Things That Matter (Original fiction, Femslash)
Title: Things That Matter
Type: Original fiction, short story
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-16
Warning: Femslash, bits of implied naughtiness
Things That Matter
Lydia feels that the best kind of house is an empty one. She’s been coming home to an empty house for the seven years that she’s been out of college, and she savors the silence that greets her. She can remember growing up without the desire to own a pet, unlike the other children in her neighborhood. Pets were too messy for her taste. She’d always been the neatest person in her family, picking up her father’s ties strewn across the arm of his recliner and grabbing the dirty dishes from the table before her mother could even blink. Everything needs to be just so in order for Lydia to function.
This is why Lydia would never, ever let Bo Phoenix move in with her.
“Commitment issues” is what Lydia’s friends call it, but she knows that there’s nothing wrong with her commitment to the impromptu relationship-she hesitates to term it “romance”-she has with Bo Phoenix. Lydia likes her well enough, but Bo Phoenix is the kind of person who likes to be surrounded by unnecessary things. She can’t count on both hands the vast number of collections she still has from random childhood obsessions; she never throws things away. Bo Phoenix also enjoys the company of cats, and has odd sleeping patterns, due to the naps she takes in the middle of the day. Oftentimes, she’ll show up at Lydia’s house around ten o’ clock at night to ask if she wants to go out for dinner. Lydia hates when she does that, because she’s sure her neighbors aren’t pleased with the disturbance in the quiet, peaceful suburb they inhabit. Things like noise and light seem to follow wherever Bo Phoenix goes-the putt-putt-putt of Bo Phoenix’s old and rusty car, the laughing sound she tends to make that’s more of a shrill shriek, the flashy neon green leggings that cover her long legs underneath the frayed hems of her denim shorts.
“Well, pumpkin,” Bo Phoenix will say, lips full of mischief, “I wouldn’t have to disturb everyone if you’d let me live with you.”
While Lydia commends Bo Phoenix on her determination, there seems no chance in hell of that happening anytime soon.
-
When Lydia first met Bo Phoenix, she hadn’t expected very much. It was her first time at a lesbian club and she had more to drink than she would have usually, due to nerves. Perhaps in the haze of tipsiness and flashing lights, she found the neon leggings fetching. Or maybe it was the voice, the voice she could only just hear over the pumping dance music, that sounded as if everything was a secret.
“Take me,” Bo Phoenix said. “Take me back to yours and show me all you can.” Her lips brushed the shell of Lydia’s ear and when she turned her head to look, her eyes were alight with bedroom promises.
Lydia had been a virgin before that night-the idea of the sweaty stickiness of sex was far from appealing-and all she thought about was how embarrassed she was for wearing granny panties instead of the lacy ones her friends bought her. But as it turned out, Bo Phoenix didn’t care about underwear all that much.
By the time Lydia awoke the following afternoon, Bo Phoenix was gone. Lydia assumed it’d been a one-night stand until later, that night, when the phone rang.
“Will you be my girlfriend now?” was the greeting Lydia received when she answered. The voice had been the same low murmur she remembered from the night before, but it was shaky and thick, like a child that had just finished crying.
Lydia didn’t even think things through when she said, “Yes.”
“Good.” And then the line went dead.
Thirty minutes later, Bo Phoenix showed up at her door with an offering of white chocolate and a red-lipped grin.
-
“We fight too much to live together,” Lydia found herself often explaining to Bo Phoenix very slowly, as if talking to a child. “After an argument, it’s convenient to have a door to walk out of and slam.” She imagined she’d look quite idiotic walking out of her own door, slamming it, and walking back in. But Bo Phoenix could probably pull it off. She’s one of those people-like a class president, Peter Pan, or Superman. Lydia doesn’t think it’s fair.
“We’ll get over that,” Bo Phoenix said simply. “Don’t you think? Surely we can’t fight forever.”
“Surely we won’t be together that long,” Lydia laughed.
Bo Phoenix didn’t find it as amusing; she walked out of Lydia’s front door and slammed it behind her. Lydia had to take a moment before she can move again. She’s usually the one to get angry first and it always surprises her when the tables are turned.
The first moments after Bo Phoenix leaves are the only times Lydia feels she might give in. They are the only times she resents the emptiness of her house, the hollow sound her voice makes when she speaks. If Bo Phoenix were to poke her head back in, ten or twelve seconds after leaving, and ask, “When can I move in?” Lydia thinks she would demand the move to happen immediately and would even offer to help carry each and every one of her miscellaneous collections.
