February 8

2/8

Christopher may have been free that night, but I wasn't. That afternoon Mom, Dad, and Abigail arrived at my dorm to take me to the ski resort. I was glad to see them, but my first look at Abigail felt like one of those dreams where all your teeth fall out. Her hair is gone. Her beautiful gold-streaked light brown braid had been replaced with the same androgynous chop sported by all the better-looking butches here. Like them, she looks more like a boy than a girl now. An attractive boy, a really well-dressed boy, but a boy. Actually, she looked a lot like Christopher, but I see him in everything now.

I shared a bed with her at the condominium. Curled up next to her in the morning, in the post-dawn dimness, I got into a sisterly confiding mood. So I told her about Christopher.

“It's like a story,” she said when I was finished.

“Stories come from real life,” I said. I showed her a picture of him with his family.

“He is very handsome,” said my handsome sister. “My, my, my.”

Then Mom came in and jumped under the covers with us like we were all ten years younger than we are. Of course I had to tell her a little, too. As soon as she heard that he was Filipino, her mood changed.

“Filipino men use you,” she said. “They use you and lie.”

I showed her the picture I had showed Abigail. “Oh, yeah, he's baklat,” she said. “He's just using you.”

“You've only seen one picture of him,” said Abigail.

“First impressions never lie,” said Mom. “You can do better. Much better.”

“Like who?” I said.

“Maurice. He likes you.”

I recalled the face of my godbrother Maurice, a less fortunate mixture of Filipino and Caucasian features than most mix kids get, and how he couldn't talk about anything but Avatar: The Last Airbender when our families met at the museum last winter. I knew Mom was recalling his family's sprawling property in Antipolo. Abigail and I groaned in unified protest and we all jumped out of the bed.

Mom and Dad were planning to take Abigail skiing and leave me in the condo that day, but they decided that they'd rather spend the time they had with me instead. We visited the Clark in Williamstown, then had breaked for a vegan lunch at an organic co-op, then drove to North Adams to visit Mass MoCA. The exhibits at Mass MoCA were so interesting this time that we stayed there until closing, and then we went shopping at the really good Goodwill a few blocks away. Dinner was at the Mexican restaurant near the ski resort Mom really likes. The food was good, and the margaritas must have been, too, because Mom laughed and laughed and made funny conversation. When Abigail began to bring up Christopher, though, she said we should change the subject.

The next afternoon they drove me back to Radcliffe. We stopped in Lee, a summer town quiet quiet and abandoned-looking now, for cold lobster rolls at the empty fish house. By the time I got back to my room it was almost six, and I could finally call Christopher.

“So have you ever had a boyfriend or anything?” he started out asking. But I didn't want to tell him anything until he told me about himself.

“I don't really want to tell you about that stuff,” he said.  “It'll make me seem like a jerk.”

“That makes me want to hear it even more,” I said.

“My history with girls is – well, I can count the girls I've been with on one hand.

“Basically, I was selfish. I used them, I led them along. It was all very … animalistic,” he said, borrowing a word I'm fond of. “There was one girl – she really wanted a relationship, like to go on dates and stuff. So we went out a couple of times, but it was really awkward, and I just let it drop.”

“Tell me about the girls.”

“I can tell you about my first time.” I didn't really want to hear it, but I listened. He took a girl out for drinks and sandwiches and then back to his place. His place was a basement with no furniture except an inflatable mattress, which he worried she'd think would seem like somewhere a serial killer would live. From the way he laughed I knew he'd told this story before. “She was a redhead,” he said proudly.

“Oh, good for you,” I said. “Did you find red hairs in corners afterwards?”

“I guess.”

“For me it's usually black hairs,” I said, and I told him some things.

Somehow we ended up talking until one in the morning without any mention of the text exchange from days before. I didn't want to bring it up. By one I just wanted to go to sleep. I said so.

“Talking to you feels so good I don't want to stop,” he said. He did anyway when I insisted.