The Left Side of the Moon

The Cowboy

He sported a backwards baseball cap, sports jersey and baggy jeans riding low on his hips that revealed more than a glimpse of the plaid boxers beneath them. The mustache seemed out of place on his youthful face and there was a devilish gleam in his eyes as he eyed her up and down. He moved with cockiness, there was a self-assured swagger in the way he walked, even though he was using crutches and limping slightly.

She watched him enter the room and turned back to her suitcase without acknowledging him, dismissing him immediately, thinking maybe there was a chance he might be smart enough to recognize a hint when he saw one. He wasn't.

"Hey there, I'm Jesse. And what might your name be, gorgeous?" he drawled with a thick Texan accent.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she turned around. He looked at her hungrily, practically licking his lips. She found him simultaneously unnerving and irritating. He was obviously roaming the floors prowling for girls. There weren't many to be found at the conference, she'd only seen a few since she'd arrived an hour ago. He seemed to be pleased to find a female that might help him spend some free time.

He was obviously barking up the wrong Yankee tree. She smiled politely, but tightly.

"Veronica. Nice to meet you," she stepped forward and shook his hand, then moved across the room from him, keeping the distance between them a great as possible.

He moved forward, ignoring her attempt move away. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face and his touch made her shiver instinctively. She couldn't believe his audacity to come up and touch a complete stranger without so much as a hesitation. She exhaled a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and closed her eyes for moment, moving back a step, regaining her composure. This was ridiculous. She didn't know this guy, knew she did not want to know this guy, but somehow her body seemed to disagree with her.

"So a girl like you must have a boyfriend back home, hunh?"

"No," she responded without thinking it over first, "No boyfriend."

Damn it! Why did she automatically respond with the truthful answer? It would have been so much easier if she'd lied and said there was a big, strapping football player waiting for her back home. Not that she even liked big, strapping football players, but that was entirely beside the point. She ran her fingers through her hair nervously, then caught herself and stopped. He had her rattled. She didn't like to be rattled. She stared him evenly in the eyes, wanting him to know that she would hold her own with him. He seemed amused. He knew the effect he was having on her, could probably read her every movement like a book. Well, she could read him just fine too.

"But I wouldn't doubt you have a girlfriend or three back home," she challenged.

She didn't like players any better than she liked jocks. In fact, maybe even liked them less, that was debatable. Either way, she wanted to make it clear that she recognized him for exactly what he was and that he was wasting his time with her. She wasn't interested in finding herself a future baby-daddy. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd already managed to accomplish this with a few girls that were unfortunately more gullible than herself.

A slow, easy smile made its way across his face. Not exactly the impact she was hoping for.

"You may be right about that," he admitted. He was talking more to her breasts than he was to her, but now he met her gaze again, and against her will, she felt her knees go a bit weak. He'd taken another step closer and she could smell the faint spiciness of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "But I wouldn't write me off quite yet," he practically whispered in her ear.

A bell started ringing in the hallway, signifying it was time for them to be heading to opening ceremonies. She moved past him, where he had her cornered by the bed. Her heart was racing a bit too fast, and her body seemed to humming in response to having him so close.

"I really don't think I'm your type," she said, searching for a way to convince him to get lost. "And I believe you have somewhere to be, as do I."

"Yes, I'm going," he said, heading towards the door. And she realized with surprise that she had completely forgotten that he was on crutches. "But I'll be back after lights out." He winked at her suggestively. The way he looked at her, it was like he could see her naked already. Like she had absolutely no control over anything.

"What makes you think I'd open the door?" she asked him, trying to re-assert that she had some say in this decision. That in reality, her say was the only one that mattered.

"Well, that's up to you, now isn't it?" he responded, teasingly.

He leaned on his crutches in the doorway, "You should always wear red lipstick. It really brings out your eyes."

Her room mate came walking in just as Jesse left the room.

"Who was that?" Jen asked.

