Uses for Boys Read Free Page A

you’re not going to come home, she says, and she says that since I’m a big girl
     now, I can feed myself and put myself to bed. She always says that. I can hear a lot
     of voices in the background and I know that she forgets. She thinks each Charlie or
     James or Michael is unique. She forgets that the things she says about this one are
     the same as the things she said about that one. She believes that each one is the
     one and she says each name like it’s the only man’s name she’s ever said. Tonight
     she says James like it’s a magic word. She’s going to stay with James, she says.
    “OK,” I say. And then I put the phone back in its cradle and walk around the house
     turning on the lights.

 
    on the bus
    The next day, coming home on the bus, Desmond Dreyfus sits next to me. He’s laughing
     with his friends and I’m not paying attention because when I don’t go to Nancy’s house
     I ride the bus to my house and I always sit alone. I’m looking out the window and
     wondering if there are still pizzas in the freezer. But then Desmond moves up to the
     seat next to me and sits really close so our thighs touch and he says my name quietly
     so only we can hear.
    “Anna,” he says. “You’re so pretty,” and he looks at me like it’s the first time he’s
     ever seen me.
    Everything flushes warm. The sun slants through the bus windows in bright shards.
     One on my lap. One across his face. In my head, I’m telling Nancy the story of how
     it happened. I’m narrating the story of how Desmond Dreyfus sat next to me, how his
     brown hair fell into his eyes when he said I was pretty. I’m thinking about Nancy,
     and Desmond Dreyfus puts his hand on the outside of my shirt right over my breast
     and the thin cotton bra that my mom bought for me. I’m surprised, but I don’t say
     anything.
    I think maybe he’s making fun of me. My breasts are pointy and I don’t think that’s
     what they’re supposed to look like. Nancy doesn’t have pointy ones and hers are bigger
     and in the bathtub my rib bones jut out higher than my breasts and I don’t think that’s
     the way it’s supposed to be. But now Desmond has his whole hand over me and the warmth
     of his hand is nice and I fit perfectly in his palm and he doesn’t look like he’s
     making fun of me. He looks serious. Even when he looks back at his friends, Carl Drier
     and Michael Cox, and I look too, they don’t look like they’re making fun of me.
    I stop narrating and look out the window. I like the warmth of his hand and the way
     I fit in his palm and the way he’s slowly spreading his fingers. We sit there, me
     looking out the window and him with his hand over my shirt, looking back at his friends.
     We sit there for what seems like a really long time. Then he lifts up the bottom of
     my T-shirt and puts his hand underneath against my bare skin. He covers my pointy
     breast with his palm, bra and all. It doesn’t feel like anything I’ve ever felt before.
     I feel thirsty and now I can’t look at Desmond or his friends, because his hand’s
     under my shirt and I wonder if anyone else sees.
    The bus slows down. It’s my stop. “This is my stop,” I say and my voice sounds strange.
     Desmond takes his hand away and I grab my backpack and Desmond says, “Bye Anna,” and
     the other kids turn around to look because they’ve never heard him say my name before.
    “See you tomorrow,” he calls.
    But tomorrow Nancy doesn’t have dance class, so we go to her house and we choreograph
     a dance to a song her sister likes and I spend all day waiting to tell her about Desmond’s
     hand but then I don’t.
    *   *   *
    At lunch the next day Desmond stops and says hello to Nancy and me.
    “I didn’t know you knew him,” Nancy says and I flush. My face is warm. Now I’m the
     type of girl boys notice, I think. And I feel a little superior to Nancy then.
    That afternoon it’s raining and all the kids run from the front door of