-
Though they fought often, Lydia and Bo Phoenix only broke up once. It was after their first Thanksgiving together, when Lydia took Bo Phoenix to meet her parents. It was all because of Bo Phoenix’s habit of borrowing Lydia’s clothes. Lydia wouldn’t mind if Bo Phoenix would wash them before giving them back. And besides that, Bo Phoenix was much taller than she was, and when Lydia tried to wear the returned clothes, they were always stretched.
On Thanksgiving, Bo Phoenix was wearing a sweater of Lydia’s that her mother had knitted for her. She’d forgotten about it until they rang the doorbell, and then she snapped at Bo Phoenix to take it off. The first thing her parents saw when they opened the door was Bo Phoenix’s purple padded, dinosaur-print bra.
“This isn’t the way I greet all of my girlfriend’s folks,” Bo Phoenix joked once they were inside and the awkward handshakes and introductions were over.
Lydia’s father laughed, but her mother didn’t look pacified in the least.
“How many girlfriends,” the word was forced and unpleasant, “have you had, exactly?”
“Oh, loads,” Bo Phoenix carelessly replied, and Lydia just barely resisted the urge to give her a firm pinch.
“I see,” her mother said. “That’s what I would expect.”
“Thanks.” Bo Phoenix’s brow was furrowed in confusion when she shot a questioning smile at Lydia, but she couldn’t feel sorry for her; she was too angry with herself for thinking Bo Phoenix was anywhere near ready to meet her parents. It only got worse when, during the meal, Bo Phoenix said she was thankful for padded bras. Lydia felt her face burn, hot with embarrassment and annoyance, and her mother’s chuckle of fake politeness echoed in her ears the rest of the night, even as she drove Bo Phoenix home and Bo Phoenix quietly tried to explain her childhood fascination with dinosaurs. Lydia broke up with her when they reached her house, and Bo Phoenix nodded and got out of the car.
A week of empty days and nights later, Bo Phoenix stepped timidly into Lydia’s office with downcast eyes, homemade biscuits, and a stuffed brontosaurus. Lydia moved from behind her desk and, emboldened by the loneliness she’d felt without light and noise, held Bo Phoenix’s face in both hands and kissed her full, red lips.
-
Lydia stops poking the mess that is the Chinese egg roll Bo Phoenix brought her, when she realizes something urgently important.
“I haven’t met your parents yet.”
Bo Phoenix glances up from her fingers, sticky with sweet and sour sauce, and shrugs before she starts to lick them.
“I know.”
This is not the reaction Lydia expects. She expects Bo Phoenix to jump up from the table, face bright with elation that Lydia even cares to point out something so intimate, and tug on Lydia’s arm, insistent that they go and see them instantly.
“Do you not want me to?” Lydia will be highly offended if that is the case.
“S’not that,” Bo Phoenix sucks the last of the sauce off her left index finger and avoids Lydia’s eyes when she says in what’s almost a whisper, “I just didn’t know if you were interested.”
“Well, I am. I couldn’t possibly ask you to move in with me if I haven’t even met your parents.”
“That’s not just an excuse, is it?” Bo Phoenix asks, thin eyebrow arching. She knows that it is, though, because her lips are smirking far too cleverly.
“We can go this weekend,” Lydia says, prodding, poking Bo Phoenix’s naked ankles with her sock-covered toes.
“All right,” Bo Phoenix murmurs, and Lydia nods, oddly unsatisfied. There’s a silence-heavy, awkward, and unusual-until finally, Bo Phoenix is grinning and starts to sing, “Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia, Lydia the tattooed lady? She has eyes that men adore so, and a torso even more so…”
Lydia tolerates the song, if only because she likes the sound of Bo Phoenix’s voice when she sings it, but she does not have and never will get a tattoo. She thinks they’re rude and tasteless.
Bo Phoenix, of course, has tattoos of her own. Her namesake, the firebird, has its wings outstretched on the back of her neck. The Chinese symbol for “girl” is proudly displayed beside her navel. And an apple tree is on the sole of her left foot, its roots twisting along until they disappear between her toes.
-
Lydia can only remember one time when Bo Phoenix mentioned her parents. It was late; Lydia had the weekend off and treated herself to renting her favorite black and white movies. Bo Phoenix came over with snacks, as she had a habit of doing; Lydia blamed her for the five pounds she’d gained since they’d met. Not quite halfway into Casablanca, Bo Phoenix emptied a large bag of M&M’s, spreading them out on the surface of Lydia’s coffee table. Lydia’s attention was torn between Ingrid Bergman saying, “Play it again, Sam,” and watching Bo Phoenix separate the small chocolate candies into groups of red, blue, yellow, orange, green, and brown.
