Chapter 4 #2
“Well, I know what I saw,” Mom continues. “Why you’re being picky is beyond me. It’s not like you’re rolling in suitors.”
“Suitors, Mother? I’m not Elizabeth Bennet.”
Gram grins, and we exchange a knowing look.
But Mom’s brow furrows. “Elizabeth Bennet? Is she someone you went to school with?”
I swallow down my scream and start clearing the table.
“She was a year ahead of you, right, sweet pea?” Gram winks, and I chuckle under my breath.
Mom waves us off, then says, “Before you leave today, there are some boxes I need you to go through. We’re thinking of selling the house.”
My body jerks, and a fork falls from the dish I’m carrying.
She groans, then kneels on the floor, scrubbing the burgundy throw rug with her napkin. “It’s not set in stone yet. We’re still deciding. But I want those boxes out either way.”
When I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to move out.
But I do have some fond memories in this neighborhood.
Especially the house next door. Not that the Cardosos have lived there in ages.
I glance around the dining room, a twinge of nostalgia gripping my chest. “I didn’t think I left anything here when I moved. ”
“There are three boxes. If you don’t want them, I can donate them to the church.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, wiping my hands on a dishcloth. “I’ll get them.”
As I ascend the wooden steps, I whip out my phone and hammer out a text to my brother.
The last message in the thread is from three months ago when I texted him happy birthday.
We usually message back and forth a few times, then it’s radio silence until the next event.
Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s. We haven’t talked on the phone for almost a year.
June: Mom and Dad are thinking about selling the house.
My phone pings almost immediately.
Charlie: So?
I roll my eyes. Mr. Sentimental. It’s like he left for college and never looked back.
I stuff my cell back into my pocket as I reach the top of the stairs, then head to my old bedroom.
The wooden shutters squeak as I open the slats, and dust motes dance in the bright beams of sunlight.
With a modest double bed and cream-colored quilt, the space looks completely different from when I inhabited it. It’s like I never lived here at all.
I peel back the flaps of the first cardboard box, one of three sitting in the corner next to the mirrored closet.
Photo albums and yearbooks, a few knickknacks.
I flip through the pages of my senior yearbook.
June Wells: Class Secretary, Tennis Club, Model UN.
God, I was a geek. I drop the book back inside and open the next one.
Trophies and ribbons. My old tennis racket.
I run my fingers along the black frame, then grip the handle and give it a few practice swings.
I haven’t played in years. Maybe I’ll take it out to the courts on campus this week and hit a few balls.
Might be fun. I set the racket aside, and grab the last box.
As I reach inside, my fingers brush soft knit fabric. Clothes. I pull out the first item, and when I lift the burgundy hoodie, my heart stops. It can’t be. I lay it out over the box, running my fingers over the material.
When I was twelve years old, I got my first period and bled all over the kitchen barstool at Alex’s house.
Luckily, I knew what it was and didn’t have any dread or fear because his mom was the one who had explained the menstrual cycle to me months before.
I didn’t learn about it from school because my mother refused to sign the consent form for me to participate in the I Got It lesson.
It would have been such an easy out for her—she wouldn’t have had to face the mortification of speaking to her daughter about something as scandalous as normal bodily functions.
Fortunately, Alex’s mom was a nurse. And one day, when my older brother and Alex were at her house watching a soccer match, she called to me over the back fence and asked if I’d like to come over for lemonade and cookies.
My eyes widened when I saw the fancy baked goods from Magnolia Sweets—leftovers from a work event. They also happened to be decorated uteruses. As I examined the delicate confections, she asked me if I had any questions.
I told her I had all the questions.
Patiently, she fielded each one, naming the parts outlined in pink icing, and explaining the entire cycle of menstruation.
She asked me if I had any period products at home, and when I shook my head, she patted my shoulder and told me not to fret.
When I left that day, I went home bearing a care package complete with pads, tampons, and two Hershey bars, not to mention a wealth of knowledge.
So when I got off the stool that afternoon, and there was a dark red splotch on the wood identical to the one between my legs, I didn’t panic. At least not at first. It wasn’t until Alex rounded the kitchen island and locked eyes with the stool.
