Free She Matters by Susanna Sonnenberg Page B

my flirtations, tiny and giant, my several to Claudia’s one, my flights, her fixation. We said we had senioritis, big-time—fuck finals! they can’t matter now!—but this was my necessary camouflage, making sure my best friend didn’t uncover my mistress identity. Now it was late July, five weeks of being high school graduates, five weeks of saturated longing for my lover.
    â€œEthan? He went to one of those, you know, his family has those summer places?”
    â€œWow, Ethan, Mick,” I said. “What if they were in the same room?” I wanted to remind her of clean hair, smooth skin, Ethan’s clean voice.
    â€œI’m sure Ethan would drone on about the history of port taxes in the sixteenth century.”
    â€œYeah, to make a point, what he was reading.”
    â€œAnd Mick would ask me later if Ethan ever got high.”
    â€œHa!”
    â€œAnd then he’d say he should.”
    â€œEthan adored you,” I said.
    â€œNo, Susanna. Ethan adored you .”
    â€œWell, I don’t know!” I said, but I liked it. “I had Connor.”
    â€œAnd poor Kip, he was obsessed with you.”
    â€œKippy!”
    My teacher had told me, “Flirt with them,” told me to act “normal.” For prom I had Connor, and Claudia had Ethan, but we ditched them after we arrived at the fancy hotel. We danced with each other, sloppy arms and stagy affection. My teacher watched us, me, as he talked with the other standing adults.
    Mick emerged from the dark of the root cellar, holding a blue metal coffeepot. A prop, I thought, for his Wild West. “Girls want coffee?”
    â€œYes! I’m starving!” said Claudia. “Are you, Susy?”
    â€œA little. Sure.” I’d seen no trace of groceries, no bags in the back of the truck, only shovels, a folded tarp, rolled-up chicken wire. Mick retreated.
    That night, after heating the canned food over the fire and washing pots and plates in a pond, we went to our berths. I could hear them having sex, all of Claudia and none of Mick, and Icouldn’t tell whether she was objecting and crying, or enjoying it, which creeped me out, not being able to tell when I knew her so well, as well as I knew myself. He didn’t make one sound. I turned to the wall, wondering what he was doing to my friend.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Late in the summer, a few weeks before college began, Ethan called me. He was staying on the Upper East Side, a few blocks away. The city felt stopped and subdued, little traffic down Lexington, few shops open along Madison. Heat had canceled commerce. I welcomed his call.
    â€œI should like to take you out for dinner,” he said with his imitation of British formality. Claudia and I could never tease him out of this, which only made us smirk, watching the color flood his face.
    â€œYes, why not, indeed? Do,” I said, but he didn’t get it.
    He arrived with half a dozen roses, which I left in the apartment, and we walked over to Third. Every phone booth, hydrant, and sidewalk square was glazed by heat, muted. Ethan reviewed his college worries, but his anxiety bored me, a step backward. I switched the subject to movies, travel, his family members who lived in the city. We knew it was conscious and strange not to mention Claudia. As he handled his wallet, searching for the right cash, I thought he was fairly sweet, especially when embarrassed. I kept trying to embarrass him so I could tell Claudia about it.
    Then I took him to bed.
    â€œDid you ever sleep with Claudia?” I said, as I closed the door to my room. I knew the answer but wanted him to say, wanted to see what became of the scene if we introduced her.
    â€œI didn’t,” he said.
    â€œWith anyone?”
    â€œNo.”
    I wasn’t a virgin, which put me in charge. I can’t remember making love with Ethan, or remember birth control, or whether he left in darkness or daylight. I was