"Oh, just some guy who thinks he's God's gift," she rolled her eyes. Unfortunately, she was not having nearly as easy a time writing him off as she'd like. "He thinks he's coming back here tonight to give me the ride of my life or something."

Jen looked at her confused, "What has he known you, like five minutes?"

"Less," she said, wondering how he'd managed to get under her skin so quickly.

"So, you going to let him?" she asked, raising her eyebrows repeatedly, in a Groucho Marks imitation.

"You're hilarious, truly. You should do stand up."

The humor was completely lost on her at the moment. She wasn't really sure what she was hoping for - him to show up, or not. Part of her was seriously hoping she'd seen the last of him. The other part was wondering if she needed a dry pair of underwear before she left the room.

Temptation

"That make-up is rather outrageous," he tells her.

Her face is painted white, with large black cat eyes, resembling a mask. Her widows peak has been enlarged with black to travel half-way down her forehead in the manner of a vampire. She has broad black triangles that follow her check bones like violent slashes. Her hair has been teased and sprayed to stand practically on end. There are small fangs painted below her lower lip. The effect is frightening and monstrous, which is, of course, the point.

He takes another swig of the beer he's drinking and leans against the wall beside her. She has not seen him in month or so, she doesn't know what has kept him from the theater company during this time. In fact, doesn't know much about him at all. They had initially gotten along rather well. She found him funny and charming, and his interest in her had been rather obvious. But once he found out she was only fifteen, he had definitely kept his distance from her. Not that she'd attempted to hide this fact. She'd told him within the first week they'd met, and it really hadn't occurred to her that he'd be six years her senior. They had hit it off so well, it really was quite a shame. While the difference in their ages is not nearly as much of a problem for her as it is for him, she recognizes the significance of it. For him to touch her is illegal, and what he might expect from her is more than she is ready to give.

"So, screaming like that doesn't make you lose your voice?" he asks.

She only has a small role in the haunted house show they're staging. She screams and dies repeatedly as the groups of people come through over the course of the night. But it's fun and a bit of thrill, nonetheless. They've just wrapped the show for the evening and her throat shows no signs of soreness after the dozen or so blood-curdling screams she's given tonight on top of the ones from the previous several nights.

She laughs, "No, my voice seems to hold up just fine. It's a gift I guess."

He half-smiles, but it quickly fades. There is definitely something off in his mood tonight. He seems agitated as he stands next to her. There's a seriousness in him, a tightness in his face and eyes, that is a noticeable change from his normally cavalier and jovial attitude. Mike is a born performer, avid juggler and loves to make people laugh, but you'd never guess that from his sullen demeanor right now.

He turns to look at her and she quickly glances away, realizing how intensely she'd been studying him. He places the bottle on the ground and stands in front of her, looking at her questioningly, almost visibly arguing with himself. She stares back at him evenly, wondering what he's even doing here talking to her. Not only has it been more than a month since she's seen him, he'd avoided being alone with her in the weeks prior to that. To say he'd given her a wide berth didn't even quite explain it. It was if finding out her age was the equivalent of discovering she was a leper. She had hoped he'd at least be willing to be friendly with her, but he hadn't seemed interested in, or wasn't capable of being her friend.

They stand there for a moment, regarding each other closely and silently, understanding the dilemma between them. He begins to turn away from her, then changes his mind and places his hands firmly on either side of her head, pulling her in close and kissing her deeply.

The taste of beer spreads into her mouth as she returns his kiss. The warmth of his mouth on hers taking away the chill of the cool night air. She stays in this moment, willing herself not to analyze what it means, or more aptly, what she instinctively knows it does not mean. Allowing herself to soften against him, enjoying the passion that had immediately been there between them the first time they met.

She had been leaning against the make-shift wall of the outdoor theater, watching a performance of Dangerous Liaisons. She'd always loved the role of the Marquise de Meurteuil and the actress was seasoned and played it to the nines. How many audience members watched and loved the Marquise? Was it wrong, to admire and find bemusement in the sexual villain of the play? To play such a role, to be so deliciously evil, it must be so much fun.

