ONE

They galloped flank to flank, the late August afternoon sunlight dappling the cornfield dark and light like a jigsaw puzzle. Crouching low and tucking in their elbows, they tried to protect their bare shoulders from getting scratched as their horses careened toward the open field ahead. Their shirts, stuffed under the backs of their saddles, flapped wildly in the breeze. A tractor had carved a path through the dense fields of corn, which at this time of year reached as high as their heads. A spiky fringe the color of summer wheat crowned the stalks, which soon would grow dry and brittle as the season changed.

“I’m going to die if anyone sees us like this!” Elsie hollered into the wind, her knees knocking against the corncobs ripe on the stalks.

“No, you won’t!” Jemma yelled back toward her friend. “You’ll just have a really good story to tell!”

Elsie could not believe Jemma had convinced her to take off her shirt. What if they ran into a hunting party? It was not inconceivable. This was horse country, after all, and she had seen plenty of hunters in these parts before. She doubted the pack of crazed hounds chasing their fox would take notice that she was riding topless, but the riders who followed would probably be more observant. 

“Should we do some of those jumps over in the next field?” Jemma called. 

“If you want,” Elsie answered.  

As they moved into the meadow, their horses lengthened their strides, kicking up clods of dirt and grass in their wakes. Elsie glanced back at the cornfield, glinting gold in the sunlight. She sank deeper into her saddle, swaying to Stem Christie’s rocking horse gate. Swiping at the beads of sweat on her forehead, Elsie could tell her short hair already was damp under her helmet. Dust motes swam before her eyes as they raced toward the coop dividing the two fields. 

Jemma rose in her stirrups, her body prone over Casper’s outstretched neck as he leapt gracefully over the coop into the neighboring field. Stem Christie followed suit, not wanting to be left behind. 

“This feels great,” Jemma huffed, out of breath. Coming to a standstill, she reached down to stroke Casper’s shoulder. “I haven’t been riding nearly enough this summer.” 

Casper was a magnificent sixteen hand Appaloosa. Jemma had been leasing him for the past two years in exchange for the weekly work she did for the owners of the barn. Three times a week she mucked the stalls, fed and watered, and exercised two of the older mares. In exchange, she had Casper, hers to ride whenever she pleased. 

“Do you want to do the loop?” Jemma asked as Elsie caught up.

Elsie glanced down at Stem Christie’s chestnut neck, slick with sweat. The loop was a large figure eight course consisting of four-foot log jumps that crisscrossed the field, culminating in an in-and-out, two consecutive post and rail jumps, separated by a stride. 

“Okay. But Stem Christie was a pill on this course a couple weeks ago when I was here with my mom.” Elsie nodded toward Jemma. “You go first and I’ll follow. Just make sure you set a good example.”

Jemma wrapped her arms around Casper’s neck. “You ready, boy?” Clucking softly, she squeezed her knees, and Casper obediently broke into a brief trot, then a loping canter. 

Elsie watched as they headed in the direction of the first jump. It would be a few minutes before she could get started, and it looked like Stem Christie could use the rest. Loosening her reigns, she reclined in her saddle, resting her head on Stem Christie’s back, her face to the sky. She wished school was not starting tomorrow. Although she was a good student, everyone said junior year was a beast. 

Elsie cocked her head to see where Jemma was on the course. Moving towards the woods for her fifth jump. Time to go. Pulling herself upright, she slid her feet back into her stirrups, shortened her reigns, and gave Stem Christie a nudge in the belly with the back of her heel. He broke into a canter, and she guided him toward the first jump, praying he would not come to a grinding halt at its base like the last time they were here. 

Surprising Elsie, he sailed over the first fence, landing smoothly on the other side. Elsie grinned. There was no better feeling than a jump well taken. She adjusted her position in the saddle and readied herself for the next fence, about thirty feet ahead. Clearing the four feet of logs, she began to round the field at a nice clip. She now once again faced Jemma and Casper and saw they were approaching the last two fences of the course—the in-and-out. 

As Casper’s front legs left the ground, a huge buck leaped into the field from a small stand of trees to the left of Jemma. 

