Page 40 of Dirty Chorus

I’m trembling all over and make a break for it down the hallway to my mom’s room. The shaving cream and her electric razor sing like the holy grail. I take a deep breath. This isn’t disgusting whatsoever. It’s just my legs. I tiptoe over as if she’s sleeping in bed and grab it.

I sit on the edge of her bathtub, big enough to seat two people. I run the water, and lather the shaving cream, and shave my legs until they're silky smooth. Checking the clock, I have seven minutes and ten seconds. I race back to my bathroom, yanking my hair out of the bun, running a comb through my long tangled hair until it’s decent. I swish a mouthful of mouthwash, and lather half a bottle of strawberry vanilla scented lotion on every square inch of skin I have exposed.

I’m ready just in time. There’s a light knock at the front door. I should make him wait thirty seconds, but I breathe out four seconds and slam open the door with the widest smile on my face.

“Hey...” I unlock the screen door and step out onto the patio. “Hi, you look...” I pat and stroke my hair down. “You’re...” I chuckle. I can’t get it out of my mouth. He’s gorgeous. A beanie is halfway fitted on his head. His hands are relaxed in his slim black cargo joggers, and he’s pulling off the high-top Converse. I think I’m drooling, and I have no idea why I find him gorgeous in a simple jean jacket and plain grey shirt.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah, come in.” I plant my back against the door, and he presses his lips together in a toothless smile and steps in.

As I close the door, he’s staring at the living room with only the outlines of furniture that used to be there, and the impressions of sofa legs. There are holes in the wall where the television was mounted. The only furniture in the living room is a coffee table littered with water stains and paintings leaning against the wall. We ordered some futons, but they haven’t arrived yet.

“Are you moving?”

“Hmm... no, but my dad did.”

“Oh... umm...I see.”

“Come with me.” I grab one of his fingers and drag him down the hallway and away from family drama I don’t need to hurt his ears with.

I bring him to my room, which is mostly picked up. I have a pile of dirty clothes hanging next to an overflowing laundry basket. Shirts hang out of my dresser drawers, and I think there are crumbs of hot Cheetos on my mattress. But he doesn’t seem to care about any of those. He takes three large steps to my cheerleading trophies neatly placed on shelves. There are pictures of me too, all starting at the age of five. He picks one up, his thumb rubbing off the layer of dust.

“This is you?” he asks, waving the photo, and my heart pitter-patters in my throat as he’s admiring me before I had braces and in my gap-tooth glory days.

“Yeah, I’ve been cheering forever.” I plant myself on the edge of my unmade bed, and dig my nails into my light pink sheets. “My mom got me into it early. Most of my afternoons were spent doing gymnastics and dance classes.” A nervous chuckle escapes my lips.

“I wish I had a collection like this.” He places the picture back in the same spot and grabs another. “My mother always promised to get me into Jiu-jitsu. She’d tell me she signed me up and all she’d had to do was pay for the lessons but...” He pauses, then turns the picture to me, and it's one of the photos we took as an entire group after winning the competition. “It’s you and your friend, I don’t remember her name.” He points a finger at us, hugging each other with the biggest grins.

“That’s Payton.”

“Right. How old were you?”

I climb off the bed and glance at it. “Ew, those were my weird middle school years when I looked funny.”

“You don’t look funny, you’re...” he stops himself and my heart erupts in my chest for a split second. His dark brown eyes softened. I notice the little stumbles of hair growing along his chin, and there are patches along the side of his face and upper lip. “You’re beautiful in all of these.” He places the pictures back.

“Why didn’t you get to do Jiu-Jitsu?” I ask.

He pulls his beanie off his head, and with a frail smile he says, “I just didn’t have it all that easy, I guess... but this is a pretty cool collection. Maybe I can come see you perform sometime.”

He’s entirely vague on the answer and quick to redirect the conversation to focus on me. “We have a pool. Do you want to go swimming?” I ask, fluttering my eyelashes. “We can make mac-and-cheese.”

“Oh, well, if I’d known, I would have brought my trunks.”

“You don’t need swim trunks.” I leap onto my bed, running across it to my door. “It’s pitch black out. Let’s just go skinny-dipping.”

He chews on his bottom lip as he maneuvers around my mini messes scattered on the floor. I realize he towers over me, placing his hands back into his pockets. His eyes are filled with desire, or he’s sleepy with how heavy his eyelids are.

“Let’s just take this slow.” He leans in, and my lungs are invaded with his spicy cedarwood aroma.

“I don’t want to.”

“We are taking it slow. Do you have a deck of cards? Maybe we can play a game instead.”

My heart gets caught up in my throat, and I chew on the dead skin of my bottom lip. “Yeah, I have a deck.” I open up my nightstand drawer, pawing through the dozens of old cell phone chargers. Then, I find the beaten-up deck of cards and wave them at him.

“What’s that?” Noah points to a journal that was covered with all of the chargers. It was my leather brown one with shiny golden edges and the little velvet string to help mark my place.