Eric - Section 1

This starts out as just the story of a slightly depressed rich girl in a slightly rural town -- but a little further in you can tell that it's a whole lot more. I find I'm really good with skanky stories like this -- I once wrote a short story about a brother and sister who slept together and then got together, but I also find that about four months later when I reread it, it seems rather stupid. So, again, no one has read this, and I'm ready for any kind of feedback, just please make it constructive.

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Trinity...

I would never have looked at those jeans, those eighty dollar jeans, covered in factory-made holes, tears and bleach splotches, and guessed where his body had been, what he had done.

Maybe it was his jeans. Always the same -- tears and tatters made by machines,
no sign of real wear. He wore everything only once or twice. Ever. Wore it to school,
home, to dinner, then out to party -- went home, took it off, sent it to the back of his
closet, and went shopping again. But he didn’t wear his clothes. They just laid on
his skin, like they had been placed on his body, but he wasn’t really wearing them.
They were so clean, so unwrinkled, so new, and fit so perfectly.

And his muscles -- the muscles that filled his clothes in so perfectly -- not an ounce
of extra anything anywhere -- and he worked for it. He was always working out,
always dieting, never lazy. He never sat still. Of course, he could have still been on
a guilt trip from his elementary school days when he was fat. It seemed like it
disappeared over one summer, between fourth and fifth grade. I can still remember
everything from that point on -- you know how you kind of wake up all of a sudden,
and that’s when your memories kick in? Mine kicked in when Eric got skinny.

I’m going to tell you about it, but I’m going to tell it like a story; I’m only going to write what I knew at the time… not what he told me later.

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The first day of fifth grade was muggy, humid and hot. Of course, our school was
too poor to afford air conditioning, so everyone had a fan on, and all the fat teachers
were fanning themselves with empty folders. The school seemed to emit a dull roar.

I remember my outfit. I had on a pair of jeans I was so proud of -- I had saved up two
months of allowance to get them. I got them at Wal-Mart for $11.95. They were a
very dark blue and flared out at the feet. I thought they were so stylish, and all the
other girls would be envious of my fashionable jeans. My shirt was one my
grandmother had gotten me -- my grandmother who dripped money, oozed quarters,
and spoke in tens and twenties. Aw, you folded my laundry, Trinity! Here’s a
twenty, go buy yourself a candy bar or something. Whatever you kids do with
twenty dollars.

It was a name brand shirt. I was really proud of that. It was pink and fit my flat-
chested, skinny, model-like figure perfectly. It had bold brown felt letters sewn
across the chest that said Abercrombie & Fitch.

I had expensive shoes on, too. They were flipflops my grandmother had gotten me
and had decorated letters spelling Hollister underneath my foot. They were really
thick, about two inches, I think, and were a little too big for me because they didn’t
carry my size.

My hair was considered straight then, before the days of every girl owning a flat
iron. I hated it. All the girls had long, kinky, frizzy, blonde hair parted too far onto
one side. I parted mine onto one side, my right, I think, but it was flat, clean and
mostly straight and smooth. People thought it was pretty, just not the image of cool.

My mom dropped me off at the front of the school with everyone else who were cool
enough to have their parents drop them off. Only the poor kids rode buses because
their parents didn’t love them. Poor kids didn’t love anybody, and nobody loved
them. Their parents never let them have sleepovers and they never wore lipgloss
and they wore the same sneakers all year long.

The car behind me let out a very attractive boy. I did a double take. He looked
familiar. Oh my God, I thought. Is that Eric?

It was. He looked at me standing there on the sidewalk, and grinned.

I didn’t ask anything, I just looked at him. He joined me and we walked in
together. “Fat camp,” he explained.

He was skinny. Not too skinny, just fifth-grader skinny. His hair was a bit too long,
a grown-out bowl cut, but it looked nice on him -- just his nice, scruffy look that he’d
always had -- not greasy, dirty or anything -- just scruffy. He was wearing nice
clothes, an Abercrombie shirt, expensive looking Nike sneakers, and cute jeans. Of
course, that was because his mom, a single, tan, blonde, beautiful young woman,
was a gold digger, dated men, got their money, and moved on. They lived in the
best house in town -- this huge white house with four stories, the top floor a
furnished attic, the bottom a furnished basement. Eric’s mom’s last boyfriend
helped them install a kitchen in the basement and buy furniture, a huge widescreen
TV, and it was where Eric had parties. The top floor was Eric’s bedroom -- one huge
room with gabled windows and a wooden floor. His own TV, a huge bed, his own
computer, clothes everywhere -- and none of it was really his. That was one thing I
always thought about, never voiced, but was always on my mind -- they weren’t his.
Not even gifts, not even anything -- bought by his mom with the money of poor,
seduced lawyers and doctors. It was almost like he was stealing from them -- not
his mother, but her boyfriends. Her doctor boyfriends, her lawyer boyfriends, her
executive director boyfriends, her gynecologist boyfriends.

