A Life of Bright Ideas by Sandra Kring Page A

was to boys they planned to marry after they graduated. I only knew two girls who had sex with pretty much anybody, and the raunchy nicknames their behavior earned them was enough to scorch a person’s eardrums. But Winnalee? When Uncle Rudy let out a cussword when he whacked his thumb with a hammer, Aunt Verdella scolded him because I was standing nearby. “Kids don’t do what they’re told, they do what they see,” she said to him: I knew what Winnalee had seen.
    “Weren’t you afraid of picking up VD?”
    “That’s what antibiotics and these are for,” she said, giving the packet of rubbers a toss back into her bag.
    As uneasy as I was over hearing that Winnalee wasn’t a virgin anymore, I wished I wasn’t too embarrassed to ask her if it hurt bad the first time, because I was worried that I’d cry on my wedding night if it hurt. And I’d ask her how much she bled, because I thought it would be embarrassing and scary to turn into a bloody mess. I wanted to ask her, too, if she was embarrassed to show her naked body to guys she didn’t evenknow, much less love (though I could pretty much guess what her answer to
that
would be) and if sex was as fun as guys made it sound.
    Winnalee watched me as she rooted through the army bag she used for a purse, her eyes narrowing to slits, her smile widening. “I can’t believe you’ve never done it.”
    “I came close, but no,” I said, even though I knew that letting a twenty-year-old feel me up a little and giving Dougie Beemer a few tight-lipped kisses on prom night didn’t exactly meet the criteria of “coming close.”
    “Man, Button. You gotta ease up a little. Get with the groove.”
    I guess she wanted me to learn how to loosen up quickly, too, because when her hand came out of her bag, she was holding a pack of Kools. She flipped the lid and pulled out a stubby homemade cigarette. The paper was twisted, the ends pinched—just how Penny had described the rolled joint she’d seen once. I blinked in horror.
    I wanted to beg her not to light it in the house (or anywhere on our property, for that matter) because Boohoo or Aunt Verdella could pop over at any time. But I was already looking like a nerd, so instead I just sat stiff and quiet as Winnalee tucked her legs Indian-style on the bed and ignited a match. She sucked hard and held her breath until her face turned red, then blew out a small puff of smoke that smelled like molding hay. Not exactly an unpleasant odor, but still I yanked the window behind me open, and cleared my throat as I wondered just how much a person had to inhale before they got high.
    “You want a toke?” she asked, holding it out. I shook my head in tight little jerks. Winnalee just shrugged, took another drag, and stacked the bed pillows behind her and leaned back.
    “You’re a lot like your ma,” she said lazily. I instantly felt a stab of guilt for cringing at her words. “You’re prettier,though,” she added, which gave me a moment’s relief, then another layer of guilt.
    “You’re a lot like yours, too,” I said.
    Winnalee’s eyes, pink as Bazooka, spit open. “You’re crazy. I’m
nothing
like that holier-than-thou hypocrite! You remember her, Button. She was fun-lovin’ and free. Didn’t let anyone rip her up or tell her how to live. Now she acts like a frikken nun! She’s always harping about ‘kids these days,’ and she says she’s not sleeping with another guy until she’s in love and there’s a ring on her finger. Can you believe it?”
    Of course I could believe it. I was waiting for the same things.
    “Like what? It’s a prize to be somebody’s
Mrs
.? I mean, think about it.
You’re
Mrs. So-and-so … what about the guy? You don’t see him having to give up his identity when he gets married, do you? It’s bullshit.”
    I looked down at my fingers, tangled on legs that didn’t look so bad when I was sitting and they were spread out to the normal width of a thigh. Every bridal gown I worked