Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser

sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I said this all gentleman-like.
    “No worries,” she said, brushing her hair from her face and sitting up on the bed.
    I sat down next to her, real close. So close that I smelled her cheap-ass perfume. Same perfume the last whore I was with wore. Lust or Flirt or something like that. I put my hand on her knee, and she didn’t move it away.
    I leaned in next to her ear. “You know,” I whispered, “you can read all the poetry you want, but that’s not going to keep your legs closed.”
    Now she moved to the other end of the bed. Fast. Her face went white. “I’m not like that.” She said it quietly.
    “Maybe not now, but you’re like that. Trust me.”
    She stared at me, her eyes tearing. She sniffled. A tear fell down her cheek.
    Damn. I hate it when girls cry. Only bastards don’t have weak spots for that. “Hey, hey,” I said softly. “Don’t do that. Look, I’m not judging. You’re not a one-guy-at-a-time kind of girl. More power to you. I just don’t think that’s what Kyle needs.” I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. I smiled at her.
    She smiled back, uncertain. I leaned in, kissed her. Her body went all rigid but she didn’t move away. “See?” I said, pulling back, leaving her looking confused, embarrassed, guilty. “Cheating comes naturally, doesn’t it?”
    “Oh my God! Oh my God!” She just kept repeating that, and then jumped up, ran to the door.
    I grabbed her hand in the hallway, just as I heard Kyle coming back. “It’s okay to be a whore,” I whispered. “Just don’t pretend you’re something you’re not.”
    She snatched her hand away and ran, Kyle calling after her. I tried explaining that I did him a favor, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Ungrateful shit.

Kyle
     
    H anging out with Julie has stopped being easy, now that you have to monitor every move, wonder about every touch. An arm around her isn’t playful anymore. You find yourself stopping, thinking too much. You’re not clueless, like Alex thinks. You know how girls act around guys they like. You know what Julie is doing. You just don’t want it.
    The sky darkens, and she talks about going to the swings. Her voice is hopeful, and you have to squash the hope. “I’m tired,” you say, which is true. You’re tired of Spit. Tired of avoiding Julie’s fingers each time she lingers on a pile. You’re tired of losing the game because you’re too busy watching her hands and where they’ll go before you commit to a pile.
    “All right then,” she says too quickly, like she’s trying to be noncommittal. “Rest up. We have a Spit rematch tomorrow.” She hesitates for a minute, like she’s waiting for a hug. You used to say good-bye with hugs. You almost reach for her, but that would give her the wrong idea. “Later,” she finally says, and gives a small wave before running into her cottage.
    You feel regret and relief. Then from behind you hear, “Nice work, pussy,” and there’s no more relief. Just regret and fear.
    “Leave me alone,” you say, but when has Alex ever listened? You turn your back to him and head toward the creek. Your dad once showed you how to skip stones on the water. Today you want to make up your own rules. You focus on distance, on the biggest splash. You feel Alex behind you and don’t turn around. You grab a rock and this time you hold it tight. You feel it dig into your palm and it’s all you can do not to heave it at Alex’s head. Anger radiates in all directions, and it’s like in comic books where the hero is surrounded by an invincible bubble. Your bubble is red. You squeeze your eyes shut and push the anger down. The bubble lightens to yellow but it’s still there. You hear his breath behind you and try to calm down. For yourself, not for him. He has enough power over you. He must sense you’re not you, must sense something is off, because he waits to speak until you’ve let go of the rock and slumped against a tree