“How do you know that?”
“I know. I’ve watched other girls when she didn’t know I was watching. I could see how nervous they were. I’m a little bit of a Peeping Tom—or Thomasina.” She laughed and then lost her smile. “I know you think that’s sick or something.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It is,” she insisted. “I’m always looking through something to see what’s really happening, looking through windows or through television and movie screens or just peering at life through words in a book. But not now, not with you here. You’re a living person my age, who’s been places I dreamed of.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
She sprawled on her side and propped up her face with her left hand.
“Tell me what it was like. Don’t leave out a detail, and don’t worry about how I might react or anything.”
I leaned forward, smiling at her. “What what was like? Where do you think I’ve been?”
“You’ve been there,” she said, nodding. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”
I sat back. “Sheena?”
“Tell me about the first time. Start from the very beginning, especially when you realized you were going to do it. Then tell me exactly what it felt like. I don’t believe what I read in my novels, and I don’t get anything out of the textbooks.
“Oh, and tell me what he was like,” she added, “and if you ever saw him again or if that mattered.”
I started to shake my head, saw the disappointment creeping into her face, and stopped. “I was only fourteen,” I began, “and it wasn’t long after I had my first period.”
“Menarche,” she said, nodding. “I was only twelve, and my mother was furious because I didn’t tell her. She didn’t know it until she saw my panties and what I had stuffed in them. Did you tell your mother right away?”
I thought for a moment. That should have been something
a mother and daughter shared. It should have been a remarkable moment.
“No,” I said softly. “I was prepared. I’ve always been prepared.”
And then something hit me like a snowball in my face.
“I’ve never really been a little girl,” I said.
We were both silent. I saw how fearful that made her, so I quickly smiled.
“He was a pimply-faced sixteen-year-old,” I said, “but he had been around the block.”
She perked up, and I got so involved in my story and how grateful she was to hear about it that I nearly forgot to get ready for my dinner with Mrs. Brittany.
And that was surely at the top of the list for fatal mistakes.
11
Having dinner with Mrs. Brittany was intimidating enough, but just the two of us in that grand dining room made me feel I was on a larger stage and in a brighter spotlight. The room seemed cavernous without any other people present. As I walked over the tile portion of the floor, the echo of my footsteps in the new high heels sounded like spikes being driven into it. I tried to step more lightly.
She sat at the head of the table and watched me approach, her eyes like X-rays examining every turn and twist in my hips as I walked. I don’t think anyone could make me more self-conscious of my every move, my every breath. As soon as I had entered the grand room, I corrected my posture and kept my head up. She seemed to grow larger and more intimidating as I approached, while everything around her seemed to diminish.
“Did you look at yourself before you left your bedroom?” she asked the moment I reached the table.
“Yes.”
“You put your lipstick on too thickly. It’s off your lips on the right side, in fact.”