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The first time she sees her, it's at a party. JJ has never respected the word "no" in his life, and Blondie is gripping her plastic cup tighter with each passing second. The music is loud and the throng of bodies is crushing and sweaty, so Sylvia can't make out what either of them are saying, but she knows the desperate look in the girl's eyes.
She sighs and stubs her Kool out on whatever's closest - the back edge of a ratty old couch, in this case, and makes her way over.
"There you are!" she says, all fake smiles and cheer. She grabs the girl's elbow. Blondie looks confused for a moment, so she adds, "Come on, you can't miss curfew again."
Something clicks and the girl brightens.
"Oh!" she says, grinning. "Right, shit."
She makes a big show of grimacing and apologizing to JJ, who just swears under his breath and wanders off.
Sylvia takes the girl by the elbow and tugs her outside. It's humid as Lilith's cunt out, almost as oppressive as the party inside, but it's quiet. It must be past midnight, all the streetlights have gone dark.
"Thank you," the girl says breathlessly, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear, "I mean, golly, that boy can't take a hint!"
"That's JJ for you," she says, rolling her eyes and fishing out her Kools out of her boot.
The girl reaches into the pocket on her dress and pulls out some matches.
Sylvia studies her in the light of the weed. She ain't dressed like a greaser; she's in a decent green dress and short heels, like she's on the way to church rather than a late-night basement party at Mary's parent's place. But Sylvia looks a little closer and she can start to see the grease in her; her bangs are uneven, like she cut 'em with scissors, and the hem of her dress is fraying in a couple places. Her nails are chipped and short.
"I tried to tell him my grandpa just died and even then, he told me he knew a good way to distract me,” the girl goes on.
Sylvia snorts. "Did he?"
"What?"
"Did he just die?"
She opens her mouth, then ducks her head. "... No," she admits quietly.
Sylvia laughs and holds out the carton.
"You go to Will Rogers?" The girl asks, taking one.
"Yeah," she says, slipping the carton back into her boot.
"I thought so," she says with a smile, "You're Sylvia Richards, right?"
She nods.
"I'm Sandy, Sandy Johnson."
Johnson… She looks kinda familiar, now that she mentions it. She knows the name, at least. They've probably had a class or two together. It's hard not to, in a school that size.
They lapse into silence while they smoke their cigarettes.
“This party is lame,” she says, glaring at a car that goes by, blasting music despite the late hour.
"Let me walk you home," Blondie - Sandy says warmly.
Sylvia hesitates. She doesn't hang out with girls, usually. Too much drama. Or at least, that's what the girls tell her when they inevitably stop talking to her. Not her fault their boyfriends are hot and bad at being boyfriends.
"Come on," Sandy insists, "You rescued me from that bastard, it's the least I can do.
"I – I drove here."
She purses her lips. "Let me walk you to your car, then."
Sylvia sighs. Her mouth still tastes lke rum, spicy and sharp in the back of her throat.
"Fine," she says and starts walkin’. She's pretty sure her butterfly knife has torn a hole in her pantyhose, she can feel the scrape of metal right on her ankle every step she takes. Damn, and she just stole these, too.
They make their way down the street and Sandy reaches for her arm. Sylvia tries to shake her off, but the bitch just holds tighter.
"So, what year are you?" Sandy asks.
Jesus, does she think they're friends now?
"Look, Blondie," she snaps, "It's late and I'm halfway to hungover already, can we can it?"
"Oh," she says softly, "Um, sure, right."
They get out to the car, a junker that isn't worth the effort it takes to not run it over the curb, and Sylvia digs her keys out of her boot. There's a whistle of wind around the corner. Somewhere, a dog barks.
"Um," Sandy says, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, "Thanks again, Sylvia. I guess - I guess I'll see you?"
"Sure," she says, not looking at her.
***
It's a rainy night and there's no fucking reason for them to be out in the middle of the woods like this, not when there are like, four different houses they could be hanging out at instead, inside. But it's Dallas's buddy's birthday, or something, and this is a thing they do, or whatever. This, hanging out on broken couches and lawn chairs around a smelly old fire pit that isn't even lighting because, again, it's fucking raining.
