A Short Story

Cindy was starting to get breasts, there was no doubt about that. And it was about time. Most of her friends had started to develop in the sixth or seventh grade. Everyone in her gym class wore a bra. Actually, she did too, but she didn’t need one. The polyester triangles of fabric puckered pathetically under her cotton T-shirts. But now, the pink circle around her nipples was widening to the size of a quarter and protruding just enough to stretch the fabric of her training bra so it was tight and smooth across her chest.

As Cindy stood naked in front of the mirror, she said three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys, asking God to make her breasts full and round, like Jennifer Hamm’s. She also prayed that she would start her period before the school year ended in exactly one month. She was certain that she was the only girl in the eighth grade who hadn’t started yet. Not that she wasn’t prepared. For the last two years, she had carried a tampon wrapped in tin foil and tucked inside a box of pens to keep it hidden from the boys who routinely stole her purse in math class. Of course, Cindy wasn’t sure if she would even know how to use a tampon when the time came. She thought about carrying around the directions, but they wouldn’t fit in the pen box and anywhere else would have been too great a risk.

Cindy looked long and hard at herself in the mirror—at her square hips, flat butt, and round, pot-bellied stomach. She didn’t look a thing like the girls in Seventeen magazine or the copies of Playboy her friend’s father kept in his garage. And even if she had a nice body, her hair was enough to scare anyone away. In an attempt to look like Jennifer Hamm, who had long, blond hair with soft, loose curls cascading down her back, Cindy got a perm. It turned out that her hair was too short and the perm was too tight, so she looked like a brunette Orphan Annie. Braces filled her big mouth. Cindy tried smiling with her mouth closed, but the braces just made her lips stick out funny.

She turned to the side and looked at her profile. She sucked in her stomach as far as it would go. She said the Apostle’s Creed and asked God to make her stomach flat. When she finished, she looked at the clock. She had only five minutes before she needed to meet Robin to go to the pool. She quickly slipped on her swimsuit and looked at herself one last time in the mirror. The suit did little to hide her inadequacies. She thought for a moment of not going—of calling Robin and making up some excuse. But she knew Robin would know the real reason and tell Cindy she was being stupid. Of course, it was easier for Robin; she had her period and small, perky boobs.

—-

Cindy rode her bike to the corner where Robin was waiting for her, wearing her bathing suit and flip-flops, with a towel draped over her neck, just like Cindy. They pedaled fast to the neighborhood swimming pool. It was the end of May but already hot and humid, as it was most days in southeast Texas. They rode fast past the big houses with their broad green lawns and heard the splash and calls of swimming children in the backyards. The trees that lined the street sagged under the burden of Spanish moss that hung from their branches and cut the yellow afternoon light like fingers.

Cindy stood in the pedals and pumped her legs harder. She loved the feel of the wind in her hair. She loved the whirring sound of the tires on asphalt. She loved the dryness that crept into the back of her throat and the sweat on the back of her neck under her hair. She sat back in the seat and leaned forward, pedaling faster after Robin, who led the way.

At the pool, Cindy and Robin staked out a spot on the grass far from the water’s edge and laid on their backs in the sun. After about twenty minutes, Randy Olson, Pete Waters, and John Meeks—the most popular boys in the eighth grade—walked into the gate and ran to the high-dive. Cindy couldn’t believe it. There were no popular girls there. In fact, there were no eighth-grade girls at all, except for Misty Marsh, who was a total dork and there was no way they were going to pay any attention to her. Cindy thought now was her chance for them to notice her. Randy was in her history class, so he knew who she was, but he never talked to her. Sometimes she wondered if she was invisible.

Cindy turned to Robin. They covered their mouths and giggled.

“Let’s go off the high dive!” Cindy jumped up off the grass.

“Are you kidding?” Robin grabbed Cindy’s ankle. “They’re going to know we’re going over there to see them. And besides, do you really want them to see you in a bathing suit?”

Cindy looked down at herself and saw her pathetic little girl breasts and her round stomach and wondered what she was thinking. She wished she had brought her T-shirt, then she could have put that on over her swimsuit. She grabbed her towel and tied it around her waist, and then sat back on the grass with Robin and watched as the boys did cannonballs and jack-knifes off the high-dive. Cindy imagined having a beautiful body and no braces and wearing a bikini. She imagined walking by and hearing them say, “Is that Cindy Singer? Wow!”

After watching the boys for a half-hour, Robin suggested they leave. “Your legs aren’t going to tan with that towel wrapped around your waist anyway. Let’s go to the Stop-n-Go and get some Jolly Ranchers.” They put on their flip-flops and stood up, brushing off the backs of their calves that were thatched with the imprint of the grass.

As they walked towards the exit, they noticed Randy, Pete, and John following behind them—not directly behind them, but close enough. Cindy’s heartbeat quickened. She wondered if they were coming to talk to them. She licked her lips so they would be shiny and pulled the curls of her bangs individually to try to straighten them. She prepared to turn around and smile. All of a sudden, the boys burst into a cackling laughter. She wondered if she should turn around. Were they laughing at her? Maybe they were just trying to get her attention. She looked over her shoulder casually. They were looking at her, so she smiled.

“Hey, Singer,” Randy said, still laughing and pointing at her, “you’re not supposed to go swimming when you’re on the rag.” Cindy laughed with them, not sure what they were talking about. Just then, Robin grabbed Cindy by the arm and pulled her into the bathroom next to the exit.

“Oh-my-god, Cindy!” Robin’s look was horrified. “You started!”

“What?” Cindy laughed nervously, trying to make sense of all that had happened–and was happening still–too fast–like someone had pressed the fast-forward button.

