Triangles by Ellen Hopkins Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Hopkins
sign. By the time I get to the bar, Grant is already there, better-looking than I recalled. As I nestle beside him, a waitress saunters over with mojitos. I break a smile. “You remembered.” He licks his lips, catlike. Of course.
You are unforgettable. Ka-ching. I was 128/881
beginning to think you weren’t going to call. But I’m really glad you did.
WE SHED ALL PRETENSE QUICKLY
Before we finish the first drink,
it’s clear we’re both here for sex.
When the under-the-table foreplay
becomes too intense, Grant pays
the bill and we walk down the street to a cheap motel. Okay, it’s a dive.
It doesn’t have hourly rates, but by the look of things, it should have.
The room smells of Lysol, and its
elderly carpet is stained with God-
only-knows-what. “Not exactly
five-star. Better check the sheets.” They look okay, are perfumed
with bleach. Guess that’s really all that matters. I make sure the door
is locked, and when I turn around,
Grant is already out of his clothes.
His body is thicker than I expected, and hairier. Just two of the things I have to get over as I strip to skin, crawl into bed next to him, starved for specialized attention. Instead, what I get from this stranger is the 130/881
same sex waiting at home. Missionary.
Ordinary. He comes. I don’t. Done.
I leave him there, dozing. Walk back to my car, past hookers and drug
deals. Feeling cheaper than the room.
SEX WITH A STRANGER
Is an eye-opening experience.
Just when you think you know all
there is to know, come to find out
you ain’t learned everything yet.
No
strings
means doing things your way,
but only if you happen to be
the top. When you’re not, it means
accepting the particular brand of
sex
you’re being offered, mostly
without complaint. That’s when
things can get sticky, and not
just literally. Saying stop
can
be
problematic when your partner
is headlong into orgasm. Asking
for longer or gentler or once more, with feeling, is quite often
disappointing.
Sex with a stranger can fill in
the blanks, but whether or not
you like the turn of phrase
132/881
depends on the stranger.
Marissa
SWIM THERAPY DAY
Is Shelby’s favorite day of the week.
I’d take her more often if I could, but not only is it expensive, it’s hard to get her there by myself. Once
upon a time, Christian helped.
But now it’s pretty much up to me
to load her into the van, strap her into her special bed, drive twenty
miles to the one gym that allows
special therapy programs in their
heated indoor pool. The water
must be very warm because kids
with SMA have lower muscle mass
and tend to chill easily. No chills allowed, and absolutely no head
dips below the surface. Water in
the lungs would be disastrous.
But in the pool, helped only to
float, Shelby is a manta. She can
134/881
move on her own, something
she can do hardly at all, lying flat on her back. When she swims,
she gains the tiniest bit of control.
She transforms. Spreads her wings.
SOMETIMES I SWIM
With her. But today, her physical
therapist instructs her to lift her knees, straighten her legs, bring her arms up in the water. Shelby has no clue
that she is being assessed for progress or failure. All she knows is she’s having fun.
Hello, again. The voice falls over my shoulder, a shadow. How are
things? Your daughter looks happy.
It’s Doug Schneider, another SMA
parent. When Shelby was first diagnosed, and we were struggling to make sense of it all, he and his wife, Ally, were so helpful—
sort of an unofficial support group of two.
“Shelby’s happiest when wet, and she loves Vivian. Hey there, Joey. You ready for a swim?” Joey, who’s type 2 and so less severely impacted than Shelby, nods and holds up a hand. High five.
The gesture comes easily for him,
though the words are difficult.
136/881
“Way to go, little dude. Hey, where’s your mommy today?” Joey shrugs,
and his grin narrows. Doug leans in close to me,
You are unforgettable. Ka-ching. I was 128/881
beginning to think you weren’t going to call. But I’m really glad you did.
WE SHED ALL PRETENSE QUICKLY
Before we finish the first drink,
it’s clear we’re both here for sex.
When the under-the-table foreplay
becomes too intense, Grant pays
the bill and we walk down the street to a cheap motel. Okay, it’s a dive.
It doesn’t have hourly rates, but by the look of things, it should have.
The room smells of Lysol, and its
elderly carpet is stained with God-
only-knows-what. “Not exactly
five-star. Better check the sheets.” They look okay, are perfumed
with bleach. Guess that’s really all that matters. I make sure the door
is locked, and when I turn around,
Grant is already out of his clothes.
His body is thicker than I expected, and hairier. Just two of the things I have to get over as I strip to skin, crawl into bed next to him, starved for specialized attention. Instead, what I get from this stranger is the 130/881
same sex waiting at home. Missionary.
Ordinary. He comes. I don’t. Done.
I leave him there, dozing. Walk back to my car, past hookers and drug
deals. Feeling cheaper than the room.
SEX WITH A STRANGER
Is an eye-opening experience.
Just when you think you know all
there is to know, come to find out
you ain’t learned everything yet.
No
strings
means doing things your way,
but only if you happen to be
the top. When you’re not, it means
accepting the particular brand of
sex
you’re being offered, mostly
without complaint. That’s when
things can get sticky, and not
just literally. Saying stop
can
be
problematic when your partner
is headlong into orgasm. Asking
for longer or gentler or once more, with feeling, is quite often
disappointing.
Sex with a stranger can fill in
the blanks, but whether or not
you like the turn of phrase
132/881
depends on the stranger.
Marissa
SWIM THERAPY DAY
Is Shelby’s favorite day of the week.
I’d take her more often if I could, but not only is it expensive, it’s hard to get her there by myself. Once
upon a time, Christian helped.
But now it’s pretty much up to me
to load her into the van, strap her into her special bed, drive twenty
miles to the one gym that allows
special therapy programs in their
heated indoor pool. The water
must be very warm because kids
with SMA have lower muscle mass
and tend to chill easily. No chills allowed, and absolutely no head
dips below the surface. Water in
the lungs would be disastrous.
But in the pool, helped only to
float, Shelby is a manta. She can
134/881
move on her own, something
she can do hardly at all, lying flat on her back. When she swims,
she gains the tiniest bit of control.
She transforms. Spreads her wings.
SOMETIMES I SWIM
With her. But today, her physical
therapist instructs her to lift her knees, straighten her legs, bring her arms up in the water. Shelby has no clue
that she is being assessed for progress or failure. All she knows is she’s having fun.
Hello, again. The voice falls over my shoulder, a shadow. How are
things? Your daughter looks happy.
It’s Doug Schneider, another SMA
parent. When Shelby was first diagnosed, and we were struggling to make sense of it all, he and his wife, Ally, were so helpful—
sort of an unofficial support group of two.
“Shelby’s happiest when wet, and she loves Vivian. Hey there, Joey. You ready for a swim?” Joey, who’s type 2 and so less severely impacted than Shelby, nods and holds up a hand. High five.
The gesture comes easily for him,
though the words are difficult.
136/881
“Way to go, little dude. Hey, where’s your mommy today?” Joey shrugs,
and his grin narrows. Doug leans in close to me,
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