Huge Page 22

  That explained why she’d been practically naked since about April—she’d been making her own clothes. But that seemed like a different thing to be into, and the outfit she had on was pretty sweet—the colors matched, the fabrics flowed, the style was in; okay, everything was too short, too tight, too revealing, and maybe a bit trashy, but I wasn’t complaining.

  “You look awesome” I blurted, blushed instantly, and felt like ripping my tongue out for betraying me.

  Stacy dropped her head, and if I didn’t know any better, which I didn’t, I would’ve said she was blushing, too. Then, out of nowhere, she flexed her knees, reared back, and dove—literally dove—at me, into my lap, kissed me, and sat beside me again, with her arms around my waist. Un-fucking-believable! And rule number three of my classified detective manual would be: always compliment the girl of your dreams, because she just might kiss you—again. Yeah, my rules stomped all ass; they were everything you ever needed to know. My plan, on the other hand, was garbage, yesterday’s trash, and I knew it. But for some reason, that didn’t really bother me.

  Stacy was rubbing my shoulder blades with her palm. Her skirt had hitched a little higher up because she’d thrown her far knee over mine while fastening her lips to my neck. Meanwhile, I pondered the reservoir’s flickering surface, struggling not to let on how much it tickled, or to leap up and break into song. I tried to think nautical thoughts—endless waved horizons; infinite oceans in all directions; tranquil seas; water, water everywhere, and I couldn’t remember the rest—but the Lookout was certain he’d spied land in the distance and was standing tall, craning his neck to see it. Where the hell had that wine cooler gone? Ah, there it was, so I swigged it, and it tasted awful—again—but I had to do something, anything, to get my mind off what was going on. Then Stacy kissed me again, long, slow, sticky, moist, and completely on purpose. Her skin was soft and smooth and smelled like hot tea with milk and sugar, and I realized that I had no words for this—the feelings, the textures, the taste, the smell—except that I was a goner, a total goner. The skin all over my body was alive and quivering, but she could’ve set me ablaze with a flamethrower and I wouldn’t have noticed, cared, or moved an inch away. I kissed her back—what else could I do?—and wrapped my arms around her waist, and held on tight, so I wouldn’t drift away, or drown.

  Stacy pulled back, shook her head side to side, and smiled; her pupils were small and her cheeks were flushed. “Whoa,” she thrummed.

  Yeah, I knew exactly how she felt.

  We were quiet for a minute, or a day, or a week, just sitting there in the dark, watching the stars and moon twinkle on the water, holding on tight, hearing the breeze in the treetops, the party gurgling in the distance, but then Stacy shifted a little, her knee went too far up and struck something, just barely, but I had to say ouch because it was something that couldn’t be so much as brushed by a knee without smarting.

  “Sorry, did I hurt you?” Stacy asked, looking down as she shifted her knee back toward mine. When she looked up, she was smiling that devious smile again, and said, “That’s not more bug spray, is it?”

  No, it wasn’t bug spray. The Lookout, ever vigilant, was roaring a loud Land Ho! that no one could hear but anyone could see, especially if she was practically sitting in your lap. A lightning bolt of embarrassment crackled through me, and searing heat rose from my neck and ears. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, and I knew it, so I tried to breathe deep and relax. Because if the Lookout was anything, he was committed to his work, and right now he was on the job.

  I tried to cross my legs, out of sheer good manners, but my stomach muscles were stiff, knotted, and taut, which made it hard to lift my knee, and Stacy’s hand was pressed down on my knee, to begin with, which kept me from moving it, and which made everything harder than it needed to be.

  “Can I see it?” she whispered.

  I wasn’t sure I’d caught that; even though Stacy was looking me square in the face as she’d said it, and I saw her lips form the words as I heard them, so I had a pretty good idea of exactly what she’d said, and what she was asking, and just what it meant. When it finally sank in, the dilemma before me was all too clear. This was way too much for me, too new, too fast, too good to be true, and the only word I wanted to say was yes! But it also hit me that if I said yes, and showed her, then she would’ve seen everything there was to see, on top of the fact that I’d already told her everything there was to tell, or at least far more than I’d ever told anyone else, and then I’d be left with nothing she hadn’t seen or heard, nothing to hide, no secrets; I’d be wide open, exposed, vulnerable, and naked in front of a girl. What if she didn’t like it, any of it, or me, or worse, what if something went wrong? Because if I’d learned anything in life, I’d learned nothing was ever too good to be true, but something always went wrong—especially if you got caught with your pants down. So what was I supposed to do?

