So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,43

talking about it, I wouldn’t mind having my teenage body back.

Girl, tell me about it.

Girl. Would you marry Dave all over again?

I would…isn’t that disgusting?

It’s not disgusting! It’s amazing and super-romantic. It’s the dream!

Would you marry Mike again?

I don’t think so…but it’s ok! Really, it’s ok. We’re happy and it’s ok. And we have Keri.

And she’s a gem.

She is. And so is Claire. And Hannah too!

We really do have the best girls.

The best girls. They’re into the skateboarders now, by the way.

Ah, that’s right. That Milo boy is a skateboarder.

I’d maybe go back for the skateboarders.

Only for the skateboarders?

Yes! The skateboarders were always my fave. They’re cocky and cute and they throw the best parties, they have the best hair, the best shoes…

I missed out. I never dated a skateboarder!

Well, you have Dave and he’s a motorcycle guy.

Totally a motorcycle guy. What’s Mike? Was he a skateboarder?

Mathlete!

Aw, yay! So was I! Nerds unite!

LOL. Keep an eye out for the skateboarders rolling through your neighborhood because our girls are watching them. Like hawks.

Good thing we can hear them coming, right?

Right! LOL!

I’m just really sorry the girls snuck out of our house. I still feel bad about that.

Will you stop?

Ok, ok. I’m sorry!

STOP APOLOGIZING.

I WILL. I promise I will.

Good! You’re a good mom. And I know those boys were scared to death once they saw Dave. LOL.

Fersure. And no, you…YOU’RE a good mom!

We’ve got to stick together!

Absolutely! Can you BELIEVE we’re the moms now? Oh no…are we old?

No! FACT: we’re young and beautiful and will remain forever so.

Yes! Ok. I’ll remember that.

Next time we go out let’s make up a drink called TEENAGE DREAM TIME MACHINE!

It needs to taste like champagne and peaches!

And cherries and Lip Smackers!

It should probably be a slushie, too.

And come with an expensive night serum. LOL.

Perfect. And boys aren’t allowed to drink it. LOL.

No boys allowed!

Not even the skateboarders?

Not even the skateboarders!

Girls only.

That’s right. Girls only.

Forever.

Wow I love you.

I love you too. We’re heading out of town next week but talk when we get back? Maybe we should plan a giant slumber party with the girls and do face masks and nails and watch Molly Ringwald movies. The girls will be mortified…it’ll be perfect! Oh and when Shelly is finished getting her groove back with the fetus, catch her up on our TEENAGE DREAM TIME MACHINE drink…ask her what else we need to add to it!

THIS SOUNDS LIKE SO MUCH FUN. Yes! I will! Be safe. Talk soon!

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Rope Burns

Bridge Blackfeather takes me to the rodeo, cowboy church. Passes the buttery popcorn salt crystals from his tongue to mine while our boots slide heavy on the peanut-shelled hush-dusty floor. I am wearin’ a dark denim jacket with a long black dress, my thick, titian tantrum of hair stormin’ down my back. Bridge tells me it reminds him of the wild horses, pets me real slow and careful-like so I won’t bite. But I do. I snap and nip at his fingers to make him laugh. Clink his gold initial ring between my teeth. I grew my armpit hair out for him and he gets inside my jacket to pet that too. Points to the cowboy, the buckin’ bronco and says that’s me and you and I don’t ask which is which because I don’t want him to tell me. Knowin’ is a knife. We met way back. Summer, teenagers. Stood in my sultry kitchen when my parents weren’t home, both of us as frenzied as them river-green junebugs slammin’ into the window screen. My bikini bottom like a rain-wet petal stickin’ to the counter as we kissed hard. Two dirty dishrag mouths, wringin’ out. Hummin’ yellow summer afternoons: numberless, sweaty, clandestine. We ate slippery vegetable sandwiches afterward. Left the sunporch smellin’ like the steam of sex and oily artichokes. We tied our high school heart ropes together. Real tight. I have the rope burns to show for it. Before bed, Bridge takes off his shirt to reveal his tattooed proof, my first name, an eighteen-year-old wink of night-black ink on amber milk-cream. Tempestuous lasso loopin’ cursive. I’ve told everyone, I’ll tell you. I married Bridge because he’s thunder. That man right there is a pack of hungry wolves howlin’ at the moon. I’m still enchanted by the white-flicker flame shiverin’ and achin’ against the cave wall of his hands when he lights his cigarettes. The bright violet glow of his superheated supplication as he bows his head, finds harbor. He kitten-licks me like he’s thirsty, dyin’, like I hold