As she had stood on the darkened platform at the back of the theater, she'd becomes aware that someone was watching her. He had been standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at her, dressed in period costume. She'd glanced at him, taking in the shirt with the ruffles and velvet knickers. It's not every day you see a man in velvet knickers. Then turned her attention back to the performance. The Marquise and the Vicomte were laying out the details of their sinister bet, doing their seductive little dance, each playing on and denying the attraction between them. She had been drawn into the dramatic moment of the play, momentarily forgetting her own audience at the bottom of the stairs, fully expecting that he was just wandering around the theater and would soon be on his way. But when she had turned toward the stairs again, he hadn't moved. In fact, his head had been cocked at precisely the same angle, and he'd been watching her closely.

So, she had walked down the stairs to introduce herself. She had just started volunteering at the theater company and hadn't met too many of the members yet. As she made her way down the stairs, he shook his head at her, seemingly not wanting her to continue. She had ignored him and proceeded to the bottom of the stairs.

"You didn't need to come down. I was enjoying watching you," he'd told her.

"Oh, well, I'm not comfortable being stared at," she had responded, not sure what to make of his honesty. "I'm Veronica, I don't believe we've met."

"Michael, at your service," he'd bowed with a flourish of his arm and kissed her hand.

"I take it you're in the play," she said, smiling.

"Yes, small role. Only part of the second act," he'd explained. "Some of us are going out after the show. Would you like to join us?" he'd asked.

"Okay, but I'd need a ride home afterward," she responded.

"I believe that could be arranged," he'd smiled and winked at her, then headed towards the backstage area.

It had all started so promisingly, so innocently. The shock and horror on his face when she'd told him her age had made his feelings perfectly clear. And just in case she was slow, his avoidance of her would have driven the point home. She understood his response though, because he was a decent guy, and this was the way for a decent guy to behave when discovering the latest woman to have garnered his attention was fifteen-year-old girl. And she admired him for his conviction and acting on his morals, which only made the whole situation more disappointing for her, and made him more attractive to her.

Now she stands here, continuing to kiss him, knowing that he is not himself. Understanding that something or someone has torn down his defenses today, and he is no longer able to resist the temptation of her. She succumbs along with him, giving in to the temptation willingly. His tongue on her neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He kisses her gently this time, she can feel him pulling away now. He presses his forehead against her, eyes still closed, breathing heavily. He stands and looks down at her, his brows furrowed, and she can tell he's regaining his composure now.

"I'm sorry," he says shaking his head. "I didn't mean . . . do you need a ride home?" he asks her.

She nods and he takes her hand and leads her to his car. She knows his offer is being made for gentlemanly reasons. He is not looking to take things further with her, would likely take back the last few minutes if he could. But he can't. So he'll take her home, and deliver her safely, almost apologetically. In front of her house, he leans over and kisses her, chastely this time.

"I wish you were a few years older," he admits honestly.

"I know," she tells him.

She gets out of the car and walks herself to her door, not waiting to see if he would accompany her. She may be new at this, but she does not need anymore of the chaste chivalry he's willing to offer her. Nor, is she ready to see is she can break his moral compass and try to change his mind. It is, after all, one of the qualities she likes most about him. She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, her black and white make-up now streaked across her face. Her pink lips look odd and starkly naked amidst all the paint. She begins to wash and gray streaks run down her face.

Solicited

Fourth period study hall is not a place that she normally stays. She practically always has a pass to the band room, journalism class, the library - but not today. There's a chemistry test she must review for the following period, so today she sits amongst a group of kids she rarely sees, none of whom she knows. This is fine by her, she's not exactly interested in socializing at the moment, or ever really, when it comes to the general adolescent public.

