Free Love and Other Foreign Words by Erin McCahan Page B

start to April. It’s quiet too, but for the clicks the moths make overhead against the light.
    Positive phototaxis,
I say to myself, looking up. So succinct. Two words to describe the attraction of bugs to light. Some bugs. Roaches run from light, which is negative phototaxis, and I realize I sound like Geoff and his Traveling Tick Show, but it is not my fault that I remember the entomology section of eighth-grade biology. And I’m not at a dinner party. Not anymore.
    Mother arrives about fifteen minutes after Kate has called her. I climb in, drop my bag on the floor, shut the door, and try to avoid Mother’s unavoidable look. The car does not move. I know my mother will out-wait me, but I have to challenge her a little.
    So one second after just long enough, I say, “It was an accident.”
    â€œI’d like your version of it.”
    â€œMy version is the truth. Kate’s the one who gave you a
version
, completely biased because of her association with Geoffrey Stephen Brill. I think he’s corrupting her sense of reality. You and Dad should be worried.”
    â€œI’m waiting.”
    â€œHere’s what happened.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    â€œI want to do your hair and makeup for prom,” Kate said the minute we entered her condo, which is decorated in warm shades of burgundy and white and predominated by candles on tables, counters, and the mantel.
    I had not yet set my backpack down nor hung up my dress.
    â€œOkay,” I agreed.
    â€œLet’s practice now. Oh, and I have the perfect necklace you can borrow, and . . .” She leaned in close to examine my ears and sighed with mock disappointment. “Well, I was going to say the perfect earrings too, but . . .” She shrugged. “Just get them pierced before the wedding.”
    She picked up a stool from in front of her breakfast bar, and I followed her to the bathroom. We do this all the time—relocate a stool so I can sit comfortably while Kate plays with my hair.
    â€œYou want me to get my ears pierced?” I asked along the way.
    â€œEveryone has them but you. I want everything to be uniform for the wedding pictures, and I know exactly what earrings I want you to wear.”
    â€œI’m not getting my ears pierced,” I said as I sat down.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDo you have any idea how common infections are from ear piercings? Bacterial infections, abscesses, allergic reactions,” I said, raising fingers. “Some of these are disfiguring. With yellow discharge.
Yellow discharge
. How’s that going to look in your photos?”
    â€œJosie, you’re not going to get a disfiguring, weeping ear infection. Have Mom do it. Your ears will be sterile for a month.”
    She slipped my hair out of the black band holding my ponytail in place.
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œCome on. Please. For me?” she asked via the mirror, and I found the reflected plea difficult to resist, so I responded with a considered nod. “You’re the best,” she said as she kissed the top of my head.
    Kate is the only person in the world I allow to touch my hair because she is the only person in the world who manages to do so without driving me crazy—touching me too much, tickling my head, roughly scratching my head, or, worst of all, moving my hair against its natural bend, which makes me want to crawl out of my skin screaming.
    Plus she knows I only ever wear it in a ponytail and knows how to create at least seven different ponytail looks I endorse.
    She set to work and talked mostly of her wedding and how all of us bridesmaids would be getting our hair and makeup done professionally, and she ignored my suggestion for Candy Bliss lipstick and how guys will appreciate the color. Kate’s talented enough to do our hair and makeup herself but plans on being a Psychotic Freak on her Big Day. She said
stressed
. I’ve seen Kate stressed. It’s the