Chapter 19: Material Girl
"Boys may come and boys may go
And that's all right you see
Experience has made me rich
And now they're after me
'Cause everybody's living in a material world
And I am a material girl"
Saturday. January 11th, 1986.
POV: Winter Reid
Helen and I cross a street in her neighborhood, each carrying a cherry slushy that we picked up at the 7-Eleven next to Family Video. My head swivels as I try to view the big houses on their large lots.
Old Victorians and impressive Craftsmen showcase ivy-wrapped porches, brick-paved driveways, and Christmas wreaths still hung on red front doors.
Woah… it looks like a movie set.
"Hi Mrs. Johnson!" Helen calls enthusiastically across the street.
A woman holding a rosy cheeked infant pulls envelopes out of her mailbox and turns to smile at Helen.
The sound of children's laughter breezes past us as blue tricycles race down the sidewalk with silver streamers blowing backwards from their handlebars.
An elderly man wearing an Irish flat cap stands in his perfectly hedged front yard behind a picket fence and waters his gardenias.
A group of women wearing pastel dresses that remind me of cupcakes sip lemonade on a front porch.
Everyone and everything looks perfectly placed, too perfect if you ask me.
"Maybe we should've rented Stepford Wives," I say to Helen. She looks confused. "Seriously, is your neighborhood real or did we fall into The Twilight Zone?"
Helen tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
We continue to walk and I glance upwards at the branches above us. The whole street is lined with tall trees that provide ample shade as we stroll down the smooth sidewalk. Chalk near my feet shows childish drawings of rainbows, horses, and stars.
"I just mean this place is very... picturesque. My neighborhood isn't like this."
I'm using the term neighborhood here very loosely.
"Yeah!" Helen smiles. "Like a postcard."
We pass a girl listening to her walkman and rollerblading down a long driveway.
Helen looks over at me. "My family hasn't always lived here, though. Apparently it's the most in demand suburb in Hawkins."
I raise my eyebrows at her.
"My mom made my dad take extra hours at work and she watched the listings in this neighborhood like a hawk," she explains. "They finally got a place here when I was 6, but yeah... it's pretty nice."
Wow, what bliss she must live in.
I feel a tad bitter, but I try to force the feeling away. I don't envy it, well, not completely. I mean, she definitely has protection in this part of Hawkins, but the neighborhood seems to exist in a dome, like reality hasn't seeped in, and the families here are permanently stuck in the 1950s.
But, I'm sure Helen doesn't lay awake at night, worrying about being evicted or not being able to get enough scholarships to go to college. I shake my head at myself. No, it's not her fault she lives in Pleasantville. I know all too well that a shiny surface can hide the most terrible secrets. Sometimes, the most haunted houses don't look so haunted from the outside.
"This is me!" Helen chirps.
We've reached the end of the sidewalk and Helen pulls ahead, crossing the street and pushing open a black metal gate.
I'm frozen on the corner. "Holy shit."
"Winter? Come on!" Helen calls.
I cross the road, not looking either way for traffic, my gaze is stuck on the spectacle in front of me.
Helen's home sits far back, farther back than any of the other homes, across a rolling green lawn that slopes upwards from the road, creating a small hill for the residence to perch on.
The entire yard is surrounded by an ornate black metal fence, the type with spikes at the top of the rods. Steps cut into the grass and lead up the hill, all the way to a blue front door with an outrageously large gold door knocker.
The house itself looks like a queen on a throne, it is loud and imposing. It rises from the ground with precise geometry. It doesn't slope or sag, it boasts. The windows look like prideful eyes, surveying the neighborhood around it with a heavy sense of superiority.
I let out a low whistle.
"Helen... why didn't you tell me you lived in Buckingham Palace?"
Helen lets out an uncomfortable chuckle.
I turn my head towards her, I don't want my surprise to come off as rude.
"It's beautiful," I say. "Like, if a mad scientist turned Barbie and Ken human they would definitely live here."
Helen laughs and starts bouncing up the steps to the front door. I walk behind her, my head has to tilt upwards as we approach to keep the entire mansion in view.