Stem Christie spooked, nearly knocking Elsie from the saddle. Regaining her balance, she looked up just in time to see Casper and Jemma land between the in-and-out. As Casper’s hooves hit the ground, the horse went ballistic. He threw back his head, dove wildly to the side, and crashed into the second fence, causing the wooden rails to go flying from their posts. Elsie screamed as Jemma soared over Casper’s head, landing with a thud on the hard-packed dirt beneath the fence.

Elsie kicked Stem Christie hard, urging him to go faster. She could see Jemma just lay there, unmoving. My God! What if she was really hurt? They were in the middle of nowhere. What would she do? Grinding to a halt several feet from the in-and-out, she slid off Stem Christie and threw her reins around the wooden post. Casper stood grazing near Jemma’s feet, his huge dark eyes trained on Jemma’s still form. 

Elsie rushed to her friend’s side. “Jemma! Are you alright? Jemma!” She gently shook her friend’s shoulder. 

Jemma’s blue eyes fluttered open. “My arm,” she mumbled. “I think it’s broken.” She rolled her head in the dirt, motioning toward her right arm, pinned by one of the wooden rails.   

Elsie crawled over to the rail and, using her weight as leverage, rolled it off Jemma’s arm, which lay limp and at an unnatural angle. “Does anything other than your arm hurt?” she asked worriedly, on the verge of tears. 

Jemma gave Elsie a pained smile. “I think I’ve scratched up my back pretty badly. Lucky I had on my bra for protection,” she said with a grimace.

“Don’t move until we know you’re okay,” Elsie chided. “Just try to wiggle your toes first.”

Jemma wiggled her toes. “Yup. Still got function of my toes,” she said, raising her brow in amusement at her friend. “Relax, Elsie. I’m going to be okay. Really.” 

“Do you want to try to sit up?” Elsie asked, scooting behind Jemma to support her. 

“Sure,” Jemma answered. “But don’t touch my arm, okay? Let me move it myself.”

“Alright. Ready?”

“Ready.” Jemma used her good arm to support her bad one and, with a groan, sat up in the dirt. Her back was covered with angry red abrasions.

“Hey,” Jemma said. “Do you see my shirt anywhere?” 

“Hold still. Let me see if it’s still under your saddle.” Elsie returned to Casper. She felt bad for the horse, who stood quietly hanging his big spotted head. Elsie wondered whether she imagined the guilty look in his eyes. Unfastening Casper’s girth, she removed his saddle to see if Jemma’s shirt had slid underneath, but there was no sign of it. 

“Bad news,” she said, returning to Jemma’s side. “No shirt.”

“What do you mean, no shirt?” said Jemma, her eyes growing wide.

“Just what I said. No shirt,” Elsie repeated, smiling for the first time since Jemma’s fall. “It looks like you’ll be going to the hospital half naked to have your arm x-rayed.” 

“Find my fucking shirt, Elsie Block! I am so not fooling. I can’t walk into a hospital in nothing but my bra.” Jemma looked down at her breasts. “Especially not this one. It’s awful.”

Raising her brow at Jemma, Elsie began to retrace the last part of the loop Jemma had ridden, but there was no sign of Jemma’s shirt. Beginning to grow self-conscious herself, Elsie yanked her own shirt out from under Stem Christie’s saddle and pulled it over her head.

She and Jemma had known each other since they were barely out of diapers. When Jemma’s grandmother had died shortly after Jemma’s birth, Jemma’s mother had inherited her parents’ old stone home. And when Elsie’s parents had relocated to Baltimore following her birth, they had purchased the neighboring house.

“I swear, Jemma. I don’t see it. It could have fallen out just about anywhere. Even back when we were in the cornfield.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do, then?”

“You’ve got to get to the hospital to have your arm looked at.” Elsie paused. “This might be a way to get some fast attention when we get there. You know, from a cute, horny doctor.”

“Elsie, my arm is killing me and I honest to God am about to kill you!”

“Maybe Angelica or Violet can meet us in the hospital parking lot and bring you a shirt,” Elsie suggested practically.

Elsie and Jemma both attended the Elizabeth Broughton School for Girls, fondly known as Lizzy B—Jemma, curtesy of the money her grandmother had left for the education of her granddaughters. The two friends had met Violet in the fifth grade and Angelica in the ninth and, by the tenth grade, they were an established foursome.