We compared our schedules as we walked through the hallway. We didn’t have
anything to worry about. The school being as small as it was, the only thing we
didn’t have together was PE.

“I wonder what the teachers are like this year,” he said.

I scoffed. “I’m more worried about the kids. I mean, if you lost two hundred pounds,
who knows what Kenny’s like now.”

He smiled, baring his crooked teeth. “Or Brooklyn.”

I groaned. Though we were only in fifth grade, Brooklyn was the whore in the
making. She grew huge knockers in only fourth grade, and at sleepovers she was
always making sure we all saw her in her bra, her beautiful satin bra, which was
almost a B cup, she said, and only a 30 around. She let boys touch her boobs,
grab her butt, and make obscene gestures. She laughed, giggled, flirted, touched
back. It made me kind of sick to my stomach.

We got in a fight once, towards the end of fourth grade. I had just cracked. “You’re
white trash!” I had yelled. “You’re a whore, and you’re going to get pregnant before
you’re even in high school!”

“Well, Trinity, if you were pretty,” she said softly, her eyes like steel, “and boys paid
attention to you, you’d act the same way. But it’s okay, because you’re not pretty.
I’m still your friend, though, because I feel sorry for you.”

I still don’t think she understands that no one likes a slut. She didn’t, and still
doesn’t mean any more than one of those plastic pussies you can buy out of
catalogs to anyone.

Then we saw who was unmistakably Kenny walking towards us from the door going
outside. He walked to school.

He made me really sad. As I got older, I kept worrying I’d do something with him -- for him -- just because I felt so sorry for him and he made me feel so deeply, chronically sad.

His hair was short, sandy, and scraggly. He was and always had been extremely
skinny, freckly, muscular, and slightly tan, his skin almost matching his hair. He
had very pretty eyes, a dark green with no speckles of other colors. He was really
poor, his house barely a shack -- his dad was an alcoholic who was never home,
his mom a druggie who was never home. But he did good, he was always clean,
and he was Eric’s best friend, and was therefore guaranteed immortal popularity
and respect even though he never had money on soda Fridays.

He cussed a lot. He was also obsessed with Brooklyn’s boobs, which she let him
do whatever he wanted with willingly. He was the most sexually mature boy in fifth
grade -- or so I thought at the time. But that was because I didn’t really know Eric.
No one did.

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Our first class was American History. The teacher was evil. She gave us assigned seats, alphabetically, by our last names. I had to sit between Craig and Brooklyn.
Perfect. I got to pass their notes back and forth.

It started about five minutes into class.

“Pass this to Brooklyn,” Craig whispered while Mrs. Bryant had her back turned,
writing something on the chalkboard and talking about the class rules. I sighed, but
passed it.

About six passes later, neither Craig nor Brooklyn was looking at me, and I
carefully unfolded the piece of paper and started reading it innocently. I want to fuck
you, the first line read. I swallowed. I want to fuck you too. Then, Will you suck my
dick? Brooklyn had responded, If you suck my tits.

I folded it back up quickly, my neck growing warm, and put it into Craig’s lap. I
thought I hit something hard. Does he have a cell phone in his pocket? Unfair! I
wondered, and turned back to him. But it wasn’t a cell phone. Something hard was
poking up against his expensive looking jeans. I felt my stomach fall a few inches
as I realized what it was. He saw me looking and grinned. I turned away quickly and
started reading rule number one over and over. Do your own work, do your own
work, do your own work…

I kept passing their notes, but never opened it again, although a tiny part of me told
me to.

Second period was math, with a young male teacher. As soon as we walked in,
Brooklyn seemed to melt. “Isn’t he soo cute?” she asked me, smiling brightly and
wrinkling her nose.

“Sure,” I said.