She lives in a grand Queen Anne Victorian, an architecture style I recognize from one of the books my mom brought home for our collection.
It's wide and tall. It stretches across three stories framed with round towers, a covered front porch, and oriel windows. Wood shingles and bricks overlay the exterior which is painted in a hue of gray with white trim around the windows.
I pull the strap of my backpack tightly against my shoulder and join Helen on the front porch.
Potted poinsettias gather by the front door like old ladies meeting to gossip on a street corner. A wooden swing hangs on one side of the long porch. A small metal table with two chairs sits on the other side. I imagine how nice it would be to sit on the swing during a thunderstorm, staying dry and watching for lightning as the wind rocks me back and forth.
My eyes land on the door. Before I can stop myself, I reach out for the gold door knocker, lift it high, and drop it with a loud thud.
"Sorry." I glance over at Helen. "I couldn't help myself."
She laughs and pushes the front door open.
We step into a foyer that is somehow more ornate than the outside. It showcases hand-painted wallpaper, antique wood furniture, and a grand staircase which turns sharply to carry you to the second floor. Ornate rugs are laid around on the exposed hardwood floor, as if you could play the floor is lava and jump from one to the next, all the way down the hall.
"I'm home!" Helen bellows into the cavernous house. "Anyone here?"
I walk slowly along the woven rug in the foyer. The intricate design of red and gold flowers swirls under my feet. Two open doorways extended to my left and right, one leads to a sitting room with a grand piano and the other reveals a brick fireplace and a solid wood 10 person dining table.
Helen continues down the hallway, forgoing the two front rooms. I follow her quickly, holding my arms tightly to my sides so I don't knock over a porcelain vase that probably costs more than my trailer. Helen leads me into a huge kitchen and I gasp.
She turns in the space. "I guess no one is home?"
I move to stand in front of a glass pantry. My mouth drops open at the sheer amount of cans and packages stacked neatly on the shelves. Everything is color coordinated and all of the labels are facing outwards.
"Oh, are you hungry?" She asks.
"No," I murmur. "I think I want to rob you."
She laughs and pulls on my elbow. "Let's go to my room."
I gawk as we pass two stoves and a gigantic sink with brass hardware. My finger runs over the smooth granite kitchen island which sits under a stained glass light fixture.
Helen begins to ascend the creaking antique stairs.
"Slow down!" I call from behind her. My eyes study the framed oil paintings which hang on the wall. "I'm trying to observe your ancestors!"
The art features a pretty girl holding a parasol, a vase of flowers on a small table, a rolling countryside.
"Those aren't my ancestors!" Helen yells back, her head pokes over the banister above me.
"This guy has a monocle!" I shout, pointing at a mustached ship captain.
"Oh, that one is my ancestor," Helen replies and descends a few steps.
She waves her arm excitedly, trying to motion me up the stairs.
I shake my head in disbelief.
"Hey, do you have ghosts? Oh, please, tell me you have ghosts."
"We don't have ghosts," Helen answers.
She turns her back and continues trotting up the stairs. I follow slowly behind her, still trying to absorb every inch of her home.
It's the most absurd, grandiose place I've ever seen. It has none of the warmth of mine and my mom's compact home, but Helen's place has stuff. So much stuff. It's like a museum and a king's tomb emptied out their contents and built a house around the pile. I'm sure her parents have several stolen artifacts around here somewhere.
We reach the second level which is a long hallway with a confusing number of doors on either side. I slide my head over the railing, looking upwards to the third floor.
"There's nothing up there but storage," Helen says. She's standing down the hall in front of a door with a pink ribbon tied around the knob.
"And ghosts," I reply with a smile.
She shakes her head and turns the knob.
"This is my room!"
She swings the door open and my eyes are once again met with a cacophony of textures and patterns.
"Woah," I mumble and stare into the bedroom over her shoulder. Helen looks back at me. "You live in a dollhouse. You are Barbie."
A huge bed sits in the center of the room under a lace canopy. White carpet covers the entire floor. There's a vanity with a pink chair, a window seat between two heavy velvet curtains, a TV, a shiny new stereo, and even a small couch that faces two armchairs. The color palette is a blend of blush pinks and pale yellows. Everything is covered with lace trim or thick floral fabrics.
