Pretending Normal by Mary Campisi Read Free Book Online

shifted his weight and I couldn’t see the bottle anymore. “When she starts paying the gas bill she’ll remember to close the window.”
    And just like that, Kay became the guilty one.
    ***
    “I think he’s going to give me his class ring.” I am sitting on an old bedspread in the backyard wrapped in night and the scent of roses. “I don’t know for sure, but he told me to try it on the other day, just to see how much bigger his fingers were than mine.” I smile into the night. “But I think he wanted me to feel what it would be like, and I think he wanted to see, too. It’s really big. I would need a huge wad of yarn to make it fit. I’ve been thinking about what color I’d use. Just in case.” I circle my left middle finger—this is where I would wear his ring, right next to my wedding ring finger. “What do you think about pink? I really like him, Mom”—I hesitate—“I mean, I really like him.”
    Two nights later, I am in the backyard again, sprawled on the bedspread, near the old willow tree that’s been here since I was born. Nina is with me. We whisper into the blackness; our very own outdoor confessional.
    “So, did you do anything with him yet?” Nina’s voice thrums with curiosity.
    “ Shh. You want everybody in Norwood to hear you?”
    “Sorry.” She drops to a whisper, “Well?”
    “Well, what?”
    “You and Peter, you know … have you done anything?”
    “We’ve kissed.”
    “That’s not what I mean. Have you done it ?”
    “No.”
    “I heard Suzette Williams has. And so has Barb Koslenski. And Loretta Delaro.”
    “Loretta?”
    “Yeah, good old ‘sit in the first pew at Mass’, Loretta.”
    “With who?”
    “Moose Anstrom.”
    “Gross.”
    “Hmm. So, what about you? Tell me.”
    “We just kiss and stuff.”
    “I know that ; it’s the ‘stuff’ I want to hear about.”
    “Nina —”
    “I won’t tell a soul . Promise.”
    When I say nothing, she blurts out, “God, you let him touch your boobs, didn’t you?”
    “No.” Lie.
    “Come on, Sara. We’re best friends. We tell each other everything, don’t we?”
    Not everything. “Peter’s not like other guys.”
    “He’s still a guy.”
    “He’s different.”
    “People only say that when they’re in love. God, did you tell him you love him?”
    Not yet.
    “Sara? Once you say it, they expect sex. You know that, don’t you? Don’t say it, okay? You haven’t said it yet, have you?”
    “No.”
    “Good. Don’t.” Then, “Listen. Did you hear that?” A low moaning weeps into the blackness.
    “Maybe there’s a raccoon caught in one of Mr. Peterson’s traps.”
    “It sounds human,” Nina whispers, her fingernails gouging my arm.
    The pitch surges, split s the night wide open with spurts of pain.
    “What should we do?”
    I fumble around for Nina’s flashlight. “I’m going to see what’s going on.” I flick the switch and a glimmer of light shoots through the yard.
    “I’ll wait here in case you need me to run for help,” Nina says, her voice small.
    The moaning drags me toward the blackberry bushes at the edge of our property. The branches are thick and prickly and it’s hard to see. “Who’s there?” I jerk the flashlight between the tiny gaps in the brush.
    “No … no…”
    “Conchetta? What happened?” Conchetta Andolotti is partially hidden under branches of blackberry bush, her white shirt smudged black, her face stained with tears and dirt. The single braid she always wears is now a thick, black snarl. “Conchetta?”
    “No .” She drags her head from side to side, coating her face with more dirt.
    “What is it?” Nina is behind me now. “Conchetta?”
    Conchetta Andolotti has never been our friend. Who can be friends with a girl who packs garlic slivers between her salami sandwiches and wears old lady Playtex bras? Nina says she’s a Roma tomato with hairy pits. I say she’s a walking bruise because the only colors she ever wears are black and blue. But here