“Do you care what color you get?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I like yellow and green the best. Brown’s good too, although it makes me think of someone licking the color off a bunch of them.” She stopped talking to finish sorting and regarded them for a moment, her bangs casting shadows on her face, as if to hide it from Lydia’s gaze. “I don’t like the blue ones, so my dad would always eat them for me. He’d stick out his big hand…his hands were so hairy. But then I’d look at his palm, and it would be so smooth and pale.”
She didn’t say anything more, just grinned at Lydia when she scooped up the red ones. When Lydia thinks back to that night, she remembers a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying on its side by Bo Phoenix’s feet.
-
On Saturday afternoon, Lydia hears the tell-tale putt-putt-putt of Bo Phoenix’s car. She goes outside quickly, praying under her breath that her neighbors won’t poke their heads out to complain about the noise. She’s wearing a dress and the fabric keeps sticking to her thighs as she walks; dresses aren’t normally her cup of tea, but she looks nice in them, and she wants to make a good first impression.
It’s a two hour drive to the little house of Bo Phoenix’s childhood. It’s hard for Lydia to imagine Bo Phoenix living in a place so small and tidy. She likes it much better than Bo Phoenix’s messy apartment; she’s been there three times, which was more than enough to keep her away.
The rooms are full, but feel more cozy than crowded. There are colorful, clean Afghans draped over the sofa and armchairs that sit opposite a small television; multicolored beaded curtains separate the living room from the kitchen and hallway. In the kitchen, dishes are neatly stacked in cabinets and every appliance looks as if it’s brand-new. It’s perfect, Lydia thinks, like a picture out of Better Homes and Gardens. In fact, there’s only one thing that Lydia finds odd about the place.
“Where are your parents?”
“Oh,” Bo Phoenix says, sorting through junk mail. “We’re meeting them somewhere.”
“Where?”
Slipping her a secretive smile, Bo Phoenix replies, “Someplace special.”
A few minutes later, Bo Phoenix has locked the front door and is leading Lydia down the sidewalk.
“We’ll walk,” she explains. “It isn’t far.”
Bo Phoenix likes to link arms in public. Most times, Lydia tolerates it; if she isn’t in the mood, Bo Phoenix settles for handholding. But today, Bo Phoenix tries neither. She walks with her thumbs hooked in the belt loops on her shorts and whistles something that sounds only a little bit like “I’m A Little Teapot.” She’s wearing almost her entire collection of bangles on her arm, and the constant noise they make becomes a siren in Lydia’s ear; she’s tempted to reach out and pursue the contact that Bo Phoenix has forsaken. She wants to take the bangles off, remove their unfeeling material from Bo Phoenix’s arm and replace it with her own, warm skin. This urge alarms her and she is so busy trying to ignore it that she almost doesn’t notice that the sky is becoming dark and cloudy, and that she and Bo Phoenix are nearing a graveyard.
“Your parents are-” But her pulse is racing and she knows without needing to ask. She bites her tongue.
Bo Phoenix jumps the rusty gate that surrounds the graveyard and, after a moment’s hesitation, Lydia follows. She tries to ignore the gravestones they pass, and isn’t sure whether that’s ruder than reading them or not. Before she can make up her mind, Bo Phoenix stops and says, “Here they are.”
Lydia reads the gravestones and is surprised to see that both Bo Phoenix’s parents both died on the same day, over ten years ago. She wants to ask what happened, but her tongue still hurts from her bite, and it feels thick, swollen, and too big for her mouth.
“Now, I meant to bring a sleeping bag,” Bo Phoenix says, “or at least a blanket or two. But I think we can manage without one. I slept past noon today, so I don’t know if I’ll even go to sleep-”
“Wait,” Lydia interrupts, knowing she needs to speak up now. “Are you talking about staying the night here?”
“I thought that was the plan.”
“I thought your parents were alive.” She instantly hates how tactless she sounds. “I’m sorry. But I’m not sleeping in a graveyard.”
Bo Phoenix shrugs, “Then don’t sleep. Just stay up with me.”
Lydia closes her eyes to keep from saying something insulting or rude. She knows that Bo Phoenix is unconventional, but she sincerely hopes she isn’t being serious. She feels a raindrop on her forehead and looks at the sky.