Pick your seats, the board read. Brooklyn sat down in the corner by his desk, and
waved at me to join her. I had a seat next to her. Craig sat behind her, Eric sat
behind me, Kenny beside Eric, Marshall in front of Kenny, and on and on, everyone
with money on our side of the room. A few boys with their big binders of Chinese
trading cards and glasses walked in with their dumpy girlfriends with long stringy
hair and sat in the far corner of the room, oohing and aahing over their card
collections which had grown by one hundred something over the summer.

I felt like gagging as one pushed the other’s glasses up his nose and giggled, his visible whiteheads crumpling with his dimples. I turned back to Brooklyn. At least she didn’t hurt my eyes.

Brooklyn had long, blonde, kinky and frizzy hair -- she had the hair I wanted, the natural darker highlights, swooped onto one side. She had beautiful, slightly tan skin. She had pretty arms, too. I hated my arms. I had little kid arms. My forearms were a little chubby at the elbow and there was a small crease in my skin. She didn’t have that. And my wrists were a little fat. I always wore a pony tail holder on my wrist, but when I bent my wrist at all a certain way, my skin eased up either side of it. Her arms didn’t do that. And she always had fake nails on. I stared at my nails. They were a little long and were nicely pained a light pink color, but nothing compared to her French-tipped plastic ones.

Finally the tardy bell rang, and Brooklyn stopped pretending to accidentally touch Craig’s lap and turned around in her seat, much to Eric’s disappointment, as he had expected a show. So had Kenny, apparently.

Brooklyn’s boobs. She was a C cup now, she’d told me, and her doctor said she was done growing already. “I’m supposed to start my period soon, too,” she’d told me that morning. “I can’t wait!” She was wearing a skin tight brand name shirt kind of like mine, but hers was Aeropostale or Roxy or something. Her boobs stuck out what looked like about four or five inches, the shirt fitting her like a glove. She had on a lot of bracelets, pretty brown seashells and beads, and a couple long dangly necklaces to match. She had on big silver hoops like my mom’s. I felt my ears with my hands. I had on small blue studs. I was wearing a locket my dad had gotten me the year before, with a picture of myself as a baby in it. I felt so small compared to her. I felt like I was going to crumple in my seat.

I came out of my trance suddenly as I felt someone touching my back. It was Eric, trying to hand me a note. I turned around to take it. “It’s for you,” he mouthed.

“Me?” I asked, surprised. He nodded.

I turned back around and quietly unfolded it. A re you going to be a goody-goody this year too? was written in his beautiful, curvy handwriting.

I don’t know, I wrote back.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It’s supposed to mean that it depends.

I heard him sigh. He didn’t write back.

A few minutes later, though, I felt him playing with my hair. I considered turning
around and telling him to stop, or telling the teacher on him, but it felt nice. I felt
myself tingle a little bit, and didn’t do anything. He was sort of pushing and tugging,
his warm fingers sometimes touching my neck. I closed my eyes for a second, slightly annoyed with myself, slightly trying to contain myself as I felt something tingle between my legs. Is this what Brooklyn meant? I wondered. About how if I were pretty and boys were nice to me I’d feel the same way and do the same things?

“Okay,” Mr. Rowland was saying. “Get out your books and turn to page five. We’re
going to take a pop quiz!” He grinned as the class groaned. Eric took his hand out
of my hair to get his book. I bent over to get it out from under my desk, but his foot
was in my way. I looked around the other side and both his feet were blocking the
basket. He had put his feet completely around my desk and was slouched down in
his desk, his book -- and hand -- resting in his lap.

I turned around. “Can you move your feet so I can get my book?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

I sighed. “Please?”

“Depends,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, dropping my eyes from his. “Can I just get my book?”

“You’re no fun,” he said, sitting up.

I got my book and felt like crawling into a hole. I had never acted like Brooklyn. I didn’t know how to start. So while everyone else -- or the nerds, at least -- were taking their pop quiz like they were supposed to, I wrote a note to Brooklyn.

Hey Brooklyn--
You know how you told me last year if I were pretty and boys paid attention to me I’d understand you? Well, they are, and I do now -- but I don’t know how to act like you do. Can you give me some tips or something? I think Eric likes me or something and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t want him to get mad at me, because then all the guys will.
Trinity

I tapped my foot and she turned towards me, her beautiful hair swinging. I handed her the note. She took it and smiled. I started on the quiz.

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I didn’t get a response from Brooklyn until lunch. I had been dreading lunch. Even worse would be fifth hour PE, though, I tried to console myself.

