"Fuck it Daddy I need a bra!"
These were the words that propelled Peyton into adolescence.
Her father had stood there bewildered in the pre-teen section of JC Penney. Little pink bras with light padding or training bras that looked mostly like short undershirts hung neatly from the metal racks, glaring at them innocently. She'd seen the back of his neck turn red.
"Peyton for Christ's sake, act like you got some manners! You should've just told me what the matter was instead of dragging me here and skulking around pretending to look at jeans for an hour!"
She had practically howled with grief and embarrassment. Her eyes were watery and her throat tight. She hunched over, trying to make her shirt bag out over her pointy breasts. She would've broken out into sobs if the stiff saleslady with too-tight pants over a huge, ponderous ass hadn't come lumbering up.
"Can I help ya'll? Does the young miss need a training bra?" she had cooed sweetly, trying to look maternal and inoffensive. Peyton remembers pure hatred.
"What I need is for you to buy bigger pants and not oppress me with the sight of your crack," she had replied, whereupon both her father and the lady had stood frozen in rage and humiliation. She had grabbed two bras blindly, the closest ones next to her in white and pink, and marched over to the babies department where a little old senile lady had rung them up. Her father had hurried over and paid silently, and then grabbed her by the arm and practically yanked her through the home goods section, out to the parking lot. She tore herself loose and raced to the car, tears streaming down her cheeks, and had curled up in the front seat miserably, picking at her dirty shoelace and refusing to look up.
Her father hadn't said anything else, just gone home, slammed the door, and left in his pickup later that night for another job up the river.
She had looked at those two bras then sitting on her bed. She touched them, the little eyelet straps and little pink rosebuds nestled between the flat cups that were merely triangles. They were soft and rimmed with stiff elastic, from some cheap cotton material. Carefully, she had hooked one on and stood there looking at it in the mirror for a while. She'd put her shirt on over it, and almost sobbed in relief at the subdued shape of her breasts. Instead of offensive points they were merely flat little curves under the plain v-neck tee. She had curled up then and gone to sleep in the bra, and hadn't taken it off for a week.
The next day at school Brooke told her excitedly about how her mom had took her to Parisian. She told Peyton about getting fitted, picking ones that had a little soft padding, and how her mom had taken her out to lunch afterwards and then to the cosmetics counter. She generously let Peyton have a fingertip of her new Lancome lipgloss, and told her about how her mom had made her order salad because she said that's what grown girls did.
Peyton said that was exactly how hers went too. She said her dad dropped her off at the mall with money and when she was done, they'd gone to a burger joint and he'd given her a new pair of Nikes, and told her she was a daddy's girl. They both flashed each other in the bathrooms and Brooke had told her the rosebud was cute, but hers of course, was cuter.
They had both rolled their eyes and giggled at how sappy parents where, how sentimental or stupid.
"Geez," they said, "you'd think we were sweet sixteen already or something."
Fast forward, thinks Peyton. Just like a documentary on MTV. Phony announcer: five years later, these two same girls are going through the trials of adolescence still, but things have taken a much more dangerous turn-blah blah blah more stupid shit blah blah blah. Now we tune in to Peyton's bedroom, where our subjects can be found-
Whatever. She shakes the little scenario from her head, and turns her attention back to Brooke who is waltzing around in her underwear in front of the webcam or the open window. Classic. She rolls her eyes, and focuses back on her hair. It's standing on end as usual in flyaway curls, but she's managed to smooth them down, pull them into some sort of shape. She outlines her eyes in demure brown eyeliner, flinching occasionally. Soft music blares in the background, the harsh sound almost mellow at that low a volume. Brooke is organizing her outfit.
"Black lace panties," the girl starts, laying out the delicates. Peyton rolls her eyes. "It's because after their moms give the go ahead, boys always get the urge to seduce. It's a psychological phenomenon-that's why guys pick girls that are like their mothers, or it has something to do with that……"
Peyton sighs, tuning her out.
"Here's the magic dress. The momma I'ma treat your son right dress." Brooke pauses, and then puts down some pantyhose. Peyton's eyebrows raises.
"What?" exclaims the redhead. "Ever notice the girls at church? Wouldn't be caught dead without 'em. Here's your pearls too, you beige ballet flats, handbag, handkerchief,"
"Brooke," she interrupts. "You're overdoing this."
The other girls pauses, looks down at the bag, and says nothing.
"Hey, how bout letting me enjoy it huh? Not like I ever get to do it." Her hoarse voice tries for carelessness, but Peyton understands, and feels a little ashamed. Brooke lays down the bag abruptly, and goes to peacock in the mirror, fluffing up her hair.