“We can’t stay,” she says. “It’s going to rain.”
Bo Phoenix is unfazed by this. Lydia wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, despite the noise the bangles will make if she does. Another drop falls, and another, and finally Lydia asks for the house keys. Bo Phoenix gives them to her and doesn’t follow or try to stop her when she leaves.
When she gets back to the house, Lydia is soaked and confused. She stands in the middle of the living room and shivers, her palms running uselessly over her arms. She doesn’t like to drive Bo Phoenix’s car, so after accepting that she will be staying the night in the house, she seeks out the bathroom and a towel. Once she’s wrapped up in a soft, pink towel and relatively dry, she steps out into the hallway and realizes that one of the doors has been left ajar. Curious, and with nothing better to do, she opens it; without even going inside, she knows it belongs to Bo Phoenix.
The room smells like vanilla and cocoa-a familiar scent that permeates a patch of Bo Phoenix’s skin somewhere between her jaw and collarbone. Bo Phoenix’s collections occupy shelves on the wall, bookcases, a desk, and even the windowsill: teddy bears of various shades and sizes, glass unicorn figurines, empty perfume bottles, and Coca-Cola caps. The top of her dresser is covered in framed photos, the largest being a family portrait that Lydia thinks she recognizes from a picture in Bo Phoenix’s wallet. The pictures to the left and right of it seem to be of two different girls, grinning and waving from their seat on the sofa. Stepping closer, Lydia realizes that all the other pictures are of girls on the sofa, as well-redheads, freckled, pigtailed, full figured, thin and bony, some a little older than others and some a little younger, all smiling.
At Lydia’s feet sit a stack of notebooks. A few of them look new and even unused, but others are worn and tattered. She kneels down and picks out one from the top and opens it; it reads:
“I have a new babysitter again. Her name is Angela and she has braces and very smooth knees. I took her picture. Mom and Dad went to a rally in Washington. I expect they’ll be back by the weekend. They said we’d go to the movies. I guess I could go with Angela.”
Lydia closes the notebook. She’s never kept a journal herself, but she knows she shouldn’t be reading someone else’s. She puts it down and looks up at the framed photos on the dresser. She recognizes Angela by her braces. She does have smooth knees. Lydia picks the notebook up again and turns to a different page; this one reads:
“My new babysitter’s name is Leah. I took her picture. She has very short hair and looks like a rather pretty boy. Mom and Dad went to a concert. Maybe they’ll bring me back a shirt.”
Lydia flips through the pages, brow furrowing with each new entry that starts “My new babysitter’s name is” or “I have a new babysitter.” It’s no wonder Bo Phoenix doesn’t talk much about her parents, she thinks; it’s seems as if they were hardly ever home. When she comes to the end of the notebook, there is no entry, but an obituary pasted on the page; it reads:
“Mr. and Mrs.-, ages 30 and 34 respectively, died unexpectedly in an automobile accident. They are survived by their 13 year old daughter-”
Lydia closes the notebook and puts it back in the stack. She picks up the next one. She learns that, after her parents’ death, Bo Phoenix stayed at home and was watched by various family members until she was 18.
Lydia feels a strange pressure in her chest as she realizes Bo Phoenix has never had anything set and stable in her life, ever. She leans back against the side of Bo Phoenix’s bed and closes her eyes. She remembers a moment, a couple of weeks ago, when Bo Phoenix was spooning her from behind. Her fingers were working methodical circles in the back of Lydia’s neck when she asked, “Are you ever going to let me move in?”
“No,” Lydia replied, tired and consequently somewhat careless.
“Well,” Bo Phoenix said, with a light, humorless chuckle against her skin, “I guess I’m glad you’ll never change.”
Lydia runs to the graveyard in the rain, almost slipping on the mud-slicked ground. Her dress gets caught when she jumps the gate, and she tugs at it until it rips. She abandons her shoes there, so she can move faster and avoid messy trips, and soon she sees Bo Phoenix ahead of her, dancing with her arms outstretched, bangles clinking. She stops when she sees Lydia and she probably smiles, but Lydia doesn’t wait to see. She runs into her slender arms and their bodies are wet when they press together. And for just a few, simple moments, things like messes don’t matter; neither do dinosaurs or bras, noise or light, cat hair and stretched sweaters, or fights that pass through like the occasional rainstorm. And whether or not all of this means love doesn’t matter either, because Lydia knows she’ll give Bo Phoenix a key tomorrow.
