nonfic by brittany ackerman
The Feeling
I.
My parents buy me a new pullout couch for my room. It’s mainly for my best friend Emma, since she’s the only one that really sleeps over. It’s beige and when it unfolds, it’s barely off the ground and not that comfortable.
We’ve been practicing dancing lately, how to “grind” and “booty dance.” Emma knows because she did it at camp, but I’ve never done it before and she teaches me. Emma is twelve and I'm eleven, but in a month we’ll both be the same age. We put on a Maroon 5 CD and pretend each arm of the couch is a boy’s lap. We straddle the cushioned arm and gyrate our hips, grind into the plush, raise our hands above our heads, and after a while we both feel weak and need to stop. Something happens and we can’t describe it but we both understand, maybe because we’re best friends, I'm not sure, but we both know. It’s a tingle, a squeeze, a release, and we call it the feeling.
When my parents go out for dinner, Emma and I ransack my mom’s closet for old Halloween costumes and props. We find a Captain Hook outfit, equipped with black, curly wig and pirate hook, along with Tinker Bell fairy wings. My brother is upstairs watching TV in his room and we take off all our clothes and run around downstairs naked. We dare each other to go further and further up the stairs and see how close we can get to my brother without him seeing us naked. Emma is in love with my brother but she’d never say it. We get tired of running and camp out in the library room. Emma suggests we do cartwheels and aim the Captain Hook wig at our crotches. The way the thick black curls graze our privates and bounce off as we move is something else. Anything to get the feeling.
Back upstairs, more music, more couch grinding, and then settling into bed to watch Real Sex on HBO. In this episode, the cameraman interviews two women on the street who say they can put a condom on a penis with just their mouths. In the video, the women are handed a condom and a banana to demonstrate. We watch in awe as the slick plastic rolls down the yellow banana skin like magic.
At school, Emma tells Alexander H. that she can do this trick and he tells her she gave him a boner.
“Are you going to do it to him?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, “But what happens after the condom is on?”
“I think the trick is in the putting it on,” I offer. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s enough to be the whole thing.”
II.
It’s at Megan’s house where I first play The Sims. She has a whole room dedicated to her family’s computer and she’s allowed to use it on Friday nights for two hours. We are thirteen. I come home with her after school and we get right to building. She sits on the main computer chair and I pull up a beanbag and sit right next to her. We build our house quickly so that we can invite men over and try to fuck inside of it. The deal is that the two avatars have to be inside the house and both be in good spirits, their thought bubbles must be in agreement with each other, and then you can guide them over to the bed and they might roll around and make animal sounds for a few seconds.
After The Sims, when it's her older brother John's turn on the computer, we head to her room where Megan has an Electronic Dream Phone. There’s one pink phone and a bunch of cards with boys’ photos on them and you’re supposed to call and find out who your secret admirer is, but we divide up the pile by who we think is cute and who is ugly and we end up calling all the numbers in the end anyway just to hear their voices. Sometimes out of nowhere they say, You’re right, I really like you! and we laugh and throw the phone.
When we get bored of that, we bother John and ask if we can watch him play Rollercoaster Tycoon and, if he says yes, we share the beanbag chair and watch him skillfully build rollercoaster tracks and place down food stands and our favorite is when the rides are done and he lets us view the ride from a character’s POV. We pretend we can feel our stomachs jump, the wind in our hair. After a while her brother shoos us out but sometimes he asks me questions like what kind of toothpaste do I use and what’s my favorite TV show and what do I want for breakfast in the morning. Megan gets annoyed and I wonder what would happen if I ever went into his room while Megan was asleep and just tried to talk to her brother more, ask him questions, be in his presence, feel his hands on my shoulder.
III.
We can all drive now, but we’re not supposed to drive unless it’s with a parent. We technically only have our permits, but Marissa’s parents don’t care. They’re out of town often and leave her the car, a BMW SUV. My mom calls her a “latchkey kid.” Marissa throws herself a fifteenth birthday party and invites ten girls and a senior, Vinny D’Amato, who she’s in love with. Vinny is dating Claire Bask who’s a total bitch, but he’s secretly been hanging out with Marissa for weeks. I think it’s wrong, to lead both of them on like that—Marissa thinking Vinny will drop Claire and be with her, and Claire not knowing anything is awry. But I drive my mom’s Mercedes to Marissa’s house and then my mom switches places with me and says she’ll be back in the morning to get me. The plan is to just hang out at the house and watch a movie, but when I arrive, no one else is there yet.
Marissa has every scent of Bath and Body Works body mist and shower gel and moisturizer and she says I can use any one I want. I pick Juniper Breeze lotion and it feels good against my freshly shaved legs. I'm in a phase where I shave my whole body in the shower in case I come in contact with a boy I want to hook up with. I always want to be ready, for my body to be prepared.
I also wear thongs regularly now and have finally gotten used to them, the way they ride up my behind. I have to hand wash them in the sink because my mom still doesn’t know I wear them, that I take them off the rack at Wet Seal and ball them up in my fist, slowly move my hand to my purse and walk away with a new thong every weekend from the mall. I have a collection of about ten now that I rotate, but the one I wear currently is my favorite, black with a pink Playboy Bunny on the front.