“Crap. So I need to ride all the way back to the car with one arm and no shirt?”

“Looks that way,” said Elsie, shrugging slightly. Jemma had done everything in her power to persuade Elsie to ride topless and now appeared to be receiving her just desserts. 

“Let’s call them,” Jemma said. “Do you have your phone?”

“Shouldn’t we call your parents first?” Elsie asked. “Do you want me to call your dad?”

“No. He’ll be furious if I cause him to miss any work. Or if this ER visit costs him a bloody cent.”

“How about your mom, then?” Jemma’s mother worked as a nurse in the hospital’s intensive care unit.

“She’s still be at the hospital. We can call her when we’re on our way.”

 “Okay,” Elsie said, not wanting to get in the middle of Jemma and her parents. Unlike her own relationship with her parents, Elsie knew Jemma couldn’t stand her father and wasn’t particularly close with her mother. 

After several failed leg-ups, Elsie finally was able to get Jemma into the saddle. They slowly made their way back to the barn, Jemma’s arm dangling at her side. When they left the wooded trail for the final approach, Jemma made Elsie ride ahead to ensure the coast was clear. As much as Jemma loved to live on the edge, she suddenly had turned modest at the prospect of encountering her barn mates wearing nothing but her bra and jeans. It was one thing to bare her breasts to the wildflowers and wind, quite another to people she knew.

Leaving Jemma and Casper behind a storage shed, Elsie trotted the rest of the way to the barn, deposited Stem Christie in his stall, then went in search of an item of clothing to cover Jemma’s torso. Finding nothing but a saddle pad and an old horse blanket, she opted for the blanket, which she dutifully carried to where Jemma stood hiding in the shadows. Jemma had removed her helmet and, in the fading light of the day, looked tired and pale. Her braid had come undone, and her wavy blond hair hung in tangles on her bare shoulders. 

“Go get in my car and I’ll put Casper in his stall,” Elsie commanded. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Elsie knew Jemma didn’t feel well when she listened without arguing. Handing Elsie Casper’s reins, Jemma wrapped the hairy blanket around her shoulders and walked gingerly across the gravel parking lot to the car.

***

Angelica honked her horn as Elsie pulled into the hospital parking lot. Violet jumped from the car and rushed over to greet them, opening the passenger door to the sight of a pasty-faced Jemma.

“You look awful,” Violet said.

“Back at you,” frowned Jemma. “I can feel the love.”

“Sorry,” Violet said. “You just don’t look very good. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m seriously thinking about it, but not until I get a shirt on my body. Did you guys happen to bring one of those?” Jemma asked, white lipped. “And please don’t tell me that Angelica brought one of hers, or it’s likely to fit my big toe.” 

“Don’t worry,” Violet said. “I brought one of mine.”

“Good.”

“Here,” said Angelica, walking up to the car. “Put this on.” She handed Jemma a shirt. “I’m not sure I want to know how you managed to lose your shirt while horseback riding. I swear. Only you, Jemma.”

“Shut up, Angelica. I am so not in the mood right now.”

Ignoring Jemma, Angelica continued. “Have you reached your mother, yet?”

“Yeah. We called from the car. She said she’d meet me in the ER.”

“Do you want me to call my mama?” Elsie offered. Although now in private practice as an orthopedic surgeon, Elsie’s mother had privileges at numerous local hospitals.

“No, that’s okay. Let’s wait to get the results of the x-ray first,” Jemma said. “I don’t want to bother her if we don’t have to.”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Jemma cursed as Angelica, Violet, and Elsie worked together to maneuver Violet’s shirt onto Jemma’s body without moving her arm. Then, flanking Jemma’s sides like a battalion, they escorted her into the emergency room where Beth Pelegrino stood waiting for her daughter.

But relief at the sight of her mother did not quell Jemma’s angst about going home to her father.  

TWO

“Oh my God! That’s him!” Elsie squealed as she spotted Gordon across the street. It was third period and they were on their way to English class at Grayson’s Academy, Lizzy B’s brother school around the corner.  

“Him, who?” Jemma asked.

“You know, him! Him!” Elsie repeated in a rush as the tip of her nose turned red. “Gordie Black, that really cute guy we met at that outdoor party last year? He’s a senior now.”