Robin pulled the towel from around Cindy’s waist and there, on the back of it, right in the middle where Randy, Pete, and John could plainly see, was a spot of blood the size of a margarine cup. Cindy couldn’t say anything. She just stared at the perfectly round blood stain and burst into tears. All of her planning, all of her preparation, all those years of carrying a tampon in a box of pens, and this had to happen. She couldn’t believe it. She wanted to die. “Get in there,” Robin spun Cindy around and shoved her toward a stall. “Go in there and take off your suit.”

Cindy collapsed onto the toilet and began sobbing, deep and full. “I can’t believe they saw. I can’t believe they saw,” she said over and over again. She buried her head in her hands, hoping it could hide her, make her disappear.

“Just give me the suit.”

Cindy handed the suit under the stall door to Robin. As Robin ran the suit and towel under the faucet, scrubbing them together to get out the blood as she had done to her own clothes a number of times, Cindy sat shivering on the toilet, replaying the events in her head. She thought of going to school on Monday; everyone would be talking about it. Her sobbing grew even more violent.

“Here,” Robin handed the suit and soaking towel back under the door and then dropped a quarter in the sanitary napkin dispenser. Robin handed her a pad. “Put this in your bathing suit and tie the towel around your waist.”

Cindy did as she was told, unquestioning. The pad was stiff and bulky. It rubbed her inner thighs. She emerged from the stall, her face blotchy from crying. Robin stood outside the stall door, smiling, “Well, at least you started your period!”

Cindy laughed and started to cry again at the same time. She slapped Robin on the arm. “Shut up!”

“Let’s get out of here. You can come to my house. It’s closer. And you can borrow some of my clothes to go home.” Robin turned to walk out of the bathroom.

“Robin!” Cindy grabbed her arm. “They could still be out there!”

Robin peaked her head around the corner of the bathroom door. “They’re here, but they’re at the high-dive. They won’t see you.”

They rushed out the gate, looking over their shoulders to make sure the boys weren’t watching, and unlocked their bikes chained like prisoners to the rack. Cindy swung her leg over the narrow seat and sat down. The bulk of the pad and the wet towel were uncomfortable. They pedaled slowly to Robin’s house, stopping every few blocks so Cindy could adjust the towel or, more discreetly, the pad, which was causing small welts on the inside of her thighs. As they made their way slowly to the house, Cindy remembered the ride to the pool just a few short hours before. When the wind made her throat dry. When the sweat ran down the back of her neck. When she could pedal as fast as she wanted.

I’m a little reluctant to post this, but here we go. This is a short story I wrote a dozen or so years ago as part of a fiction writing class. Since then, about once a year I return to it and make small revisions and tell myself that someday I’m going to turn it into a novel. I went to look for it the other day when I wrote the blog post that mentioned the play Our Town–because I also mention it in this story. Anyway, here it is. I should warn you, it’s long. And it’s flawed in many ways. But there are still elements that I like and, well, frankly, I just couldn’t bring myself to write something original tonight. If this is not your cup of tea, not to worry. I’ll get back to writing about the minutiae of my day-to-day life soon. Oh, and merry Christmas or happy Hanukkah or happy holidays or whatever it is you might celebrate this time of year!

—-

HOLDING JULIE

I am watching a young girl on a horse. Or, rather, a young woman. She’s eighteen years old. Her hair is short, too short for her round face. And dark. She is sitting on the horse’s back. Very still. It is night. Late. Or early. It’s hard to tell. It is the time of night when everyone is asleep. The world seems empty, except for her. She can feel the warmth of the horse against the inside of her thighs. I’m not sure what she’s wearing. Perhaps jeans. Perhaps an old t-shirt and boxer shorts–the clothes she sleeps in. Yes. She is wearing thin boxers. The spine of the horse presses against her pubic bone. Typically it would be uncomfortable. But not tonight. Tonight it feels reassuring and strong.

I watch this young woman kick the horse gently to move forward. She gives a slight click-click of her tongue. She’s timid. Not typically. But tonight, on this horse, in the middle of the night, she is cautious, wary. Not afraid. But Careful.

The horse moves quietly forward, his neck rocking with each step. He too is wary. He is uncertain. Except for the light of a half moon, it is dark. The darkness warrants caution.

The meadow is hushed as if in anticipation. The pulsing hum of the crickets seems softer. The shrill buzz of mosquitoes is muffled by the humid southern air. The fireflies keep their distance in the dense forest that encircles the meadow. The horse takes all of this in. He breathes evenly. He smells the damp air and the damp earth and this strange girl on his back. He breathes in all of this life around him and walks cautiously forward. The dull thud of each hoof like a heart beat.

I’m wondering why the girl is here. I’m watching her silent figure move with the rhythm of the horse and wondering what brought her to this moment.

***

It is earlier in the day and Julie Sattler has had enough of her parents. She has been in the car with them for God knows how long, making the uneventful drive from New Mexico to Tennessee. As if it isn’t lame enough that she has had to endure the boring landscape of the southern plains, but Julie’s dad has refused to stop somewhere and pay the measly sixty bucks for a room at a Days Inn, so she’s been in the car for-fucking-ever.

Not to mention the inane conversations her parents were having–about directions and gas mileage and–the constant source of contention on any Sattler road trip–speeding. In Arkansas, after Mr. Sattler receives his second speeding ticket of the trip, Julie’s mom decides to recount every ticket in Mr. Sattler’s rich driving history. “…And remember that time in Florida?”

“Oh, that cop was full of shit.”

Mrs. Sattler cuts him a look. From the back seat, Julie can’t tell if it is disdainful or playful.

“What?!” Mr. Sattler takes his eyes off the road for a moment and meets his wife’s sideways glance.

“You say that about everyone who has ever told you you’re wrong.”