She grabs the Kools out of Dally's jeans pocket.
"Hey, get your own -" he huffs, annoyed, but she just flips him off.
"Shut the fuck up," she says, taking the matches out of her bra.
"I swear to God, Sylvia," he says under his breath, "If you make us leave before he even gets here-"
She can't help it, she snorts.
"You're such a fucking pansy," she says, taking a drag and holding one hand over her lit cigarette because, again, rain, "Oh, Sylvia, I can't miss my boy's birthday, Sylvia, come out to the woods with me, it'll be fun, uhh, it'll make my boy really happy," she whines, mocking.
"I didn't – I don’t sound like that," he hisses. His eyes are blazing. His nostrils flare. Down by his sides, he flexes his fingers.
She grins around her Kool. The only reason she isn't either wiping up a bloody nose or getting fucked senseless right now is because a couple of his buddies have appeared at the edge of the woods.
The one with the stupid name is sandwiched between the short brown one and a girl, who, miracle of miracles, is actually holding an umbrella.
"Praise be!" Sylvia says, rushing over and shouldering her way under the umbrella, kicking the small one out.
"Sylvia!" Dally growls from across the fire pit. She just rolls her eyes.
"My hero," she says, and turns to look into the bright blue eyes of Sandy Johnson.
"Oh!" Sandy breathes, her eyebrows disappearing behind her crooked bangs, "Hey, Sylvia."
The one with the stupid name looks between them, frowning.
"You two, uh, I didn't know you two knew each other."
Beside her, Sandy stiffens. "Oh, well," she says. And, great, Sylvia knows that tone. It's the 'no baby of course I'd never hang out with a tramp like her, I'm a nice girl' sort of saccharinely sweet tone she's so sick of. "She was, uh, the one who got me away from JJ, at that party a few weeks back, you remember?"
Sylvia blinks.
The one with the stupid name blinks.
"Oh," he says, stupidly, "I, uh, I didn't - Thanks, I guess."
She can't even think of something clever to say, too busy staring at Sandy, the little dimple she gets on her cheek when she smiles, which she is right now.
The one with the stupid name clears his throat.
"Well, uh, let's get this party started, shall we?"
Across the way, the fat one is hugging the brown one, slapping him on the back and wishing him a happy birthday.
Dallas approaches him next, his expression going dumb and soft. He scratches the back of his neck and says something that makes brown one laugh. The birthday boy grins and says something that makes Dallas's eyes go wide and he starts to stammer. If it were anyone else who said it, they'd be on the ground, but not him; judging by the gleam in the birthday boy's eyes, he knows it, too.
Oh, the fun Sylvia could have with him.
While Dallas is collecting himself, he reaches into his back pocket, then frowns. His eyes snap to Sylvia.
She grins at him.
He makes a face.
She shakes her head.
He rolls his eyes and stomps over.
"Come on, bitch," he says, not sparing a glance at Sandy.
Sylvia holds the Kools out of reach, smirking.
He sighs.
She raises her eyebrows, waiting.
He glances over his shoulder, where the birthday boy is watching them.
"Fine," he grunts, "I'm a blasted pansy."
She cackles and hands him his cigarettes.
He stomps off back to the other side of the firepit, then lights a Kool and hands it to the birthday boy.
Christ, he really is a fruit, ain't he?
The rain lets up a bit into a drizzle, and the fat one and the one with the stupid name manage to get some kindling going. The short white one and the one with the stupid name start a slap fight.
Beside her, Sandy chuckles.
"So," Sylvia says, leaning closer, "You're dating, uh-" shit, she actually forgot his name.
"Sodapop? Yeah," she looks down at her feet, shy. The umbrella shifts, "He's great."
She grunts in acknowledgement.
It's... not a bad night, she'll admit. The short white one brought a radio that gets surprisingly good service out in the middle of the fucking woods, so they jam to some music. At one point the one with the stupid - Sodapop, she reminds herself, Sodapop takes Sandy by the hand and whisks her off to dance. She laughs and they shimmy for a song or two. She looks... Happy, her face bright and lit up by the fire, which is roaring now. Her cheeks are as round as baby ass and just as cute.