The other girls show up and I realize Marissa won’t be serving dinner, so I eat handfuls of M&Ms and popcorn. Everyone’s wearing some variation of a denim skirt and a lacy tank top from Abercrombie or Hollister and flip-flops. It’s typical humid weather for Florida and most of the girls have had their hair chemically straightened. I haven’t, and I have to keep checking my hair in the mirror. I ask Sam, one of the girls, to put my hair in a French braid and get it out of my face. Everyone freaks out when headlights illuminate the picture window and we realize it’s Vinny. We all run outside and greet him as he exits his blue Mustang that he’s gotten tricked out with tinted windows and neon lights that flash blue, an under glow. He’s wearing loose jeans and a white t-shirt and has a cigarette behind his ear.
He comes inside Marissa’s house and it’s obvious he’s been here before, taking one of her dad’s Heinekens out of the fridge and fashioning himself a sandwich with some cold cuts. Marissa says we’re going to watch Catwoman and some of the girls are outside on the grass doing cartwheels and handstands and other girls are doing each other’s makeup for no one and Marissa and Vinny are cuddling on the couch with a blanket around them. I can’t tell, but it looks like Marissa might be giving Vinny a hand job. No one’s paying attention to the movie. I'm uncomfortable sitting on the floor, so I get up to join the girls outside, but Marissa says to come sit with her and Vinny. “Put Vinny in the middle,” Marissa says and looks at me like she’s high but I haven’t seen her smoke anything. I'm only friends with Marissa because we sit next to each other in our English Honors class and pass notes back and forth about cute boys and our periods. It’s unfortunate that Marissa never realizes the back of her hair isn’t straight, a bad job on the chemical straightening process she had done that probably cost hundreds of dollars. She has a little bit of acne too and wears a ton of foundation to cover it up.
I settle in next to Vinny and he shakes out the blanket so that it covers the three of us now. While the blanket is midair, I can see clearly now that Vinny’s jeans are unbuttoned and Marissa has been stroking Vinny’s dick over his boxers. I feel a rush inside of me. I’ve only seen porn on TV before. I’ve never seen someone get jerked off in front of me. But I want to be here, I realize. I want to see what happens when Vinny gets off, if he’ll shake or moan or clench his jaw, shift in his seat on the couch. I want to know.
Just then, I feel Vinny’s hand graze my thigh and look over at Marissa and wonder if his hand is on her thigh too. I'm on his right side so I'm getting his dominant hand and I feel him making swirls with his fingertips on my knee, then higher up my thigh. He makes his way slowly to my underwear and slides it over to the side, begins to rub his fingers against the outside of my lips, lightly, teasing me. I open my legs instinctively and stretch towards his fingers but he pulls away, goes back to swirling his fingers on my thigh, flowering them out in blooms. I start to breathe harder and he inches his hand up again. Maybe the Juniper Breeze has hypnotized him. I wonder if the girls outside know what they’re missing here on this couch, how it’s possible for me to be here and not any of them, why I’ve been chosen. I feel my wetness against Vinny’s fingers and he stops abruptly, pulls away and straightens himself out on the couch.
“I have a goddamn girlfriend,” Vinny says to Marissa and not me, but I'm there too, my legs open, wanting.
Marissa gets up and storms off and Vinny follows her and I pull the blanket with me as he leaves and cover myself, adjust my underwear. Marissa and Vinny go in her room and I hear them fighting and then hear nothing and wonder if they’re having sex. Vinny eventually walks back out to his car and Marissa announces she’s going for a quick ride with him. The car engine roars and they screech out into the night and all of us girls wait for Marissa to come back to her own party. I go to the bookshelf in Marissa’s room and pull out a yearbook, flip to the seniors and find Claire. Her face reminds me of a cat, the way you can’t tell if they’re going to scratch you or let you pet them.
IV.
It’s January in Los Angeles. I just turned twenty-three this month. I followed Lucas across the country last summer after I graduated college. He got here a whole year before me, experienced all the seasons and sights before I arrived. There was the hope that we would be together once I came, but we seem to come together and drift apart with no particular rhyme or reason.
I work in advertising and make good money, enough to pay my rent and for gas and food. I work long hours and it’s often dark by the time I leave the office. Tonight, I drive from Hancock Park to Westwood and park on the street. It’s cold and I wear a new cardigan from Urban Outfitters. My Friday nights are all the same and one week bleeds into the next. I stop in Westwood and stroll around, buy something from one of the stores, American Apparel or Brandy Melville or Urban Outfitters, something I don’t need, but something that makes me happy because I feel so alone. I get takeout sushi from Tomodachi, a Philadelphia roll and a tuna avocado hand roll, extra spicy mayo and eel sauce on the side. The name of the restaurant means “friend,” but I won’t know this until years later when I look it up remembering the way my life was for a time.
