Wendy’s room was wallpapered with blue stripes, but everything else was white—the sheer curtains, the bed and dresser, the thick pile carpet, the lumpy quilt. Posters of men papered the walls—Larry Bird, Bill Walton, John Havlicek, Kareem Abdul-Jabar. A shelf of gold trophies, two rows deep, all basketball. Next to the trophies, an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a women’s basketball team. Maeve picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Only the 1976 US Women’s Basketball team. I saw them in Montreal, at the Olympics.” She came up behind Maeve, rested her chin on one shoulder, her hand on the other. “See there? Pat Head and Ann Meyers? They’re my favorites, but I like the guards too. They all give me hope that I’ll be able to play in college.”
Maeve set the photo back on the dresser and turned into Wendy, wrapping her arms around her waist. She had learned in the weeks since their first kiss where to put her hands. She had also learned more about kissing, about closing her eyes and letting herself drift like she was doing now. Wendy pulled away. “Um,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I’m going to open the door for a second, and let’s laugh and talk a little so she doesn’t start to wonder.” She opened the door silently. Maeve realized that despite its age, this house didn’t creak likehers. Wendy laughed at nothing, repeated what she’d said before about the basketball players, made some noise about going to the bathroom and left the room.
Maeve checked out the trophies idly until she felt eyes on her. Mrs. Walker was in the doorway. “Oh, hi again,” Maeve said. “I was looking at Wendy’s trophies.”
“You play basketball?” Mrs. Walker asked in a way that suggested she knew the answer.
“I used to. I wasn’t good enough for the team. I’m more into theater now,” Maeve offered, trying to sound interesting.
Mrs. Walker looked around the room.
“Wendy’s in the bathroom.”
Mrs. Walker smiled tightly and whisked herself away.
Wendy came back and closed the door gently. She told Maeve to sit on the end of the bed, then she opened the closet, pulled out a hanger with a blue dress. “Since you’re not going to prom, I wanted to show you this. My mother wore it in college. I couldn’t imagine putting on some frilly thing, and she let me have it altered. What do you think?”
It was the most elegant dress Maeve had ever seen—midnight blue satin, liquid straight, with wide straps and a curved neckline, and a matching bow at the empire waist. She touched the fabric. “It’s so beautiful! I wish I could see you wearing it.”
Wendy glanced at the door, a mischievous look on her face. “Should I try it on quick?”
Girls got undressed around each other all the time in the locker room. How was this any different? And yet it was. She had never been in a locker room with Wendy, had never seen her bare skin. They had touched each other under shirts, under the cover of darkness. But here they were, in a bedroom, in Wendy’s bedroom. Maeve bit her lip, nodded.
Wendy took the dress off the hanger and laid it on the bed next to Maeve. She shimmied out of her jeans, pulled her T-shirt over her head until she wore only tiny striped bikini underwear and a white cross-your-heartbra with a pink bow. It was like putting a face to a name, seeing the skin she had touched. Maeve felt the urge to meet Wendy there, to shrug off her clothes and stand naked. Wendy’s stomach was hard and flat, her waist gently sloped. “I have to take my bra off or it’ll show. The dress has it built in.” She turned her back. “Will you unhook it?”
Maeve hesitated, not certain she even knew how to unhook a bra, which was stupid. Of course she knew. She wore a bra. She reached up, freed one hook and then the other. Wendy turned slowly, brushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Wen,” Maeve said. Maeve wanted to tell Wendy that she loved her, that she loved everything about her, loved her teeth and her eyes, loved how good she was at math and biology, how dumb it was that she only knew basketball stars and not movie stars. She wanted to tell her she loved her even though she was kind of a bad driver, that her taste in music could be better. “I mean ... You’re so pretty.”
The bedroom door swung open. “Wendy!”
Wendy snatched the dress off the bed and covered her naked breasts. “Mom! Stop it! I was showing Maeve my prom dress, and I didn’t know if the boys were home. Do you mind?”
Mrs. Walker swept into the room and stood between Wendy and Maeve, shielding her daughter. “Put it on. I’ll zip it up.”
Maeve was pinned in place, unable to move, let alone stand. She knew her face was ablaze, as if they’d been caught between the sheets. Girls do this all the time, she told herself.This is fine, this is fine.But that cinched look on Mrs. Walker’s face, like she stepped in something filthy that Maeve had drug in.
When Mrs. Walker nudged Wendy toward the wall mirror, Maeve stood. “You look really good. That color is pretty.” She tried to keep the comment flat and unflattering.
“It was mine, you know,” Mrs. Walker said, admiring her daughter’s reflection. “I was a freshman in college when I got engaged to Wendy’s father. Not much older than you girls. I wore this dress. Who knows? Maybe Brett Overton is the one.”
“Mom, I told you,” Wendy said, aggravated. “Brett Overton is not the one. Now will you unzip me? Please.”
“I should go,” Maeve said, gesturing to the door.
“Yes, why don’t you wait downstairs for Wendy to get dressed. She’ll meet you outside.”
Maeve could not get out of the room and down the stairs fast enough. She wished she could evaporate. Outside, Wendy’s brothers played basketball in the driveway, the hoop shaking and clanging on the misses. She sat on the narrow step, her body quivering. She could hear an argument in the house but not the words. The boys pushed on each other, threw elbows, shoved, called each other names. Maeve had half a mind to join their game if only to have the pleasure of laying one of them out on the pavement.
Wendy emerged from the house, the car keys in her hand. “I have to be back here in twenty minutes, so we’d better haul ass.”
Wendy drove too fast through town, too fast out of town. “Slow down,” Maeve said. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“I don’t care,” Wendy said, her voice petulant and seething.
“Well, I do. I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I tried to be cool.”