There were two cafeterias -- one had been added on, one was the old one, back
from when my mom went to school there. The kids still with one teacher, first
through fourth grade, sat in the old one, and fifth through eighth sat in the other
cafeteria. The highschoolers ate during fifth hour.

I was kind of late to lunch because I’d had to use the bathroom, and the cool tables
had pretty much already been designated. We weren’t really organized by grade,
but by social class. The preps and jocks from fifth through eighth grade were all
crammed into two tables at the far side of the cafeteria by the trash cans, and I saw
Brooklyn and Eric over there, so I went to join them.

“Good, you’re here,” said Brooklyn breathlessly. “I’ve had to work hard to save this
seat.” She handed me the answer to my letter as I sat down. I felt my stomach roll
over as I sat between her and Eric. At least I wasn’t by Craig, though. He was on
the other side of Brooklyn. I pocketed the letter.

“Hey,” said Eric, smiling at me. I still wasn’t used to his definitely slimmer figure --
the way his shirt rested nicely above his belt, all excess weight gone. Can you lose
weight that fast? I found myself wondering. He had been huge. Gigantic huge. But
now he was pretty hot.

I kind of froze after I thought that. I felt like cursing at myself. Don’t think that about
him, I kept telling myself as we got dismissed to go through the lunch line and get
our food.

While I was trying to fight my way through my nauseously limp salad I felt
something touch my leg. I looked under the table to see who had bumped me.
Some brown Adio skateboard shoes were all over mine. I frowned and looked up
and across the table. Some eighth grade guy with shaggy hair I didn’t know was
grinning at me. I felt like screaming. Was every day, all year, going to be like this?
Wouldn’t anybody leave me alone?

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Hey Trinity!
Well, I’m glad you’ve come around. I’ll be glad to help you out with guys. What are friends for? Anyway, call me tonight or I’ll talk to you at Eric’s party. It’s pretty easy -- just all those little things that guys want you to do like when you’re flirting and stuff, actually do them! Then they’ll like you. It’s not that hard.
Love ya!
Brooklyn

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PE was horrible. I walked in the door to the locker room knowing that. It was full of busty older girls who I knew would all like me, all would think I was so cool, but it didn’t keep me from feeling out of place, feeling ugly, as I eyed their hair, jewelry, shoes, clothes and boobs.

Brooklyn was always telling me how lucky I was to be so skinny, that most guys
liked girls built like models, that’s why models looked like they did, that she was
fat -- but she wasn’t fat. She looked grown-up. She had curves -- beautiful hips, legs
that had filled out, underwear that fit her perfectly -- mine were loose and had extra
wrinkles where my butt was supposed to be. My sports bra was almost entirely flat against my chest -- I had two small knots that had sprouted over the summer, but that was all. I only wore one because everyone else was. My stomach was flat and my hipbones protruded and looked like weapons. I eyed myself in the mirror and gritted my teeth.

Seventh hour was fine, I guess. I sat by the usual people -- the extremely preppy
group -- Brooklyn, Kenny, Eric and Craig -- although I would have just as happily
hung out with the Chinese trading card people, had there not been the nausea
problem.

The class itself was fine -- the English teacher was like a hawk and within fifteen
minutes of that teacher well knew we’d get away with nothing in her class. It was
the end of the class that was terrible. There were two bells at our school, the first
signaling those who rode buses, the second for those who got rides, because we
had to wait until the buses cleared the parking lot before our parents could come.
So for about eight minutes, it was rather uncomfortable.

The teacher left to make copies and left us alone in her room. Brooklyn and Craig immediately took advantage of this, and I found myself as the only other girl in the class. I swallowed, having no idea as to what was going to happen. Kenny and Eric immediately turned towards me, though. I inched away from Craig and Trinity with my binder, purse and blue Adidas backpack, not wanting to be a part of their giggle-and-touch game and towards Eric and Kenny. It was better than Craig, anyway.
Eric sort of just looked at me. “You’re still a goody-goody this year, aren’t you,” he said finally. I shrugged. My day had been horrible, and was pretty close to crying. His being mean to me wasn’t going to help that much.

“Are you okay?” he asked suddenly.

I sniffed, trying my hardest to hold back tears. I but my bottom lip, hard, because I
could feel them gathering in the back of my nose. I looked at the floor and moved
my foot a little bit. I felt my shoulders crumpling. He took a step closer. I saw his
clean sneakers about one inch away from mine. “Are you crying?” he asked, really
quiet.