Type: Original fiction, short story
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-16
Warning: Femslash, bits of implied naughtiness
Things That Matter
Lydia feels that the best kind of house is an empty one. She’s been coming home to an empty house for the seven years that she’s been out of college, and she savors the silence that greets her. She can remember growing up without the desire to own a pet, unlike the other children in her neighborhood. Pets were too messy for her taste. She’d always been the neatest person in her family, picking up her father’s ties strewn across the arm of his recliner and grabbing the dirty dishes from the table before her mother could even blink. Everything needs to be just so in order for Lydia to function.
This is why Lydia would never, ever let Bo Phoenix move in with her.
“Commitment issues” is what Lydia’s friends call it, but she knows that there’s nothing wrong with her commitment to the impromptu relationship-she hesitates to term it “romance”-she has with Bo Phoenix. Lydia likes her well enough, but Bo Phoenix is the kind of person who likes to be surrounded by unnecessary things. She can’t count on both hands the vast number of collections she still has from random childhood obsessions; she never throws things away. Bo Phoenix also enjoys the company of cats, and has odd sleeping patterns, due to the naps she takes in the middle of the day. Oftentimes, she’ll show up at Lydia’s house around ten o’ clock at night to ask if she wants to go out for dinner. Lydia hates when she does that, because she’s sure her neighbors aren’t pleased with the disturbance in the quiet, peaceful suburb they inhabit. Things like noise and light seem to follow wherever Bo Phoenix goes-the putt-putt-putt of Bo Phoenix’s old and rusty car, the laughing sound she tends to make that’s more of a shrill shriek, the flashy neon green leggings that cover her long legs underneath the frayed hems of her denim shorts.
“Well, pumpkin,” Bo Phoenix will say, lips full of mischief, “I wouldn’t have to disturb everyone if you’d let me live with you.”
While Lydia commends Bo Phoenix on her determination, there seems no chance in hell of that happening anytime soon.
-
When Lydia first met Bo Phoenix, she hadn’t expected very much. It was her first time at a lesbian club and she had more to drink than she would have usually, due to nerves. Perhaps in the haze of tipsiness and flashing lights, she found the neon leggings fetching. Or maybe it was the voice, the voice she could only just hear over the pumping dance music, that sounded as if everything was a secret.
“Take me,” Bo Phoenix said. “Take me back to yours and show me all you can.” Her lips brushed the shell of Lydia’s ear and when she turned her head to look, her eyes were alight with bedroom promises.
Lydia had been a virgin before that night-the idea of the sweaty stickiness of sex was far from appealing-and all she thought about was how embarrassed she was for wearing granny panties instead of the lacy ones her friends bought her. But as it turned out, Bo Phoenix didn’t care about underwear all that much.
By the time Lydia awoke the following afternoon, Bo Phoenix was gone. Lydia assumed it’d been a one-night stand until later, that night, when the phone rang.
“Will you be my girlfriend now?” was the greeting Lydia received when she answered. The voice had been the same low murmur she remembered from the night before, but it was shaky and thick, like a child that had just finished crying.
Lydia didn’t even think things through when she said, “Yes.”
“Good.” And then the line went dead.
Thirty minutes later, Bo Phoenix showed up at her door with an offering of white chocolate and a red-lipped grin.
-
“We fight too much to live together,” Lydia found herself often explaining to Bo Phoenix very slowly, as if talking to a child. “After an argument, it’s convenient to have a door to walk out of and slam.” She imagined she’d look quite idiotic walking out of her own door, slamming it, and walking back in. But Bo Phoenix could probably pull it off. She’s one of those people-like a class president, Peter Pan, or Superman. Lydia doesn’t think it’s fair.
“We’ll get over that,” Bo Phoenix said simply. “Don’t you think? Surely we can’t fight forever.”
“Surely we won’t be together that long,” Lydia laughed.
Bo Phoenix didn’t find it as amusing; she walked out of Lydia’s front door and slammed it behind her. Lydia had to take a moment before she can move again. She’s usually the one to get angry first and it always surprises her when the tables are turned.
The first moments after Bo Phoenix leaves are the only times Lydia feels she might give in. They are the only times she resents the emptiness of her house, the hollow sound her voice makes when she speaks. If Bo Phoenix were to poke her head back in, ten or twelve seconds after leaving, and ask, “When can I move in?” Lydia thinks she would demand the move to happen immediately and would even offer to help carry each and every one of her miscellaneous collections.
