful brown teeth. Madeleine smelled herself in the room, the whole room smelled of
her, and she wondered why it didn’t hurt like it was supposed to, like it had when his fingers were inside of her, like Jennifer said it had, and she thought about how she’d tell Jennifer all about it at night, laying next to her on the thin mattress.

After a few moments, Oz gripped her hard and groaned a little. Then, with one hand on her head, he moved her off of his lap. They pulled up their pants in silence and she looked at him; he seemed anxious. Shit, he muttered, I gotta get out there.