While she's gone, Sylvia is stuck holding the umbrella, watching as Dallas tells the birthday boy some story she can't hear over the music. At one point, the fat one wanders over to her and starts telling her about how he broke his wrist trying to hop a fence.
"That should be the next lesson in gym," she murmurs.
He laughs. "That'd be the one class the greasers don't skip."
She chuckles.
A few songs later, Dallas approaches.
"Hey Two, you makin' moves on my girl?" he asks, although he's flushed and smiling like he's had a few, so he ain't really mad.
"You can't leave a pretty woman unattended," the fat one - Two - reminds him, "Who knows what kinda sharks are in the water."
She touches his shoulder. He turns around to look at her and she holds his gaze a beat too long.
Dallas's expression drops and he glares.
Just then, one of the other guys lets out a whoop. The three of them look up. Across the fire, Sodapop and Sandy are kissing. Nothing dirty, just a tender press of lips that they're both smiling into. They really are the prettiest pair on the East side, all blond hair and freckles. Sodapop's hands go around her back, holding her close - and probably, if her guess is right, feeling for the hook of her bra so he'll know where to reach when he takes it off later. What size does she wear? Christ, can she even shop in department stores with those things, or does she have to go right to the maternity section?
Suddenly there's a hand on her waist.
"C'mon, babe," Dallas says, grinning slyly, "Let's show 'em how it's done." and then he's on her, kissing like he doesn't need to breathe. His hand goes to her ass and squeezes, pulling her against him. The umbrella falls away as she wraps her arms around his neck.
She can feel his excitement through his jeans and if she plays this right, they can be out of here and back in her car in fifteen minutes, tops. She lets out a small moan into his mouth that she knows drives him crazy, then winds a hand into his shaggy hair and pulls.
When he pulls back - yeah, there's that look, she's got him. She grins.
"Hey," she says, softly.
"Hey," he murmurs, low, "You wanna, uh, go for a walk?"
His hands are still on her ass, kneading softly.
She pretends she has to think about it. "Sure."
The guys jeer and tease as they make their exit, but Dallas brushes them all off. Except the birthday boy, Dallas hesitates a breath before turning away from him.
Fucking pansy.
"Have fun," Two teases, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Sylvia snorts.
Dallas flips him off.
On the way out, Sylvia finds herself looking across the firepit at Sandy, who's tucked under Sodapop's arm. Their eyes meet across the fire.
Sylvia winks.
Sandy ducks her head, smiling.
***
"Oh!" she says, pulling at her gum and winding it around her finger, wet and warm, "And after I sucked him off I stole from my mom's liquor cabinet. Although, I dunno if it counts as a stealing since she just leaves 'em on the counter, so, like, it's basically fair game-"
"Sylvia," the priest says with a barely-repressed sigh.
She pops her gum back in her mouth, teeth over skin.
"Father," she says, grinning, "Somethin' wrong?"
This time he does sigh, and it's a beat before he speaks.
"No, my child, please continue."
She rattles off all the sins she can remember from the week: lying to her teachers, using the electricity bill to snort a line, forgetting her evening prayer.
"So, do I gotta do ten Hail Marys or what?" she asks, popping her gum.
"... Have you ever considered not doing things you inevitably have to atone for?"
She huffs a laugh. "Where's the fun in that?" she asks, grinning at the Father through the hazy screen. He's more grey than he was over the summer, when Sylvia decided to take up going to confession again.
"Ten Hail Marys," The Father says after a long pause, "And five acts of contrition."
"You got it, sir." She sticks her leg out under the curtain and starts to get up.
“And Sylvia?"
"Yah?"
"Wear a condom."
She cackles.
She leaves the confessional booth and nearly trips into some ancient grandma with rollers still in her hair, who glares at her and clutches her rosary tighter. Grandma looks her up and down pointedly, eyes lingering on her shirt that's gotten pulled down over her bra.
"I know, sweetheart," Sylvia says with her tongue between her teeth, "You miss your perky days. Your husband does too." She looks pointedly over the old woman's shoulder, where her husband is staring at Sylvia's chest.
The old woman whips around and smacks him in the arm.