I have friends in LA, but I can’t fully see them, can’t fully let them in. All my time is dedicated in waiting for Lucas to love me back.
I try to stay out as long as I can. If he calls, I rush home and pack a bag, head to his apartment in Venice, stay the night, the weekend, whatever he wants. If he doesn’t, I stay until the stores close, I wait inside the restaurant for my order to be ready, I eat a few pieces of sushi in the car on the drive up the hill to my studio apartment. But sometimes, I get home and finish my food and get ready for bed and then Lucas calls, he’s in the area, he wants to come over, and I let him. We watch a movie or he brings whiskey or he brings tequila or he brings weed and we smoke on the balcony that overlooks a parking lot and I can see his black Mustang next to my silver Hyundai and he never tells me anything I want to hear but I try to appreciate his presence, his being with me. Sometimes he drives home drunk and I cry or sometimes he passes out and reaches for me in the morning. We have the dreamy kind of morning sex that is all instinct and bodies, and then he leaves, says we should hangout that night, go do something fun, but then I won’t hear from him.
The cold months all fall together. I go on other dates with other guys. I find things to dislike about them early on, reasons not to get attached. But there is one guy, a comedian named Mike, who after a long night of dancing and making out at a club, walks me back to his apartment in Hollywood and looks into my eyes as he tells me, “If you want to be happy, lie.”
V.
I love Mark because of how he sits and talks to me in the car, how when we met, there wasn’t any bullshit. I'm twenty-four and living at home and he doesn’t care. He likes that I'm in graduate school. I love that Mark’s mom named him after one of the disciples from the Bible. She specifically chose Mark because of the verse about going into the world and preaching the gospel to all of creation.
Mark likes to play Halo on his Xbox and I bring over Pollo Tropical and set it up for him while he plays. I open the Styrofoam tray of grilled chicken, rice and black beans, put the straw in the large Sprite, lay out the paper napkins and place the plastic utensils on top like we’re in a restaurant. “Thanks, baby,” he says. He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with who calls me “baby.” He takes me to church on Saturdays, the 6:00pm service at the mega church in Fort Lauderdale. I get to know people after a while, familiar faces, handshakes and hugs. I wear leggings and a sweatshirt because it’s freezing, and we always go out after to Atlantic Avenue for pizza at Mellow Mushroom. Mark holds my hand as we walk down the Ave. He pays for dinner. He pays for the gas for his BMW. He pays for our movie tickets, our trips to Disney World, he pays his own rent in his Boynton Beach apartment even though he’s only twenty-one years old.
Mark is always encouraging me to leave my job at the Italian restaurant, to just quit and be done with it. He says I'm better than that place, but I need something to pay my grad school tuition. “You’re meant to do so much more than be a waitress,” he says, and I believe him. When we met, he told me about his ex, how they met at a traffic light and exchanged numbers. But then she had a baby with someone else and moved across the country and he never found her. It felt good that he wanted me to know his past, that he was being so honest so soon. But despite his honesty, he’s volatile. When we fight, it feels like the end of the world.
One Saturday, the pastor goes on a rant about Revelations and I realize that’s what our fights are like. They’re like Hell on earth, the way we scream. Mark throws a lamp. I run out of the house with all my clothes in my arms. I get in the car and drive down Woolbright and he calls me over and over again, the phone ringing in the center console. I decide to quit my job and work at a sports bar closer to home where I can get better tips and work fewer shifts. I want to put school first, and I think next semester I might be able to score a student-teaching fellowship. I envy that Mark gets to smoke cigarettes and sit on his porch with his friends while I sweep underneath tables and bring people sides of BBQ sauce for their chicken wings.
Mark and I get into it really bad and he stops calling altogether. I show up at his apartment and he’s in the shower. He freaks and tells me I'm fucking crazy, that I should leave him alone. At work, another waiter, Bob, flirts with me and I'm so sad I ask if he’ll grab a drink with me at The Duck when we get done with our shift. On my way over, I call Mark and he answers and I ask him to tell me he doesn’t love me and he says no but then I keep asking and eventually he says, “Fine, I don’t love you, is that what you want to hear?” And I sob in the parking lot of The Duck until Bob taps on my window and I tell him everything. He buys me a beer and we play darts and his hand is on my lower back and I tell him I need to fuck the pain away and I follow him in my car to his house, which is a really nice house, a house that looks like it’s for a family, and he keeps asking if I'm sure and I say yes and then he’s fucking me and it doesn’t feel good but I pretend it does and I don't sleep over and Mark calls me at five in the morning and tells me he loves me and I'm sorry to say there are no girls in this story, there is not one, I have no one I can call to ask advice or for help and when I get to work the next day I thank God that Bob isn’t there. Sometimes, it’s just you.
Brittany Ackerman is a writer from Riverdale, New York. She earned her BA in English from Indiana University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida Atlantic University. She currently teaches writing at Vanderbilt University in the English Department. Her first collection of essays entitled The Perpetual Motion Machine was published with Red Hen Press in 2018, and her debut novel The Brittanys is out now with Vintage. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee.