Whores on the Hill Page 11

“We were just playing,” I said. “You know.”

  The curtains shifted in the wind. The Virgin Mary and her hypnotic heart refused to blink. Juli bit the ragged ends of her nails bloody, while I listened to my heart race.

  And then Astrid had to go and say, “But guess who we saw? That Florida cowboy, Devin, at Trader. For real. I slipped him my digits.”

  I said, “Really? Wow. That’s great.”

  “So, do you think he’ll call?” Astrid lit a Kool and blew a thin, grey ribbon of smoke out the window. “Do you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I mean, I guess.” I picked up the glass shards from the carpet and cut my finger by accident, smiling through the sting, savoring it.

  Juli looked at me and smiled, like she knew exactly how I was feeling. Which, oddly enough, she did.

  HOW TO BE A LEGEND IN YOUR OWN TIME, INVOLVING LATRINALIA

  There were three girls’ bathrooms at Sacred Heart Holy Angels. Four, if you counted the girls’ locker room in the gym. All of them scrawled over with girls’ cursive script graffiti.

  You could break girls’ graffiti down into three basic categories. Boys’ graffiti was pretty much the same, I gathered, although I’d only seen one boys’ bathroom in my entire lifetime and I wasn’t exactly studying the graffiti. Know what I’m saying? So here’s what I knew:

  Instead of phylum, genus, species, girls’ graffiti filed down like this: Love, Sex, and Inspiration.

  Love (The most basic and boring):

  Brandy and Thomas 2Getha 4Evah.

  Show your boy some class. Don’t write his name while wiping your ass.

  I ♥ Javier.

  Sex:

  Sex is good for your complexion.

  Juli Sung gives great head.

  Astrid Thornton is a Whore on the Hill. Inspiration (Or Philosophy. Depending how seriously you take this kind of thing):

  It’s hard to make a comeback when you haven’t been anywhere.

  I hate calculus.

  If it has tires or testicles, you’re going to have trouble with it.

  You’re too good for him.

  A closed mouth gathers no foot. And a picture of a penis drawn next to it.

  Early February, when we were bored and had nothing better to do, Astrid started her own category. She began carrying a black Sharpie in her blue suede satchel. She carried it everywhere and started inking the bathrooms at Sacred Heart Holy Angels:

  Don’t mess with the Whores on the Hill.

  The Whores on the Hill will fuck you up.

  Be a Whore on the Hill. You know you want to.

  Beware of the Whores on the Hill. They know what you did.

  “Do you have to do that?” I asked.

  “What’s your problem, Jellybean?” Astrid sighed, rolling back her sleeves.

  “I hate that word.”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “Well, buck up, camper.” Astrid smiled. “We can change all that.”

  Slowly, she started penning the walls of all our favorite hangout spots: the Coffee Trader, the Oriental, Metropolis.

  The Whores on the Hill are coming to a town near you.

  Invasion of the Whores on the Hill.

  The Whores on the Hill were here. You missed it.

  Whores . . . not bores.

  Want to be a feminist? Be a Whore on the Hill.

  Got a question? Ask a Whore on the Hill. She knows all.

  Hail Whores, who art in Sacred Heart, hallowed be thy names.

  The Whores on the Hill are God.

  “There,” Astrid said, snapping the cap back on her black Sharpie. “Much better, right?”

  The whole world written with our name.

  BREATHLESS

  Milwaukee didn’t carry much weight in the history department. Just German architecture and a smattering of American Indian merchandise sold cheap. There was even a teepee on Route 12 that sold beaded headdresses with feathers, arrowheads, and lucky pebbles. Astrid’s mom stopped there every Thanksgiving and bought everybody a pair of moccasins for slippers.

  But the Oriental, we loved the Oriental. The only movie house built in the forties, spared by the wrecking ball, the Oriental was the oldest place we’d ever seen in Milwaukee. Hulking and damp, the walls were decorated with bas-relief figures of belly-dancing girls with green glass jewels for eyes and elephants trimmed in red silk thread. Everything was Technicolor at the Oriental. Recessed in the walls of the main theater, three golden Buddhas sat in three different poses: Indian, yoga, and cross-legged. When the lights went out and the movie started playing, you could find your way to the EXIT sign by the light of the Buddhas’ green eyes.