Sylvia stands off by the front entrance and stretches, wondering if she has time for a smoke before the mass starts. When she looks up, there's a familiar blonde standing in the entryway.
"Fancy meetin' you here," she says.
Sandy's eyes go wide. "Oh! Sylvia, hi!”
Sandy has an older man on her arm and a walking cane on the other, and when they get to the entrance she stops. She doesn't step forward, just holds the cane out to the guy.
"Thank you, darling," the old guy says, leaning on the walking stick with obvious relief.
"Of course, Papa. I'll be back in an hour to come get you." The man smiles at her so fondly it makes Sylvia want to throw up.
Then, to her surprise, Sandy turns to leave.
Curious, Sylvia frowns and follows her.
The church has four or five concrete steps up front that Sylvia's beefed it on a dozen times, especially when it's rainy. She appreciates the irony every time, the one reason for her bloody knees that she wouldn't have to say a Hail Mary for.
Sandy is lighting a cigarette when she catches up to her.
Sylvia holds out a hand and Sandy gives her one.
"Shouldn't you be inside?" she asks, taking a drag.
"Shouldn't you?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
It's a humid day, threatening rain, and the air is thick, nearly choking out her lighter as she holds it to her weed.
"It's… not really my kind of thing," she says eventually.
Sylvia's other eyebrow goes up, intrigued. "Really?" she asks, "Little goody two shoes like you ain't a church girl?"
Sandy scoffs and half-turns, flicking her ashes into the wind. They float for a moment in the oppressive air.
"Are you?" she glances back to her out of the corner of her eye, "I'm surprised you don't burst into flames when you walk through the door."
"I think the priest would prefer it if I did," she says with a wry grin.
Sandy glances at her and huffs a laugh.
"So you -" she cuts herself off.
"Hm?"
"You really believe in all that - that Jesus junk?" she glances down at Sylvia's chest - probably at her cross, she realizes belatedly, and not where her bra is poking out the top of her shirt.
"Sure," she says with a shrug, fingering her cross. It sticks a little against her skin, "You gotta believe in somethin', right? Somethin' better than -" she gestures, "all this."
A homeless guy, Benny, is seated on a bench across the street. He gives them a toothy grin and a wave. She can smell him when the wind changes direction.
Sandy thinks for a moment. "I guess," she says finally, watching the ashes build on the end of her cigarette.
Sylvia finishes her cigarette right as the church bells start ringing. Shit, she really should get inside. She hikes back up the stairs, turning back once before she opens the door and finds Sandy watching her.
***
Buck's parties kind of suck, like, as a rule. The beer is watered down, he plays too much Hank fuckin' Williams, and someone's always either fucking or snorting a line in the bathroom.
Tonight it's the former, judging by the grunting and squealing coming from the other side of the door. Unless someone is really backed up, of course, but she doubts it.
"Could you, like, fake it it something?" she asks, kicking the door with her boot, "I gotta piss."
The groaning stops for a moment.
"There's - one upstairs -" the girl pants.
"No there ain't," she says, "the toilet's busted. Now - hurry - up -" she punctuates each word with another kick.
There's some muffled swearing and shuffling of clothes, and the guy is says something under his breath that Sylvia doesn't catch. But, thankfully, the door unlatches and swings open a minute later.
"Thank Christ," she says, "I was about to go in the -" and she finds herself face to face with Sandy Johnson.
Sandy Johnson and a guy who is very decidedly not Sodapop. Couldn't even be mistaken for him, not with his broad chest and dark hair. He glares at her as he shoulders past, but Sylvia doesn't even care.
Sandy's cheeks are flushed like a cherub, her hair messed in the back. She has a sheen of sweat on her neck and a red mark just below the collar.
Oh, Blondie just got way more interesting.
"Oh, shit," Sandy says, breathless.
Sylvia grabs her by the wrist and pulls her back into the bathroom.
"Nuh-uh," she says when Sandy tries for the door, "I ain't lettin' you outta my sight, girlie." Then she lifts the cracked toilet seat and pulls her skirt down.
Sandy crosses her arms and leans back against the sink, not looking at her. "Don't..." she starts, touching her neck, "Don't tell Sodapop, alright?"
