What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [45]
“Oh! Okay.” She tapped Wayne on the shoulder, told him, “We’re just going to the powder room.” And then, pointing to her mouth, “Lipstick.”
I admired Sharla’s quick thinking. It wouldn’t do for him to imagine us excusing ourselves for any other reason. Comfortable as I felt with him, there were limits.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get seats?” I asked, as he came away from the counter. He’d gotten the large-size popcorn, a red-and-white-striped bucket approximately the size of the pail my mother used to scrub floors. I inhaled the yellow smell of butter and salt, content. We would bump knuckles.
“Where do you like to sit?” he asked.
I had no idea. No one had ever asked me.
“Middle section, middle of the row,” Sharla said. “Not behind a bighead or a hat.” Apparently she did think about it. And it came to me that that was why I didn’t; I had always just played the role of the subordinate: the older sister decided, the younger one complied. Usually, with gratitude.
In the bathroom, Sharla pulled me into the corner by the paper-towel dispenser. “Did you get the curse?” she asked, her face close to mine.
I shook my head.
She pulled away, disappointed. “Well, what, then? Hurry up, the cartoon is going to start.”
“What are the numbers on your ticket?” I asked.
“Oh.” She checked her stub, then looked up at me, smiling. “Want to trade?”
“Is it twenty-one?” I asked, my breath coming out through a suddenly narrower passage.
“Bingo.”
I took her stub, gave her mine.
“But are you sure?” she said. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, and we started walking. Then I stopped, took her arm. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
She shook her head.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I’ve hugged,” she said.
“Who?”
“Never mind; come on, I’ll bet it’s already started.”
“Who?”
She sighed. “Steve Golinsky, okay? At Jane O’Connell’s birthday party last month, spin the bottle, but I wouldn’t kiss.”
Steve Golinsky! I tried to think of something remarkable about him. Nothing came to me. He was a quiet boy, average-looking. A member of the chess club, brown tie shoes. But still, Steve Golinsky! my mind insisted, fueled by the image of a kiss.
“Why wouldn’t you kiss?” I asked, a little worried.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I didn’t want to, that’s all.”
I bit my lip, nodded. Steve Golinsky. I understood Sharla not wanting to do anything with him. But Wayne! “Well, I think I’ll do it,” I said. “I will. I’m going to do it.”
“I know.” She shrugged, brushed a piece of hair back from my eyes. “You look pretty.”
We walked out together toward the darkened theater, resolute as soldiers, both of us. This is the beginning, I was thinking. Right here. Of a lot.
We walked home, as we’d assured Jasmine we could. From the sidewalk outside our house, we saw my mother and her in the living room, seated on the sofa. My father’s car was still gone; he was working very late.
When we opened the door, my mother jumped up. “You’re back!” She walked quickly toward us, smoothing her skirt with the flat of her hands.
Sharla rolled her eyes at me.
“Yeah, we’re back,” I said.
“Would you like a snack?”
I looked at Wayne. I thought I knew exactly what he was thinking: why wasn’t she asleep? When would she be?
“We had a lot of popcorn,” Wayne said. “But thanks.” I loved his boy blue jeans. I loved his white shirt and his brown belt, the way he got tiny crinkles around his eyes when he smiled, the way, when he looked down, his lashes made shadows on his cheeks.
Jasmine stood, stretched. “I guess I’ll go on home to bed.”
“It is late,” I said.
Oh, and his teeth were white and straight, his hands warm—I’d held one the entire length of the movie. He had a smell that might have been cologne, but was not, I was sure; it was just him, just an invisible part of him that I wished would be made tangible and pocket-sized, so that I could have it and carry it with me everywhere. I’d walked close beside him all the way home; listened to his smooth, low voice tell jokes, ask questions of Sharla and me, share stories about his life back home. He was the pitcher on his high