“Bullshit.” He waves a dismissive hand in her direction.

“Exactly my point.” Mrs. Sattler folds her hands in her lap and levels her eyes at the ribbon of asphalt stretched out before them.

At this, Julie puts on her headphones, looks out the window, and mentally removes herself from the car. When her parents try to talk to her, they are met with an indifferent look that tells them they can’t be heard above the blaring of her music. This goes on for a few hours, until her father reaches to the back seat and taps her on the shoulder–breaking her dull stare out the window at the endless miles of fence posts and weary farmland. Julie lets out an exasperated sigh and lifts the right headphone off her ear.

“Your mother was talking to you,” her father says without removing his eyes from the road.

“What?” The tinny music from her headphones fills the car.

Her dad catches her eye in the rearview mirror. “Why don’t you take those headphones off for five minutes and find out?” His voice is even, but his eyes tell her not to challenge him. His eyes tell her that she will walk the rest of the way if she doesn’t drop the attitude and show a little respect. She knows he means it. Once, when the family was driving home to Albuquerque from Julie’s grandparents’ house in Santa Fe, they passed a carnival in a mini-mall parking lot. Julie, who was five years old at the time, saw the swirling lights that reminded her of Christmas and begged her parents to stop. Her father said no. She threw a tantrum of immense proportions–literally kicking and screaming with all of her might, with all of her already stubborn will, determined to get her way. Her father said fine, she could go to the carnival. He stopped the car, let her out onto the shoulder of the road, and drove away. She probably only stood there for a couple minutes, but in her memory, it was forever. She watched in panicked disbelief as the car holding everything she knew in the world moved slowly in to the oncoming traffic and drove away. She didn’t cry. She just watched. Horrified. It wasn’t until the car returned after circling the block that she began crying–more out of anger at having been tricked than out of relief.

She climbed into the car, still hiccuping for breath. Her mom handed her a tissue. Her dad looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Did you learn your lesson, Sport?” he asked with the contradictory traces of triumph and shame in his voice.

Julie nodded, cognizant even at that age that she had suffered her first defeat.

Julie remembers this as she sees her dad’s gray eyes in the rearview mirror, telling her to talk to her mother or else. She turns off her portable CD player and removes her headphones. “What?” she says again with as much sincerity as she can muster.

“Did you pack that sun dress I bought you at Dillard’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you how much I paid for that?”

“No.”

“Only seventy-five dollars. I couldn’t believe it. It was marked down from a hundred and twenty. It’s such a pretty dress and the color looks so good on you…”

For the rest of the trip, Julie listens patiently to her parents and responds tersely–although not impolitely–to their questions. Inside she can feel her heart freeze into a solid block. By the time they reach her sister’s place in Tennessee, she is ready to scream. Of course, so are Julie’s parents. But she doesn’t know that. All Julie knows is that her parents don’t understand a thing about her, and that is unforgivable.

But Julie isn’t thinking about this when they arrive at her sister’s house. She’s just glad to be the hell out of that hot, stuffy car. Although the August Tennessee heat isn’t much better. The air is thick and moist and the white-hot sun forces her to squint her eyes so hard her cheek muscles quiver. As soon as she steps out of the car, she feels the beads of sweat make a salty mustache above her lip. Her t-shirt clings to her back and she has to peel her shorts from the backs of her legs. But still, it’s good to be outside and to stretch and breathe air that hasn’t been filtered through some nasty car engine. And, of course, it’s good to see her sister, who is walking out of the house with two German Shepherds and a husband behind her.

“I thought you’d never make it,” Michelle says with a slight drawl unfamiliar to Julie’s ears.

“Neither did I,” Julie replies as she dramatically rolls her eyes so Michelle won’t miss the point.

Michelle looks at her tired family with their obviously frayed nerves, tosses her arms up as if in surrender, and says, “Well, let’s get out of this heat.”

The icy cool of the air conditioner makes the hairs on Julie’s arms stand at attention. She blinks away the brightness of the outside, trying to adjust to the darkness of the living room. I wonder what Julie sees as she looks around her sister’s small house. This is the first time she’s been here. Her sister had dropped out of college the year before to marry Dan, a guy she’d met while she was in Las Vegas for spring break with some girlfriends. He had won a trip there from the auto plant where he worked for having the fewest product defects or something like that. Julie doesn’t remember the details. She just remembers her parents going through the roof when they heard that he worked at an auto plant. “Probably some UAW son-of-a-bitch,” her dad had said. So there they were, Michelle and Dan, at a crap table or something just as sleazy, and who knows what happened. All they know is that Michelle came home all starry-eyed and ga-ga over some guy. Michelle and Dan wrote and called each other every day for about a month and then, out of the blue, Michelle announced that she was quitting school to go live with this stranger in Tennessee. Her parents thought she was nuts. Julie was in her room with the door shut the night Michelle told her parents she was leaving. The screaming was so loud, Julie didn’t even have to turn down her stereo to hear the threats of disinheritance and the “you’re-ruining-your-life” refrain echo through the stairwell.

But Michelle did it anyway. And here she is, a year later, living what seems to be a pretty decent life. And even Julie has to admit that Michelle looks better than she ever has. She’s lost the extra twenty pounds she put on in college and she has a healthy sunburned strip on each cheek. Her sleeveless denim shirt shows off her newly muscled arms and the tan line across the center of each bicep. The house is another story. It’s nice, but too sparse to be homey, with its 1950s green Formica kitchen table standing where the formal dining table should be, and a gold and brown monstrosity of a couch with a faded red stain (ketchup or blood, Julie wonders) on the cushion. A Lazy Boy from the early 80s–by far the newest addition to the house–sits alone in the corner like a disruptive child banished from the rest of the group. The walls are bare, except for a single watercolor painting of the meadow behind their house. There is an audible gasp when Michelle announces proudly that Dan painted it. So the UAW son-of-a-bitch is a painter. Who would’ve guessed?