She fiddles with her hoop earring as she studies her periodic table. It's part of a large stapled packet, so full the staple can barely contain it all, and it's full of material she's expected to memorize over the course of the year. God, she hates this packet. She can sit for an hour and memorize one page for a test, and the next day it's gone from her brain as if its refused to hold material its deemed as useless. Her hair is pulled back in a pony tail, her tight black top is cut low and hugs her frame, her jeans are baggy and cinched at the waist with a large black belt. She's wearing the black Nike's with white trim that her mother can't stand, "Black sneakers are for boys." Whatever. She loves to experiment with her look. Baggy jeans and tight top one day, plaid skirt and blouse the next, then follow that with a black lace jumper and purple lipstick and no one has any idea what to make of you. It's like re-inventing herself every day - new style, new attitude, new persona.

"Hey, can I borrow a pencil," the guy seated next to her asks.

She stops fiddling with her earring, and wordlessly reaches into her book bag and pulls out a pencil and hands it to him, barely glancing in his direction. He's a senior by the looks of his facial hair, possibly held back. He looks too old for high school. His curly hair is slicked back and the smell of his Polo cologne is overpowering. Is it possible to wear Polo and not bathe in it? You walk past these guys in the hall and the smell hits you like a brick wall. Do any girls actually find that appealing?

"You're Veronica, aren't you?" he asks. Obviously, the pencil was not the object of his agenda.

"Yes," she replies, continuing to study the sheet in front of her. She has no desire to know this guy or give him the slightest encouragement to continue the conversation.

"So, I heard you like giving blow jobs," he says leaning closer in her direction.

Now, he has her attention. She turns to look at him, stunned and takes in the Cavaricci sweatshirt and gold chain around his neck. It couldn't be clearer if he were wearing a sign that stated "Italian Sleazeball." She knows that rumors are spread about her, that's been going on for years. Most of them started as jokes, but her refusal to debunk them and flair for the not-so-modest dressing of her well-developed figure has fueled the fire. But never has she blatantly been faced with someone who heard and unequivocally believed the rumors, nor has she heard that she enjoys giving head.

She could deny it, it would be the truth. He wouldn't believe her of course, but what difference would that make? Another guy spreading rumors about her and calling her a tease or a bitch isn't going to matter. But the shock of the situation is quickly wearing off, and she's beginning to find this amusing. Here she is, an honor student studying for her chem test being solicited for a blow job. It's hilarious really. Never had a boyfriend, barely any sexual experience to speak of, and this guy thinks she gives head on a regular basis.

"So, do you have plans this afternoon?" he asks, not giving her time to reply to his declaration. She knows the smart thing to do is shut this guy down and fast. Not gently, no niceties. Just rude, effective, direct and to the point. "In your dreams, loser," should do it.

But she doesn't. She is intrigued and almost strangely flattered. Even though she is not attracted to him, truly finds him rather repulsive, she says coyly, "No, no plans this afternoon." As if he's just asked her for help with his homework or to go for a soda.

There is this voice in her head whispering about what a bad idea this is, but she's refusing to listen. She's tired of playing it safe - her days filled with studying, chores, babysitting and rehearsals. Most other girls at her age have boyfriends, date, get past first base. At least this guy presents a break from the monotony, even if that isn't saying much. And her mother would hate this guy, which of course is a bonus.

So she gives him her address and phone number, wondering who this person is that's suddenly taken over her body. And when she goes with him that afternoon, what happens between them is neither intimate nor memorable. She declines to meet him again. There is no reason to. He brings her home and she goes up the stairs to her room and lies on her bed. She is happy to know that all traces of him will soon be gone. She is slightly sickened by the stench of Polo and the taste of him.