All four girls stared at the tall, curly haired boy sauntering toward them, surrounded by his friends. He wore the Grayson’s school uniform of navy pants, a belt, and a white button down, but his shirt was rumpled and his pants hung baggy at his hips. He walked lazily across the street as the traffic light turned red, oblivious to the honking horns. 

Elsie did not know what to do with herself. “Do you think he’ll remember me? Should I say something? What if I say hi and he has no idea who I am? 

“Shhh! He’s coming. Quiet!” commanded Elsie even though no one had said a word. “Quick, tell me what to say!”  

Before anyone could respond, the boys were there. Their laughter died off as they approached. 

“Hey, Angelica,” said a Grayson’s student with bleached blond hair. He was large in the way of a football player, with a broad back and suntanned, muscled arms that bulged from the rolled sleeves of his shirt. His eyes trailed over Angelica, lingering on her pink mouth, then her hair smooth and black as obsidian.   

“Hi,” Angelica said, flashing a flirty smile. 

“How’s it going?”

“Good. How about you?”

“It’s all good. Football starts soon. You should come to one of my games.”

“Sure. Just let me know when.”

“Will do. Peace.” The group strolled past them, resuming their raucous banter.

“Who the fuck was that?” Jemma asked. “How do you know that guy?”

“I don’t really,” Angelica said. “I passed him in the hallway a couple times last year. I think his name’s Rod. I’ve literally exchanged all of ten words with him.” 

Jemma gave Angelica a wicked grin, waggling her eyebrows in amusement. “Those must have been some ten words!” 

Ignoring Jemma, Angelica turned to Violet. “Do you think he’s cute?”

Violet glanced over her shoulder. “Cute in that jock sort of way. Not my type, but decent body.”

Jemma grunted. “Not a bad chin dimple either.”

Elsie walked quietly, tuning out the conversation of her friends. She could not believe she had just stood there and said nothing. Gordie’s presence had paralyzed her. She had felt encased in wet concrete, too sluggish to make movement, her mouth sealed shut. What was wrong with her? How hard was it to say a stinking hello to a boy? She loved to talk. She was a chatty person by nature. So what kind of a personality change came over her when she was in the proximity of the male gender? What happened to her voice? 

“Elsie, did you hear me?” Violet asked, regarding her friend intently. In the midst of their chatter, she had noticed Elsie had not uttered a word.

“Huh?”

“I was talking to you.”

“Sorry. Was just thinking.”

Violet took in her friend’s face mapped with freckles and distress, her effort to remain impassive betrayed only by a tiny nerve that jumped in her cheek. “Gordon’s cute,” Violet offered. She dropped back to walk beside Elsie. “Maybe we’ll see him on our way back to Lizzy B and you can say hi then.”

Elsie mustered a frail smile, but before it could take hold, it wobbled, then dropped. Violet reached for her friend’s hand and, fingers entwined, they walked the rest of the way to Grayson’s.

***

Jemma loved spicy foods and tended to liberally douse everything from hamburgers to pizza with red pepper flakes, salsa, or hot sauce. When Angelica’s mother made her home-made pastales, Jemma begged her friend to bring the left overs to school. Squeezing the last of the packets of extra hot salsa onto her cheese quesadilla, Jemma took a huge mouthful. Her friends teased her about her appetite and, in particular, the amount of food she managed to cram into her mouth in one bite. 

“Mmmm. Really good. Want some?” she asked with full cheeks, pushing her plate toward Violet.  

“I’m good, thanks,” Violet said, handing Jemma a napkin. They sat on a stone wall in the school courtyard where they often gathered to study in nice weather, chat between classes, or eat lunch.

“Shit!” Jemma exclaimed as a glob of salsa slid out of her quesadilla and onto her cast. This is getting so gross. I don’t even want this cast in bed with me anymore it’s so filthy,” she said wrinkling her nose at her appendage.

“Hey,” said Elsie as she approached. “Anyone know what’s going on this weekend?”     

Jemma, who hated school and lived for the weekends, took the bait as she finished off her quesadilla in record time. “I heard this cool band’s playing at No Fish Saturday night. Sounds like it could be fun.” 

“I heard about that too,” said Angelica. “Aren’t they called the Cuban Bulldogs, or something?”