“Michelle, you’ve done a really nice job with the place!” her mom blurts out a little too enthusiastically.

Julie can tell that Michelle is wondering what she means by that. But rather than ask, she gives a humble shrug: “Yeah, well, you know. We try!” She tries to match her mom’s enthusiasm but doesn’t quite make it.

They all stand in an awkward silence, not so much trying to think of what to say as how to say it.

Julie’s dad jumps in first, “How about a beer, Dan?”

Dan looks startled. Perhaps he was distracted by the needling silence and didn’t expect a break so soon. Perhaps he is surprised that his father-in-law drinks beer. This is only the second time they’ve met, and there was no beer at the first meeting. It was the previous May, after Michelle had withdrawn all of her savings and flown to Tennessee to be with Dan. She had been there only a few weeks when she called her parents to ask if they would come to her wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Sattler responded with a measured “of course” that shocked the hell out of Julie and probably floored Michelle. So they flew to Tennessee at the end of May–leaving Julie behind to study for finals–and stood quietly by their daughter as she vowed to love, honor, and cherish the UAW son-of-a-bitch. Their graciousness, however, had its limits. Mr. Sattler didn’t give Michelle away. (She didn’t dare ask him, but he certainly didn’t volunteer.) And they didn’t give the newlyweds a gift.  But, still, they attended–which is more than Julie thought they would ever do.

I wonder what Dan thinks about the Sattler family. He doesn’t reveal much. Julie thinks his silence makes him mysterious. She thinks he chooses not to talk and carry on because he knows so much more than the rest of them. Perhaps. Or perhaps it means that he has nothing to say. I imagine that he would rather not be here–with the Sattler family. He would rather quietly remove himself and observe from the sidelines, like I’m doing. But he can’t. He’s an integral part of the story. And being such, when Mr. Sattler asks him for a beer, Dan raises his eyebrows in surprise and then mumbles, “Yeah, sure,” and turns toward the kitchen with Julie’s dad following behind.

This cues Michelle to quickly offer her sister and mother something as well. Julie can tell that she is disappointed in herself for not thinking of it sooner. Michelle always furrows her brow and gives a half, twitching smile when she feels like she’s screwed up. Julie can’t help but feel sorry for her. Michelle ticks off the drink options like a waitress reciting the evening’s specials: “…orange juice, iced tea, Coke, water, milk, and…I guess that’s it.”

“An iced tea would be great,” her mom says.

“Yeah, me, too,” Julie adds. A wave of sadness envelops her. She doesn’t want an iced tea. She doesn’t want to talk about how nicely her sister has decorated her house. She wishes they had never come.

Michelle tousles Julie’s short hair on her way to the kitchen: “Any boyfriends, Jules?”

Mrs. Sattler perks up. She has been snooping around Julie’s bedroom for the last six months for any hint of Julie’s life outside the house, for any hint of what she does late into the evenings. She knows it’s sneaky and distrustful, but she can’t help it. Julie’s silence, punishing them for God knows what, leaves her no other option. It’s not that Mrs. Sattler doesn’t ask questions. She does. Loads of them, all the time. How was school? What’s she been up to? How’s her friend Robin? And she’s not being accusatory either. She genuinely wants to know. But Julie only shrugs her shoulders and gives cursory grunts of response. Mrs. Sattler can’t help but be concerned. She never brings home any friends, much less boys. On the rare occasions when she is home, she just sits in her room with the door locked, playing that horrible grunge music, or whatever they call it, reading books Mrs. Sattler vaguely remembers studying in college, and writing in her diary.

Julie’s diary. What her mom would give to read that diary. Whenever she goes into Julie’s room on one of her fact-finding missions, she sees the bright fabric-covered book lying on her bed table, typically open, inviting her to take a peak. She never has. But she has looked at it from the doorway, too far away to read the small, slanted words rushing across the page. She has closed her eyes and willed the words to lift off the paper and float through her, revealing all the deep secrets her little girl, her baby feels she has to hide. Drugs? Deception? Sex? She hates to admit it, but it’s even crossed her mind that Julie could be a lesbian. It’s awful to think, she knows, but Julie doesn’t help matters, with her short hair and pierced naval and combat boots and baggy jeans. It’s such a shame, too. She’s a pretty girl with a nice figure, if only she would put a little effort into it. But things will change. Now Julie’s on her way to college. Everything changes in college. Maybe she’ll meet some nice boys who will bring her out of her shell. Or maybe not. After all, she is going to an art school. Who knows what it’s like there. There are no athletics, Mrs. Sattler knows that. There are no sororities or fraternities. Mrs. Sattler can’t imagine what they do for fun. She just hopes that Julie will take her nose out of her books and wipe that angry look off her face. She can’t stay mad at whatever it is forever. Or maybe she can. This is the thought that always makes Mrs. Sattler turn the light out in Julie’s room, leave the diary untouched beside her unmade bed, and walk away.

Julie is aware that her mom is dying to hear whether or not she has any boyfriends. She can feel the needy pull for information well up inside her mother and reach across the distance between them and summon the Truth out of her. Julie won’t give in. “Maybe, maybe not. Why do you care?”

“Fine. Don’t get so snippy.” Michelle’s upper lip curls and her nostrils flare a bit.

An instinctive, warning “girls” comes from their mother and immediately opens the silent space between them all once again. Michelle disappears into the kitchen just as Dan and Mr. Sattler return with their Coors Lights in hand. They stand, sipping their beers, rocking back on their heels, and looking at the floor.