I walk excitedly across her room, laughing to myself at the beautiful, insane reality that this is a real place where people live.
"You have a bathroom in your bedroom? With a tub?" I yell from inside the en suite.
"Okay, that's enough of a tour for you," Helen responds.
I step back out and smile at her. "I'm sorry. I've just never seen something this lavish. It's tripping me out, man."
She tilts her head at me.
I hold up my hands. "In a good way! What do your parents do for a living?"
I sit down on her bed, tentatively bouncing on the cushioned surface. It feels like four layers of marshmallow. I throw myself backwards, immediately sinking into the cloud-like mattress.
"My dad is a research scientist. My mom... well I guess she doesn't work but she does take her position as the secretary for the Republican Women's Club very seriously," she says. "They dress up in gloves and hats, then meet at the golf course to drink iced tea. As far as I know they don't even discuss politics, just the latest fashion trends and Hawkins gossip."
"Yeah, sounds like Stepford Wives," I mumble, my face sinks quickly into her squishy duvet.
Helen giggles at me and grabs my arm. She pulls me upwards, saving me from asphyxiating between the soft covers.
"Republican Women's Club?" I scrunch my nose at her.
"Yeah..." Helen replies soberly. "I think she only joined because the other ladies with big houses in our neighborhood are a part of it. My mom is kind of obsessed with image."
Helen turns away from me and sits in front of her vanity. She looks at her reflection and tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear.
"Anyways, she used to drag me to the meetings too." Her fingers graze across a soft bristle brush, she picks it up gently and pulls it through the ends of her hair. "She would force me into some corset like undergarments and a Sunday church dress. She wanted me to be best friends with the daughters of the club members, but they're all very snooty... and I don't think they liked me very much."
"They sound lame," I say, shrugging my shoulders.
Helen smiles at me in the mirror.
"Besides, you have me now," I offer. "But, fair warning, I've never been to a golf course and my politics lean more towards anarchy than conservatism."
She laughs lightly. "Yeah... I'm not exactly traditional either."
I glance around her room. "I mean, not to judge a book by its cover... but it looks pretty traditional in here."
She scrunches her nose.
"My mom decorated it. She actually did model it after my dollhouse..." She looks down sheepishly.
I laugh loudly and Helen looks startled, then begins laughing with me. We burst into giggles and I fall backwards onto her bed.
Her bedroom door kicks open and we both jump.
A preteen boy holding a Cosmic Cowboy action figure in one hand and a slingshot in the other stands in the doorway. He looks between Helen and I quickly.
"Quincy!" Helen scolds. "What did I tell you about knocking?"
She rushes over to the door and pushes her body against it, squishing the small boy in between the frame. Helen presses her palm against his forehead and tries to force him away from the threshold.
I raise my eyebrows as they struggle. Helen leans against the door but the boy manages to whip one hand upwards and it collides with her trachea. She sputters backwards and chokes while the boy darts into the room.
She heaves out a gasping breath as the boy jumps up and down on her sofa, causing the cushions to fly into the air.
"I'm going to kill you!" Helen yells.
The kid turns to me suddenly, his face turns from devilish glee into a cheeky smile.
"Well, hello gorgeous," he says. "I'm Quincy, who are you?"
My face squishes up in repulsion and I glance at Helen who looks exasperated.
"Oh my god, you're such a little creep!" She shrieks.
"What?" He asks innocently. "I'm trying to be friendly. You never invite anyone over, y'know... because you're a massive loser."
He's jumps again on the couch and makes an ugly face at Helen, pushing his tongue out and rolling his eyes back into his head.
"UGH, get out!"
Helen rushes towards him. Quincy narrowly avoids her outstretched hand and runs around the couch.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my eyes follow their spastic movements around the room.
Helen finds a cushion on the floor and flings it at her brother's head with the aim of a sister who has been in this situation before. The button from the pillow smacks him square in the eye and he claps one hand over it.
"Ah, you shot me!" Quincy screams.
He limps towards the door and Helen pushes him finally into the hallway. She slams the door shut and leans her forehead against the wood.