  “Plee-ease?” Stacy sang. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

  Goddamn, she was persuasive when she wanted to be! But could I trust her, when I knew I couldn’t trust anyone else? I gulped air, or tried to, but missed, and coughed. My legs might’ve been fidgeting. My breath was shallow, my hands were cold, my heart was racing, and my shirt was already off. How would I know whether or not I could trust her if I didn’t try? The worst she could do was laugh. Aw, shit, that would totally destroy me. But if she did, we were right on the water, so I could just dive in and get it over with and never have to worry about anything ever again. So there was always that. But she wouldn’t laugh, she couldn’t; she’d asked me, she wanted to see it, and she’d sworn she wouldn’t tell, she’d sworn it. It would be our secret, not hers, not mine, but ours. Would she keep it, though? I didn’t know. How could I know if I didn’t try? But what if I tried and something went wrong, like it always did? I had the feeling I could ask the same questions over and over, maybe forever, and never get anywhere. Fuck it. I was going with the flow; the shorts were coming down.

  “You promise you won’t tell?”

  “I promise.” Stacy nodded, and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Okay,” I relented as I untied the drawstring, lifted my hips, slid my shorts to my knees, and felt how warm and dry the rock was beneath my butt. First rule: keep your ass dry. Check.

  “Holy shit, Genie, you got some big-ass balls!”

  So I’d been told. But somehow I was ready to hear that, so it didn’t really freak me out or embarrass me at all. “Huge,” I reminded her.

  “Well, they’re a little big, but not like mega or anything.” Stacy smirked at me. “So don’t let it go to your head.”

  “No, my name,” I said. “My name’s Huge.” Couldn’t anyone get that straight?

  “Omigod, yeah, sorry.” Stacy blushed and covered her mouth with both hands. “I didn’t mean ….” She fumbled, cut herself off, and stopped.

  This was awesome, truly awesome. She’d made the mistake; she was embarrassed, while I was calmer, cooler, more excited, nervous, riled up, and petrified—all at the same time—than I’d ever been before in my whole stupid life. I was in new territory, out of my depth, had my shorts around my ankles, with Stacy Sanders sitting next to me, and I was in control of myself, totally in control. Shit like this did not happen every day; no fucking way, not to me.

  Stacy had pulled herself together; it looked like she was flowing with it, too. “I mean, uh, what I meant was … it’s nice. It’s … pretty.”

  Okay, so maybe I wasn’t totally in control; maybe I wasn’t so calm, maybe I wasn’t all that ready. Because never—with all the dictionaries in the history of the world at my disposal and a million years to work through them—never would I have come up with that word to describe the Lookout. Never. It just wasn’t possible; I could not have said that on my own. But somehow Stacy made it work; it fit. I was naked, she was looking at me, and she could’ve laughed or insulted me or mocked me or cried out and ran
and destroyed me completely, but she went easy on me, she said something nice: pretty. Yeah, I was more grateful than I’d ever been and just totally fucking floored.

  Not quite as floored, though, as when I felt her touch.

  No, she didn’t ask, and it was wrong to touch without asking or being asked, but I’d practically dared her to by pulling my shorts down in the first place. Besides, the Lookout seemed rather eager to make Stacy’s acquaintance, and if he was okay with it, then I was, too.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” I squeaked.

  “Cool, Huge. I really like you.”

  She could say that over and over and over again if she wanted to and it would never get old. As for me, I couldn’t say anything. Not a word. I wanted to, but I couldn’t—everything was just so … different. Same motion, same mechanics, practically same size fingers and hand, and I’d done it a thousand, ten thousand, or a hundred thousand times in the last year alone, but this was something else, someone else, a girl, Stacy Sanders, holy shit, and it was not the same at all. No way. It was different, meaning better, way better, as if I’d left some small detail out and had been doing it wrong all along. It was like all I’d ever been touching was skin—okay, sure, buzzing, sensitive, tickly skin, but still just skin—because that’s all the Lookout was: skin and spongy tissue and blood. But Stacy was touching all that and something else, too, something more. It was tender and achy and hurting, but it felt good, really good, like a bowl of hot soup on a cold winter’s day, and it spread out and spilled and warmed and lifted and startled and hurt and felt good again and even better and better still, and I wanted to tell her what she was doing, what she’d found and was touching, that I’d never felt it before, hadn’t even known it was there, that there was more to me than I’d thought, but it was there now, right now, because she was doing it.

  But I couldn’t speak, my tongue was wooden, I had no voice; my mouth was slammed shut, just like my eyes, my limbs hardened, my chest steamed, my heart frothed, my brain went dry, so I had no words and nothing to say, but I wanted to, I wanted to anyway, to say something funny or nice, to make her smile or blush, to tell her something she’d like, to thank her, make promises, find in her what she’d found in me, and give it back, share it, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t; I was soaring and shaking and thrilled and lost and frightened and coming apart, and the best I could do was warn her.

  “Look out!”

  EIGHTEEN

  I felt tingly, dizzy, and cold, almost as if—almost as if I’d done something wrong. I stood from the rock, hitched up my shorts, tied them, and turned around to look for Stacy. She was further inland, squatting down and washing her hands in the stream that crept its way through the lower part of Darren’s property. The light from the party seemed harsher now, eerie; the tiny backlit figures I’d seen earlier were blurred and creepy, and the only sound I heard was blood flushing in my ears. Maybe it was all the wine cooler I’d slugged, maybe I was buzzed or drunk, because everything seemed a little slow, or tilted, like I couldn’t get my balance—like something was off.

  “I hate that part,” Stacy said.

  “I tried to warn you,” I blushed. Wait a minute. What?

  “It’s okay,” she chirped.

  It was okay; everything was okay. That part?

  Stacy stood up, shook the water off her hands, and then dried them on her skirt. She faced me, tilted her head, and smiled. “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, staring, blinking. My brain was gluey; I was stuck on “that part.” How could she know it had parts, or one that she hated?

  “Wha-aat? Tell me, please?”

  “You hate that part,” I whispered, almost begging.

  “Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

  Sure, everything was okay. How could she know it had parts if she’d never done it before?

  “Seriously, it’s okay,” Stacy reassured me, and went on, “At least you didn’t try to lick it off my hand like—” She clamped both palms over her mouth before she could finish. Her eyes were startled, questioning. She’d slipped, and was looking to see if I’d caught it.

  Yeah, I’d caught it. Everything was not okay. She had done it before; it was my first time, but not hers. She’d done that with someone else, to someone else, for someone else, someone that—aw, gross! That was totally fucking gross! Who would do shit like that?

  “Like who, Stacy?” I asked, although I had the dread feeling I already knew.

  “Who what? N-n-nothing. N-n-no one.” She looked up, down, left, right—anywhere but at me. “I mean, at least you didn’t, like, because that would be …”

  “Stop lying, Stacy.” My voice was blunter and flatter than I’d expected, and it hit her hard.

  “I’m not, I can’t—” She stopped. It was sinking in to her now; she was nervous. Up went her hands to her mouth again, only there was more alarm in her eyes this time.

  I was freezing, swaying, and queasy, but I could feel it starting to build. She’d done that with someone else. Aw, Christ! Aw, shit! I wasn’t her first; she was mine, but I wasn’t hers. She’d seen someone else the way she’d seen me, she’d touched someone else the way she’d touched me, she’d kissed someone else—aw, fuck! I’d fucking kissed her! I felt sick; I wanted to spit. I did.

  “Did you promise him, too?” I growled. “Did you swear to Razor the way you swore to me?” My voice was nasty and biting, and I didn’t know where this was going, only that it was going to get worse, much worse.

