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The thing is: you remember being her. Young and bored and cosseted, smothered by love, fucking terrified that you would die before anyone could see you for who you really were. You were it, fresh and smooth and numb with pain, a rose plucked and left to rot.
Amma’s like that, too. A pretty young thing, powerless and adrift, looking for power wherever she’ll find. Sometimes that means cutting yourself; your skin, your blood, the words that would never go away. Sometimes, that means attention. You wish you could tell her: it’s going to ruin you one day. You remember what is like to look back on your girlhood and feel shame. But Amma doesn’t know that yet.
Sometimes power is sliding up to the hot cop in your skaters and smiling at him, lips shiny with lipgloss and saliva, twirling your tongue around the pink sucker. You’ve been Amma, once. But you were never this bold.
Take me for a ride, she says, handcuffs and all? She’s just a child and Richard’s a good guy; he doesn’t give her an inch. None of that matters with Amma. Darling girl, bored and angry. She takes and takes just because she can—she’ll bleed him dry like one of Adora’s hogs, hung to cool after the slaughter.
“Camille.” She turns to you. “Tell me, did he give you a ride?” She twirls on her skaters, all bare arms and bare legs, her bright pink bra. Her long hair smells flowery. “No? That’s a damn shame. Can’t catch a killer… can’t even get you off.”
She says it loud enough for her friends to hear. Someone snickers—Katie or Kelsey or one of the girls, a lesser star next to Amma’s fiery brightness.
“We’re going,” you say, and you feel Richard’s tangible relief. Yours, too. “Go home, Amma.”
“Wait, Camille.”
When was the last time someone touched your hair? You can hardly remember. But Amma’s hand pulls at it, tugging just hard enough to sting, turning you around so you’d look at her. On her skaters she’s as tall as you; nose to nose, you see her smooth young face and her sun-freckled cheeks.
“Wait. Are you gonna tell me goodnight?”
Her breath reeks of alcohol, and then her mouth is on yours. Amma is kissing you—darling little thing, beloved sister, dangerous dangerous dangerous. It’s barely a peck, clumsy and heavy; her wet lips smack loudly against your closed mouth, and someone behind you hoots.
“Hot!” It’s a boy’s voice. Amma pulls back, laughing, the queen of the ball.
You grab her hands before she can get away, pulling.
“Amma, are you drunk?”
“I’m not!” She twists in your hold but presses close at the same time until she’s nearly in your arms. All that bare skin, long flowing hair, her round breasts.
It’s warm out tonight, a heavy Missouri night like thick molasses, tooth-rotting sweet. Amma is warm, too, saccharine. She smells like her shampoo and liquor and sweat, and you think: hot little thing. You swallow. If you licked your lips now, they’d taste like cherry.
Amma smiles. “Are you goin’ to let me go?”
You drop her like you’ve been burnt. She smiles wider, beatifically.
“Have fun, Camille. I’ll see you at home. Bye, Dick!”
She speeds away shrieking and laughing, a demon-shaped girl with short shorts and a woman’s jaded laugh.
“I keep telling them to stay home,” Richard says. He shakes his head to himself. “There’s a damned curfew on—”
You’re listening, barely. You nod at all the right moments, you let him escort you to your car. Had the night ended differently, you might have kissed him. Now, though, the ghost of Amma’s lips on yours still lingers, poison-sweet. You say goodnight and that’s all; he says it back, and his eyes pause over your mouth. You wonder what he’s thinking about. But really, you know.
Amma isn’t home yet when you get back.
There’s a nagging sense of worry at the back of your mind, and you breathe through it—she was with friends, she’ll be fine. You wash off the disappointments of the day and curl up in bed in your long-sleeved hoodie and pyjama pants, and you think about those budding-rose girls and all that bare skin, so pink and unmarked. You’re drifting somewhere between warm hazy sleep and wakeful alertness, lulled by your thoughts and old-house noises. There’s a sound of footsteps, water running. The door opens.