-
Though they fought often, Lydia and Bo Phoenix only broke up once. It was after their first Thanksgiving together, when Lydia took Bo Phoenix to meet her parents. It was all because of Bo Phoenix’s habit of borrowing Lydia’s clothes. Lydia wouldn’t mind if Bo Phoenix would wash them before giving them back. And besides that, Bo Phoenix was much taller than she was, and when Lydia tried to wear the returned clothes, they were always stretched.
On Thanksgiving, Bo Phoenix was wearing a sweater of Lydia’s that her mother had knitted for her. She’d forgotten about it until they rang the doorbell, and then she snapped at Bo Phoenix to take it off. The first thing her parents saw when they opened the door was Bo Phoenix’s purple padded, dinosaur-print bra.
“This isn’t the way I greet all of my girlfriend’s folks,” Bo Phoenix joked once they were inside and the awkward handshakes and introductions were over.
Lydia’s father laughed, but her mother didn’t look pacified in the least.
“How many girlfriends,” the word was forced and unpleasant, “have you had, exactly?”
“Oh, loads,” Bo Phoenix carelessly replied, and Lydia just barely resisted the urge to give her a firm pinch.
“I see,” her mother said. “That’s what I would expect.”
“Thanks.” Bo Phoenix’s brow was furrowed in confusion when she shot a questioning smile at Lydia, but she couldn’t feel sorry for her; she was too angry with herself for thinking Bo Phoenix was anywhere near ready to meet her parents. It only got worse when, during the meal, Bo Phoenix said she was thankful for padded bras. Lydia felt her face burn, hot with embarrassment and annoyance, and her mother’s chuckle of fake politeness echoed in her ears the rest of the night, even as she drove Bo Phoenix home and Bo Phoenix quietly tried to explain her childhood fascination with dinosaurs. Lydia broke up with her when they reached her house, and Bo Phoenix nodded and got out of the car.
A week of empty days and nights later, Bo Phoenix stepped timidly into Lydia’s office with downcast eyes, homemade biscuits, and a stuffed brontosaurus. Lydia moved from behind her desk and, emboldened by the loneliness she’d felt without light and noise, held Bo Phoenix’s face in both hands and kissed her full, red lips.
-
Lydia stops poking the mess that is the Chinese egg roll Bo Phoenix brought her, when she realizes something urgently important.
“I haven’t met your parents yet.”
Bo Phoenix glances up from her fingers, sticky with sweet and sour sauce, and shrugs before she starts to lick them.
“I know.”
This is not the reaction Lydia expects. She expects Bo Phoenix to jump up from the table, face bright with elation that Lydia even cares to point out something so intimate, and tug on Lydia’s arm, insistent that they go and see them instantly.
“Do you not want me to?” Lydia will be highly offended if that is the case.
“S’not that,” Bo Phoenix sucks the last of the sauce off her left index finger and avoids Lydia’s eyes when she says in what’s almost a whisper, “I just didn’t know if you were interested.”
“Well, I am. I couldn’t possibly ask you to move in with me if I haven’t even met your parents.”
“That’s not just an excuse, is it?” Bo Phoenix asks, thin eyebrow arching. She knows that it is, though, because her lips are smirking far too cleverly.
“We can go this weekend,” Lydia says, prodding, poking Bo Phoenix’s naked ankles with her sock-covered toes.
“All right,” Bo Phoenix murmurs, and Lydia nods, oddly unsatisfied. There’s a silence-heavy, awkward, and unusual-until finally, Bo Phoenix is grinning and starts to sing, “Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia, Lydia the tattooed lady? She has eyes that men adore so, and a torso even more so…”
Lydia tolerates the song, if only because she likes the sound of Bo Phoenix’s voice when she sings it, but she does not have and never will get a tattoo. She thinks they’re rude and tasteless.
Bo Phoenix, of course, has tattoos of her own. Her namesake, the firebird, has its wings outstretched on the back of her neck. The Chinese symbol for “girl” is proudly displayed beside her navel. And an apple tree is on the sole of her left foot, its roots twisting along until they disappear between her toes.
-
Lydia can only remember one time when Bo Phoenix mentioned her parents. It was late; Lydia had the weekend off and treated herself to renting her favorite black and white movies. Bo Phoenix came over with snacks, as she had a habit of doing; Lydia blamed her for the five pounds she’d gained since they’d met. Not quite halfway into Casablanca, Bo Phoenix emptied a large bag of M&M’s, spreading them out on the surface of Lydia’s coffee table. Lydia’s attention was torn between Ingrid Bergman saying, “Play it again, Sam,” and watching Bo Phoenix separate the small chocolate candies into groups of red, blue, yellow, orange, green, and brown.