Personally, I found the entire thing highly entertaining. You could've set it to circus music and aired it on TV.
"So... that was your brother?" I ask.
"Unfortunately," she sighs and smooths down her hair. "Little brothers suck."
She glances down at her feet and slides out of her penny loafers.
"I wouldn't know," I shrug. "I don't have any siblings."
"Really? So it's just you and your parents then?"
She walks over and sits on the bed next to me. She leans against one of the four posts that hold up the canopy and crosses her legs in front of her. I reach down and untie my laces, drop my sneakers to the floor, and mimic her pose.
"It's just my mom and I..." I reply.
Helen nods her head.
I hesitate, then add, "My dad died last year."
Helen's eyes widen. I was trying to decide when would be the best time to drop the dead dad bomb, but I figured sooner is probably better than later.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She looks sympathetic. "Do you miss him?"
I breathe deeply and carefully consider her question.
"In the grand scheme of things?" I pause. "No, I don't miss him."
Helen shifts a little against the post.
I look down at my hands. "I can't sugarcoat it... he wasn't a very nice man. Sometimes, he would teach me things about cars or sports. But, mostly..." I shake my head and decide to spare her the details. "Um, yeah, it was rough. And my mom is safer without him here."
A small beat of silence passes between us, I worry I've just made this night irreparably awkward.
"Well, I'm sorry you went through that," she says. "Even if it's better now, it probably wasn't easy."
I'm touched by her words.
"Thanks, Helen."
She smiles at me. It's nice to have a friend like her.
"Okay! Commencing sleepover activities." Helen jumps up and claps her hands. "We need to order pizza. My parents are out and Quincy is here so technically we're on babysitting duty... but honestly he just sits in his room and plays with his robots or tortures small animals or something, either way, it's none of our business."
I laugh.
"Do you like pineapple on your pizza?" Helen asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
"I'll try anything once."
An hour later we're sitting on Helen's small couch. The pizza box sits in between us and we take turns peeling away slices and lowering them into our mouths. She was right, pineapple on pizza is delicious.
Helen's hand falters as she goes to take a bite. On the screen of her TV, Mia Farrow wanders over to a bassinet holding a kitchen knife.
I fold the pizza and shove it into my mouth, the pineapple and cheese melt together deliciously on my tongue.
"What have you done to it? What have you done to its eyes?" Rosemary screams into the room.
Helen utters out a horrified whimper. I turn my head to look at her. The pizza slides off of her palm and lands with a slap back into the cardboard box.
"This is awful," she squeaks out. "That poor woman!"
I nod in agreement. The scene continues to play.
"Hail Adrian. Hail Satan."
Helen looks over at me and whispers, "Did she have the devil's baby?"
"Um, yes."
"Why would they do that to her?" She sputters.
"Rosemary lives in a world where women don't really have a choice, Helen." I take a bite of pizza and chew slowly. "Everyone around her is willing to sacrifice her sanity and health to use her as a vessel. In the end, her maternal instincts take over because the demon baby is all she has left. It's the only thing she could possibly call her own."
Helen looks horrified. "Well, that's bleak. I can't believe that girl recommended it to us."
I tear the pizza crust in half as the credits scroll. "Robin?"
Helen looks down at her hands and begins wiping them furiously with a napkin.
"Oh, was that her name?"
"Yes..." I say. "Have you met her before?"
"I mean... I've seen her at the video store because I go there a lot," she shrugs. "And at the games, but I've never spoken to her."
I nod my head slowly. I don't want to assume anything, but Helen and Robin fumbled around each other just like I had when I saw Theodore in the video store aisle. And, I know why I acted that way, because the fluttering in my stomach made my brain short circuit. I just wonder if Helen might've felt the same way standing next to Robin.
"She was nice," I say. "She recommended that other movie to you. Should we put that one in?"
Helen glances at the copy of Sabrina sitting on top of her television set. She chews nervously on her bottom lip.
"No, maybe later."
I nod my head.
"Oh!" I exclaim. "I brought you something!"
Helen looks surprised. "A gift?"
I picture the cassette Eddie made sitting at the bottom of my corduroy backpack.