A Moment in Time

There are three girls strewn across the bed. The first girl lies on her stomach, her head at the foot of the bed, her arms dangling down toward the floor. Her knees are bent and her feet are bare and swinging back and forth erratically, as if happy to be free of the constraints of socks and shoes. The hue of her hair is just slightly green mixed with the dark brown. The offending Doc Martins and orange ankle socks sit forlornly just beyond the tips of the girl's fingers. The second girl's head rests in the third girl's lap where her hair is being gently stroked. Her hair is long and momentarily jet black, a striking contrast to her bright blue eyes. Her jean clad legs are crossed and stretch across the bed beneath the bare swinging feet. The third girl sits with her head reclined against a pillow and her knees bent, pointed toward the ceiling. Her black skirt has risen high over her dark tights and her eyes are closed as her hand continues absently through the long, silky tendrils, unaware that she's actually doing this. The second girl smiles while she is gently petted, practically purring with contentment, toes wiggling inside her pink Converse sneakers.

They lie here on this warm spring afternoon with the window open and the breeze drifting over them, the sun marking it's slow descent on the bedroom carpet. There is music playing as they lie quietly listening, lackadaisical in the luxuriousness of their little cocoon. Clothes, magazines, tapes and books are strewn across the floor, bulging book backs tossed carelessly in the corner, temporarily and gratefully abandoned and forgotten. On other days there might be gossip and chatting, phone calls and homework, dates to prepare for and shifts at work to attend. But today, there is just this room, the music and the three girls enjoying the peace and solitude together.

There have been countless afternoons such as these shared between the three girls - watching movies, listening to music, discussing the days events. But these coveted afternoons are numbered as high school graduation draws closer. The girls are keenly aware, even now hidden away from the world, that their adolescence is almost over. SAT's have been taken, college acceptance letters have arrived, financial aid forms have been filed. The truth is, these times spent together just the three of them have already become more sparse. There are boyfriends, after school jobs, and preparations to be made, responsibilities they must fulfill. They are growing up and growing apart, becoming the women they have spent so much time preparing to become, that they have helped each other to be. They have shared tears and broken hearts, first kisses and manic crushes, bad hair days and put-a-bag-over-your-head days, complained about their parents and celebrated their achievements, a virginity or two has already been lost. It is hard for them to accept that a day will come soon where they will not see or speak to each other every day. When they may still be a phone call away from each other, but no longer within a short driving distance or even the same state. All too soon there will be careers and babies, husbands and new homes, new friends, successes and failures - and they will not be there to share them.

But on this sunny afternoon they are still just girls, consciously holding on to this carefree moment. Knowing they cannot keep it, that it is drifting away from them while their toes are wiggling and the music is playing. There is just a sliver of sunlight still visible on the carpet and they are still quietly watching this palpable marching of time, willing it to stop for them just for a moment.

And The Winner Is . . .

It is 7:45 am and she is sitting at her desk with her head resting on her arms. First period study hall - great for studying, homework or sleeping when you have not properly roused yourself yet. Her hair is still damp from her shower and she has been awake less than an hour. Play rehearsal ran late last night and by the time she got home and finished her math homework it was almost one in the morning. Could Quadratic Equations be any more painfully tedious? She is tired, rarely getting to bed before the wee hours of the morning lately. She's barely making her 10:30 curfew on weeknights, either working or at play rehearsal most nights until after 10 pm or sometimes later (her parents will allow concessions with the rehearsals). Then it's time for studying and homework, gotta at least make a half-hearted attempt at keeping up that G.P.A.

And weekends, well she does her best to stay out until her 12:30 curfew. These are supposed to be the best years of her life, are they not? She must take advantage. And the less time spent at home with nagging parents who fight constantly and her younger brother and sister who seem intent on making their presence as annoying and intrusive as possible, the better. Her sister has even been wearing her underwear lately? Why on earth would you wear someone else's underwear? It's not like her sister doesn't have any underwear of her own, and seeing she's made a point to write her name in ALL of her underwear it's not like there's any confusion.

