Page 12 of She’s a Doll

“Fuck,” I said one more time, and went back to the door.

Kyle was still there, still smiling. “That’s a big dog.”

“He’s nice.”

He didn’t sound nice. Even muffled through the walls, Cookie’s barking was apocalyptic.

“Can I?” Kyle stepped forward.

I opened the security door and stepped aside to let him in. Then, as quickly as I could, I closed the door, grabbed his wrist, and led him through the house into Grandma’s study.

It was clearer than the rest of the house, but not by much. Between the sewing machine, a stack of old birdcages, and a bookcase, there was a gap of open carpet wide enough to look like a room. “We moved recently,” I lied, and sat cross-legged on the ground. “Everything’s a mess.”

“It’s cool.” He sat next to me and unscrewed the lid off the vodka bottle. It cracked slightly, a seal breaking.

I thought of the fizzy vodka Cruisers I’d left at Ginger’s place. Strawberry flavored. There was strategy in that. The sugar masked the burn. I’d never had vodka unmixed before, but I’d seen enough videos of gagging teenagers to know I didn’t want to.

“You’re really quiet,” Kyle said. “You were talking heaps on the phone.” He took a swig from the bottle and held it out to me.

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” I took the bottle and, after a moment of hesitation, touched it to my lips. I wasn’t brave enough to swallow.

Cookie hadn’t stopped barking, a repetitive, angry tempo, echoing through the walls.

My heart thumped along in time.

I handed the bottle back, and he took another sip. “It’s OK to be shy, you know.”

“I’m not,” I said, a little too quickly. “Shy, I mean.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m just . . . I’m not used to this.”

“That’s good too.” He handed me back the vodka.

I pretended to drink again and felt like a coward.

He watched with a strange, unsettling sort of intensity.

I was sitting with my back against the birdcages, the metal of the bars pressing into the bones of my shoulders. Kyle sat with the bookcase behind him, large, old, and covered in layers of tacky-looking varnish. The shelves were packed with books, a collection of globes, and, at the very top, a set of four porcelain dolls. A cowgirl, a ballerina, a schoolteacher, and a bride.

They were slumped against each other, feet hanging over the edge of the shelf, glass eyes staring.

“I think you’re cute,” Kyle said, smiling the same default smile he’d worn when he was standing on Grandma’s welcome mat.

I stared at him. “What?”

He laughed. “Do you think I’m cute?”

“I . . .”

“Do. You. Think. I’m. Cute?”

Was Kyle cute? I didn’t know. A more important question: Was that what this was? Was a guy interested in me? That had never happened before. The thought made my stomach clump into a knot and rise up my throat.

“You’re blushing,” he said.

I was. I couldn’t help it. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “I’m sorry.”