"Um... it's not exactly a gift. But, I do feel like I will be sharing some divine knowledge with you."
Her face morphs from a surprised smile to a terrified grimace.
"It's music," I explain. "Real music."
I stand and unzip my backpack, push my hand down to the bottom, and grab the tape.
Helen sets the pizza box on the small coffee table and turns around on the couch. Her chin presses against the cushion and she watches me with worried anticipation.
I walk over to her stereo. It's shiny and new and has at least twenty more buttons than I am used to.
I find the eject button and the player opens, revealing a Journey tape. I slowly look over my shoulder at Helen and give her a disappointed look.
I place Journey face down and hold up Eddie's cassette.
"What kind of music is it?" Helen asks cautiously.
"Well... Eddie Munson made this tape, but don't let that scare you."
I offer her a reassuring smile, she looks scared anyways.
"Music is about more than the danceable beats or cute boys and girls on MTV." I turn the tape over in my hand. "It's about self-expression. It's poetry, about our deepest insecurities, fears, dreams, and wishes. If you're not sure how to put your own feelings into words, most likely, there's a band out there that did it for you. But you have to go out of the mainstream to find the good stuff, the honest stuff."
I finish my speech, realizing the words that poured out from my lips are the same ones I have heard Eddie utter many times before.
Helen stares at me. "Woah. That was deep."
"I basically just regurgitated what Eddie Munson has been telling me as long as I have known him," I shrug and push the tape into the stereo, close it, and press play.
"This, my new friend..." I announce. "Is the filthy fifteen."
Helen's eyes widen as Eat Me Alive by Judas Priest blares into the room.
"Could we consider this singing?" She asks loudly.
I laugh and turn down the volume.
"Okay, you don't have to like it but I insist you listen to it. Don't try to understand it, just feel it."
Helen stares at the stereo as a guitar solo screeches out.
"Here..." I grab two cushions from the couch and set them on the floor. I pat one of them and motion with my hand. "Lay down."
Helen cautiously leaves the couch and lays her head down gently on a cushion. I settle next to her and put my hands on my stomach.
"Put your hands over your belly button and focus on your breathing."
Helen looks at me puzzled but obliges.
"Just close your eyes, and think about something that really pisses you off," I explain. "High school, war, your parents. Anything."
Helen sighs and I watch her eyelids close.
I smile, "Very good."
My own gaze fixes to the ceiling as the song changes to Bastard by Motley Crue. Baptism by fire, baby.
My thoughts drift to my mom. She has been basically comatose since I returned home from the basketball game last night and I felt guilty even leaving her tonight. Eddie said he'll check in on her while I'm gone and I know he will, but I still feel uneasy.
She's going through a lot, but it's hard when she slips away and my world grinds to a halt too. All I can think about until she's back on her feet is what would happen if I lose my last remaining parent.
I release a deep exhale and allow myself for the duration of this song to feel unabashedly selfish.
Why should I feel guilty about going to my friend's house on a Saturday night? I've never stayed over anywhere since we moved to Hawkins. I haven't made any new friendships or broke curfew or failed a test. Why do I feel such guilt over everything I do, when I've barely done anything? Why can't my life be normal?
Prince begins to sing from the stereo.
"What are you thinking about?"
My eyes jolt open and I look over to Helen. Her face isn't so frightened anymore, she looks solemn.
I blink and shake my head.
"Um... my mom. You?"
Helen smiles and nods. "Same."
I let out a short laugh. "Wow, mothers and daughters. Has a more fucked up relationship ever been recorded?"
Helen giggles, she sounds uninhibited for the first time since I've met her.
"Probably not," she replies.
"Yeah, I love my mom, more than anyone else," I say quietly. "But, sometimes, I feel like I have to adjust myself exactly to her standards, as if I am her last hope in this godforsaken world."
"I understand what you mean." She sighs deeply. "Our mothers grew up in a world that just... shit all over them. And then all the things they didn't get to do, or the things they felt were robbed of them, they pass it all down to us. They make us in their image, but all it does is stifle us the same way they were stifled. How is that fair? It just perpetuates this stupid, patriarchal cycle. Trauma gets handed down like a family heirloom."