  “Where’s the guy with the really big organ?”

  “I hear he works that incredible organ. Just yanks the shit out of it.”

  Two scruffy guys with spiked hair and matching rattails kicked the backs of our seats on the Oriental’s balcony with the heels of their Vans. One of them sported a rash of white-heads across his forehead. The other carried a beer gut underneath his Metallica T-shirt. We were waiting on a midnight screening of Breathless.

  “I love Jean Seberg,” Astrid whispered. “She’s such a femme fatale. Simply because she can. Because she’s a woman.”

  “You read that in a book,” Juli smirked. “Besides, I can’t stand her. She kills the hero.”

  “Antihero,” Astrid corrected. “You know, it happens.”

  The backs of our seats bounced from the boys behind us. “Jesus,” I whispered, “this shit.”

  The lights dimmed and we waited for the crystal chandelier to fade to blue, then green, then pink. The ceiling of the Oriental was painted to look like the night sky, with little pinprick light sockets for stars and a revolving shade for clouds.

  “He’s pulling out his organ. Oh yeah.”

  The great Wurlitzer rose out of the floor in a sweeping flourish. The loudspeaker crackled, announcing, “The Oriental Theater on Farwell is proud to present: Mr. O’Brien and his mighty Wurlitzer!”

  A disco ball dappled the walls with white flashes of light. Mr. O’Brien swept his hands over the organ keys like he was brushing the dirt out of a rug, up and down. Astrid’s and Juli’s teeth flashed blue in the dappled light, laughing. Organ music rippled through the deserted theater, sweeping us up in a showy rendition of “The Entertainer.” The handful of kids in the crowd cheered and whistled between their teeth.

  We loved the Oriental.

  “Oh baby, yeah baby, Jesus!” The boys behind us leaned between our seats, up close by our bobbing heads, yelling. “I think he’s about to come!”

  I grabbed Astrid’s blue suede satchel, shifted in my seat, and whispered, “I’ll stick my pen in your eyeball, shithead, if you don’t stop it.”

  “Go ahead, try me,” Zit Boy said. “I might like it.”

  “Enough,” a voice said behind us. “Fuck off. Out.”

  We turned around but couldn’t really see anything, just shadows lunging, the backs of bodies, moving like silver. A T-SHIRT ripped. Skin landed on skin. We heard punches land like dropping a sack of oranges. A guy’s pinched scream tore through the theater.

  “Fuck,” we heard. “Jesus. Shit.” And then footsteps scurrying in the dark.

  We looked up and saw three boys, mop-topped and tussled, standing at the end of our row. We could barely make them out in the dark of the theater.

  “H-h-hey,” one of them said, slipping into the seat next to me. “Remember m-me?”

  It’d been just a little over two months since I’d seen him last, at the party over Christmas break. But the dusty-haired, wide-eyed boy smiled in the dark and my heart kicked up its limping, peg-leg beat. Devin smiled and tugged at the leather strap tied at his throat. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Speed racer, right?” I smiled stupidly and stared at the screen.

  “R-right,” he said. “That’s me.”

  Astrid poked her nose over me and extended her hand. “Nice work there, Cowboy. Astrid,
remember?”

  His friends climbed over me and took seats on either side of Astrid and Juli. Devin took the aisle seat next to me, falling into it, and laughing. Astrid whispered, “Wanna switch seats?”

  I just smiled at her, goggle eyed. “No way.”

  My body was electric with heat. I watched Devin out of the corner of my eye, the whole left side of my face felt like it was on fire. Just to be near him. That aquiline nose, lips like split fruit he touched from time to time with the tip of his thumb. He wore a caramel-colored suede jacket, a white T-SHIRT stretched out at the collar, and a soft, ragged black sweater. I couldn’t believe it. He smelled like cigarettes and wood smoke and something else, something sweet and charred. Brown bangs in his brown eyes, the fur of his eyebrows pointing down like arrows.

  The movie started up, all black and white, jazz and jagged edges. Jean-Paul Belmondo loped across the screen in bungled, loose desperation. He touched his girls lightly, by the elbow, by the wrist. He dragged on Paris like a cigarette. That ruined boxer face. I barely even noticed.