I took a deep breath and looked up, my eyes full of tears. He looked surprised, a bit
taken aback, and a tad horrified. “Is it me?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. I swallowed and stopped crying in
time to avoid sobbing, and wiped my eyes with my thumb, bottling it back up like I
later became so good at.

Eric still looked concerned, which actually made me feel a little better. Maybe he
wasn’t so mad at me after all.

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After school everyone made plans to meet at Eric’s for two main reasons: His mom was never home, and his house was pretty. And, of course, he was Eric.
Mostly everyone disliked Eric, which was a bit odd. But he was the most popular boy in fifth grade, because of his money and his basic attitude about everything. The only problem was he hadn’t adopted the charisma he would later in life -- whether it was authentic or not, I don’t know, but whatever it was, he hadn’t learned it yet. He was just an eleven year old boy, a bit too mature for his age, but more in some ways than others.

I asked my mom if I could go to Brooklyn’s house. She said sure, as long as I got a
ride. So I called Brooklyn and told her I could go to Eric’s party if she got me a ride.
She said okay, she’d be over in a little bit.

She walked over, to my surprise. “To help you pick an outfit and do your hair and
makeup and stuff,” she explained, smiling. “My mom said to call when we’re ready.”

She had brought some hair mousse, a round brush, and her bag of makeup. “We’re
going to make you really pretty,” she told me. “But first let’s turn on some music
and pick your clothes.” We turned the radio on and we picked an outfit. She picked
out a denim miniskirt that I’d gotten from my grandma and never worn because I
thought it was too skanky. I told Brooklyn that. She told me that was exactly why I
was going to wear it as she ripped the tags off.

“You need some boots to go with it,” she told me, searching through my closet. “Do
you have any cowboy boots?”

“Yeah,” I said, hopping off the bed. I found them and put them on with the skirt.

“Now we need a shirt,” she said, her lips pursed as she glanced over my room. “Do
you have something like with ruffles or something?”

I dug out my brown shirt that had a huge, swooping neck with a lot of extra fabric. It
was really tight, even on me, except for the three yards of brown around my neck.

“Ooh, that’s pretty,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she smiled.

Next she put mousse in my hair while I held my head upside down and then she
blow-dried it into place, my part even farther over than I usually put it.

“At least it’s got more volume,” I said, extremely happy with it.

“Yeah,” said Brooklyn happily. “It looks so cool! Even though it’s not curly it looks
really cute, Trinity.”

Then she did my makeup. She put on foundation, lipgloss, and dark brown
eyeshadow and a little bit of brown eyeliner. I liked the makeup. I wondered if
maybe I should start wearing some every day like she did.

Then we went downstairs and called her mom to come get us.

I tried not too look too close at Brooklyn’s slutty outfit as we waited on my porch. I
knew mine wasn’t any better.

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When we got there almost everyone was already there. Eric, Kenny, Craig, Marshall, Arnie, Rebecca, Gabriel and Stan were all there, in the basement, with the stereo cranked up. Eric had put pink light bulbs in all the lamps and lights, making the room a deep red color. It was actually pretty cool. He greeted me warmly, but there was something in his eyes that scared me. He looked kind of ruffled, his eyes messed up -- I want to say haunted, but I don’t know if that’s the right word… but at the time I figured it was my fault, because we hadn’t gotten along too much that day.

He didn’t seem to get over it, either. He ended up just acting out because of it. He downed the most of his mom’s wine coolers, he groped Brooklyn the most, outdoing even Craig, had the biggest boner, head banged the most, said the most obscene things. It kind of ruined the party for me. I had mostly only gone because of Eric and how I’d felt about him at the end of the school day. The way he said he was sorry really sincerely, the way he’d made me feel when he played with my hair in math -- but it was gone, the look in his eyes was there now, and it had taken him over.

Only Gabriel and Kenny paid any attention to me during the party. It was kind of fun, I guess, but Kenny kept kind of hitting on me and it just made me feel sad and kind of dirty. I ended up getting a ride home with Rebecca, because Brooklyn
wasn’t leaving any time soon.

The next day at school started out interestingly. Brooklyn looked wide-eyed, calm
and kind of scared. I wrote her a note in American history and asked her what was
wrong.

I lost my virginity, she wrote back.