Helen's chest expands with a deep breath and I watch her, feeling proud.
"Wow," I say. "How long have you been keeping that inside?"
She snorts, "God so long."
"See what I mean, this music isn't so bad." I smile. "Maybe it's a bit jarring, but... it's like a truth serum. It gives us permission to feel and talk about things that other people say we shouldn't speak about. All the ugly stuff and the taboo stuff."
"Was that an Eddie Munson quote too?" Helen asks with her gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"No, that was just me."
Helen laughs and then hesitates.
"So... he's your best friend, right?"
I glance over at her. "Eddie?"
She nods.
"Yeah, he's my best friend," I affirm.
"Is that... weird?" Helen asks.
"Why would it be weird?"
"Well, he's a boy, and you're a girl. And he's..."
She struggles to find an adjective.
"Wild, unhinged, loud, rebellious, uncouth?" I offer.
She looks at me and shrugs her shoulders.
"He's very different from me, personality wise," I admit. "But, we're cut from the same cloth. We both understand what it's like to be different, to be outsiders."
Helen looks at me and raises her eyebrows. "You're an outsider?"
"Helen, no one even knew I existed before I joined the cheer squad. I was invisible. Like, the ghosts in your incredibly haunted attic-"
Helen interjects, "Again, there are no ghosts, my house is not haunted."
I roll my eyes at her. "Whatever you say..."
She turns on her side and swishes her hand at me. "Please continue."
"Oh..." I try to find my train of thought. "Eddie. We're companions of circumstance, but true friends by choice. He was the first person I met when my family moved to Hawkins, and he... he is misunderstood, but he never judged me. Even though he could have, the same way people judge him."
Helen nods her head. "I've never thought about it that way. I guess it's easy to just listen to the whispers in the hallway and believe what people say."
"Yeah, high school is a hive mind," I sigh. "It's hard to be an individual... for most people. I've spent the last two and a half years at Hawkins High just following Eddie around, stepping in his boot prints and letting him bulldoze ahead of me. That was easy too, just fading into the background."
"I don't think you fade into the background," she says.
"Maybe not anymore. People only accept me now because I wear a cheer uniform. Because I finally look the part. But, just because the surface changed doesn't mean I changed." My fingers twist together anxiously. "I don't want to be let in only for all of my weirdness and my differences to be squeezed out of me."
"Yeah, there's no chance of that happening," Helen snorts.
I knit my eyebrows at her.
"You are weird!" She says with a smile. "But in a good way!"
I giggle and feel a swell of appreciation for her words. Good, maybe you're not a total poser yet, Winter.
I feel very comfortable speaking to Helen, it's like a counseling meeting with Ms. Kelley but it isn't painful, it's easy.
I continue to spill out the thoughts forming in my head, not bothering to edit or overthink them. It feels nice to just let it out.
"I think people are finally willing to accept me into their space as soon as I look exactly like them, but Eddie will never conform like that," I say. "He wears his differences on the outside, he wants people to know exactly who he is the minute they see him. So, I guess he'll always be stuck on the outskirts. Well, not stuck, the outskirts is exactly where he wants to be. But, I still don't think it's fair."
I sigh loudly and Helen sits up on her elbows.
"I feel like an outsider too, most of the time," she says cautiously. "I mean, I know I'm lucky. I have... all this." Her gaze rolls around her bedroom. "But... I'm different too."
I nod my head. "That's the fucked up part."
Helen flips over on her stomach and turns her head toward me. "What is?"
"Everyone is different but we all pretend like we aren't," I clarify. "Why do we still play by these insane rules? Why do we let our moms treat us like dolls or place our entire self-worth on the attentions of some basketball player? Who says just because you wear your hair too long or too short that you're automatically a reject?" I shake my head. "That's bullshit."
Helen looks down at the cushion and begins to play with a tassel.
I smile at her. "Us outsiders..."
She looks over at me carefully.
"We gravitate toward each other. Like me and Eddie, and me and you."
"Yeah. You're right..." Helen smiles widely. "Eddie Munson still scares me though."