  I could feel Astrid hunching on the periphery of my happiness like a big, black bird. But I ignored her, gritted my teeth, and grinned at Devin.

  “Was that you with the metalheads?” I whispered in the dark, and Devin smiled, ducking his head. “But your stutter?”

  “F-f-funny thing. It only kicks in around you,” he said, leaning in close, his eyes enormous and white around the edges, his breath warm as wine.

  “No way.”

  “F-f-for real,” he said, brushing his suede-covered arm against mine on the armrest. I caught my breath and lost it.

  “Liar.”

  “Well.”

  Everything was jazz and magic.

  FIRST KISS

  RAMBO III

  When I was twelve, my date took me to the Oriental to see Sylvester Stallone in Rambo III. He bought a jumbo popcorn and a package of Dots. I thought his 7-Up jacket was really cool. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his fingers flexing like a spaz, trying to work up the nerve to put his hand on my leg, I guess. He never did. He walked me to the door, though, real old-fashioned and nervous. When he kissed me, I could feel his raging hard-on against my thigh. I’d heard about hard-ons, but never felt one before. Go figure. I was surprised. He was such a scrawny, skinny little kid with this thing in his pants, Jesus, the size of a salami. Like those jumbo, salted ones from Mar’s Cheese Castle.

  —Juli Sung, 16,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  BETTER, FASTER, LONGER

  Carlos Martinez used to stop by my house on his bike. He had strong arms the color of tea. I would invite him in for lemonade in summer, Nescafé in winter. This went on for maybe a year. We’d shoot the shit. Every time, every single time, I’m thinking, Goddamn motherfucker. Kiss. Me. Now. My stepfather Padgett’s always making fires, the one and only good thing he does around the house. And one night, the fire was burning steady when Carlos propped his bike against the door. My mom and Padgett went to bed. I boiled water for the Nescafé. We sat down on our backs in front of the fire, just barely touching, side by side. The fire was warm and made me tired. I closed my eyes. I could feel him leaning over me, propped up on one elbow. He whispered, “Can I?” I kept my eyes closed and just smiled this drunken smile. That kiss, Christ, it was like nothing else. I don’t know how he did it. I don’t know what he did. All I remember is a blur of yellow sparks across my eyes. He picked me up, carried me to the couch and we still didn’t stop kissing. Like the marathon of makeout sessions, not even bothering to come up for air. It was like Carlos Martinez was built to love a girl, like that was his job. And the talent on that kid, holy moly.

  —Astrid Thornton, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  SPIN THE DORITOS

  We were, what, ten, eleven? Boy-girl party in Becka White’s basement. Someone said, “Let’s play spin the bottle.” We used Becky’s monster can of Aqua Net hairspray for the bottle. I got stuck, seven minutes in the utility closet, with Ryan Jap-pis, the fat kid everybody called “The Fridge.” He’d been scarfing Cool Ranch Doritos all night long. His tongue moved like a wet, cold rag in my mouth, a wet, cold rag damp with Doritos. For the rest of the night, I felt like I had Cool-Ranch-Dorito face. That everybody could smell it on me, even Becka White’s parents, whose footsteps we could hear over our heads in the kitchen, walking around, like click, click, click.

  —Thisbe Newton, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  THE PERFECT KISS

  My first kiss with my boyfriend Barry was perfect. Really. It was. He took me to dinner at the Merrill Hills Country Club. He wore a white jacket. I wore a shift dress in silver with a purple poppy on the side of it from Express. He said, “You look hot.” Barry ordered the New York strip. I had the fettuccine Alfredo. Barry paid with his dad’s credit card and had to ask me to figure out the tip. He said, “I suck at percentages.” It was so cute. After dinner, Barry asked if he could walk me outside. I said yes. We walked outside and stood at the railing to look over the golf course. You couldn’t really see anything, just shadows. Barry put his arm around my shoulders. He said, “I’m going to kiss you now.” And then he did. I know it’s a cliché, but I went weak in the knees, honestly! And guess what? We’re still together.

