Sixteen And Now I Know
Named Gene

II. Thirteen

The song starts to skip in the middle of the chorus, so I yell at Annalise over the blaring step in, step in, step in to change it before I get a headache. I wait mid-pirouette, hand frozen on my hip.

Annalise mumbles something about liking this song, something about killing her brother for scratching the CD, and presses skip on her boombox. Deborah comes back on, with vengeance, and we dance like we're the hardest-to-get sirens this side of the Atlantic. I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall, if you don't answer, I'll just ring it off the wall...

It's Friday afternoon, we've covered the lamps and our shoulders with flowery red shawls, put on our oversized imitation Gucci sunglasses, left the door open because Annalise's parents aren't home and won't complain. Don't leave me hanging on the telephone. I once told Annalise she couldn't listen to oldies anymore, and that her peasant skirt phase would evolve into something more sophisticated when we were in high school. Don't leave me hanging on the telephone.

"Blondie isn't oldies," her eyes roll to the ceiling, "they're like the 70s. In fact none of them are dead yet. I think."

"The 70s are practically ancient."

"Whatever. You like it."

The ratatat and electric guitar die down and we're collapsed on her bed, limbs at odd angles, flushed red and breathless. Without the music there is a heavy awkward silence; we are like fish, our mouths loose and flapping - we leave them open but there's nothing new to say.

I tug at the hood of my sweatshirt, twisting it around so it covers my nose. He smells like dried mangoes, he has nice shoulders.

I turn my head to look at Annalise, her hair has been stitched up in pigtails since the third grade, she's picking at a spot on her chin with a stubby fingernail. I can't tell her these things anymore. I sigh I'm bored and she sighs I know. We are silent again. She gets up, the bed squeaks, she leaves the room with another sigh and the promise of entertainment. I twist hair around a finger.

I need a new best friend. I'm too old for this.

"Daria, promise you won't freak out."

Annalise bustles in, clinking, arms filled with small amber and green bottles - liquor from a kitchen cabinet, and a plastic bag of Dixie cups. I sit up quickly, propping myself up on my elbows, "Annalise - " She drops them into a pile on the rug. We gather around, the adrenaline of rebellion.

"My parents are gonna be gone for hours," she says, "don't worry."

"Shit if I care."

Annalise flinches.

I stick out my tongue. "Prude." We sit for a while, staring at our treasure, a mix of anticipation, fear. "Annalise, are you sure..." I'm a little worried myself but she can't know. "This isn't like having some champagne at an aunt's wedding or something."

"We have to do this. I'm not going into high school an alcohol virgin."

"Okay." Okay. I turn my attention to the pile of liquor, trying to not look too eager. They're small and cheap looking, like boxes of generic cereal brands. I pick up a green one. "Your parents took these from a hotel."

She giggles. "Shut up."

"And...Dixie cups?"

"Shut up." She unscrews the lid of a bottle and empties it into a waxy paper cup. She swishes it around and bites her tongue. "So we just...?"

"Drink it. Duh."

"You go first," she says.

"Baby."

I open mine. My heart beats in my throat. I bring the cold glass to my lips, this isn't champagne at your aunt's wedding, take a sip and try not to make a face. I don't want to be embarrassed. I shrug it's nothing and she takes a tentative sip, lowers her arm again. We look at each other. That was okay. That was okay.

The record's playing again. Don't leave me hanging on the telephone. The room is warmer, red glow, tip-toes. I wish I had her body. Annalise dances better when she's drunk. We're giggling and hugging and falling over each other's ankles. Annalise wears too much mascara. I hate my mom. I'm on my second, fourth. Why can't I dance like Annalise, I have no curves. He likes me anyway. Fifth? Sixth?

Don't leave me hanging on the telephone.

Annalise reaches up and grabs me by the forearm. "I have to tell you something Daria, but you have to promise you keep it a secret, okay?" She pulls me down next to her, against the side of the bed, I don't resist, I miss Jordan, I'm still wearing his sweatshirt.

"Okay, tell me."

"No one can know, okay, not even Jordan or nobody."

"Promise, nobody." These pants are itchy. I hate my thighs. I can keep a secret. She doesn't speak. She closes her eyes hard like my grandfather after he's been reading for a long time, corners crinkled. The lamps are covered with red shawls, my cheeks are red, too, it's a good kind of warm. I wait for her to start, my head sways like a balloon, I can't help it. I can't help it. I should call Jordan, where's my cell phone? This is a good kind of warm.

"Eric came over to hang out with my brother last week. I tried to dress up and do my hair and makeup real nice."

"Yeah, so?"

She is silent again. I think I left my phone in the bathroom. Annalise bites her lip. Then, in a stream, "He knocked and came into my room and locked the door, and I didn't know what to do, but I let him stay because this might not ever happen again. He said he's liked me for a long time and a lot of other nice things."

I pick at the small hole that's starting to form in the knee of my jeans. I look down at my chest and away again. Eric is sixteen, like my sister. He's in high school. He might even drive a car. My voice is disgusted, sullen. "Then what."

"He told me to lie down. He took off my shirt but I didn't want him to." She swallows with difficulty. "Daria..."

"What?"

Small, hesitant. "He put his dick in me. It hurt."

He put his dick in me. I can't move or speak. Jordan and me, we haven't even gotten to second base. We're still perfecting our french kiss. He put his dick in me. It sounded ugly. The room is thick and humid, conversation under red cellophane.

"He told me not to tell." Annalise starts to cry, the messy kind. It's ugly. "He's going to be so pissed off at me." She cries harder.

I can't move. Annalise doesn't say "shit" without having a hernia. Annalise hasn't even had a real boyfriend. She kicks aside the empty glasses and Dixie cups in temper, and then holds her face and sobs and sobs. It's messy and wet and ugly. I don't want to touch her. I don't want to look at her. Liquor rolls out of the tipped bottles and settles into the carpet.

It's okay.

Her parents won't be home for hours.