A moment later, Michelle comes back from the kitchen with her fingers stretched around three cold glasses, their sweaty condensation dripping down her wrists, and distributes them carefully to Julie and Mrs. Sattler, who nods and smiles and says “thanks so much” in a way that makes Julie’s stomach turn.

They sip their drinks.

The air conditioner stops.

“Here,” Michelle pulls the four chairs out from around the kitchen table, “take a seat.”

Mr. and Mrs. Sattler lower themselves carefully into the chairs, making too much of a fuss about it, relieved to have something to do. Michelle and Dan also sit, completing the misshapen circle that Julie imagines would be the configuration of a group therapy session. Relieved that there is no chair for her, Julie walks over to the beat up Lazy Boy in the corner, picks up the copy of Field and Stream that sits on the end table, and begins reading. She sees her mom purse her lips and narrow her eyes. She can almost see the words that undoubtedly perch on the edge of Mrs. Sattler’s lips escape her mouth and fly across the room: How many times have I told you it’s rude to read when other people are having a conversation in the very same room? You need to learn some manners, Julie. You’re not a child anymore and this type of behavior is inexcusable. But Mrs. Sattler keeps the words caged behind her lips and instead takes another sip of her iced tea.  Julie raises the magazine in front of her face and smiles behind it.

Julie doesn’t really read the magazine, of course. Like she could give a shit about an article discussing the finer points of how to catch a cutthroat trout. But it keeps her out of the lame excuse for a conversation the rest of the family is having–about the local economy and the countryside and, Mr. Sattler’s favorite, the weather. Instead, Julie glances at pictures of men holding rifles like toddlers on their cocked hips and advertisements for camouflage vests. The pictures and words float in and out of her without ever finding a place in her mind to settle. Instead, she keeps thinking of Michelle’s question: “Any boyfriends, Jules?” and wishes she had told her yes.

***

The fact is, Julie does have a boyfriend. Or did. The fact is, she spent every spare moment she could get away from her freak parents with him. The fact is, he was the center of her life. Dru. It used to be that when Julie would think about him, her knees would go weak. Literally. Like in the movies. She would get a hollow nausea in her gut and her heart would feel like it was being sucked to the back of her spine.

They met at a poetry reading at a cafe across from the university seven months before. Neither of them were reading. They wouldn’t dare. They were so above that need for public approval. Anyway, it wasn’t like their eyes met across the smoky cafe and fireworks went off or any cheesy Hollywood thing like that. Their introduction was pretty boring, actually: a mutual friend who was there with Dru introduced them and they all shared a table. As they watched these people nervous as cats sweating through some god-awful poem about their last love affair or coming out to their parents, Dru rolled his eyes and looked at Julie, “Give me a fucking break. What a load of shit.” Julie laughed and at that instant fell in love. She knew it immediately. She could no longer meet his gaze without a sudden flash of self-consciousness sweeping over her. She found herself leaning back in her chair and arching her back in a way that made her small breasts look larger beneath her white t-shirt. She smiled more.

From then on, Julie’s sole purpose in life was to see Dru, to love Dru, to make Dru see and love her. She would show up at places she thought he might go. Every time she would step out of her house–to get the paper, to go to the mall, to see if the mail had come–she would imagine him behind her, watching her. Sometimes she would be so convinced by her fantasy that she could feel the weight of his eyes on the back of her head as heavy as sin, only to turn around and find an empty space amid a dozen non-Dru faces. Dru, of course, had no interest in her. He had quickly forgotten her as soon as they met and hadn’t given her another thought until he bumped into her at a bookstore. Of course Julie was prepared for him. Her entire existence the previous month had centered around this very moment. She would not let it go to waste.

She approached him. “It’s Dru, right?”

“Yeah.” Dru answered before he looked up distractedly from his book and gave her a blank look.

“I’m Julie. Joe’s friend.”

“Oh, right. The high school girl.” He turned back to his book.

Julie couldn’t tell if he was being dismissive or sarcastic. It didn’t matter, she loved this part. “Right. And you’re the asshole college guy.”

This got his attention. He closed the book, not even taking the time to mark his place with his thumb (Julie noticed this) and turned to face her full front. He smiled. “What was your name again?”

“Julie Sattler.”

I’m not sure if Julie is aware that she has this attraction to boys who care nothing for her. I’m not sure if she knows that she gets a rush of adrenaline watching them ignore her and then shocking them into noticing her. It seems that she must. She’s self-aware, but she’s also young. Youth has a way of skewing perception.

This wasn’t the beginning of their relationship, by any means. But Julie felt that it was the beginning of their Connection. It took three more chance meetings over the following month (Julie knew now to look for him at the bookstore) before she decided to ask him out. Julie was masterful at asking guys out. She could do it in a way that made them totally unaware of what was happening to them. “Me and a group of friends are going to see a band play at Julio’s on Thursday, you should come.” That was the typical line, or something like it. She wouldn’t force an answer. She would simply show up at the bar by herself (she didn’t have many friends to speak of, and of the ones she had, none of them were skillful enough to sneak out of the house, roll the car in neutral down the street, wait two blocks, jump in, and start it) and wait. It didn’t always work. A few times the guy didn’t show up, but she usually met someone else to keep her entertained for a few hours. But with Dru it did work. Julie felt her throat immediately go dry when he walked through the door. She took a quick sip off her Jack and Coke, lit a cigarette, and looked away. She pretended not to notice when he stood at the edge of her booth.

“Hey, where are all your friends?”

Julie turned, curled up her bottom lip and blew smoke from the corner, and smiled. Ironically smiled, she thinks. “Oh, shit, who knows. They probably didn’t have the guts to get away from their parents on a week night. You know how lame high school kids can be.” Another ironic smile.