  —Quinn Catherine, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  A-HA RECORDS AND BASEBALL FIGURES

  It took forever. I’d been going over to Billy Janks’s house for at least a week. We’d sit in his bedroom and listen to A-Ha records. We sat with our backs to his bunk beds. He’d talk about his parents’ divorce, how he couldn’t believe it. He liked the Brewers, so he’d talk about his favorite players, Rollie Fingers and Paul Molitor. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, I just leaned over and kissed him. He didn’t seem too surprised. Then I sat in his lap. Billy Janks kissed with his teeth. Like he only opened his mouth a sliver and pressed his teeth against my lips. What do you do with that? Maybe he was gay. I mean, seriously.

  —Astrid Thornton, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  NEVER BEEN KISSED

  I’m fifteen years old and I’ve never been kissed. I had a few chances, but it never felt like the right time. The good thing is that I get to dream about how great my first kiss is going to be. I want my first kiss to be perfect. I want my first kiss to be real and honest. I want it to be natural. I want to be kissed for the first time by a guy who really loves me, who’s kissing me for me. I want it to be a kiss that I’ll remember when I’m a hundred years old. I want fireworks. I want romance. I want flowers and stars in the sky. Do you know what I’m saying?

  —Taliferro Moss, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  HONEY, LISTEN

  I’ll remember all my kisses when I’m a hundred. All my kisses are first kisses. Every single last one of them. That’s how it works.

  —Astrid Thornton, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  GOOD WITH HIS HANDS

  I’d been eyeing this hottie skater kid at a party all night long. He had a checkerboard shaved into the back of his head and pale, green eyes. I’d look at him over the beer keg. He’d look at me from across the living room. And it was like that for a while. Somehow, we ended up in the pantry behind the kitchen. He was a little much with the tongue and the flicking, but good with his hands. Like he’d touch my face when he was kissing me. He touched my neck. And I liked that.

  —Juli Sung, 16,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  DREAM LOVER

  His breath on your neck, first. Your hair, the cupped little place behind your ear. It moves over your skin like a wave, just the nearness of him, the fact of him, breathing on your neck. It swells and shakes out, this desire, flooding across your face like the white scuzzy skirt of the sea. He catches his breath. His body, so close, humming, buzzing with life. He finds your lips, brushes your lips with his lips. Soft as snow. You blink hard, fighting to close your eyes. His mouth is firm, his
skin smells like lemons. He swallows your mouth with his mouth, fast, pulling you into him, closer, like a dance, like an embrace. His tongue teases your tongue, discovers the tender places in your mouth. He pulls you, yanks you, deeper and deeper into the mouth of your desire. And then it’s just this: the whole world, yawning, black as a cavern, dark as pitch and just as mysterious. Find your way, dig your way out. I dare you.

  —Deb Scott, location unknown

  DON’T STOP TILL YOU GET ENOUGH

  We met up at the movies by chance, a midnight screening of Breathless. After the movie, everybody straggled down to Ma Fischer’s for coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches. There’s a bowling alley underneath Ma Fischer’s, we could hear the pins being cleared. Devin asked, “Want to see my impressive bowling moves?” By the time we got downstairs, the alley was locked up tight. Instead Devin lined up nine empty Miller High Life pony-necks in the parking lot and we knocked them down with a softball from his car. Astrid kept flirting, flipping her hair and calling Devin “Cowboy.” Still, the weirdest thing, I bowled strike after strike. Everybody was cheering and jumping around. On the last strike, I turned around and there he was, smiling, so close I couldn’t breathe, all golden skin and white teeth. Our lips touched and it was like falling through the sky. We shouldered our way into the shadows behind the parked cars. We couldn’t stop kissing. And now, still, we just can’t stop. It’s so, so good. How do you stop?

  —Thisbe Newton, 15,

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  CARS

  Devin raced cars on Friday nights. Junkers mostly, a souped-up Chevy Nova or his stepdad’s Impala.

  He dragged on a rare Lucky Strike and said, “W-wanna c-come?”

  It was the week after Valentine’s Day and we drove with the windows rolled down despite the cold, Astrid, Juli, and me, our long hair blowing in the wind, past the baseball diamond, the marina, and the frozen cornfields. We drove to the Southside Speedway, where the cars circled each other on a dirt track, chasing their own tails.