“Yeah. The drummer’s supposed to be really hot,” Elsie said. She had a soft spot for band members and, in particular, the drummers and guitarists. She thought the drummers were the sexiest. They sat surrounded by large drum barrels and cymbals, their bicep muscles jumping as their drum sticks flew from one surface to another. She dreamed that one day, a sexy drummer would spot her in the crowd while playing and, on a break, seek her out.

“I thought you had to be twenty-one to get in,” Violet said. “Isn’t No Fish a bar?”

Jemma shrugged. “It’s the bar down on Yarrow Street. But you can get in with a school ID if you’re sixteen or older now. You just get your hand stamped.”  

“Can we meet up at your place, Angelica?” Violet asked. “I think your house is the closest.” Angelica lived in a rowhouse downtown near the church where her mother worked as a receptionist. Her elderly grandfather lived several doors down, and a zillion aunts, uncles, and younger cousins lived within a three-hour radius. Born in Puerto Rico, Angelica Maria Garcia and her extended family—minus her father—had moved to the United States when she was thirteen. Aside from sharing with her friends that her father was bueno para nada chico—a good for nothing—Angelica never spoke of him.

“I’ll check with my mom, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

***

The following day, the sky was gray and it was drizzling as they walked from Lizzy B to Grayson’s for English class. Shivering in the September rain, Jemma threw the hood of her Lizzy B sweatshirt over her head, and Elsie put on her fluorescent yellow slicker. Elsie’s raincoat was the butt of many jokes. She alternately was called a yellow submarine and an oversized buttercup, but she didn’t care. She liked her raincoat, especially the color, and no names were going to keep her from wearing it. Her normally sleek cinnamon colored hair sprouted from the sides of the bright yellow hood. 

Angelica and Violet ran ahead in an effort to stay dry as the rain began to come down in earnest. Five minutes later, Jemma and Elsie arrived at the English building, wet and laughing. 

“Merde! I’m drenched!” announced Jemma, shaking her head like a dog to scatter the rain. 

They hurried up the flight of stairs to their classroom but as they rounded the corner of the landing stopped. Angelica stood with her back to the wall just outside the classroom. Rod leaned over her, his arm casually draped against the wall above her head. The bulk of him dwarfed Angelica’s petite frame. Elsie’s unease sharpened at the sight.

He struck Elsie as too sure of himself, like nothing Angelica said could possibly matter as much as what he had to say. The bell for third period rang, and Elsie and Jemma jogged the rest of the stairs to the classroom.  

Elsie unzipped her knapsack and reached for her copy of Othello. “What was that about?” she asked Angelica.

“No idea. He was in the hallway and struck up a conversation.”

“What were you guys talking about?” Jemma asked in her version of a quiet voice. She had yet to master the skill of whispering.

 Angelica grimaced. “I don’t think the whole class is interested in what Rod had to say.”

Jemma rummaged through her knapsack. “Shit. I think I left Othello in my locker. Can I look on with you, Else?”

“Sure,” Elsie, said, returning her focus to Angelica. “What were the two of you talking about?”

“He asked if I wanted to do something Saturday night, but I told him I already had plans to go to No Fish with friends.”

Elsie breathed a sigh of relief. She had a bad feeling about Rod.

THREE

Elsie, who prided herself on being on time, was the first to arrive at Angelica’s house. Violet arrived next, and Jemma, never on time, predictably was the last to arrive. 

“Am I late, or are you guys just early?” Jemma called breathlessly as she bounced up the stairs to Angelica’s bedroom. She wore her favorite faded jeans, a green and gold peasant top, and long beaded earrings. As she rushed into the room, she yanked out her ponytail so that her hair streamed loose and wavy down her back.

“Wow!” Violet said. “Your hair looks great, Jemma!”

“Todah, Mademoiselle Zorner.”

Violet laughed. “Think nothing of it, Señorita Pelegrino.”

“Did you just speak Hebrew?” Angelica asked.

 “Ken,” nodded Jemma, continuing in Hebrew. “I learned it in the Jewish students’ club at school. 

“But you’re not Jewish,” answered Elsie, laughing. 

