After about an hour, I had a bloody horseshoe crab on my forearm. I ran my fingers over it, even though the woman had said not to touch it. Next, she covered it in ointment, then a plastic square, and told me not to get it wet for a week.
When Corvis’s turn came, she shook her head.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
“Come on,” I said. “You’ll love it. It’ll feel awesome to start college with a tattoo.”
She backed away, looking faint.
* * *
—
Corvis and I lay side by side in the folded-down back seat of my Volvo, passing a bottle of Jim Beam back and forth. We were both too exhausted to drive home, and there was something pleasing about sleeping near the water with the windows open, listening to the waves dragging themselves up and down the sand.
“I feel like we’re supposed to kiss,” Corvis said into the darkness.
It’s weird when you’re right in the middle of a moment you know you will remember. Most things you forget. Meals, conversations, even moments that are really fun and amazing, but then there are these times—like when you’re next to someone you love and won’t see anymore, when your forearm is sore because it was poked with needles—that you know you will remember even as they happen.
“I know,” I said.
“If it were a movie,” she said.
“Actually,” I said, “if you’d gotten a tattoo with me, and we had this, like, crazy experience together.” Then there would have been no other way to extinguish the excitement.
“I guess so,” she said.
“I wrote to my dad,” I said.
“You found him?”
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, maybe.”
“Did he write back?” she asked.
“He never used to,” I said, “but I have a feeling he will this time.”
“I think he will too,” said Corvis.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t go through with the tattoo.”
I meant it when I said it, but I was also glad, in a way. I touched the plastic square and felt a pleasant twinge of pain.
“So,” I asked, in the foggy moment just before sleep, “do you feel like you belong here?”
“No,” Corvis admitted. This time, she whispered.
“Me neither,” I whispered back.
I knew I might never use the strap-on, but I also knew that I would open it every few days and hold it in my hands.
Remember? it would ask me.
It made me feel older, like I had more experience. I was a lesbian with a tattoo and a German sex toy.
“Corvis?” I whispered into the darkness just before I fell asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Is scissoring a thing?” I said. “Asking for a friend.”
“No,” she said, rolling over. “It’s definitely not a thing.”
* * *
—
“Wait,” I said, on the drive back to Hopuonk. “So you, like, love Kristen Duffy?” I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
We were almost home, and the highway was ugly. It was late afternoon, which is the most depressing time of day.
“You love Susan Blackford?” Corvis said.
“So what?”
“She’s worse than Heather Flynn,” Corvis said.
She flung her Keds into the back seat and rested her feet on the dashboard. This pair of socks had tiny Popsicles on them.
“Susan has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen,” I said.
“Kristen has beautiful cheekbones,” said Corvis, “but that’s not really what it’s about, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“It doesn’t feel this way, but I’m pretty sure this part of our lives won’t matter that much later,” Corvis said. “It’s just hard, you know, like, not knowing what else there is. Because there has to be something else.”
It reminded me of Johnny Moon. People need movie stars to give them something to look up to. Like God. The people in Hopuonk felt the same way about me. They probably thought I didn’t know, but I did.
“I’m not really a risk taker,” said Corvis. “I guess I’m just a weenus.”
“I guess you are,” I said, shoving her arm. She laughed.
Sarah Lawrence wasn’t as far away as it seemed. I mean, if you could just drive to Provincetown, you could drive anywhere else in the country. Or Canada, even.
After I dropped Corvis off, I came home to an empty house—Sandra was working. A letter addressed to me was propped against the coffee maker.
The Response
Dear Taylor,
To be honest with you, several of your letters reached me years ago, and there have been many occasions on which I sat down to respond, but did not, I admit, out of fear. This is not something I am proud of.
Some years ago, I had my assistant do some research on you. I’ve followed you loosely in the Hopuonk Mariner over the years. I was pleased to see that you were voted homecoming queen this fall, though I wasn’t surprised.
In short, I think that perhaps you are right about our relation. I’ve always speculated about this, from the time I saw your fifth–grade school photograph. (It’s in the nose.) You were wearing overalls with a paisley button–down underneath, and one of your front teeth was missing. I keep this photograph in a drawer in my office, and I take it out at least once a month.
This may be presumptuous of me, but I’ve enclosed a plane ticket to LA, leaving from Logan Airport, for the weekend after your graduation. I would like to invite you out here to visit, if you wish to meet. (I’ll be filming in Vancouver until then.) I’d also like to introduce you to my agent. You have a great face, Taylor.
I myself did not know my father. He died when I was 18 months old-he was standing in the doorway of his friend’s house when lightning struck the chimney, if you can believe that.
I appreciate your kind words about Mad Monk. Though, as you may know, that jerk Kevin Spacey beat me for the Oscar this year, the film did win Best Makeup. Kind of a consolation prize, if you ask me, but there will be more movies, more award ceremonies. Coming from someone who did not win, I urge you to take what is given to you. Your friend Susan sounds lovely, but you seem to be the star. That is a good thing, Taylor. Your mother was the same way-the only person in the room, as far as I was concerned, whichever room she entered. I would ask you to give her my warm regards, but I think we’d better wait. The media is relentless.