I let out a loud laugh. "Once you see him trip over his own shoelaces or cry over a missing poster for someone's cat, that fear will fade. Trust me."
Helen giggles and pushes herself up to her knees.
We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister fades out from the stereo and Dress You Up by Madonna begins to play.
Helen lets out a long squeal. "Madonna is on this tape? I love her!"
"Yeah, this song is about getting freaky so she made the list. Rock on, sister." I half-heartedly push my fist into the air.
Helen looks over at me. "That's what this song is about?"
"That's what most songs about about, Helen."
"Oh..." She blushes a little.
"Hey..." She says, my gaze drifts over to her. She's sitting on her knees and pushing her fingers into the cushion. "Have you ever... um... done it?"
I tilt my head. "Define it."
Helen looks at me, helplessly. "Please don't make me."
"Oh, come on!"
I begin singing along to the song.
"Gonna dress you up in my love, in my love..." My shoulders shake teasingly and Helen stifles a laugh. "All over your body, all over your body..."
"Okay fine, sex!" Helen yells.
I raise my eyebrows at her.
"Or... anything else?" She asks. "Have you done that?"
I giggle to myself, feeling bad for teasing her when I'm just as innocent as she is.
"No. I haven't had sex," I say. "Or kissed anyone. Or held hands romantically. I've never even been on a date."
"Really?"
"Again, Helen, no one knew I existed until a week ago. Also, I was kind of an ugly duckling."
I shrug my shoulders and sit up. I scooch backwards to press against Helen's bed.
Helen sighs, "I haven't done any of that stuff either. Well, apart from my first kiss. That happened at my thirteenth birthday party. Marty Walsh grabbed my face and sucked on it for 10 seconds while we were in the pool. I nearly drowned, it was awful."
We both laugh at her story.
"You know... I've always dreamt of some grand romance in my head, like Jane Austen level romance," I sigh. "No innuendos or back seats in someone's Ford Pinto. I just want someone to, like, brush my hand as we pass in the hallway or sit next to each other in comfortable silence." I look over at Helen. "I know that probably sounds so lame and boring, but I've never had attention from anyone before. And, lately, I've felt... exposed. As if suddenly people are looking at me in that way, and it feels cheap and wrong."
My gaze falls down to my lap.
"That doesn't sound stupid at all," Helen muses. "It sounds sweet."
"Yeah, well..." I pause. "How am I supposed to know if someone really likes me, or if they just like the way I look?"
"I think Theodore Knight really likes you," Helen smiles and bounces excitedly on her knees.
I squish my eyebrows together. "I want to believe that, but I can't seem to convince myself."
"Oh, come on!" Helen groans.
I feel an anxious bubble growing in my stomach. Whenever I think about Theo, all of these feelings that I'm not used to just spring up so quickly, and my natural defenses kick in and tell me to kill them with fire.
"I don't know anything about him!" I throw up my hands. "He only started talking to me because he saw me at the game, which leads me to believe he made a surface level judgment about my appearance and then was further intrigued when I spoke like I had half a brain. What, am I supposed to feel special?"
"Well... you are beautiful," Helen says firmly. "That's just a fact. So maybe, yes, he walked up to you because of that, but, who cares? You still get to decide who you like! He needs to be worthy of you, not the other way around."
I know she's right, but every nerve in my body is telling me not to even let myself go there mentally, to not entertain the possibility that a boy like that could have feelings for a girl like me.
I groan and push my head against the bed behind me. "Okay, fine. But, I just... I don't want to get hurt. I'm kind of used to being alone. I don't want to regret opening up."
"I understand..." Helen replies. "I don't want to get hurt either."
I lower my head and watch her cautiously, wondering if it's going to be her turn to open up now, but she doesn't add anything else.
"So, is there someone that you think about?" I ask. "Someone you'd like to take to the movies... share a milkshake with... et cetera?"
Helen shakes her head quickly. "Nope! No... I don't think anything like that is going to happen to me."
She stands up and walks over to her floor length mirror.
"Okay," I say. "Maybe we both need to take charge then? Instead of waiting for it to happen to us... maybe we need to make it happen."