Dru looked uncomfortable. He knew he’d been tricked.

“So are you going to sit down and have a drink or are you afraid to be seen with me here by yourself?”

This artificial challenge was not lost on Dru. But he couldn’t help but be charmed by it. No guy can really resist the flattery of an over-eager girl anyway. Besides, it was a good band and she wasn’t bad looking. Actually, now that he really looked at her, she was pretty cute. Her hair was too short, but she had a nice face–kind of friendly and open. Her nose was kind of small and pug-like, but her eyes and lips were nice. Brown eyes. Dru liked that. There’s something predictable about brown eyes. Honest. And she had a nice smile. And, let’s face it, she had a pretty nice body. Not like a model, or anything, but, you know, well put together. Kind of small, but strong. Nice tits.

He sat down. “How did you get in here by the way? How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Fake ID. How about you? You’re not twenty-one. You may be a cool college guy, but there’s no way you’re twenty-one.”

“I didn’t say I was. Fake ID.”

That led them into a discussion of where they got their fake ID’s, how realistic the pictures looked, what they cost, and so on. Within an hour they were both too drunk to pretend that they weren’t attracted to one another. Julie knew after the first thirty minutes that this would be the beginning of a lifelong, meaningful relationship. But still, the kiss surprised her. She was busy making fun of some asshole dancing in front of the band (on an empty dance floor) with his hands waving above his head shouting, “Play Stairway! Play Stairway to Heaven!” when Dru grabbed her face–literally, between his two hands like a forties movie–and stuck his tongue down her throat. Well, it was nicer than that. Gentler than it sounds. But it shocked the hell out of her. And little shocks Julie Ann-Marie Sattler. Luckily, she was too drunk to show her surprise, and she immediately returned the ferocity of it. So there they sat, in a smoky, loud bar, hands all over each other, making out like high school kids. That’s how Julie described it in her diary, always seeming to forget that she was a high school kid.

Dru wanted to take her back to his dorm room that night. He kept saying something about his roommate being a really heavy sleeper. But Julie was smarter than that. She knew that if she stayed out all night her parents would certainly notice, and then she would be grounded for the rest of her life and kept away from Dru forever. This was the man who was going to backpack through Europe with someday. She was not going to take any chances. Instead, they settled on some aggressive fondling in the front seat of her Volkswagen Jetta before she carefully drove home, watching her speed limit and keeping a steady eye on the yellow line to her left.

Over the next seven months, Dru and Julie were an item, as her mom would have called it. Julie would tell her parents she was going to her friend Robin’s house after school and then meet Dru at the movie theater or the cafe across from the university or, when his roommate was gone, his dorm room–where they would make love amid the dull stench of dirty laundry, cigarette butts, and wet towels.

But then Julie got her acceptance letter from the North Carolina School of the Arts and everything changed. It was only April, but her imminent departure clung to their relationship. She begged Dru to go with her, to try to transfer. She started looking into nearby community colleges for him. She sent away for brochures from every school and even offered to get money from her dad to help him pay. Every alternative she found, he refused, until Julie realized that Dru just didn’t love her. It hit her when she was driving home from his dorm room one night after a particularly nasty fight. It was raining–a severe New Mexico spring rain, with whipping winds and the occasional ball of hail bouncing off the windshield. Coupled with the darkness, it was too difficult to drive so she pulled over. She turned off the engine, bringing the windshield wipers to a halt mid-swipe, so they lay in crisp parallel lines across the glass. She sat there for a long time listening to the rain slap the car with each gust of wind. She was very still. The inside of the windows became thick with the moisture from her breath.

As she sat there, she went over and over in her head the exact words of the fight. She didn’t see Dru’s angry face or her own, only the words scrolled through her mind like a movie script.

Why are you being so difficult about this, Dru? I’m trying to find ways that we can be together, isn’t that what you want?

Silence.

Then: I don’t know.

Silence.

Then: Fine. You don’t know. Well, I’m going to go home and you can sit here and figure out what you want. Until you do, don’t call me. I don’t want to see you.

Julie knew that was a mistake. She knew as she walked out that she would never hear from Dru again. She knew that she would wait by the phone for the next four months for his call to tell her, yes, yes, he did want to be with her. Forever. Always. The call would never come. Panic overwhelms her. She wants to rewrite the script. She wants to take her words away. She wants to say: You don’t know? That’s okay. I love you. I’ll wait. She fucked this up big time. She considers turning around, driving back and apologizing, groveling for him to take her back. But she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps rewinding to I don’t know. It sits in her mind, printed on a blank white page. And then she realizes. She realizes that Dru doesn’t love her. Not as much as she loves him. Not even close. The realization chokes off her breath. She tries to swallow, but can’t. She opens her mouth to gasp for air but instead releases a long, low howl that fills the car despite the sharp cracking of rain. The cries come from her in aching sobs. And as she cries, Julie realizes that no one will ever love her. She realizes that she will be alone forever. Still crying, she starts the car and begins driving home.

***

Julie stares at a picture of three men surrounding a dead deer with a gunshot wound straight through its chest. An unexpected sadness overcomes her. She puts the magazine down and shuts her eyes. She wishes she’d told Michelle the truth. She wishes she’d told her about Dru–even if it meant telling her mother, too.

Michelle excuses herself from the group and goes to the bathroom. Thankfully, everyone takes it as some sort of cue to disperse and busy themselves with other things. Mr. Sattler begins calling the office and checking his voice mail. Mrs. Sattler says something about making more iced tea and ducks into the kitchen. Dan goes into the garage with no explanation.

When Michelle emerges from the bathroom, she is pulling her ponytail through a rubber band. “Where did everyone go?” she asks when she sees the abandoned chairs.