To who? Craig?

No, she answered. That’s why he’s mad and isn’t writing me any notes.

Who was it?

Eric.

I didn’t answer. I gritted my teeth and felt all the muscles in my legs tighten. I kept
calling her a whore in my head, but I knew if I was her I’d have done the same thing.

I went to the bathroom between history and math and washed off the makeup I’d
had my mother get me the day before. I didn’t want to look like a whore like she did.

She tried to talk to me in math, too, but I didn’t even look at her.

Eric passed me a note but I didn’t answer. It said something like Why did you wash
your makeup off? It was pretty.

I didn’t answer his note, but when he started playing with my hair and neck again, I
didn’t do anything. I just enjoyed the tingling traveling between my belly button and
knees.

By the end of the day, it seemed like everyone knew about Eric and Brooklyn. It
seemed like everyone was hitting on her, too much even for her to handle. I smiled
inwardly. She had it coming, I thought.

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Over the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I had to go stay with my
grandparents so my mom could work and I wouldn’t have to stay at home all day.
Over the summer I changed a bit. I spent a lot of time thinking about what had
happened to Brooklyn the year before… she slept with Eric, but didn’t stop there.
She just seemed to have some kind of inside programming that told her to embrace
whore. So she did. After Eric it was some eighth grade guy, then Craig got un-mad
at her and she slept with him, Kenny, Gabriel, Stan… But all the girls thought it
was so awesome. That same day in PE, I remember some eighth grader asking
how it was, and how if she were younger she would do Eric. Then she moved on to blow jobs…

Anyway, over that summer I made a commitment. People would like me for me, not
because I would open my legs for any guy who came wandering along. I would be
smart, popular and beautiful, but not a whore. Never a whore. Erased were all my
thoughts of Eric, his soft hands, and the way he apologized to me -- if he had cared
about me, meant anything, he wouldn’t have fucked Brooklyn, no matter how many
wine coolers he had, no matter what had happened to him to leave that crazed look
in his eye.

My grandma, a beautiful shopaholic, took me to the nearby mall about three times
a week. I milked it for everything it was worth. I came back home a week before
school started with nearly four times what I had taken. I had enough clothes to wear
everything once that school year, which I grinned just thinking about. I was up to
Eric’s level now.

I still had no chest and was built like a model -- in fact, my grandmother a workout
and nutrition freak, skinny like me, had less food than I did at home. At home we
would have ice cream or chips while we watched TV -- Grandma had a vegetable
platter and ranch dressing. Low fat, of course. And she sometimes watched TV
from the comfort of her stationary bicycle. I learned her habits and toned my
thinness -- replacing loose thin arms with gently carved arms, thighs and hips. My
grandma also took me tanning and for $350 bought me a five-year certificate for that
particular tanning salon chain so I could tan when I got home. We bleached my
dark hair and got dark lowlights put in and stocked me up on makeup. I reveled in
being beautiful and having all these nice things and being away from the weird
people at home for awhile -- no Brooklyn talking about sex, Eric talking about sex,
Kenny cursing to a point where it hurt my stomach -- just me and my grandma,
shopping, swimming, tanning and hanging out.

Then I went home and started school and tried my hardest to get back into the
swing of everything again, as much is it hurt.

The first day of school came with a bang. Everyone was basically the same -- well,
nearly. Kenny had stayed with Eric over the summer, and had gotten a shitload of
new clothes, grown his hair out, and he and Eric had dyed theirs -- Eric went
blonde, Kenny went black. Kenny’s was just shaggy and hung in his eyes, but
Eric’s he put some effort into and swooped to one side so it would be kind of out of
his face. He had lost more weight, which I hadn’t thought possible, but had also
toned it up, making him extremely attractive. He had also somehow convinced his
mother to let him get his tongue pierced, and had also at last got braces. His sense
of style was a bit more defined -- he was like a rebellious rich boy -- kind of skater /
punk looking -- but still undeniably rich. Like black Abercrombie shirts. That kind of
thing.

Brooklyn had gotten a perm put into her hair and it was curlier than ever. Other than that, she hadn’t changed. She just looked a little bit older.

The most drastically different were me and Eric, though.

He wasn’t skin and bone. He was muscle and bone. But he was so skinny -- it
honestly frightened me for the first week or two of school how skinny he was. His
hips and elbows jutted out like mine, his collarbone visible.