“I know, but it’s fun. Violet’s a member, and she’s been teaching me the Hebrew alphabet. I can even write my name,” Jemma stated proudly. “Wanna see?”

“You crack me up.” Angelica wrinkled her nose in the direction of Jemma’s feet. “Dios mio, are you really going to wear those?”  

Jemma had on her favorite Birkenstock sandals. Only Jemma with her crazy, eclectic, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass’ style could carry off the bizarre mixture of clothing she typically wore. 

“No, they were feeling sad in my closet, so I’m just keeping them company for a while. Of course I’m wearing them. That’s why they’re on my feet!”

Elsie grinned. Jemma loved to get a rise out of Angelica, who could be a bit of a clothes snob, despite her sparse wardrobe carefully curated from second-hand stores. Although she and her mother lived hand-to-mouth, Angelica had an eye for style and looked fantastic in nearly everything she wore.   

Violet rose. “Are you guys ready, or are we going to stand around here all night discussing Jemma’s feet?”

***

Elsie drove to No Fish. The Cuban Bulldogs were playing, and the place was packed. While Angelica, Jemma, and Violet went to the bar to get sodas, Elsie picked her way to the edge of the dance floor among the tangle of overheated bodies, where she had a clear view of the drummer. She could not take her eyes off him. She stood quietly, carefully watching the drummer’s facial expressions and body language. She wondered if he had a girlfriend.  

After receiving their sodas from a pink-haired bartender with a round robin of belly button rings, Angelica and Violet went in search of Elsie. Jemma had held off ordering after glimpsing the male bartender, then hearing him speak. He sounded Italian, and she had a thing for Italians—something about the way they rolled their ‘r’s. The Italian did not actually have to be Italian though. He just needed to be a smooth-talking, mysterious stranger type with an incredibly sexy foreign accent. Italian was good, but the accent could be French or Australian and still do the job. 

Jemma sat glued to her bar stool hoping to catch the bartender’s eye long enough to order a drink and exchange two words. But before she had a chance to plan an opening line, the Italian leaned over the bar and slid a cocktail napkin in front of her.

“What’ll it be?” 

Jemma sharply inhaled. God help me, she thought. He was incredible up close. He had several days of sexy stubble on his cheeks and a scruffy black mustache and ocean blue eyes. He wore a red t-shirt with the white outline of a fish unfurled across his chest. Inside the fish shape, block letters spelled out the words “NO FISH”.

“Can I have a club soda, please?”

“Sure thing. Twist of lime?”

“Oh my God. I love your accent. Where are you from?”

“Italy, but I’ve lived here for the last couple of years. Sidney, Australia for a short stint before that.”

“You’re from Italy? No way!”

“Yes way. Why? You know someone over there?”

“No,” answered Jemma, blushing. “No, no one at all. It’s just that I’m surprised, that’s all. Really, don’t mind me. Please.” 

Jemma stared down into her club soda. She picked the lime out with her fingers and popped it into her mouth, relishing the sour taste. What were the odds? An ‘Italian’ who was actually Italian! Wait, just wait, until she told the others. 

The Italian stood rooted to the spot, gaze fixed on Jemma. His lip curled in amusement as she puckered her cheeks and sucked the juice out of the lime, moved onto the pale green flesh, and then attempted to politely remove the remnant peel from her mouth. 

“Sorry. Kind of a rude habit. I’ve always loved things that are sour. Lemons, limes. Sour Skittles are my weakness.” 

The Italian reached into a bin near his elbow and emerged with another wedge of lime that he placed on the cocktail napkin next to Jemma’s club soda.  

“I’m a Sour Skittles fan myself,” he said. “Sour Patch Kids too. Also a nasty habit. My teeth hurt for a week after I eat the stuff, but it doesn’t keep me from going back for more.” He laughed. “You know, you’ve got a slight accent of your own. Where are you from?”

“No place exciting. Actually, my accent’s a fraud. I mean, it’s real, but I was just born speaking this way. A dozen years of grueling speech therapy, and I still don’t speak right. My speech therapist says the accent comes from distorting my vowels.”

“Well, I, for one, am a fan of your vowels.”  

“You are?”

“Yeah, I think I am.” 

“Thanks.”

“That’s quite an unusual art form,” the Italian said, smiling at Jemma’s cast.