“Do you care what color you get?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I like yellow and green the best. Brown’s good too, although it makes me think of someone licking the color off a bunch of them.” She stopped talking to finish sorting and regarded them for a moment, her bangs casting shadows on her face, as if to hide it from Lydia’s gaze. “I don’t like the blue ones, so my dad would always eat them for me. He’d stick out his big hand…his hands were so hairy. But then I’d look at his palm, and it would be so smooth and pale.”
She didn’t say anything more, just grinned at Lydia when she scooped up the red ones. When Lydia thinks back to that night, she remembers a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying on its side by Bo Phoenix’s feet.
-
On Saturday afternoon, Lydia hears the tell-tale putt-putt-putt of Bo Phoenix’s car. She goes outside quickly, praying under her breath that her neighbors won’t poke their heads out to complain about the noise. She’s wearing a dress and the fabric keeps sticking to her thighs as she walks; dresses aren’t normally her cup of tea, but she looks nice in them, and she wants to make a good first impression.
It’s a two hour drive to the little house of Bo Phoenix’s childhood. It’s hard for Lydia to imagine Bo Phoenix living in a place so small and tidy. She likes it much better than Bo Phoenix’s messy apartment; she’s been there three times, which was more than enough to keep her away.
The rooms are full, but feel more cozy than crowded. There are colorful, clean Afghans draped over the sofa and armchairs that sit opposite a small television; multicolored beaded curtains separate the living room from the kitchen and hallway. In the kitchen, dishes are neatly stacked in cabinets and every appliance looks as if it’s brand-new. It’s perfect, Lydia thinks, like a picture out of Better Homes and Gardens. In fact, there’s only one thing that Lydia finds odd about the place.
“Where are your parents?”
“Oh,” Bo Phoenix says, sorting through junk mail. “We’re meeting them somewhere.”
“Where?”
Slipping her a secretive smile, Bo Phoenix replies, “Someplace special.”
A few minutes later, Bo Phoenix has locked the front door and is leading Lydia down the sidewalk.
“We’ll walk,” she explains. “It isn’t far.”
Bo Phoenix likes to link arms in public. Most times, Lydia tolerates it; if she isn’t in the mood, Bo Phoenix settles for handholding. But today, Bo Phoenix tries neither. She walks with her thumbs hooked in the belt loops on her shorts and whistles something that sounds only a little bit like “I’m A Little Teapot.” She’s wearing almost her entire collection of bangles on her arm, and the constant noise they make becomes a siren in Lydia’s ear; she’s tempted to reach out and pursue the contact that Bo Phoenix has forsaken. She wants to take the bangles off, remove their unfeeling material from Bo Phoenix’s arm and replace it with her own, warm skin. This urge alarms her and she is so busy trying to ignore it that she almost doesn’t notice that the sky is becoming dark and cloudy, and that she and Bo Phoenix are nearing a graveyard.
“Your parents are-” But her pulse is racing and she knows without needing to ask. She bites her tongue.
Bo Phoenix jumps the rusty gate that surrounds the graveyard and, after a moment’s hesitation, Lydia follows. She tries to ignore the gravestones they pass, and isn’t sure whether that’s ruder than reading them or not. Before she can make up her mind, Bo Phoenix stops and says, “Here they are.”
Lydia reads the gravestones and is surprised to see that both Bo Phoenix’s parents both died on the same day, over ten years ago. She wants to ask what happened, but her tongue still hurts from her bite, and it feels thick, swollen, and too big for her mouth.
“Now, I meant to bring a sleeping bag,” Bo Phoenix says, “or at least a blanket or two. But I think we can manage without one. I slept past noon today, so I don’t know if I’ll even go to sleep-”
“Wait,” Lydia interrupts, knowing she needs to speak up now. “Are you talking about staying the night here?”
“I thought that was the plan.”
“I thought your parents were alive.” She instantly hates how tactless she sounds. “I’m sorry. But I’m not sleeping in a graveyard.”
Bo Phoenix shrugs, “Then don’t sleep. Just stay up with me.”
Lydia closes her eyes to keep from saying something insulting or rude. She knows that Bo Phoenix is unconventional, but she sincerely hopes she isn’t being serious. She feels a raindrop on her forehead and looks at the sky.