Helen's eyes catch mine in the mirror. I'm a little startled by the look in her eyes... she looks scared. I don't want to push her, but I need her to know I would never judge her.
"I know it isn't easy... putting yourself out there. But..." I shrug. "I'll always be here for you, if you ever do decide to try something new and it blows up in your face. I'll help you clean it up, you won't be alone."
Helen smiles a little and I return it.
"And I know you'll do the same thing for me when I inevitably embarrass myself in front of Theodore Knight," I add.
Helen laughs and nods her head.
"Yeah, I'll help clean up your mess too."
Cyndi Lauper starts to croon She-Bop from the stereo and Helen begins swaying to and fro. I watch as she purses her lips in the mirror and piles her hair onto her head, then turns her chin from left to right.
"Okay, this is the best song so far," she says.
She frames her face with her hands and starts bopping along. I smile at her as she begins to jump around in jerky dance movements.
"What is this one about?" Helen asks. "Sex? Like Madonna?"
She looks scandalized, as if she's so surprised she said the word twice in one evening.
"Kind of, it is about female pleasure," I say. "But, pleasure you give yourself."
She utters a small squeak. My eyes roll over to meet hers in the mirror. Helen stands there frozen.
Cyndi Lauper continues singing:
Hey, hey, they say I better get a chaperone
Because I can't stop messin' with the danger zone
Helen gasps and places a hand on her chest, clutching invisible pearls.
I sit up straighter and look at her.
"Helen... are you okay?"
"She's singing about... touching yourself?" Her voice quivers. "Like... down there?"
I scoff and shake my head, we've made great progress this evening but I guess I need to break this down for her as well.
"Yes, Helen. It's a very powerful song. Cyndi is saying we shouldn't feel shame over our own desires."
Helen turns away from the mirror, her cheeks are flushed.
"Oh, come on Helen!" I tease. "We just talked about this, it's okay to want someone to want you, even if you don't feel entirely worthy of it. It's just a part of becoming a woman."
"Yes, but... that's someone else. She singing about... you touching... you."
Her hands twitch in front of her body, I think this song is the one that finally broke her.
Take that Eddie, she made it well past your songs. Cyndi Lauper singing about masturbation is what finally did her in.
I sigh, "How can you possibly expect to know what you want from someone else if you don't even understand yourself?"
Helen sputters, unable to respond.
"It's a perfectly natural, safe way to feel connected to yourself." My voice is slow, as if I'm trying to soothe a cornered animal. "We can't possibly become badass women if we are repressed. And that starts within, and without, and in and around the general area."
I roll my hand, trying to get my point across.
Helen snaps her head to mine and then away quickly.
"Man, those Republican meetings at the golf course really did a number on you, didn't they?"
"I just..." she sputters. "I've never heard someone talk about that out loud."
"I have," I shrug. "Boys talk about it all the time. They joke about it, brag about it. We seem to be the only ones with a deeply ingrained shame surrounding it."
Helen sighs deeply.
"You don't have to feel cool and comfortable with everything, Helen. I certainly don't, in fact, I have no idea what I'm doing ever. You have more experience than me!"
Helen looks at me, unconvinced.
I hold up my hands. "Hey, you had Marty Walsh, I only had Rob Lowe on my Outsiders movie poster."
Helen laughs, surprised, and crinkles her nose at me.
"Gross."
"Yeah, well," I laugh. "Growing up is weird right? Everything is awkward. But, we can't let the world convince us to be more insecure than we already are naturally. Otherwise, we'll never beat teenagehood."
Helen nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're right."
I stand up and move across the room, ejecting the cassette from the stereo.
"Okay, I think that's about enough of those heavy conversations for the night." I give her a small smile over my shoulder and she returns it.
"How about a dance party to... " I flick through her stack of tapes. "The Go-Go's?"
I smile and stick it into the stereo.
"Skip ahead to track 3!" Helen squeals. "That's my favorite!"
I oblige and Girl of 100 Lists blares into Helen's room. I run toward her and grab her hands, we spin madly in a circle and belt out the words.
I feel incredibly normal for the first time in a long time, dancing along to Belinda Carlisle with Helen, and I hope the rest of the year is exactly like this.