“My friends claim it’s an attractive nuisance. The empty spots call out to them as a doodling surface.”

“What happened?”

“I fell off my horse. He spooked at a buck.”

“A buck?” the bartender asked, cocking a brow.

“You know, a boy deer? The kind with antlers?”

A heavily tattooed man several seats over motioned to the Italian for a drink. “Excuse me for a minute, would you?” 

Jemma sat on her bar stool, too stunned to move. She could not believe she had just had the conversation she had had with this incredibly hot Italian bartender. 

She dropped the fresh wedge of lime into her club soda as she contemplated the Italian’s rear end. His jeans hung loose at his narrow hips, but not so loose that she could not make out the hard line of his thighs beneath them. He had finished serving the guy with the tattoos and now was bending over a crate of glasses, neatly stacking them on the shelf behind the bar. She wondered what his name was, what he did when he was not bartending. The Italian moved swiftly up and down the length of the bar, smoothly waiting on people, alternately mixing drinks and pouring beers. He was fast, everywhere at once. 

Each time the Italian passed her, he grinned and slid her another wedge of lime. Jemma was in seventh heaven. She had never before received this kind of attention from any guy worth his salt, and she was not moving from her bar stool until her friends dragged her away.

***

Violet pointed to a group of boisterous high school boys entering the bar. “Elsie, look. Don’t those guys go to Grayson’s?”

“I think you’re right,” Elsie said. Then she did a double take. “Isn’t that Rod? The one in the football jersey?” 

Rod stood in the center of a group of boys who laughed loudly as he gesticulated with his arms. He appeared to be telling a story, and his friends clamored around him like a harem.   

“That’s definitely him,” Violet said. “Angelica’s going to flip. Who’s he with?” Violet stood on her toes to try to see over the heads of the crowd. She wore a short, ruffled skirt that only she could carry off, with a black cropped top she loved because it downplayed her breasts. Violet hated her breasts. They were too big, drew too much attention, and got in the way when she danced. 

Angelica returned from the bar with a devilish grin. “Jemma has found a heart throb. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of her tonight.”

“Who?” Elsie asked with surprise. “We’ve only been here for half an hour.”

“She’s taken a liking to the bartender. She wouldn’t say anything because he was nearby, but I saw the way she was looking at him. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her like this.”

“What’s he like?” Violet asked, suddenly curious.

“Cute. Older. He’s definitely older. Has a mustache.”

Elsie’s eyes sprung open. “A mustache? How old is this guy?”

“Don’t know. I can see why Jemma likes him though. He’s totally sexy, in an Italian kind of a way. Dark and scruffy. Amazing blue eyes. Anyway, you know how Jemma is about Italians.”

Violet handed Elsie her soda. “I’ll be back. I’ve got to see this guy for myself.” Violet had yet to meet a boy she found attractive—at least in a sexual way—and secretly worried something was wrong with her. Maybe she liked girls and didn’t know it yet? But she had never been attracted to a girl either. Or maybe she was asexual and would never feel anything physical for anyone? She guessed that was a possibility as well. But as she approached Jemma’s stool, she saw immediately that Jemma had no such equivocations. Everything about Jemma’s expression and posture broadcast her desire and infatuation.

After Violet had disappeared in the direction of the bar, Elsie drew Angelica close. “I think Rod’s here,” she said. “Violet and I saw him come in earlier with a bunch of guys.”

“Wepa!” Angelica looked pleased. “Quick, let’s go to the ladies’ room. I want to make sure I look alright.” Years of growing up in the Garcia household had impressed upon Angelica the importance of her appearance. Although Angelica and her mother lived frugally, her mother took pride in the life they had made for themselves, keeping their small home immaculate and forever emphasizing the importance of dressing with careful attention to clothes and makeup.

“You look great, Angelica.” Elsie had never seen Angelica not look great. While she, Violet, and Jemma were decent looking, Angelica was in a class of her own. Guys found her drop dead gorgeous with her long black hair and flawless skin. But mostly, guys were drawn to her eyes, the most unusual color green. 

“Seriously, Else. Come with me,” Angelica urged. “Just for a minute.”

On their return, they found Violet near the bar wearing a wistful expression, her attention fixed on Jemma and the bartender. “Have you seen Rod?” Angelica asked her. “Elsie says he’s here.”