"Hey Brook-Snook, c'mere and do my makeup, how bout it?" she says softly to the other girl, reconciliatory. She watches her eyes light up, and she comes strutting over nonchalantly.
"Sure I will. Hell we both know I'm better at it. We're going for the texas whorehouse look, right? Cabaret? Just fucked supermodel? Pretty Hollywood thing playing heroin addict? Christina Aguilera?"
"Haha. Very funny. Do your best Lila on me."
The other girl bends close, and works in rhythmic silence. Peyton listens to her soft breathing, watches her face in concentration. She's always amazed at how this closeness between women is such a source of fascination for men, how their natural camaraderie and affection and physical generosity is so misconstrued and warped in the male mind. She thinks of all the times they've slept together in the same bed, curled up with their teddy bears and pictures of Nsync or Backstreet Boys. She does love Brooke, she thinks to herself. It's all she has to love, and the only thing that's ever loved her back tangibly in spite of all the pain and jealousy and anger. Her father hadn't hugged her since she was little, when IT happened. All she's ever had was Brooke. Absently, she wonders if she'll ever be able to hate her, no matter what horrible thing she does.
Then she knows for the first time that yes, it is possible.
Because as sure as hell she knows if Brooke ever touches Lucas, that they will never speak again. She feels a pain in her chest, a constriction of her throat. If Brooke takes Lucas too. I can't think about it now, she tells herself. I won't think about it now. In the words of one famous belle, I'll think about it later. But Brooke always wins, says the permanent voice.
Brooke's always bested.
She grabs Brooke's wrist then with a fierceness she's never shown before. She's afraid, afraid of Brooke's reaction, afraid of being alone, but not more afraid than of the thought that has just landed on her like a brick. She doesn't care all of a sudden if Brooke turns on her. "Don't take no scorpion for a pet and you won't get bitten," her daddy had said once.
"You can't ever touch him," she says suddenly, her face pure stone.
The redhead pauses there frozen, watching Peyton through hooded eyes, from under her lustrous eyelashes.
"You're hurting my wrist," she replies lazily, maintaining eye contact.
Peyton feels her heart pounding madly. But she doesn't care anymore.
"If you touch him it's done Brooke. Don't get mad at me for telling you this, don't start any "stupid suspicious don't trust me" crap arguments. This is the only word I've on it. Don't do it."
The other girl pauses, then yanks her wrist away. She struggles not to narrow her eyes and let her mouth curl into a sinuous grin. The fuck I won't, she thinks.
But Peyton's face stares at her mute and stony.
Suddenly Brooke is tired. She feels a complete and quick, clean panic, then nothingness.
To be alone. To be against Peyton. To have to be friends with Lila, who'll never adore her like Peyton has. Who'll never get it like Peyton does. Whose parents are always home. To be scared all the time of being found out, of people secretly talking about her without any ally who knows the truth.
She's too tired to start there. She'd be too lonely.
"Alright," she replies softly then, the anger draining out of her. "I won't touch him. I swear double dog cross my heart hope to die stick a hepatitis needle in my eye on Jesus' tomb."
No smile from Peyton.
"Ok," the blonde girl replies then, so low she can barely hear it. They both say nothing for a moment, looking away from each other.
Blind tears secretly are stinging behind both of their eyes but neither one of them wants to say anything.
"Oh Brooke," she says all of a sudden, and they're both bawling then, sitting on the floor, Brooke curled up small and little.
"You always win," she tells her bitterly, and Peyton reels.
"Me?"
"Yeah." The pause is punctuated by sobs. "No matter what I do you'll always be prettier and always get the guy. You never had to try half as hard as I did. I liked him you know? Nathan. Ever since we were little, the duck whistles, remember? I never told you because I knew I wouldn't win. And now we're back at the beginning, and you still win."
A flood of hot tears burns in her eyes, blinding her.
"Oh Brooke," she says again, helplessly. "I wish you had
told me. I wish you didn't hate me."
They both cry, wiping at their eyes, their noses.
"I hate you but I love you too lots. I can't help being so horrible sometimes. I'm sorry I truly am." She gasps for breath, wiping her face with Peyton's bedspread. She hurls forward with shocking speed all of a sudden then, clamping her arms around Peyton's neck then, holding on tight to her. "Just don't stop being my friend ok? Please?"
Peyton nods then reassuringly, and they part, their ragged breathing the only sound in the room.
"Oh fuck-a-doodle-doo," the redhead says then wearily. "Look at your makeup. I have to start over again."
Then they both laugh, a shaky kind of laugh, looking at their mascara streaked faces and red eyes in the mirror. They both look so small and scared that they're embarrassed.