She’s dressed in a frilly nightgown, a girly version of the ones Adora wears. Her face is bright white in the dark.
“Camille?” Her voice is loud. You sit up in bed.
“Amma. Are you drunk? Still?”
“Stop being boring.” She doesn’t bother keeping her voice down. “I heard the stories. All those wild nights...”
She walks across the room on unsteady steps. “All those boys. Move over.”
It’s not a question. She shuffles under the sheet, nestling right into you. The smell of alcohol has been replaced by minty toothpaste; she’s washed her face with soap. You are hip to hip, her chin on your shoulder. Her soft breasts press against your arm.
Then she says, “What about girls?”
She’s so close that you feel the shape of her words in the soft breath against your hair.
“Camille?” Her foot nudges between your legs. “What about girls?”
“What about them?”
“You fucked all those boys. Everyone knows about it. Any girls?” And then, “You can tell me, you know. I made out with Kylie at a party. I liked it.”
“Amma.” You don’t know what else to say. She giggles.
“Camille. Come on, you can tell me. I kissed Kylie because some of the guys were looking but you know what? I liked it a lot.” She breathes the words in the crook of your neck. “A lot more than kissing any of them. More than kissing any guy. She was so sweet. All soft and—squirming.”
Amma is squirming now, too. Her leg is thrown over yours, her heel hooked behind your knee; she’s half-splayed over your body, all softness and deadly warmth. “I really wanted to kiss her again, after. She said no.” You can hear the pout in her voice. “I think she only wanted to do it when boys were watching.”
“That happens.” Your throat is dry when you speak. But it’s an opening; Amma pounces on it.
“Yeah, and that’s bullshit. She didn’t wanna kiss me? I’m good with my mouth.”
You feel like you have lost all control of the conversation. It’s ridiculous; you're a grown-ass adult, and she’s a teenage rebel playing temptress. Sultry and sulking, bored and dangerous. It shouldn’t be like this. It’s too hot under the covers, with Amma draped over you, covered neck to toe.
“Amma,” you say. “I’m tired and I want to sleep. You should leave.”
A burst of laughter, like so many pearls. “Are you kicking me out? I want to stay here.” She wraps herself tighter around you, her leg over your hip, her arm around your waist. “Please? I like having you around.”
She was always going to win. You breathe out slowly.
“All right. But you’re going to be quiet. I have work to do tomorrow.”
“Work,” she drawls. “Is that what we’re calling Dick these days?” And then, “All right, all right. I’ll be quiet. But you didn’t answer me. Tell me.” Her lips are on your neck, her words against your skin. “Have you ever fucked a girl?”
It doesn’t even occur to you to lie. “Yes.”
“That’s pretty hot.”
The naked admiration in her voice does something to you—it feels sweet and sticky, like warm honey. Lovely and uncomfortable. Amma’s mouth is still on your neck and your thoughts flash back to that short sticky kiss.
Belatedly, it occur to you that you could push her off—unwrap her arms from your torso, put the whole width of the bed between our tangled legs. You could do that. You don’t.
“Now stop talking,” you say. “I wanna sleep.”
“All right,” Amma says. “Thanks, Camille.”
You don’t want to know what she’s thanking you for. Amma is only that sweet around Adora and Alan, and she’s been playing them like fiddles for half her life. You close your eyes, all too aware of the rise and fall of your chest against Amma’s arm. Her breath is slow and even.
“Tomorrow.” Her voice is drowsy, on the brink of sleep. “Tomorrow, will you tell me more about it? Those girls?”
There’s only one answer, really. You nod, though she can’t see you.
“Yeah.” You breathe the word into her hair. Amma hugs you tighter.
“Good,” she says, in the voice of a little princess who’s got what she wanted. “Thanks, Camille. Sweet dreams.”
And she falls asleep, or pretends to. You don’t. You lie there, eyes open in the darkness, for a long time.