Julie opens her eyes, “I don’t know.” She notices that Michelle has let her hair go straight. No more $100 perms. She probably can’t afford it. And even if she could, Julie wonders where she would go to have it done. She didn’t see any salon on the way to house. Actually, she didn’t see any town to speak of, just an old feed shop and a Dairy Queen.

Michelle stands with her hands on her hips, surveying the empty room. She looks tired. Julie half expects her to collapse right there and start crying or faint or something. But instead she turns to Julie, “Do you wanna go see the horse?”

“Okay.” Julie leans forward, using the momentum of the rocking Lazy Boy to thrust her out of its deep cushion.

“Mom–” Michelle calls into the kitchen, “we’ll be in the pasture.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Sattler calls back from behind the swinging door, then adds more perkily, “Have fun!”

Julie gives a half-hearted “yeah” and follows Michelle to the back door. Actually, Julie would be just as happy to stay in the air conditioned house. Horses bore her–with their apathetic gaze and earthy smell. She didn’t always feel this way. As a child, she adored horses, finding in them a certain magic unmatched by the rest of the world. Each Christmas, she would beg her parents to buy her a pony, only to be disappointed to find instead a new bike or Big Wheel underneath the tree. She spent all of her allowance on model horses and horse books and horse posters. What was amazing was not so much her fascination with horses, but that it was sustained only by annual visits to her uncle’s ranch in northern New Mexico each summer, where she and her sister would spend the entire trip riding his two Appaloosas bareback across the rocky mountain trails. When they would leave, she would cry and solemnly stare out the car window the rest of the drive home, remembering the sound of hooves like a drum roll across the dry desert floor.

But then Julie got involved in acting in middle school and, in an instant, the magic of applause from her otherwise indifferent classmates eclipsed the magic of horses. I can see her first performance, as Emily in Our Town. She got the part because she could speak louder than anyone in her class and could memorize lines easily. But Julie knew it was more than that. I see her standing on stage during the scene when Emily has a chance, after her death, to go back to the world of the living, return to the past, and witness her twelfth birthday. She’s in a long, blue dress, with a long, dark wig to cover her already short hair. The words fly out of her and float across the stage into the dark sea of the audience. She feels timeless. She has reached the part of the scene when Emily realizes the horror of reliving a life that has already ended and decides to return to the grave. The audience is silent. It is Julie’s favorite part. She has practiced it countless times–not only at the group rehearsals after school, but at home, locked in the bathroom in front of the mirror. When she was afraid her sister might be listening, she would lower her voice to a whisper, which made the words seem sadder somehow: Wait! One more look! Goodbye! Goodbye, world! Goodbye, Grover’s Corners–Mama and Papa–Goodbye to clocks ticking–and my butternut tree! and Mama’s sunflowers–and food and coffee–and new-ironed dresses and hot baths–and sleeping and waking up! Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anyone to realize you! She would throw her arms open and spin in a circle and real tears would come to her eyes. On stage, I watch the dress twirl around her in magnificent sweeps of blue, like the tide folding over onto itself. For a moment, everyone seems to believe. Even the bullies who long ago gave up believing find themselves in that rare moment when the imaginary becomes real. When the curtain falls and rises again, Julie bows before the crowd and feels their furious clapping, secretly telling them all, Don’t let me go. Hold me. Hold me. And they do.

Since that moment, she hasn’t had much interest in horses. Occasionally, she would see an old cowboy movie with horses running at full speed across the prairie, and she would remember the feel of the wind whipping around her head and the sure, fast gait of the horse beneath her and she would get the urge to ride again. But it passed.

As soon as Michelle opens the back door, a blast of heat and humidity hits Julie square in the face. She is literally stunned by it. Michelle must notice this because she smiles and says over her shoulder, “Get used to it. North Carolina isn’t much better.”

“I know,” Julie quickly replies. But the truth is, she doesn’t know. She’s never been to North Carolina. For the first time, Julie lets herself wonder if she’s made the right decision. She worked so hard to get into the School of the Arts, to doubt her decision now seemed like a betrayal. For over a year, every effort she made was toward the singular objective of getting into that school. She spent hours after school each day rehearsing for competitions, directing other students, and even writing and performing in her own play when no existing script gave her the character she wanted. By the time she flew to Los Angeles in early spring for the college’s regional audition, Julie was certain she would be accepted. She walked into the small classroom of the high school where the auditions were being held with a confidence she didn’t know she had. A panel of five acting teachers sat with bored stares in chairs too small for their middle-aged bodies. They had already endured a full day and a half of anxious high school students delivering painfully rendered monologues and songs. They were in no mood to be charmed. I’m not sure if they were charmed by Julie. If not charmed, something must have struck them–her enthusiasm perhaps or her seeming desperation–because a month later she got an acceptance letter. Julie still carries it with her, as if without the piece of paper, it wouldn’t be real.

Julie and Michelle stand at the open gate of the pasture watching the dark brown and white Paint graze quietly. The sun was starting to go down, giving the sky a soft pink haze, so different from the blood-red sunsets in New Mexico. They stand there for a while not saying anything. The two German Shepherds pant behind them.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Michelle keeps her eyes fixed on the horse.

“Mm-hmm,” Julie barely replies.

Michelle turns quickly to Julie, smiling broadly, “Do you wanna ride him?”

“Not really,” Julie shrugs. “It’s too hot.”

“Would you quit whining–”

“I’m not whining!” Julie bristles at the accusation. She hates being falsely accused.

“What’s your problem?”

Julie’s heart grows cold and distant, like it had in the car earlier in the day. “I don’t have a problem,” she says. “I just said I didn’t want to ride the goddamned horse.” She keeps her voice even. She is making it clear that this does not matter to her. She doesn’t care.