My stomach closed in on itself. Well, looking back, that might have been the cramps.
But my heart? That was another story. I had never felt shame in the Cardoso house.
Whenever I set foot on their porch, it was like the cloak I’d been shrouded in fell to the ground, and I could just be.
I could be me. Not the June my mother demanded I be.
Not the performative version of myself she paraded in front of her church friends.
Just me.
But in that moment, when Alex’s hazel eyes widened and his gaze trailed from the stool to my trembling hands, hovering over the stained denim between my thighs, the cloak was no longer an external entity I could simply remove.
It became me. I was shame incarnate. It clawed up my throat, wrapping its gangly fingers around my windpipe, stealing my breath.
It heaved against every inch of my skin, propelling sweat out of each one of my pores.
It clutched my eyeballs, squeezing them until tears pooled in my lower lids, threatening to dribble over.
Alex studied me, as if he could see the physical manifestation usurping me. Then he peeled off his hoodie and held it out to me. “It’s okay, November,” he said softly. “This will be big on you. Should cover everything.”
My fingers quivered as I reached for the burgundy sweatshirt. As I slipped it over my head, the shame recoiled. All of it. Like a demon being struck with holy water, it shriveled, releasing its hold on me, and receded to the ashes from which it came.
The fleecy fabric, still warm from Alex’s body heat, engulfed me like the world’s most comforting hug. I was prepared for it to stink like boy, the way my brother’s clothes did, but it didn’t. It had a clean, masculine scent. Fresh detergent and faded cologne.
I tugged the hem down over my hips. It bottomed out right above my knees while the sleeves hung about five inches longer than my hands.
“Do you need, um …” He cleared his throat. “Stuff?”
“I have stuff,” I blurted. “In my purse. I’ll wash your sweatshirt and get it back to you tonight.”
“Keep it,” he said, his mouth lifting in a gentle half smile.
And that was the moment I fell for Alex Cardoso.
Before I can stop myself, I bury my face in the sweatshirt and take a deep breath. But it only smells of dingy cardboard. It’s not surprising—it’s been more than twenty years.
“June, what are you doing in there?” My mother’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I gasp, shoving the sweatshirt back in the box. She peeks through the doorway just as I close the flaps. “Find something good?”
Why yes, Mother. I found the garment that sparked my sexual awakening.
“My old tennis racket,” I say instead.
She grins. “You used to be really good.” I clutch my chest. Was that … a compliment? “We should go to the club and play some time.”
Ugh. The club. That place is loaded with more plastic than the Pacific Ocean.
“You know,” she says slyly, “Dr. Hoffman’s son plays every Saturday morning. He just made partner at a law firm.”
There it is. I should have known better than to think it would be her playing with me.
I force a smile. “Well, as much as I’d love to play with Dr. Hoffman’s son, I can’t make it this Saturday. Maybe some other time.”
She frowns, wiping a smudge off the doorframe. “That’s a shame. I think you two would really hit it off.” She tilts her head, then dusts off her hands and ducks out of the room.
I sigh, stacking the boxes, and take the first one down the stairs. I glance at my grandma, busy on her phone. “I’m heading home, Gram. Do you need a ride?”
“Not today, sweet pea.”
I set the box down and wrap my arms around her from behind. She pats my forearm, then I lug the other two boxes down and take them to my car, one by one.
To my surprise, my mother follows me out on the last trip. She looks ethereal in the soft glow of the late-afternoon sun. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye,” she says, her short auburn hair dancing in the gentle breeze. “But I only want what’s best for you.”
“By setting me up with some snobby, tennis-playing lawyer?”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “By introducing you to someone you might hit it off with. And yes, he happens to be a successful lawyer who went to Cornell.”
“Cornell?” I grasp my chest. “Not Barrett? What would Dad say?”
She waves me off. “Your father would just be thrilled you brought a man home.”
A man.
Not a PhD. Not a Nobel Prize.
A. Man.
“Well, on my way home, I’ll take a peek in the sewers and see if I can lure one out.”
Her face hardens and she wraps her sweater tighter around herself. “Make jokes all you want, June, but the real joke is going to be on you. And the sad part is, you’re not going to realize it until it’s too late.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches up the driveway without looking back.