She sighs loudly and closes her eyes. She doesn't want to think about her sister right now. Nor does she want to do any further studying at the moment. She should sleep, but her mind will not let rest. Either that or it's the damn fluorescent lights that are keeping her awake. God, they're bright even when you have your eyes closed. There are girls whispering in back of her. She can hear her name and Amanda's being mentioned together. Great. She doesn't know Amanda, has no classes with Amanda, has no friends or extra-curricular activities in common with Amanda. She knows Amanda only by name and until recently, only knew that because her father is a teacher at the school. The only thing that now connects her to Amanda is Damien, Amanda's not-so-ex-boyfriend. You'd really think that would be yesterday's news by now. It must be a slow gossip week.

It was months ago. She had gone to a CYO dance with a friend and the night had gotten rather interesting. She's rather certain that Damien and another boy, Brian, had a bet going on her that night. The bet must have consisted of who was going to get further with her or something to that effect, because they both came onto her rather aggressively. Not that they were rude, but their constant attention, one asking her to dance and then the other, and then there had been their suspicious skulking in the corner together - she wasn't blind or stupid. They'd been something up. And she knew that she should have been insulted, that any other girl, a good girl anyway, would have confronted them on it. But she's never been like the other girls and rather enjoyed the attention and was curious to see how the night would unfold.

Brian had been a bit more determined and forceful with her than Damien, and at one point he had picked her up, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her into a back room. They had kissed, but she refused to let him go any further, constantly pushing his roaming hands away from her breasts and ass. He was only the second boy she had kissed and she wasn't quite ready to allow him access to her body. And they were in the basement of church for God's sakes. Not that she was religious or anything, but somehow being felt up in a church still didn't sit right with her. He took it well enough, was playful in trying to coax her further. She found him amusing, really. He told her a joke and made her laugh while he kissed her. But she was well aware that he was not looking for anything more than to hook up with her just for the moment, which was fine by her. She was not looking for a boyfriend. She appreciated the direct and candid way he let her know exactly what he wanted from her and that he mostly respected her boundaries, if trying to push them a bit. And soon enough they were kicked out of the back room by a chaperon and Brian seemed to move on to greener pastures. There might after all, be a girl easier than her at the dance. Or perhaps his time was up and it was Damien's turn with her, because it was not long before he found her again. Damien had asked her to take a walk outside with him.

She did not really keep up with the latest gossip, who was dating whom. She had her small, but close group of friends and outside of them she could really care less what everyone else was doing. Besides, they all switched partners so often they might as well have been square dancing. She just didn't understand how you could cry real tears after the boy you'd been dating for a week broke up with you. Especially when he'd probably broken up with your friend to date you the week before. Wasn't the whole point of adolescence to date and kiss a bunch of people and gain some experience anyway? Hopefully they're not all screwing each other because that would be great breading ground for STD's. Maybe they're all sharing syphilis or gonorrhea. Yeah baby, feel the love. But she does not live so much under a rock not know that Damien is Amanda's boyfriend. "Aren't you going out with Amanda?" she had asked him.

And of course he had lied to her and said no, that they had broken up. This story had seemed plausible. He was at a dance sans said girlfriend. And really, would it have mattered if he had told her the truth? She honestly didn't know. He had leaned into her and kissed her slowly. Damien was a good kisser, his lips were soft and light, and for the first time she had not felt like she was being mauled in one way or another. Kissing him was like a tall, cool glass of lemonade. He tasted sweetly of Dentyne gum. His tongue in her mouth was teasing and left her wanting more, rather than almost gagging her. They had kissed for while and then had walked back to the dance. He had not tried to grope her. He had played the act of the gentleman better than any she had experienced before and then he had turned out to be the biggest liar and cad. She had not spoken to him again after that night. She had not expected him to date her, as she had been aware that she had been the pawn in some game. Obviously, his intentions could not have been honorable. But why act as if they were then? Why lie to her about Amanda? Why kiss her at a dance when Amanda would surely hear about it? She had been surprised to see him walking down the hall with his arm around Amanda the following week. Amanda had not confronted her, only glared at her whenever they passed one another in the hall. She couldn't blame her really, but perhaps her anger would be better directed at her boyfriend.

