Back then, we were chaste or we were shunned. Our mothers and grandmothers prayed to the Virgin Mary to keep us pure. We attended mass, covered-up, and never, ever sat on boys’ laps.
We were sixteen and so good we sometimes needed to scream. Those nights, we hurried from our parents’ hot warnings, and plowed through the lamp-lit streets with their marzipan cast to the disco. There, we danced like our skin couldn’t contain our skeletons.
We drank cheap Russian vodka with a red label, Helen the instigator. The first time she sneaked a bottle, four of us gathered in the lane behind her house, our faces pale in the moonlight, silly with fright and excitement. Only Helen’s cheeks glowed, those brown eyes burning like marshmallows, her skin smooth and luminous, curtained by black-black hair.
Our teeth chattered and gray breaths drifted up like phantoms. The hissing break of suction as the glass bottle left our lips sounded loud in the dark lane. We gave exaggerated gags, scrunching our faces as the raw alcohol ripped through us. Helen laughed, saying: this will make women of us.
We continued to the disco, the distant music making us quiver. I gripped Helen’s arm like a buoy. The wind rose, floating so many copper and golden leaves into our faces. Helen slapped at the leaves, sounding deep belly chuckles. I pulled a leaf from her hair, and placed it in my clutch-bag.
The packed hall smelled of sweat, coca-cola, fruity perfume, spicy aftershave, and hormones. Its disco ball blinding until our eyes adjusted. The lights dimmed and music slowed. We charged to the sidelines, not wanting to look like we were waiting to be asked to dance. A bony finger tapped my shoulder. Tall, blond, and handsome, his hands on my lower back sent electric tingles up my spine. He smelled doughy, his breath of cigarettes, his smile a light coming on. Unable to hold his gaze, I rested my head against his chest, his heart pounding almost as hard as mine. Squeamish as a child, I’d hated to hear hearts beat. Helen watched us. Our eyes locked. I wanted to take her in my arms, to slow dance with my ear against her heart, to tell her she was the most alive person I’d ever known. I closed my eyes, imagining what it might be like to press my lips against hers. The crotch of my panties turned warm and damp. My eyes flew open. The boy lowered his head to mine. I closed my eyes again, and fell into the kiss. With Helen.
Bio: Irish born and raised, Ethel Rohan's work has appeared in or is forthcoming from such journals as elimae; PANK; Storyglossia; Word Riot; mud luscious; Ghoti Magazine; Clockwise Cat; Anemone Sidecar; The Battered Suitcase; and (So New) Necessary Fiction, among many others. Her blog is www.straightfromtheheartinmyhip.blogspot.com.