Sometimes he had that haunted, crazed look in his eyes, usually on Monday. I
didn’t know what caused it, if anyone else noticed, or if I was the only one who
didn’t know why he was like that. He wasn’t like that all the time, but when he was,
I knew to stay away from him. That’s how he had been when he and Brooklyn slept
together, she had told me, and she also said it was kind of scary and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to do it, but he had convinced her.

I wasn’t sure if I believed her, but we stayed superficial friends. We had to be
friends, after all. We were the two most popular girls in the grade. We couldn’t get
mad at each other. We had been best friends since preschool.

Eric’s first party of the year was the second week of school, on a Friday. Everyone
had told their parents that they were staying at so-and-so’s house, so it was an all-
nighter, which meant eventually everyone would end up crashing on a couch or bed
somewhere, and some people would get busy. I was a bit apprehensive, but went
anyway, happy with the newfound confidence I had in myself.

I hung out with Brooklyn most of the time, but Eric, who was drinking something
with Kenny across the room, kept eyeing me. Eventually, after Brooklyn went of
somewhere with someone, I found myself walking leisurely towards Eric. He
grinned, baring his braces, and offered me a wine cooler.

“It took you long enough,” he said, opening it for me. “She’s over there getting busy
and you’re trying to look like you’re having fun. Are you trying to avoid me?”

I smiled and shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’m tired of standing up, though.”

He stood up, since he’d been leaning on a counter, and he, Kenny and I walked
over to a nearly empty couch. I ended up between them, which made me even more
nervous.

Eric took a drink. “I’m going to ask you this even though I don’t expect an answer,”
he said slowly. I looked at him expectantly. “Are you going to be a goody-goody
this year too?” he asked, smiling.

I sighed and laughed slightly. “Yep,” I said, lifting an eyebrow a little. “Not a huge
one, but… yeah.”

He took another drink. “How much of one?”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” I informed him. “Or suck your dick.”

He looked taken aback, but amused. “Okay,” he said, hiding a smile. “Will you
make out with me, though?”

I pretended to be considering him. “Maybe,” I answered finally. “I said not too much
of a goody-goody, right?”

“Right,” he said, smiling his gorgeous smile again.

I ended up falling asleep in his lap around three in the morning. I didn’t want to fall
asleep there, but Kenny fell asleep on my legs, and Eric was playing with my hair
and it felt really good, so I went ahead and stayed there.

About four o’ clock, I heard a door somewhere open and someone come down the
basement stairs. My eyes flew open and I could tell in the dim light from one remaining lamp from the blonde hair and orange tan that it was Eric’s mom.
“Eric,” I heard her whisper. “Eric, wake up.” I felt him stir a little bit and pull his hands out of my hair. “Eric, come here.” I heard him sigh, long and heavy. It sounded sad to me.

“Okay,” he whispered. He got up slowly, taking care with my head and shoulders. After he got up he seemed to hesitate, and touched my hair one more time before he left. I hid a happy smile as I heard him going upstairs with his mom.

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He came back about a half hour later, kind of disoriented and dizzy. I was still awake and could see and hear him stumbling slightly in the room as he made his way back to the couch. He moved me gently, and I decided that had I been asleep, that would have woken me up, so I did my best to sit up.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” I answered.

He sat down and looked at me for a minute. “Can you move any closer?” he finally
asked.

“No, Kenny’s on my knees.”

“Okay.”

“Are you okay?” I asked him. He seemed to be taking kind of jolty breaths,

He sighed and leaned back on the couch. “Yeah. Just go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” I said. But something was wrong. I felt the cold in his voice, like he was
discarding me. I curled up as much as I could, but I couldn’t get off his lap, so I put
my hands up by my face and closed my eyes tightly. I fell asleep eventually.

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The next party, I wasn’t nervous, because nothing had happened at the last party. I should have been nervous, though. I fell asleep on Eric again, this time my head on
his shoulder, my legs free. He woke me up around two or three. There was a digital
clock in there, but I don’t remember exactly what time it was.

He woke me up by kneading my stomach softly with his hands. He wasn’t in my
shirt or hurting me, just softly massaging my stomach. It felt really good. He moved
his hands down and up, but never too far either way. But he got so close I almost
wanted him to, but I gritted my teeth out of habit and recited my commitment to
myself. He will like me for me, he will like me for me. He will like me for me, he will
like me for me.

“You awake?” he whispered into my hair.