So to hear the girls whispering about Amanda and herself can only mean they're talking about her indiscretion with Damien. Yes, she is a slut. She has kissed another girl's boyfriend. Big deal. You'd think the term would be more aptly be directed at the girls who fucked their boyfriends and then switched partners every other week. How many guys do you'd think they'd slept with by the end of the school year? At least she was only kissing them. Sampling the market, in her mind. Not that she was frigid or disinterested in sex. No, she was very interested. But no one had seemed right to her yet. She detested the boys like Damien who put on an act with her. The type of boy that will profess his undying love to you on the first date, hoping it will get you to drop your panties only to dump you a week later telling you, "It's not you, it's him."

She had much more respect for boys like Brian, who played no games, were honest with you about what they wanted and promised to show you a good time. She really didn't doubt he could, but still there was something missing. The passion she had felt with that first kiss. Perhaps not passion driven by quite so much anger and hostility. And that was over anyway. Funny, how all it took was that one kiss for her to put him out of her mind almost completely. She had kissed him several times after that, but it had been rather anti-climactic. Wasn't it possible to find the honesty, the fun and the attraction all with one guy. She had yet to find it.

The bell rings and still she sits, not wanting to move ahead in the day. A blonde girl is now standing in front of her and her friend stands, books clutched to her chest, a few steps behind. They're the two that had been whispering about her. The blonde girl's face is pinched and the tag-a-long giggles nervously. They are both dressed in the latest fashions, their looks complete with mascara and earrings, matching shoes. She glances down at the black lace jumper and leggings she threw on from her floor this morning and momentarily wishes she were more pulled together. "You know," the blonde says, " Damien only kissed you on a bet. He really loves Amanda," she states. Her tone is superior and the words are weilded like a weapon. They are meant to draw blood.

The smile on her face is saccarine. "Is that so?" she asks rhetorically. Her eyebrows are raised in mock surprise. She rises and pulls her book bag over her shoulder, buying time to forumulate an appropriate retort. "Then what I'd really like to know is, what I'm really curious about is," she pauses dramatically, "Did he win?" she asks, simply.

Her sarcarsm and cavalier response has the effect she had desired and both girls are staring at her, mouths open. She starts to walk out of the room and then thinks better of it and turns back. "Tell Amanda that I really hope that things work out for her and Damien," she says innocently. "He's a really great kisser."

And this she knows will not help her reputation. It is her sharp tongue, dripping with sarcarsm that has all the girls hating her more than anything else. She doesn't understand them though, and so the hatred is almost cherished by her. And anyway, it's just so easy to make them squirm.

The First Kiss

She can feel his eyes on her as she stands behind the cash register. As she looks up, he looks quickly away, as if he has been caught in a forbidden act. She watches him for a moment as he returns to his work behind the deli counter but he does not turn around to look at her again. He is tall and very thin, clean cut. He is not the sort of boy that would normally garner her attention, yet she pauses longer than she would have expected of herself.

She returns to stocking the cigarettes behind the counter. One plus of this job is that she will no longer have a problem being carded when she wants to buy cigarettes. She knows she shouldn't smoke, hell doesn't everyone know they shouldn't smoke. But sometimes she can't help it. It is the same reason she drinks and smokes pot. The anger and frustration sometimes makes her want to claw her own eyes out. It makes her desperate for something, anything to distract her from the inferno that begins to rage within.

A smile begins to play upon her lips. There are other ways she has also discovered that will deaden the feelings of chaos that eat away at her. How is it that she went from never being kissed to giving a blow job in one weeks time? And not with the same boy mind you, there were three in that one week when there had never been any before. If you were going to have a reputation you might as well make use of it, right? Her reputation had been borne out of nothing but a curvaceous body that no sixteen year-old had the right possessing. Not that the body had suddenly happened at sixteen. No, it had unfortunately started at twelve. It had made her popular with the boys at school only in the way that they taunted and teased her, wondering if her breasts were real or if she stuffed. Seriously, who stuffs to a D-cup at thirteen? But somewhere along the line the taunting had transfered to rumors that she was easy. She wondered how these rumors had proliferated all these years when she had never even kissed a boy. Who was it that she was supposedly fucking?