“We can’t stay,” she says. “It’s going to rain.”
Bo Phoenix is unfazed by this. Lydia wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, despite the noise the bangles will make if she does. Another drop falls, and another, and finally Lydia asks for the house keys. Bo Phoenix gives them to her and doesn’t follow or try to stop her when she leaves.
When she gets back to the house, Lydia is soaked and confused. She stands in the middle of the living room and shivers, her palms running uselessly over her arms. She doesn’t like to drive Bo Phoenix’s car, so after accepting that she will be staying the night in the house, she seeks out the bathroom and a towel. Once she’s wrapped up in a soft, pink towel and relatively dry, she steps out into the hallway and realizes that one of the doors has been left ajar. Curious, and with nothing better to do, she opens it; without even going inside, she knows it belongs to Bo Phoenix.
The room smells like vanilla and cocoa-a familiar scent that permeates a patch of Bo Phoenix’s skin somewhere between her jaw and collarbone. Bo Phoenix’s collections occupy shelves on the wall, bookcases, a desk, and even the windowsill: teddy bears of various shades and sizes, glass unicorn figurines, empty perfume bottles, and Coca-Cola caps. The top of her dresser is covered in framed photos, the largest being a family portrait that Lydia thinks she recognizes from a picture in Bo Phoenix’s wallet. The pictures to the left and right of it seem to be of two different girls, grinning and waving from their seat on the sofa. Stepping closer, Lydia realizes that all the other pictures are of girls on the sofa, as well-redheads, freckled, pigtailed, full figured, thin and bony, some a little older than others and some a little younger, all smiling.
At Lydia’s feet sit a stack of notebooks. A few of them look new and even unused, but others are worn and tattered. She kneels down and picks out one from the top and opens it; it reads:
“I have a new babysitter again. Her name is Angela and she has braces and very smooth knees. I took her picture. Mom and Dad went to a rally in Washington. I expect they’ll be back by the weekend. They said we’d go to the movies. I guess I could go with Angela.”
Lydia closes the notebook. She’s never kept a journal herself, but she knows she shouldn’t be reading someone else’s. She puts it down and looks up at the framed photos on the dresser. She recognizes Angela by her braces. She does have smooth knees. Lydia picks the notebook up again and turns to a different page; this one reads:
“My new babysitter’s name is Leah. I took her picture. She has very short hair and looks like a rather pretty boy. Mom and Dad went to a concert. Maybe they’ll bring me back a shirt.”
Lydia flips through the pages, brow furrowing with each new entry that starts “My new babysitter’s name is” or “I have a new babysitter.” It’s no wonder Bo Phoenix doesn’t talk much about her parents, she thinks; it’s seems as if they were hardly ever home. When she comes to the end of the notebook, there is no entry, but an obituary pasted on the page; it reads:
“Mr. and Mrs.-, ages 30 and 34 respectively, died unexpectedly in an automobile accident. They are survived by their 13 year old daughter-”
Lydia closes the notebook and puts it back in the stack. She picks up the next one. She learns that, after her parents’ death, Bo Phoenix stayed at home and was watched by various family members until she was 18.
Lydia feels a strange pressure in her chest as she realizes Bo Phoenix has never had anything set and stable in her life, ever. She leans back against the side of Bo Phoenix’s bed and closes her eyes. She remembers a moment, a couple of weeks ago, when Bo Phoenix was spooning her from behind. Her fingers were working methodical circles in the back of Lydia’s neck when she asked, “Are you ever going to let me move in?”
“No,” Lydia replied, tired and consequently somewhat careless.
“Well,” Bo Phoenix said, with a light, humorless chuckle against her skin, “I guess I’m glad you’ll never change.”
Lydia runs to the graveyard in the rain, almost slipping on the mud-slicked ground. Her dress gets caught when she jumps the gate, and she tugs at it until it rips. She abandons her shoes there, so she can move faster and avoid messy trips, and soon she sees Bo Phoenix ahead of her, dancing with her arms outstretched, bangles clinking. She stops when she sees Lydia and she probably smiles, but Lydia doesn’t wait to see. She runs into her slender arms and their bodies are wet when they press together. And for just a few, simple moments, things like messes don’t matter; neither do dinosaurs or bras, noise or light, cat hair and stretched sweaters, or fights that pass through like the occasional rainstorm. And whether or not all of this means love doesn’t matter either, because Lydia knows she’ll give Bo Phoenix a key tomorrow.