teacher asked if I was feeling okay, noting the flush in my cheeks, I’d only been thinking of her. But I didn’t tell her these things. And for her part, she didn’t divulge her feelings either. But we knew.
All these years later, I still remember this about Bridget: she ate the outsides of Oreos first, nibbling at the chocolate cookies until there was nothing left, until the stiff circle of cream crumbled in her fingers. And I remember this, too: she was embarrassed to love Top 40, especially when she saw my secret stash of Ani and Fiona and Tori. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and she asked me to play her a song. I picked “Shy,” and I hoped she heard within it the hymn I would have written for her if Ani hadn’t gotten there first.
That day in the basement was the first time I’d ever kissed a girl. Until then, I’d had only fumbling, dry-lipped kisses with boys at Youth Group. But Bridget’s lips were soft. It’s a cliché, I know, for a girl to be softer than a boy, but what do you expect? Women have been taught so well to be pliant.
When my mother came downstairs with a laundry basket in her arms, Bridget and I broke apart like a wishbone snapping in half. Too late, it turned out. The basket fell to the floor, all the carefully sorted whites spilling out. Then the screaming began. Words like wicked and immoral, words that had nothing to do with love.
Here’s the thing, though. In CCD they taught us that the very first woman sucked the juice from a forbidden fruit, so is it any wonder that the juice remains on our lips? That even now, we get all kinds of hunger we’re not supposed to have?
After Bridget left, my parents removed my doorknob, leaving a fist-sized hole that could always be seen through. The invitation list for my Confirmation party doubled in size. They wanted as many witnesses as they could get.
And yet, when it mattered most, none of them saw a thing.
four
The arm around her waist won’t budge. It’s dark and bodiless and tight as a belt on the very last hole.
She looks at me. A glance at first. Then a double take. Now she lurches forward. Her arms stretch, her fingers twitch, her hands grasp for me but only close on air.
I take a step back. She tries to shuffle forward. Her freckles are spots of dirt on her porcelain face. The one beneath her brow is darker. A fleck of mud. I want to wipe it off, but then I’d have to touch her. And to touch her, I’d have to get close. And if I get close, I can get grabbed.
Her mouth opens and shuts. There’s a sound—a muffled, underwater sound—that surges and crescendos until it finally becomes clear. It’s her voice. Thick but a little raspy.
“—going to—please!”
She freezes. Something snaps. Time bounces back. Unfreezes.
“Please. He’s going to—please!”
She freezes. Something snaps. Time bounces back. Unfreezes.
“Please. He’s going to—please!”
I’m a record needle stuck in a groove. Time snaps. Bounces back.
“Please. He’s going to—”
“Please!” I shout, shooting upward.
Fistfuls of scratchy cotton. A rasp. A snap. Rectangle of light.
An ancient rotating fan struggles to move the air. Wheezes as it turns its head. Snaps as it spins back. The clock beside my bed says it’s 1:32 a.m.
“You were talking in your sleep.”
I gasp as I look toward the door. Ted’s leaning against its frame, holding something in his hand. He stares at me as I try to catch my breath. I squint to make out his expression, but he’s backlit by the hallway. His face is all shadow.
I open my mouth to say something, but only a squeak comes out. It doesn’t matter. He’s not waiting for me to respond. He nods once and disappears. His feet clomp across the hardwood to his office at the end of the hall. His door shuts.
Flicking on the lamp beside my bed, I watch the room fill with beige, sickly light. The bulb is old. Barely even illuminates the book beneath it. Behind the Red Door. When I opened the back cover tonight, stared at Astrid’s author photo, that freckle near her brow was like a tiny black hole sucking me in. The crest of her cheekbones, which I felt I could trace even with my eyes shut tight, insisted I was part of her story.
I read the prologue right before I went to bed, and