I didn't notice it right off, the sudden silence. It sounded eerie now, eerie and ominous and crackling with suspense as my ears strained for some telltale clue. Nothing reached me, though, and I leaped into action and got the all-important book put away in a mad rush. In its proper place, I hoped. With just the right tilt to the covering heap of silky panties and such. Only I was pretty panicky by then, too much in a hurry to stop and calm down and get everything perfect, especially with my hands shaking and my tummy full of butterflies. Anyway, it looked okay when I slid the drawer shut and finally strolled out into the kitchen, all smiles and coy innocence, hiding the secret that I knew about her secret…
False alarm. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I even considered going back in there for one last check, wondering now if the spread on her bed had been left noticeably wrinkled. And were the throw-rugs on the floor any different than before? Then, with a nervous little giggle, I simply shrugged the whole thing off and found myself almost wishing that she would catch on. After all, the mystery was no longer quite so mysterious – and what kind of woman would even dare own such a naughty book?
Hmm. What was that word again? Lesbian?
CHAPTER TWO
It was routine almost, something we went through at least twice a week, and I should have felt relaxed and comfortable in front of my junior-size vanity table as the brush made a few preparatory glides. She looked relaxed enough. Brushing my hair was a job that Bernadette must have really enjoyed, always cheerful, always working with gentle patience, no matter how many snarls and tangles I had. And she did it often too, her own idea – the full treatment, not just a quick once-over to get me ready for school in the morning. As if I were a grown-up young lady. But that was how she usually acted toward me anyway, never bossy or mean, never taking advantage of her position. As if she knew I was advanced for my age. So even though it could get pretty tiresome just sitting still like that, I seldom raised any objections whenever Bernadette suggested it might be time for my hundred strokes of the hairbrush. Like now. For that matter, only moments ago I had even thought of suggesting it myself. Strictly routine. So why couldn't I calm down and relax? Couldn't I even keep my mouth shut?
"Hey, you're not counting!"
"You noticed that, eh? Don't worry, Missy, I've got my eye on the clock. I'm timing it. Unless you'd rather count the strokes yourself?"
"No, thanks. I think a hundred is too much, anyhow. Doesn't your arm get tired? I mean, for ugly hair like mine…"
"Hush now, your hair is pretty."
"Bernadette, it's so red. Not even a nice red."
"It's a very nice red. And it'll be even nicer in a couple of years. You'll see. Hair like yours gets a shade darker after a while, a real auburn color, you know? Beautiful. It's enough to make me jealous. Mine is like dirty old straw."
I wasn't so tense and jittery now, just that little bit of conversation helped. The mirror still showed brassy red hair, though, and I wondered what auburn would look like on me. Maybe it would go all right with my brown eyes. I was pretty, sure enough, and I'd be getting even prettier in time – a dozen grown-ups had said so. But it was still nice to hear it again – beautiful – especially from someone like Bernadette, someone who really meant it.
The brush-strokes helped, too, so smooth and steady, a lovely familiar feeling – all the lovelier for what it signified, clearing up my last remaining doubts. Nothing to fret about anymore! My secret was still safe, apparently, everything was the same as before – the naughty book and the pink underwear and the secret within a secret. And meanwhile I had seen one of life's mysteries unraveling, the kind that, other kids just didn't know about. Only in pictures, of course, but a lot more interesting than those dumb stories about the birds laying eggs and the bees buzzing around and carrying pollen from flower to flower. Who cared about naked birds and bees? Or even naked babies! But naked grown-up women…
Lesbians. A book about lesbians. A naughty one, too – all that hugging and kissing and sticking tongues into each other – why would sweet Bernadette even have such a book?
Out of curiosity, I took a sneaky look into the mirror, angling for a different view this time. Her hair really was a mess, not as bad as dirty old straw exactly, just a dingy darkish blonde with no shine at all. Then, suddenly, something changed right then and there, her skin turned rosy, a real deep blush, and I realized that our eyes had met in the glass for one tiny instant. And it transferred itself to me, whatever it was – now I could only wonder if my own blush was as visible as hers. There was something hot and quivery crawling around inside me, something just outside the edge of my mind, a kind of secret excitement that seemed to grow bigger with every stroke of the hairbrush, the long down stroke that I could have sworn was getting longer each time. I got dizzy and had to close my eyes, letting my whole body sag and go limp, my head lolling out of balance, the start of a sway that could tumble me right off the vanity bench. And it sure would have, too, except for a little welcome support. Most welcome! She must have moved up closer behind me – I was leaning against her now, the back of my head sinking into softness, the soft prop of her breasts. Like a huge foam-rubber pillow, only warmer, much warmer. A cloud of perfume surrounded me, all mixed up, the powder-sweet sachet smell along with some of that deliciously tangy woman-smell…
Downstairs a door slammed – the front door! – snapping me out of my feverish daze. My fattier was home. And for the first time in my life I found myself almost resenting him; couldn't he have stayed away just a few minutes longer? It affected Bernadette also, she became brisk and businesslike and finished the job quickly. Only I couldn't help wondering what might have happened if we hadn't been interrupted. Nothing, probably, not even if she was like those naked grown-up ladies in the book. Or could lesbians do all that naughty stuff with little girls too?
It was quite a while before the opportunity arose for another sneaky visit to her room. There were numerous possibilities, of course, but none that seemed safe for any length of time, no chance of an undisturbed hour or so with the fascinating volume. And I knew dam well how easy it would be to become engrossed and get caught in the act. So I waited somewhat impatiently, unwilling to take the risk, until at last Bernadette went into the city on one of her Saturday shopping trips, an all-afternoon affair usually, with a slow bus ride both ways. We lived on Chelsea Hill, a quiet suburb of Springfield – where my father had his business – and ordinarily I might have gone along with her, glad to see the sights of the big city. I begged off just this once though, making up an excuse about going to the library with some friends from down the street. It wasn't far from the truth, actually, since the kids were supposed to come by for me, but I got on the phone and canceled out after she left. And then, proud of my shrewd strategy but feeling a bit guilty too, I had the house to myself and wasted no time getting back there and into that middle dresser drawer.
What a disappointment! The big beautiful book was missing; in its place was a dog-eared old paperback with no illustrations at all, not even a front cover picture. Both covers had been torn off, for that matter, and so was the title page – deliberately, it appeared – leaving no clue to its contents, no indication of what the thing was about. In any other place, I would have passed it over without a second glance. But after waiting so long for this moment, I had to stay and give it an honest try at least, especially with the whole afternoon ahead of me. And I couldn't just thumb through this one, my reading ability wasn't that developed yet. So I stretched out on the bed and began resolutely, frustrated but still hopeful, still conscious of the secret hiding-place.