Sylvia snorts and rolls the toilet paper to find the end. It's the cheapo kind that falls apart as soon as you touch it, because of course it is.
"Why would I?" she asks while she wipes and flushes.
Sandy glances over to her then, her eyes tracking her hands as she buttons herself up. She moves out of the way so Sylvia can wash her hands. In the mirror, Sylvia watches her lean against the wall and run a hand through her hair.
Sylvia snorts and wipes her hands on her skirt, she takes out a smoke and hands it to her.
"You look like you could use it."
Sandy takes it and sighs.
"I mean it, Sylvia, don't say anything."
She studies her for a moment.
"What, is Sodapop too good for you? Too nice to you?"
She scoffs and takes a drag, studying the smoke as it twists in the air.
"No, he's -" she cuts herself off, "This isn't about him."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Don't give me that look," Sandy huffs, "Like you haven't been on your knees for half the East Side."
She smirks. If only she knew.
"Sure," she shrugs, leaning back on her elbows, "You do it 'cause it feels good, it ain't about him. But you still think about him, don't ya? There's that split second when a guy puts his hand on your waist, or right before you get on your knees, and you think to yourself-"
"Shut up," she hisses, "Just shut up."
She takes a long drag.
Sylvia waits.
"Fuck," Sandy mutters, "No one was supposed to - I'm so - I knew it was a bad idea, but I figured no one who matters comes to Buck's parties -"
"Hey."
She gives her a flat look. "You know what I mean."
She snorts. "Yeah," she admits, "I do." She smirks, “Man, you’re lucky it was me who found you, not Dallas. He woulda wrung your pretty little neck.”
She sighs and blows smoke out the side of her mouth. Her lipstick is smudged across her cheek.
"Don't tell Soda, okay? I mean it. It'd - it'd break his heart."
"So you'll do it, you just don't want him to know about it?"
She looks away, glaring off into the distance.
Sylvia grins, victorious.
They lapse into silence. The bathroom gets dingy with smoke.
"Sorry I ruined your orgasm," Sylvia says.
Sandy's cheeks get pink. It’s a good color on her.
"Oh, no," she says slowly, shaking her head, "I wasn't even close."
Sylvia's jaw goes slack. "If that's how you sound faking it, hell, the real thing must break the sound barrier."
She laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Outside, there's a muffled crash followed by some swearing.
"Come on," Sandy says, tilting her head towards the door, "You owe me a drink."
***
Saturday is a good day, which means she and Dallas fuck twice in her bed and once in the shower, then he washes her hair and she pops the zits on his shoulders. He laughs when she tells him some dumb shit Tim did the other day. Then he sneaks out the window even though her mom is dead asleep and wouldn't notice if the house came crashing down around them.
She lies naked in her bed and smokes the joint he rolled for her. She waves her hands in the air above her head, conducting to the music playing in her head, something he was humming yesterday.
She falls asleep at one point, the sort of well-fucked power nap of the best kind of Saturdays, and wakes up shivering, her hair cool and damp against her neck.
She throws some underwear and a big t-shirt on and goes to the bathroom. Her hair got long without her noticing, nearly down to her tits. She messes with it in the mirror for a few minutes before rummaging under the sink.
Shit, nothing.
She gets up and heads out to the kitchen, standing on her tiptoes to get the phone book off the top of the refrigerator. Why they keep it up there when neither she nor her mom have hit 5'3" is beyond her. Whenever she asks, Mom just says Gabriel can get it for her, forgetting that he hasn't been here in years. She doesn't remember much, these days.
Anyway, the Johnson's number is easy enough to find; she shoves her fingers in the phone rotary and dials.
"Hello?"
Her breath catches in her throat. She didn't actually think this through.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end says again.
"Sandy-" she says quickly, before she can lose her nerve or her heart leaps up out her throat.
"Um, yes? Who is this?"
"It's Sylvia."
"Sylvia?" she asks, incredulous, "Um, what, what can I do for you?"
She swallows. "You, uh, got any peroxide? We're out."
"Um, I have to check. How much do you need?"
She shrugs. "A lot, I think. However much you got."
There's a pause, and Sandy chuckles. "You gettin' rid'a body or somethin'?"