“Mom was right, you are becoming a pain in the ass.”

Julie stares at Michelle, wondering where this shit is coming from. She can feel her throat burn and is afraid she’ll start crying. “Fuck you.” She turns around and walks purposefully into the house. But it’s not her house, and she has no room to go to. Quickly, she finds the bathroom and slams the door behind her. She leans onto the sink and bites her lip. I will not cry. I will not cry. Not that she even knows why she wants to cry. I mean, shit, her mom has called her worse than a pain in the ass to her face. But still, she feels the choking gasps for air come faster and faster, until tears blur her eyes. She can hear her mom and Michelle talking in the kitchen. She catches only a few sentences amid the ebb and flow of their muffled voices: …such an attitude…so angry all the time…smart girl…too bad…leaving home…she’s scared… and agreement yes, she’s scared.

Julie sits on the edge of the bathtub, biting her bottom lip. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs that she’s not scared. She’s just sad. Sadder than she’s ever been. She wants to tell them that they’ve never understood her and never will, and how Dru was the only person who ever really got her—and then he didn’t want her. She wants to tell them how unlovable that makes her feel. How unlovable and utterly alone. But she doesn’t. She just sits on the edge of the tub and muffles her sobs in her hands.

***

Julie has been lying awake on the couch in the living room for what seems like hours. The rest of the house is asleep. Only the slight rise and fall of breathing that swells the walls and the low buzz of the air conditioner break the lonely silence. She’s tempted to turn on the light and read her book, but she knows it will wake her mother. And besides, she’s too distracted to read.

She gets up and walks into the kitchen. Her bare feet stick to the linoleum, picking up bread crumbs and small pieces of dried spaghetti as she walks. She turns on the light above the stove and looks for a glass to get a drink of water. She checks the clock on the microwave, 1:55. This time tomorrow she’ll be spending her first night in her dorm room. Her heart sinks back against her spine, like it used to do when she would see Dru.

She forgets about the glass of water and instead turns to look out the window over the sink. The pasture lies beyond the backyard in the uneven darkness. Julie thinks of the horse and wonders if he’s sleeping, with one hind leg cocked in rest. She imagines him standing there, out in the open in the middle of the night. She wonders if he’s afraid. She turns out the light above the stove to get rid of the glare on the window. She strains her eyes to see if she can make out his painted figure among the fence posts and hovering trees. She can’t see him. Anywhere.  She looks again, wondering if his dark brown and white coat is just blending with the shadows cast by moon’s light through the trees. Nothing. All of a sudden fear grips her throat. She wonders if Michelle was distracted by their fight this afternoon and forgot to close the gate when Julie went into the house. She imagines the horse wandering off and roaming the unknown hills alone. She imagines his fear. She imagines the whites of his eyes. Panic seizes her. She hurries to the back door, slips on her sister’s mud-covered boots, and rushes outside. She runs toward the edge of the pasture. She moves forward in long, fast strides, but feels motionless. The boots slip on her bare feet and rub the insides of her calves. The air is thick and heavy. The dogs sense her fear and begin pacing up and down the length of their pen, growling lowly. Finally, she reaches the fence and stops. Her heart is pounding. She has run only the short width of the backyard, but her t-shirt and boxers cling to the film of sweat that already covers her body. Her eyes dart around the pasture in nervous anticipation–looking for the open gate and the missing horse.

Then she sees him.

He is standing in the corner, under the oak tree. Indeed, he blends with the shadows. His leg is cocked, as she’d imagined, but he is not sleeping. Her sprint toward him had obviously interrupted his rest and he stares at her, blinking. Relief rushes through her. She scrambles carelessly through the wooden fence, scratching her leg and back in two places, and walks quickly toward the horse. He is uncertain of her. He brings his hind leg square with the others and raises his head, preparing to flee. Julie slows her pace and outstretches her hand. She puckers her lips and makes kissing sounds, like she used to do to ease her uncle’s horses’ worry. The horse relaxes somewhat and stretches his neck forward to smell her. His breath is warm– warmer than the humid air that envelops them like a womb. He raises his head above hers and smells her hair in long, purposeful breaths.

Julie reaches out her other arm and strokes the side of his neck. With each long stroke, she tells him not to be afraid. She tells him everything is okay. She stands there, with this horse, in silence for a long time. She’s imagining what it would be like to ride him. A small part of her remembers the thrill of riding, but more keenly she remembers the peace of it. She remembers the gentle comfort of the rocking body. The unspoken agreement between rider and mount. The feeling of wholeness.

Perhaps it is a yearning for that wholeness, that comfort, that makes Julie climb into the low crotch of the oak tree next to the horse and stretch both arms over his back. Perhaps it is the memory of peace that gives her the strength to throw her torso onto him and swing her leg over him. Whatever the reason, Julie sits, slightly out of breath, atop this horse without a saddle or bridle. She gathers his mane in her fingers. It is coarse and sticky. She eases him forward, tapping her heels against his girth and rocking her hips. He begins walking. They walk together in slow circles around the pasture.

I wonder if Julie’s mother is watching her–if she heard the back door open and went to the kitchen and looked out the window over the sink and now watches her daughter and the horse move in the darkness. Or maybe her sister or father–or even Dan–watches her now and wonders what she’s doing. I don’t know. But I watch her.

I am watching this young woman on a horse. In the middle of the night. In a hushed meadow. As I watch her, I see her future spread out before her like the horizon. I see love unfold and then close in on itself time after time. She will be hurt so much, in ways she can’t possibly yet know. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it will be okay. I want to protect her from it. I want to spare her the pain. But she will have joy, too. She must know that there will be joy.

As Julie moves in the darkness on this horse, I whisper Don’t let me go. Hold me. Hold me. And she does.