But there's also a huge relief there, a lightness both of them feel thrumming against their ribcages, lifting them off the ground.
Everything will more or less be ok now, at least for today.
Peyton knows this all may not really mean anything tomorrow.
He's there at six like he promised. Brooke's gone by now, not particularly wishing to stay and watch the "launching of the future Mrs.Scott", as she'd put it airily. She waits for the horn to honk like she always has, and is surprised to hear the doorbell, because the fact that he does this is still new to her after Nathan. When she opens the door she's overwhelmed again by him, the whole of him, length, planes, angles, features, everything; he always overwhelms her. He's so beautiful, she thinks with a pang.
He looks at her shyly, the dress, the shoes, the sullen mouth expecting a caustic remark that he'll never make.
"You look awfully gorgeous, Peyton," he says gently, and watches her eyes light up with unexpected pleasure, then quickly dim as she hides it behind nonchalance.
"Don't get used to it," is all she says, and his heart winces a little for her hurt one, always worrying ahead of time, seeking out new insecurities.
"I won't," he says simply, and sees her relax again. He opens her door, and she smiles to herself.
The Carolina night is thick and blooming with oleanders and wisterias, magnolias unfolding in the dusk, honeysuckle drifting past them. Fireflies glow like tiny stars falling to the ground, hypnotic and dancing over the darkened lawns. Lamplight spills from the windows of the houses they pass, and he parks in front of his and leads her up the steps, holding her hand reassuringly. She feels terribly afraid, Peyton who is never afraid.
Karen opens the door and smiles at her, and they all say nothing for a moment, letting themselves sink into the moment, watching the smile spread on her face. In a second, words are floating, welcoming and kind, shy in response, laughter, a grin, a hand on her elbow, and she is inside, the door shut behind her.
She's not sure of how everything should be exactly, but she tries to watch Karen and follow along best she can; she remembers to compliment the food and the house, say something nice about Lucas, smile a lot, and not curse. She feels terribly inadequate somehow, but things seem to be ok, her heart feels a little twinge of hope. After dinner, her hands slide over the edges of the frames on the hallway wall. She closes the bathroom door and looks around the small room.
Nervously, she brushes at her face in the mirror, pushing down stray hairs, tucking and untucking her hair, dabbing at her lipgloss. The small lightbulb gives her shadows under her eyes, and she feels a little cold. She wonders what Karen thinks. What Lucas thinks. She sees the way they smile at each other affectionately, the pride in her eyes.
Fuckin' lovely and charming, her mind says, and then feels guilty for it. Quit being a jealous bitch Peyton, she whispers to the mirror.
She rejoins them on the couch, where Karen turns to her, and smiles that lovely smile again that makes her ache all over.
"Peyton, there's something I wanted to ask you. You know that I belong to the Rotary, right? It's required of all business owners in Tree Hill. What I really meant to ask is …every year there's a Coming Out Ball for all the girls turning sixteen….and I don't have a daughter to register….I saw your friend Brooke's name on the list, and I was wondering if you'd like to be in it too, with me sponsoring."
She considers this for a minute, and then feels a little twinge of joy. The River Ball.
She can hardly believe it.
"Yes," is all she can say, but Karen somehow understands, Peyton knows she understands! She can see it in her eyes. Suddenly she feels like crying again, and tiredly, she thinks of how often this has been happening since she's met this boy.
Maybe I'm thawing, she thinks. Maybe I have this iceberg in my brain and it's melting and leaking out of my eyes.
"I think Peyton's tired," he says then, grinning at her forlorn and supremely ecstatic expression, her wide, watery eyes. Karen smiles back knowingly, winking at her.
"It was nice having you. Feel free to come back anytime, and I don't mean that in a fake southern hospitality way, I mean it for real. You don't even have to ring, just come hollering at the café. Ok?"
She nods mutely, and he leads her out by her elbow, but before she steps out the door her mind leaves her and she does something that she'll burn with embarrassment upon remembering for the next month; she runs back to Karen and throws her arms around her. Mortified, she flees then, pauses awkwardly before the car door, opens it herself, and jumps in, slamming it. Her cheeks are red; she hears Karen's laugh, and then Lucas is in the car all of a sudden, grinning. She hangs her head, but he just chuckles and kisses her bare shoulder.
"Don't worry," he tells her. "That's not the first time that's ever happened. She has a magnetic field for attracting compulsory displays of affection."
She says nothing and he doesn't mind, he just turns up the radio and sings along, and she realizes that's the first time she's ever seen him so outwardly genuinely happy.
That something warm comes back and crawls into her, and stays there long after he leaves.