Our second day there we learned about salmon. We learned how they reproduce, swim the stream, and die. Our wilderness instructor held up a flailing Coho, poking and pressing him to get the sperm out to fertilize the eggs. I sat beside Max on the cold hard benches outside, trying to concentrate on the wind turning up the bellies of the leaves, but I couldn’t help watching the fish twisting above the bucket. He looked prehistoric, like he didn’t belong in this world, like the bucket was a portal that would take him back to the right time and place. Kate was sitting in the front row. She kept groaning, pulling the sleeves of her sweater up over her balled hands and sinking her nose into the wool. When the instructor asked her if she wanted to hold the salmon, Kate pulled her hands away from her face and flat out said no, her voice as cold as the water in the bucket. At Outdoor School, we were expected to touch everything in nature that couldn’t sting us or give us a rash. I’d already been forced to touch tree fungus and snake skin. As soon as Kate said no, Max started to laugh and couldn’t stop. It was October, but all he was wearing was a white T-shirt and I could see the outline of his bony shoulder blades under the thin cotton. He put his head between his knees and howled while we all stared at him. For some reason the instructor thought I was the cause of all the hilarity, and he pulled me down to the front row, seating me right beside Kate. “Psycho,” I whispered in Kate’s ear, Max hiccupping behind us, and from that point on, Kate and I were friends.
With the salmon still twisting in the air, the instructor sent Max away on pig slop duty, which I think Max secretly enjoyed, because he had a smile on his face — and some people do like pigs. I felt bad for him — not Max but that salmon, all of us gawking at his thrashing and his sperm. There was nothing there to protect him; even the air was too much. I just wanted the instructor to let him go, to hold him gently in the shallow river and feel the quiver of his body between his hands, a flicker of light through the water.
IN KATE’S CLOSET I sit on the floor, staring at her clothing piled in cubbies and falling off hangers. “I need something to wear,” I say, digging through a heap of tops on the bottom shelf.
“Take whatever,” Kate says into the mirror, naked from the waist up. She snaps on a pink bra with rhinestone-studded straps. Her breasts are perfect, round like halved peaches and bigger than those of most of the girls our age. Mine are practically inverted — I mean, like raisins poked into raw dough. Maybe not that bad, but nothing to prance around with topless. “That bra’s pretty,” I say, turning my back to take off my shirt.
“Have it.” Kate unhooks the bra and tosses it at me.
“It won’t fit me.”
“Stuff ’em.” She walks to her dresser and pulls out some inserts, chucking them at me.
“Thanks,” I say, my back still turned as I tuck the pieces of foam into pockets inside the bra and adjust the straps over my shoulders.
“No biggie.” She puts on a lacy black one and a low-cut black tank top.
Earlier we napped in Kate’s basement on the Hide-A-Bed, legs intertwined, everything cool and peaceful underground. The only noise was from the wheels of her sister’s roller skates as she spun circles on the concrete floor. Her family is always in the basement. The TV’s down there and the video game box and her dad’s office too, which has been a shrine to their old family life ever since he moved out last winter. It actually isn’t really an office at all, but just a space in the corner of the rec room with a desk, a swivel chair, and a maroon rug. There’s a stash of porno mags on a top shelf above the desk, neatly arranged in grey file folders. Kate pulled them down once and showed me a page featuring buttholes. None of the girls had pubic hair and I realized I’d eventually have to get rid of mine. Since that day I’ve never liked Kate’s dad.
“Put this on,” Kate says, passing me a light pink tank top. “It matches.”
We do our makeup in the bathroom, sitting up on the vanity. The canyon water washed my face bare: small eyes, pale lips, hair gone wild again. Nothing I can do will tame it.
“Be right back,” Kate says, disappearing through the door.
I paw through the drawers and find some face powder, spreading a thin layer over my skin before snapping the compact shut and putting it back where I found it. The bathroom door swings open and Kate glides across the floor, pulling a half-full bottle of Grand Marnier from under her hoodie. “Drink up,” she says, handing it to me. “It’s all there was. That and whiskey.” She unzips her hoodie and examines her face in the mirror.
“Your mom won’t notice?” I ask, taking a gulp and passing the bottle back to her.
“She doesn’t drink. It’s my dad’s old booze.” She takes a sip, staring at me. “Your hair.”
“I know.” My hands involuntarily go up to my head.
“Overall it’s better, though.”
“I got this conditioner,” I say, pulling the strands into a tight bun. “They use it on horse manes.”
“At least you don’t have that tumbleweed-on-fire look going anymore.”
“Fuck you,” I say, laughing. I put down the toilet lid, sipping at the Grand Marnier, getting used to the burn down my throat.
“Should I go on the pill?” Kate looks in the mirror like she’s addressing herself.
“Why?” I ask before even hearing her question properly.
“You’re so pure,” Kate laughs. She hops off the counter and kisses me on the lips, soft and quick like a hummingbird. I blink, surprised, my cheeks flushing. She turns back to the mirror, sweeping her lids with shimmery pink shadow and flawlessly tracing them with black liner, smudging the lines so her eyes are shadowy and cat-like. “You need some of this,” she says, handing it to me. Beside her I lean into my reflection, running the black tip of the pencil along each lid and rubbing the line with my pinky carefully, like Kate did. I sit back and look at myself: a pale feline, lonely dark eyes. It’s better overall. “Meow,” I whisper at the mirror.
“You’re really weird sometimes,” Kate says, digging into one of the drawers. She pulls out a pack of smokes, taking out a single cigarette and cranking open the bathroom window. “So?” she says, lighting it and resting her chin on the window ledge.
“What?” I brush thick coats of black mascara on my lashes. I can’t stop staring at myself.
“What do you think of him?” Kate blows smoke out the window.
“He’s all right,” I say, joining her. I take a drag from her cigarette. “You should wait.”
“For what?” Kate says, smirking at me. “For you? That could take forever.”
“Shut up!” I grab the bottle off the counter and take a longer sip, catching a dribble down my chin with the back of my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Show-off,” Kate says, tucking the bottle under her hoodie. She kisses me again, a little harder. This time I’m ready, though. I smile and kiss her back.