She grins. "Yeah, you better get over here before it starts to smell."
Twenty minutes later. Sandy is at the door with a bucket, a gallon of peroxide, and rubber gloves.
Sylvia lets out a low whistle.
"Uh, hi," Sandy says, smoothing out her skirt with her free hand.
"Hey," she says, holding the door open, "You're just in time, the body's getting cold, c’mon.”
She huffs a laugh and comes inside. The house is a fucking mess but when isn't it. She kicks some shoes off to the side so they don't trip over them. Sandy, to her credit, is polite enough not to comment on the cobwebs climbing up the corners.
"So, uh, for real, what are you doing?" she asks when Sylvia flicks on the bathroom light.
"Oh, I'm bleaching my hair," she says easily, "Thought I could go blonde." She’s had a thing for blondes, lately.
Sandy deposits the bucket at the foot of the toilet, then wavers.
"Do you, um, want any help?"
"I mean, if you're offering."
"Sure," she shrugs, "I've helped my mom out a few times."
"Then yeah, why not."
She sits down on the toilet and lets the other girl work her magic. Sandy trims her split ends and feathers out her bangs. Her hair is still damp from earlier, and the hair dryer's busted so while they wait for it to dry, Sylvia rolls another joint.
They make small talk that gets progressively more stupid the longer it goes on, starting learning Sandy's an only child and Sylvia has two brothers, one in the army and one in jail, and ending up making farm animal sounds back and forth to each other.
"Sssss," Sandy hisses, her tongue between her teeth.
"What the hell kind of sound is that?" Sylvia asks, her grin loose and wide.
"It's a snake!" she laughs, "I'm a ssssnake!"
"That's not a farm animal!"
"Yes it is!"
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yah-huh!"
"Nuh-uh!"
Sandy winds her arms around Sylvia's neck and pulls her close. She smiles at her, loose and high, her bright blue eyes half-lidded. God, she has pretty eyes.
Sandy giggles.
"Why thank you."
"Shit," she says, "Did I say that out loud?"
"You did."
She turns away, her licking her lips.
Sandy leans closer, poking her cheek.
"Say somethin' else," she says, a giggle caught in her throat.
Sylvia huffs. "What - like what?"
"I dunno-o-o," she says, drawing out the sound.
She thinks for a moment, her tongue pressing up against the back of her teeth.
"Penis," she says, then giggles.
"Pe-e-nis," Sandy repeats.
"Penis!" Sylvia says, louder.
Sandy giggles, her cherubic cheeks going pink.
"Penis!" She shouts.
"That's a good word."
"You know what else is a good word?"
"Mm?"
She licks her lips. "Cunt."
Sylvia gets warm.
“Cunt," she echoes, enunciating the T.
"Cu-u-u-nt."
"Cunt, cunt, cunt."
Sandy dissolves into laughter, tucking her head against Sylvia's shoulder.
So it turns out trying to bleach your hair while insanely high, like, doesn't really work that well. They get the peroxide mixed, but they keep getting distracted while putting it on, so she winds up with several splotchy yellow patches.
"Shit," Sandy mutters, wiping the bleach away.
Sylvia shakes her head, distracted for a moment by the feel of her hair on her neck.
"This could be a look," she muses, studying her reflection in the mirror.
"What, a reverse cheetah?" Sandy asks, her pink tongue between her teeth.
She holds her hands up like claws, "Rawr." she growls.
Sandy laughs, licking her lips, "Wouldn't it be, uh, wawr? Since it’s, like, reversed?”
"Waa-w-rh," Sylvia says, moving her mouth to the shape of the sounds.
"Waaawr," Sandy says. They go back and forth for a minute, until Sandy puts a hand on her shoulder. "Sylvie," she says, "I'm really messing up, can we, like, try this again later?"
It takes her a minute for the words to get through the high haze. No one's called her Sylvie in years, not since Adam left for the army.
"I don't really give a shit," she says eventually.
In the mirror, Sandy purses her lips.
"Well, I do," she says quietly, "Please, can we just - go do something else for a while?" She pauses, twirling a bit of dark hair around her finger, "Besides, you - I think you'll look nice, if - if I can get it right. I want to get it right."