  Stacy straightened up a little. “No, I never promised Razor, I didn’t—Oh, shit!” She punched herself in the thigh and stomped her flip-flop in the grass.

  Jesus! Could she suck any more at this? And I was going to trust her? I’d already trusted her? Mistake—big fucking mistake. “If you didn’t swear to Razor, Stacy, then why can’t you say it?” That practically stung as it left my mouth.

  “I’m, I’m not supposed to—”

  “You’re not supposed to what? You’re not supposed to go around jacking everybody off?”

  “No! Don’t say that! I don’t! I’m not—”

  “You’re not what? You’re not a liar? You’re not a person who swears and then breaks her promise the first chance she gets? What? You’re not what? Go on, say it.”

  “Please, Genie, stop. Please.”

  “Don’t call me Genie! My name’s Huge! Fucking Huge! Got it?”

  “Okay, Huge.”

  “Okay? Jesus Christ, Stacy! Is that all you can say? No, you can say more; you have more to say. So say it.”

  “But I’m not supposed to—”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. You’re not supposed to what?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  A backbreaking chill rattled down my spine. My lungs were hot and full, my veins flooded and throbbed, and blood or waves or bass drums thundered in my ears. I didn’t want to think it. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to take it. I was slipping already; I knew it. It was coming on fast and it wouldn’t take much … or long.

  “Can’t we just drop it? Please, Huge? Like forget it and sit back down? Please?”

  Stacy had clasped her hands beneath her chin, pleading, shaking, and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see her face. But it was too late, way too late, and with my eyes closed I saw it anyway: Stacy and Razor alone in the dark, up close … touching.

  I wasn’t by the reservoir anymore. I was standing on the edge of a muddy, mile-high cliff in the dark, and the ground beneath my feet was starting to give way. I was ruined, devastated. I was wrong about her, totally wrong, and starting to fall. I wasn’t thinking, I couldn’t, but I heard the question—why’d you do it, Stacy, why, with him?—in the weakest and most pathetic voice I ever could’ve spoken.

  Stacy took a half-step backward, then froze in her tracks; a shaft of moonlight illumined her face. Her eyes were squinted and a touch too spread out; her cheeks were a little too high and a little too sharp; there was nothing
wrong with her nose except it was always bunched up; she had gapped front teeth, a slight under bite, and a mouth too wide by a fraction; there were three popped-zit scars on her forehead and one on her chin; her hair was dyed cheaply black and poorly cut; she was short and scrawny and dressed like a tart; and she was the girl, the thirteen-year-old girl, who’d just broken my heart. She’d killed me, but she was afraid now, very afraid. I saw it in her sad hazel eyes.

  I looked down, swallowed hard, and said, “Why, Stacy? Why with him? Tell me the truth.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and looked lost and alone. She dropped her face and kicked the ground.

  “Why, Stacy?”

  “But I’m not supposed to—”

  “We’ve covered that already. Why?”

  Stacy shifted her feet, still holding herself, and sighed a heavy, defeated sigh. She raised her head, looked at me finally, and said, “He made me do it.”

  “What?”

  “Razor made me do it,” she repeated. She wasn’t looking down or away or anywhere else but at me.

  “What do you mean, he made you do it?” I was getting hotter around the neck and face again. “How?”

  “He said he’d tell if I didn’t do it.”

  “Tell? Tell what?”

  “What he wanted me to do with him, and more—things that I didn’t do, things that I wouldn’t do—but he said he’d tell everyone that I’d done them anyway, and tell them to tell everyone else, and they’d believe him and he’d do it, too, but he wouldn’t if I…”

  The moon was distant now and dim; it seemed much darker. Something inside me was wounded, crawling, dying, but I’d already come this far, so I had to press on. “But why?”

  “Because he’s a baby and a coward and a liar and he tells you he really likes you and wants to be boyfriend and girlfriend and gets all horny and grabs at you and just like whines and begs and won’t stop until you feel sorry and do what he wants and I hate him.” Stacy’s cheeks were flushed; she was still holding herself, but she’d balled her hands into fists. “I hate him. I wish I’d never met him or talked to him or …”