If She's Quiet

Andrew didn’t wear tights. She knew that. Now, though, it was all she could think about, simply because Bender had said something about it. Spandex, nylon, stretch, stretching—sliding over his legs, up his thighs, around his—

“Allison,” a voice said.

Allison Reynolds, she thought. Allison, Allison, Allison. She twisted her fingers in the soft, white cotton dress Claire had dressed her in; a makeover to boost self esteem, to get her out of all that dreary black. They both knew it was really for Andrew.

I could be a Magdalene in this dress.

“Allison,” repeated the voice.

She lifted her head and watched Andrew drag a bewildered looking Brian into the Librarian’s office. Blinds behind glass windows snapped closed and the sound of the metal lock hitting the lock frame rang. Allison hopped off the top of the table she had been sitting on.

If I’m quiet, she thought. If I’m quiet, they won’t hear me. If I’m small, they won’t hear me. Her tip-toed steps hit the carpet with dull thuds as she crossed the Library floor towards the office.

“Allison,” said the voice again. It was growing louder but Allison made a point of ignoring the insistent voices: a trick learned from her parents.

The curve of her ear touched the cool, painted metal of the door. She pressed harder against it, straining to hear. She thought she heard panting; something ripping. The sound was like clothes tearing, or duct tape being peeled back off of a roll. A voice sobbed and she pressed the whole side of her face to the door.

“Don’t want to impress him, don’t want to impress—“ and a throaty moan interrupted the plea or the begging or the promise or whatever.

Allison closed her eyes and put the palm of her hand on the door, beside her face. I’m in there too. I’m right there next to them. I’m him. I’m Brian, I’m Brian, I’m Brian—

“Allison.” The voice shouted this time—connected with her—and she knew with certainty that Claire had stepped beside her.

She opened her eyes to look at the disruption that rested on her shoulder. A petite, manicured hand of polish and rings squeezed her there. Instead of looking at the other girl, Allison closed her eyes and listened again for what was behind the door.

Nothing. Nothing happened and it was quiet. Not even a zipper or rustle.

She turned and glared at Claire. She glared because Claire made them stop; glared because Claire wasn’t Andrew and she, Allison, wasn’t Brian.

Maybe she was, though. Maybe she really was.

“Kiss me,” she demanded and watched as Claire’s face turned a stupid pink. Claire said, “don’t be gross, Allison,” before storming off in Bender’s direction.

Stupid Magdalene, Allison thought. Brian wouldn’t be so forceful with Andrew. She put her ear to the door again but fell into Andrew’s chest when the door opened.

He should watch where he’s going, she thought, trying not to frown because she couldn’t listen. “You should watch where you’re going,” she snapped, shoving him a little as he walked past her. Andrew stumbled as he hugged himself and veered towards the darkest part of the library.

Brian—small, weedy Brian—started to walk in front of her when she pushed a palm against his chest. He looked at her, their eyes almost at the same level, and she sneered at him with a sarcastic smile. With one finger she pointed to a corner of her mouth and said, “Miss much?” When he choked, and coughed, and quickly wiped his mouth, she laughed. She laughed despite the fist repeatedly punching her in the stomach, despite the vomit taste in her mouth.

It had to be vomit. It couldn’t be something else. It couldn’t be Andrew that she tasted.

Allison looked at Brian, looked at the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes anymore and she grabbed his face in her hands. She could still taste him. She could close her eyes and pretend that she was back at the door, back pretending to be Brian.

Brian’s eyes bulged and his cheeks pushed forward, making his moist lips pucker. She heaved a sigh and sent a look skyward before crashing her lips against his. His mouth fell open and she could feel the rest of him turn rigid against her.

Shock; she felt it too. It spread through her, starting with her tongue and lips. Salty, tangy, with something a bit sour underneath, like spoiled milk. She slid her tongue farther into his mouth and pushed against the walls of his cheeks, the ridges of his teeth and braces.

She wanted every last trace, she wanted to consume whatever was left of Andrew inside this mouth that scraped metal and teeth against him.

“Allison!” Claire again, though her voice was a questioning, high-pitched shriek this time coming from somewhere else—somewhere higher up?

Allison ripped her mouth from Brian’s and wiped at it with the back of her hand. Brian wavered where he stood, his eyes half-closed and dark. She turned away from him to look around.

Claire was walking towards her from her left, down the stairs from the second level, a stunned look marring the peaches and freckles of her skin. Bender leaned over the rail from where Claire had obviously left, his mouth hanging open stupidly as he laughed, deliberately and hard. Spit flew from the gaping hole in his face and Allison turned to find Andrew.

The only person she cared to watch and Andrew still sat where he had collapsed. He sat with his head face down on the table in front of him; his hooded sweatshirt was pulled over his tank top and stretched to where he fisted the fabric in a bunch over the crotch of his jeans.

Andrew didn’t see. He didn’t want to watch like I wanted to watch him. He doesn’t care that I practically swallowed Brian’s head to taste him.

Allison slowly circled Brian; Brian, who still stood in a daze. She walked as though Claire hadn’t made her change shoes, as though she still wore her boots—all stomp and fire and attitude, until she stood in front of him. When Andrew didn’t bother to look up to where she raged above him, her face beet red and tense, she screamed. She screamed into the air, she screamed at the ground. She stopped to breathe then leaned down and screamed at where he rolled his forehead from side to side on the table.

Andrew threw the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and to Allison it sounded as though he were crying. What a fucking baby, she thought, kicking one of the table legs hard enough that the whole table jumped and smacked him hard in the face.