Sylvia looks down at her hands, the chipped paint on her uneven fingernails.
"Okay," she say quietly, "Okay."
They head out into the living room and Sylvia flops down on the couch. Sandy studies the scene for a moment and then starts gathering empty and half-empty beer cans and popping the tabs off. She picks up the stray socks and sweaters, sniffs them, and leaves them in a pile at the end of the couch. When she’s done with that, she picks up the letters scattered over the table and squints at them. She stares hard, frowning.
“What?” Sylvia asks.
“I’m really fucking high,” she says, then laughs.
Sylvia laughs, too.
“Then quit playin’ maid and get over here,” she says.
Sandy swings her leg up on the couch and plants her arms on either side of Sylvia's head.
Sylvia sits up, spreading her legs so Sandy has more room, because she's nice like that. Sandy's dress today is light blue with little white dots and a round collar. Scalloped is the word that comes to mind, though where she learned it she has no clue, maybe Home Ec last year, one of the few classes she bothered to show up to.
None of that matters.
What matters is the freckles dusting Sandy's nose, the way the thin light from the front door lights up on side of her cherubic face, the sweet, floral scent of her perfume.
Sandy leans in close, her breath warm on Sylvia's ear, and whispers, "Cunt!" and then dissolves into laughter.
Sylvia laughs too. Her hands feather at Sandy's waist. The crinoline under her dress is scratchy on Sylvia's bare legs, but she really couldn't care less. Sandy's hips are more slender than she would've guessed, a bit of give under the crinoline.
"Jiminey crickets," Sandy murmurs once she finally stops laughing. She pulls herself off of Sylvia and flops down onto the couch beside her, "I'm not - I'm not like this, not with anyone."
She snorts, "What, high?"
She smooths out her skirt. "No, like - silly," she says quietly, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her dress.
"Oh," she breathes.
Sandy huffs a laugh. "You know Soda doesn't even drink? He - he says he's fine if I do, says he doesn't care, but, cripes, I hate doing it around him. Talk about making me feel dirty."
Sylvia bites her thumbnail.
"Hell, half the time Dallas and I only get along when we're high. That -" she scowls, "That don't feel so good, you know?"
Sandy sighs and leans over, resting her head on her shoulder. Her perfume fills Sylvia's nose.
"Sometimes I wish I was more like you."
She snorts, "What, a huge bitch?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. Her hair is soft on Sylvia's neck, "Just... The way you're just you, just, upfront, with no apologies. You know they, you know, like you for you."
She chews on a hangnail, tonguing at the sensitive skin.
"People don't like me." she says, "Maybe they don't - don't see all of you, or whatever, but, but people like what they do see. I mean, shit, Sandy, you just cleaned up my fuckin' living room while you're high out of your mind. That ain't - that ain't an act. You really are sweet as fuckin' pie."
Carefully, the blonde threads their fingers together. Her hands are slender, with little callouses on the side of her fingers.
"I like you," she says, rubbing her thumb along the webbing of her hand.
"Tch," she clicks her tongue, "You might be the only one."
"So?" she asks, "You didn't - you didn't call me a whore when you found out I was - when you found me in the bathroom. Not a lotta girls would do that, you know?"
“I'm usually the one gettin' called a whore," she admits, shrugging.
Sandy’s quiet for a moment. "That's such a weird word.”
"What is?"
"Whore. Who-o-ore."
"Who-ore."
"Cunt."
"Cunt!"
Sylvia looks down at her lap, where their fingers are still threaded together, pale against tan, marble against wood. She squeezes. Sandy squeezes back.
***
The last time she sees Sandy, for a year anyway, is when she calls her crying.
"I'm late," she stammers, then starts blubbering again.
Sylvia pulls the phone as far as it'll go into her room. "How late?"
"Three weeks."
"Shit." She tucks the phone into her neck, "I mean, you and your mom had that fight the other week, maybe you're just - I dunno, stressed?"
"I'm not," she insists, "I'm not, Sylvie. I don't know how I know I just – Fuck."
"Fuck," she agrees. She picks at a hangnail, "Shit, I mean, I think Angel knows a - a doctor, if -"
"No," she says quickly, "No, I - I could never."
