Page 14 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
What an experience. Everything about it was new to me, and by then, I was comfortable enough with Ellery to tell her the truth.
She didn’t make fun of me. All she said was “Wow, you’re in for a treat!” Then, maybe because I looked so lost, she said, “Do you want me to order for you? Anything you’re allergic to?” She ordered us both carnitas tacos, and when the food came, we grabbed a seat at a nearby bench. “Squeeze the lime over it. Yep. And here’s some extra salsa. Have you had salsa?”
I hadn’t, actually, and I’d never tasted anything like it. I poured some salsa over my taco and took a big bite. My eyes widened. My toes curled. My ears pricked up. The skies parted and angels sang in a choir. “Mmm.”
“I’m jealous,” Ellery said, chewing her taco. “Man, I wish I could remember tasting my first taco. Tell me everything. What’s it like?”
I chewed slowly, wanting to savor this magical bite. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. So, you’ve really never had a taco? I’m honored to have taken you to your first-ever taco experience. What’s Indonesian food like?”
“Spicy. Lots of peanut sauce.”
“Is it like Thai food?”
“Some of it.”
“When did you move here?”
“Two days ago.”
Ellery choked on her taco and had to take a gulp of water. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
She looked closely at me. “Do you miss it?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to dwell too much on it in case I got all weepy, so I quickly said, “What about you?”
“I’ve been here awhile now. I moved as soon as I graduated high school. I’m from Ohio. Not much to do in Ohio. I bet there’s a ton of awesome things to do in Indonesia though.”
To me, America was one single place. Not much difference between LA and Ohio. Never say that to a Californian, by the way.
“I can’t believe you’re like”—she gestured at me—“all fresh-faced and like ‘Fuck yeah, here I am, LA!’ When I first came here, I was so freaked out. But not you, you’re a badass.”
I laughed, mostly because that was so far from the truth. And maybe, at the end of the day, that was the real reason why I fell in love with Ellery. Because through her eyes, I was so much more than I really was. I barely remember our drive back to campus. Here’s one thing though: Ellery was so tall that her knees reached the wheel of her tiny car, and at some points, during the quieter stretches on the road, she controlled the wheel with her knees. Stupid and irresponsible, sure, but you know what? It was also really cool. When we got back to campus, she asked for my number. Somehow, I managed to keep my composure. Instead of giggling and squealing, “Yes!” I merely smiled and gave it to her before leaving her car and walking coolly away.
When I met up with Iris at the end of the school day, she said, “What are you smiling about? You look so dopey.” And Icrashed back down to earth. Ellery made me feel weightless, and without Iris to keep me grounded, I would’ve flown straight out of orbit and lost myself in outer space. As much as I sometimes hated Iris, at the end of the day, we all need our anchors.
• • •
For as long as I could remember, Iris and I had always been as different as two people could be. Papa used to say that Iris was the sun—blazing so bright, using up her own body for fuel to burn even brighter, loving the attention it brought, even if it hurt her in the end. Then he’d turn to me and say, “You are the moon, small and quiet and surrounded by darkness. You need something to orbit around.” He’d pat me on the head and smile. “Every man needs a good moon to orbit around him to make his life complete. You’ll make some man a wonderful wife one day, my dear.” Then he’d look over at Iris and frown. “Unlike your sister. Men may be attracted to the sun, but like a moth to a flame, if they fly too close, they’ll get burned. Your sister needs to burn a lot less bright if she’s going to find a good husband.”
Everything about us was curated to fit whatever our future husband might need us to be. And I was so proud to be the moon. To be exactly the kind of girl my future husband would most want. There is no shame in admitting that; it was hardly my fault that I absorbed all of the misogyny I grew up with. There was no other point of comparison, no other tree of knowledge I could’ve plucked a fruit from to distance myself from the patriarchy.
In LA, although I was oceans away from my parents, I carried their words with me like a pendant, caressing it time and again, feeling its weight against my skin, turning it over andover until its sides were smoothed from my hands. While Iris drove us home from school, I snuck glances at her and noticed the marks on her neck—thumb-sized bruises like wine stains. With a shock that traveled all the way down my spine, I realized they were hickeys. My sister was getting hickeys. Some guy had put his lips on her neck and kissed and sucked at her skin until the blood vessels underneath ripened and burst.
Shame rolled through my body, as though I were the one who’d done that. She was my sister, and her shame was mine to bear. Hot on the tail of the shame was anger. Why would she do that? Didn’t she know that her future husband would sense it on her? All of the boys she’d allowed to touch her—their hands grabbing her, their mouths on her—they would all leave their invisible marks, and when her future husband unwrapped her in their marital bed, he would know. And what would happen then? Would he cast her out? Announce to everybody that his bride was unclean?
That’s stupid, a small voice whispered in my head.
Is it though?
Purity was such an important part of being a girl, something that had been drilled mercilessly into our heads, shattering skulls and parting soft tissue until it was so firmly lodged that there was no way of taking it out without destroying us.
“Yes, it’s a hickey,” Iris said with a roll of her eyes.
