So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,16

Bowman. Sparklers, twinkle lights, pale sugar. Glitter, glitter. Jefferson Airplane. Ring Pops and Blow Pops and eyeshadow names. Looping cursive, folded paper. En Vogue and Tori Amos. Heart. Baseball, A League of Their Own. Denise Huxtable. Angela Chase. Felicity. Keri Russell. Dorothy Dandridge, Eartha Kitt, Barbra Streisand, Audrey Hepburn. Cher. Marilyn Monroe movies. Swish-swishy prom dresses, heels in hand. Lemonade. Lemonade. Buzzing neon. Confused hearts, blooming hearts, broken hearts, full hearts. Ale-8-One and church camp, crosses. Peach pop, root beer floats, Popsicles. Jane Austen and Emily Dickinson. Mary Shelley. Judy Blume. “Work It” by Missy Elliott. “Bossy” by Kelis. Shaving legs in kitchen sinks. Secrets, spilled like wine. Pretty in Pink. Accidental girlfriends. Stealing Beauty and A Bigger Splash and Call Me by Your Name—every summer obsession movie—panting, drinking, licking, blazing. Oprah Winfrey. Hayley Williams + Paramore. Serena Williams. Roxane Gay. Sylvia Plath. Jenny Lewis. “Does He Love You?” by Rilo Kiley. The Supremes, The Ronettes. “Then He Kissed Me” by The Crystals. Bubbly pineapple water, tank tops, Juicy Fruit. Tegan and Sara. Amy Winehouse and Janis Joplin. Ella Fitzgerald dancing in a black dress next to Frank Sinatra. Judy Garland singing “a big fat rose” to Gene Kelly. Etta James singing “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World”; Etta James singing anything. The Thomas Crown Affair’s chess scene kisses, Steve McQueen spanking Ann-Margret in The Cincinnati Kid. Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Villanelle’s pink Molly Goddard dress in Killing Eve. Sandra Oh. Natalie Wood. Elizabeth Taylor, Maggie the Cat. Joshua Tree. Antonia Thomas. Sissy Spacek. Sissy Spacek’s wardrobe in Badlands. Rookie magazine. Zendaya. Bonnie Raitt. Stevie Nicks. Indigo Girls. Linda Ronstadt singing “You’re No Good.” Aretha Franklin singing “Respect.” Carly Simon singing “You’re So Vain.” Tammy Wynette singing “Stand by Your Man.” Loretta Lynn singing “Fist City.” Margo Price. Princess Diana and Jackie O. Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Eve and a pomegranate. Mary, mother of Jesus. Mary Magdalene. Bathsheba. Deborah. Esther. Queen Vashti. Dirty Dancing. “Love Is Strange” by Mickey & Sylvia. Sylvia Robinson. Chaka Khan. “This Tornado Loves You” by Neko Case. Coconuts, strawberry shampoo. Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill. Lace. Velvet. Mesh. Tulle. Your bedroom—a candy-colored, starry-ceiling sanctuary. “Free Fallin’” by Tom Petty and “American Girl” by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. “American Girls” by Counting Crows. “Around the Way Girl” by LL Cool J. Your natural blush, Lolita. Orange Crush. “Cherry Bomb” by The Runaways. Flirting and bar lights. And everysingle heart-dark or heart-light muddy tomboy and frilly girly-girl and bad girl and good girl (and walking the edges, nowhere and everywhere in between), living or can-never-really-die dead.

DIRECTIONS: Warm. Or chill. Icy, even.

Fast as You

I was getting paid to watch Tucker’s two-year-old daughter Emmylou while he was on stage singing and some other times too. He and his band were on tour. But no, I wasn’t getting paid to get in my bunk on the tour bus after I put Emmylou down in her daddy’s bed and pull the curtain closed and put my hand between my legs and think about Emmylou’s daddy touching me. Slipping between me the same way he slipped his cigarette between those strings of his guitar and let the smoke go and go while he was tuning and getting it right.

Tucker was one of those guys who smoked even though he worked out every day too and kept an eye on what he was eating. It didn’t make no sense and that’s kind of how he was. He didn’t make no sense and I didn’t want him to. He wasn’t my man, he was Shay’s. Shay was a big country music star too and had legs like Jesus had sculpted them with His bare hands, said they were good. Shay wasn’t Emmylou’s mama. Emmylou’s mama was a mystery. She didn’t much want to be a mama, Tucker had told me about her. I gave Emmylou extra love because of it and Tuck loved her plenty enough for two. I’d put her hair up in two little pigtails to make her look like a ladybug and wonder how her no-good mama could leave her behind.

Sometimes Shay would be up there singing with Tucker and I’d be standing off the side of the stage holding little Emmylou on my hip with her big, pink, plastic earmuffs on to block out the loud sounds. Tucker and Shay had a duet burning up the radio stations and on the nights I was strong and not too jealous to listen, I’d stand there and watch them.