“Yeah,” I whispered back.

“You know how you said you might make out with me?”

“Yeah…”

“Will you?”

I was quiet a minute. Then I turned my head a bit so I was kind of facing
him. “Yeah,” I whispered really quietly.

He turned his head towards mine and put his lips on mine. He was so warm, so soft
with his hands, his lips… I kissed him back, and I felt his tongue against my teeth,
then touching my tongue. He moved the hand on my stomach down a little farther,
and though it felt really good, I forced myself to break the kiss. “Don’t,” I whispered,
taking a deep breath.

He sighed and sat back up. He took his hands off me completely.

“Why not?” he asked finally.

“What?”

“What’s so wrong with it?”

“I want people to like me for me,” I said slowly.

“I do,” he said. “That’s why I want you.”

There was something urgent in his voice that scared me. He wasn’t lying, but he
wasn’t telling the truth, either. I sighed and resigned myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I
can’t.”

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The last day of sixth grade was supposed to be Eric’s biggest party. He had invited the majority of the sixth grade except the Chinese trading card people. The music was louder, the drinks were stronger, and everyone was horny.

I sat on a couch in a corner by myself. This is sixth grade, I thought. Why is
everyone acting like they’re already in highschool? We should still think that the
other sex has cooties. We should still be putting glue in milk, not condoms in
lockers. We should be giving each other makeovers, not head. We should be
playing tag, not spin the bottle.

I had some abstract hope in my mind that people like Brooklyn had thought that at
some point in time but had given up. I didn’t want to believe that people like her
were just born that way, and always would be that way. That’s because really, deep
down, I like her. I just feel sorry for her and all the shit she’s done, or felt like she’s
had to do. I think there’s more to her, that she has more substance, it’s just hidden
very well. She has never opened up to me. Never. She’ll call me about hot guys, but
she won’t call me and cry. I have never seen her cry. I wonder if she even cries at
all.

Anyway, Eric was all over me the whole time. But that I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind
the small touches, occasional gentle gropes -- that was fine. It was when he got
urgent, erratic and hard. When his breathing got uneven, when his eyes traveled
over my body with something else in mind, when his touches got hard, got violent --
when I would lean against him and feel something hard yearning for my leg -- that’s
when my stomach churned, when my neck got warm.

Anyway, I fell asleep next to him on the couch, but laying down in a kind of
compromising position. I’m not sure how I fell asleep that way, but that’s the way I
woke up. I woke up at two in the morning and he was laying behind me, his arm on
my waist, his hips barely touching me, his breath in my hair. I woke up because he
was getting adventurous with his hand. He was traveling up and down my stomach,
occasionally grabbing my whole breast, apparently not caring if I was asleep or not,
sometimes going down my leg and up my skirt a little bit. He never went too far, but maybe that’s because he couldn’t without moving. I could tell he wanted to.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Just touching you,” he whispered back calmly, his fingers on my thigh, a mere two
inches away from my underwear.

That’s when I realized where his other hand was. It was underneath my neck, on
my shoulder. If I tried to move, he could stop me. And if I knew him at all, he would.

I swallowed. “Can you stop?”

He sniffed. “No.”

I closed my eyes.

He moved closer, that horrible hard bulge that felt like a stick pressed against me,
his muscles pressed against my back, his mouth on my neck. I could hear his
breathing deepen as his hand inched even further up my leg. Without thinking, I fell
for what he was trying to do. Trying to escape his hand, I pushed myself into him,
my head on his shoulder, my butt right into his dick. I heard him groan quietly. His
left hand tightened around me.

I breathed through my teeth and struggled softly, trying not to push too hard so he wouldn’t be able to tell I was struggling.

I knew I was no match for him, though.

Suddenly he got out from under me and pushed me onto my back. He leaned over
on top of me and pushed my skirt up.

“Eric, don’t,” I said, but it wasn’t in a whisper

“Shut up,” he whispered, his breathing really heavy.

He yanked my underwear down to my knees and I made a noise. I don’t know if it
was a whimper or a shriek, but I made a noise. I heard him undo his belt and pants,
panting, and then I felt his warm legs against mine as he shoved himself into me.

I yelled with pain. Something happened, happened really fast and the next thing I
knew he was on the floor, and I was on the couch, crying into Kenny’s shoulder.

Eric was holding his nose, glaring at me with his hollow eyes.

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...continued in Section 2.