Violet glanced up at her friends, her gaze scanning the crowded bar area. “He was here looking for you just a couple minutes ago but I wasn’t sure where—oops. He’s right behind you, coming this way.” Violet watched as Rod approached with several friends. Reaching Angelica, he snaked his arms around her waist. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured in her ear. 

Angelica’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes narrowed, but she quickly recovered, ironing out her features. 

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said evenly. 

“I couldn’t imagine you really preferred a night out with the girls to a night out with me,” he teased. 

Elsie shot Rod a look. Was this guy for real? What could Angelica possibly see in him? She snorted, then froze realizing what she had done and tried to disguise her snort with a cough.

Rod came around to Angelica’s side, trailing his arm up her back until it rested on her shoulder. “Let’s get something to drink,” he said, guiding her toward the bar. 

Elsie raised a censuring brow as Angelica and Rod disappeared into the crowd. “You don’t have to say a word,” Violet said.

“Was I that obvious?” Elsie asked.

“Yes, but I love you anyway,” Violet laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t think Rod even noticed.”

A boy with sharp cheek bones and pale freckled skin approached, glancing quickly at Violet’s breasts, blushing, then returning his attention to her face. “Aren’t we in the same English class?” he asked.   

“I think so,” Violet said. “I’m taking Shakespeare’s Treatment of Women in Literature.”

“Me too. Pretty dull, huh?”

Elsie was in the same English class, but she guessed he didn’t remember her.

“Actually, I’ve kind of enjoyed reading Othello,” Violet said, nervously twisting a brown curl. “Once you get used to the language, it’s not so bad.” 

“I’m Art. You’re Violet, right?” He looked longingly at the crush of bodies gyrating to the pounding pulse of the music. “Do you like to dance?”

Violet “I’ve been dancing since I was like three years old. Ballet and jazz.”

“Want to dance now?”

Elsie stood quietly as Violet and Art moved away toward the dance floor. The boys who had approached with Rod were engrossed in conversation about some football game.

No one seemed to know she was there.   

***

Jemma could not wipe the grin off her face. She also could not hold still. Her eyes glittered as the details of Saturday night gushed out. She strolled back and forth along the top of the stone wall in the quad, dipping a foot first down one side of the wall, then the other like walking a balance beam. 

“He’s from Italy. An authentic Italian. I mean, my God! Talk about luck. He honestly couldn’t be any sexier if he tried. Did you see how incredible his smile was? The way his eyes crinkle at the corners? And, oh my God, their color—the most incredible, delicious, let-me-drown-in-you blue. He kept coming back to where I was sitting at the bar all night long. You know, to talk and stuff. Did you guys see that? There’s definitely something there. I can feel it in my bones!”

Elsie grinned at Jemma. She had not seen Jemma this excited in ages. “What’s his name?”

“I have no idea. Don’t kill me, Elsie. I was so busy memorizing his every word and gesture that I forgot to ask. The whole night feels like a big blur to me, you know? Like I was only half there, in some twilight zone or something.”

Angelica sat on the grass with her back to the wall finishing a yogurt. The bell for first period was about to ring. “What’s he do when he’s not bartending?”

“He just graduated from Colgate and is taking a year off to earn money before he goes to graduate school. He’s planning to get a masters in biology.”

“How old does that make him?” Elsie wondered aloud.

Jemma shrugged. “Not sure. I think he said he took a year off between high school and college to travel.”

Angelica glanced up at Jemma, who was still ambling back and forth along the wall in a dreamy haze. “You’re around twenty-one or twenty-two when you graduate college. If he took a year off to travel, that would make him something like twenty-three or twenty-four. Your father is going to have a cow, Jemma.”

Elsie tossed Angelica a warning glance. Angelica was not one to mince words.

The bell rang, and the quad suddenly swam with green-clad girls.

“I’ve absolutely got to see him again,” Jemma said.

“Who?” Elsie asked, gathering her books.

“My Italian!”

The corners of Elsie’s mouth tipped in a smile for her friend. But at the same time an unexpected melancholy washed over her as she realized all three of her friends had people showing interest in them. She had no one. Just a crush on a guy who did not know she existed.