"Oh."
Sandy sighs. "I just - can I come over? Please?"
She glances to the counter, where her textbooks are all splayed out, ready for her upcoming finals. Figures her senior year is when she finally starts giving a shit.
"Yeah," she says eventually, "Yeah, give me a few."
"Th - thanks, Sylvie."
"Sure."
She's a mess when Sylvia opens the door. Her makeup is smudged all across her face, looking like Sylvia does when she forgets to take her makeup off before she and someone’s boyfriend get busy.
She ushers Sandy inside and puts an arm around her shoulder.
Sandy squeezes her, blubbering into her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mutters.
Sylvia takes her to the couch.
Sandy wraps herself tighter around her and they fall over, the blonde half on-top of her.
"Sylvie -" then she's sobbing, her body convulsing against her.
"Um," Sylvia says, feeling stiff, unsure, "It's, uh, it's okay." She pats her shoulder.
Sandy bawls like, well, like a fucking baby. It's a while before she calms down, and by then Sylvia's gone half-deaf, her ears ringing.
"Fuck," she swears into her neck, "I'm so fucking stupid, Sylvie. My parents, they're - they're gonna send me away once they know and I've - I'm gonna lose the best damn thing that ever happened to me."
She swallows. "Is it - is it his?"
She sniffs. "I - I don't know," she admits quietly, "It could be, but…"
"But it might not be?"
"Yeah," she says miserably, "It's - it could be any of theirs. God damn it, why am I so stupid?"
"You ain't stupid," she murmurs, reaching up and touching the back of her head. Her hair is in a couple short braids. Carefully, Sylvia pulls the elastic off and hooks a thumb through her braid, undoing it. Sandy sniffs and shifts her head to help. She gets the other braid, too, then spends a minute running her hands through Sandy's soft, clean hair, "You ain't stupid," she repeats, "You're just – you."
She hiccups. "Fat lotta good that's doin' me," she murmurs. She sighs and presses up against Sylvia's neck, moving her cross out of the way. Then she takes her fingertip and traces a path between the dark freckles on the other girl's neck.
"I like you," Sylvia murmurs, trying to hold back a shiver.
"You're gonna be the only one," she huffs, "Once the word gets out."
"So?" she says, "Ain't it better to have someone like, like the whole you, rather than just a part?"
Sandy is quiet for a moment, her fingertips tracing up Sylvia's jaw.
"Hah," she breathes, deadpan, "You said hole."
She chuckles, pulling her closer. "Hole."
"H-o-o-ole.”
Sylvia twists a bit of blonde hair around her finger. "I like your whole, Sandy." She feels her friend smile against her collarbone.
"I - I like your whole, too."
They lay together for a while, Sylvia running her hands through Sandy's hair. Then she sits up, Sandy dead weight against her. Carefully, she reaches up and unclasps her necklace.
"Here," she says, holding it out to her.
Sandy stares at it, lips parted. "I don't -" she glances away, "You know I don't, like, believe."
She shrugs. "You don't have to.”
Sandy reaches up and touches her cheek.
She looks away, grimacing, her face getting hot.
"Put it on me?" Sandy asks, stroking her thumb along her skin, over her acne scars. Then she turns around and pulls her hair over to one side. The zipper of her dress is flipped up, so Sylvia flips it back. Sandy shivers at the touch.
Sylvia sticks her tongue out, concentrating on the clasp. Stupid thing is so damn small -
"Shit," she says as it slips out of her hands.
Sandy laughs, grabbing the necklace before it falls. Their fingers touch when she holds it up.
She gets the necklace on her eventually. Then, carefully, she wraps her arms around Sandy’s shoulders and pulls her back so they’re lying together, back to chest.
Sandy reaches up and touches the cross, then Sylvia's arm, stroking her thumb back and forth. She tucks her head onto Sylvia's collarbone.
"I don't believe in God," she says quietly, and Sylvia can feel a puff of air against her cheek as she talks. "But I believe in you. Is that – is that enough?"
Sylvia turns and presses her lips to her neck.
“Yeah,” she says, “I think it is.”