Well, now there were some factual stories to add to the good old rumor mill. She had never attempted asserting to her taunters that she was a virgin. Honestly, she'd rather they kept up with the rumors that she was a slut than know the embarrassing truth that she had her first kiss at fifteen. It had happened, oh about six months ago now, and like everything in her life, it was not what she had anticipated. She had had a crush on the boy for years, but was too shy to do more than flirt with him. He was a year older, in the band with her. It was not that he was particularly gorgeous, but the charisma that permeated from him. He was wild in so many ways that she wished she could be. In ways that she actually tried to behave, but afterward she always still managed to find herself grounded in reality and never completely able to let go. Even the times that she drank and and got high, she always knew to keep a level enough head to feign sobriety and make it home in time for her curfew. You couldn't completely lose yourself when you struggled to keep the facade of honor roll student and obedient daughter. And as long as she kept up the facade and flew under the radar, well the more she could manage to get away with.

They had been fighting again. Why was it that we're always fighting? But it felt good to fight with him. They fought over anything and nothing. They sat next to each other during band rehearsal, both playing the clarinet, and once for reasons she could not begin to fathom, he took out his lighter and set her jeans on fire. It was only a small singe, but while she put on act of indignance and irritation, she rather enjoyed the excitement of it, the quickening of the pulse, the slight panic in her chest. It was really only appropriate that he be her first kiss after all the times she had closed her eyes and thought of him. But she should have expected how it would really be with him. Why had she ever thought that he would be tender with her? There had never been any tenderness between them. Only teasing, and anger, and passion. His constant ribbing of her on one particular day had been maddening. He would stick his face in front of hers and make faces, talking in a particularly annoying sing-songy voice. She didn't even remember what he'd been saying, it didn't matter. She had warned him to stop, that today she was in no mood. And her mood was foul that day, her head was aching and there was a test looming before her the following period. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted quiet. But he was unrelenting. So she had grabbed hold of his testicles and squeezed as hard as she could. He had fallen to his knees in front of her, momentarily unable to breathe. She had turned and walked away and things had been rather quiet between them for several weeks after that.

She should have anticipated that the kiss would be what it was - another fight between them. There were words spoken with passion and hostility. There were always words between them and they were almost always spoken in anger. It was not so much the words that interested them, but the anger itself that they enjoyed. And then all at once he was on her and she was pinned to the wall. She was rather stunned that he had finally crossed the bridge that had always remained between them. He had her pinned firmly, roughly from head to foot so she could barely move, his hands around her wrists pinning them by her ears. She could feel his erection against her stomach as he forced his way into her mouth. She was not quite sure how to respond. She had wanted to kiss him, had day dreamed of this kiss on numerous occasions, but now she was pinned to a wall and wondering if perhaps she should bite his tongue. His mouth on hers was hard and his teeth knocked painfully against her lip. Then he enveloped her mouth completely with his own and the suction of it took her breath away, as his saliva dripped down her chin.

And then it was over and he was gone. She stood leaning against the wall, her hand tenderly touching her lips and then wiped spit from her face. Her heart was still beating fast but she was strangely calm. She knew now that whatever it had been between them was over. She walked out of the hallway and could feel that the anger had dissipated. She had had her first kiss and she smiled to herself because while it had not been what she had wanted, it had been what she had needed it to be.

"Miss? Can I get pack of Marlboro's and a Power ball Ticket?"

She licks her lips slowly as she is pulled back from her reverie. She rings the customer out and glances at the clock, nine-thirty, half-an-hour to go. She crosses from behind the counter and begins to wipe down the glass on the refrigerated cases with Windex. He is staring at her again. She can feel his eyes on her as she leans over the case. There is a knowing spark in her eyes as she thrusts her ass out more than is necessary while she continues cleaning the glass.