loose by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page B

way Peter had treated me. Why couldn’t I do that? Why couldn’t I hold myself back, stop being so needy? Needy, just like my mom. I turn to look at Amy, the emptiness in my stomach spreading, turning to anger.
    “Look,” I say, “we fooled around a little bit. It’s not a big deal.”
    She shakes her head. “Fine,” she says. “Relax. I don’t really care anyway.” She turns away. “Peter Rafferty’s a big slut. It’s not like you’re going to be his girlfriend now anyway.”
    “I know,” I say, but inside I cringe because, of course, like an idiot, that’s exactly what I had been hoping for.
    When we get home, I go to the bathroom and see two hickeys Peter left on my neck. I touch them, wishing I could keep them there, proof he had wanted me even for a few minutes. But by the time Monday comes, they are mostly faded. I see him only once that week. He walks right by me with a small group of his friends. He doesn’t even say hello.
    K
    b a c k a t t h e West End, Amy and I stand against a wall with our drinks and cigarettes. “Take On Me” by a-ha floats down from hidden speakers. I sway a little to the music. A few guys approach us,

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    but they are ugly or too old. We turn away from them, hoping to look involved in conversation. Soon, another boy and his friend come in and stand near us. I glance over. Not bad. Not bad at all. One is tall and dark-haired. He looks just a little bit like the guy who played opposite Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. Gorgeous. The other one is shorter and stockier with light hair. I angle my body to catch their attention, especially the tall one’s. I laugh loudly at something Amy says, throwing my hair back. When I bring the cigarette to my lips, I look right at him. Our eyes meet, and I see a flicker. I’ve got him.
    That night, we wind up at his place. His name is Paul and he lives in a penthouse apartment on Madison Avenue, not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The apartment itself is like a mu-seum, filled with angled leather furniture, abstracts in primary colors on the wall. The kitchen is pure white—cold, glistening—as though nobody ever goes into it. Only Paul’s room, where I jerk him off sometime before the sun comes up, has some air of comfort to it.
    When Amy and I leave, I write my number on a scratch pad and press it into his hand.
    “You’ll call?” I ask hesitantly.
    “Of course.” He laughs and kisses me on the mouth, surprised by my doubt.
    Sure enough, Paul does call two evenings later, when I am doing homework and watching television in the living room. We chat briefly and I learn more about him. He’s a wrestler at his school, the same school in Riverdale my sister still attends. He’s sixteen and his parents let him drive their Porsche sometimes. He invites me to watch him wrestle next Friday, and I hang up smiling. I have a boyfriend. Dad is in the kitchen, and he comes around to where I’m standing.
    “Who was that?” he asks, seeing my expression.
    “A boy,” I say.
    He smiles, holding a half-eaten sandwich. This is usually how

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    A H o u s e w i t h N o M e n dinner goes with us. You eat what you can find when you’re hungry.
    “Oh, really.” He takes a bite from the sandwich. “What boy is that?”
    “He’s from Tyler’s school. A wrestler.”
    Dad makes a face that means he’s impressed. Is he surprised? I wonder. Does he think I can’t get a nice guy? Then his expression changes, but I can’t read what he’s thinking.
    “What?” I say.
    “Just don’t screw it up.”
    My stomach sinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    He smiles. “You know how you can be.”
    “No,” I say, that hollow feeling spreading. “I don’t.”
    “Bossy,” he says. “Everything has to be your way.”
    “Screw you,” I say. I walk away from him toward my room. Tears prick my eyes.
    “I’m just telling you what boys like,” I hear him call after me.
    I slam my bedroom door