Burning Lili

“Ouch!” I say as Mason sprits her spray bottle. She rips my tangles apart to get the water and leave-in conditioner mixture she made soaked through the thick hair to my scalp.

“Nope. No complaining. Brush your damn hair next time,” she scolds.

Mason sits on the edge of her bed with me positioned between her thighs, a decorative pillow under my butt. It’s practically a high-class salon.

“Hey, be lucky I even washed it for you,” I shoot back.

“You could have washed it, or I could have bent you over the kitchen sink. It was getting shampooed either way,” she laughs. “I am an artiste; I need a clean canvas.”

“Well, Artiste, make me look nice, please,” I say, feeling the nerves creeping up. “I've made a vow to get better. It's been a year, and I'm tired of it.” I say, no explanation necessary. Mason knows what 'it' is. It's the psycho reaction I have every time a male is near and the unwavering thought that any one of them could be him. Sometimes, I doubt if getting better is even possible, especially since I don't know who he is.

“Lils, what do you think this is? This is what I do. Don’t offend the chef.” I can almost feel the assured facial expression she is wearing. This girl thinks she just dropped wisdom.

“Mason. Did you just quote your dad’s grilling apron?”

I picture the cheesy apron Mr. Reed wears to grill. It has the terrible line written above five full yellow stars like a Yelp review. We burst out laughing again.

I can always count on her to make me feel regular. I’m just a girl hanging with her friend, talking shit on a Friday night. I need this after my day. The snoozed alarm. The near panic attack in the car. The impromptu tour with the quiet, rude new kid.

He walked into our seventh period with barely a second until the tardy bell. Everett noticed me, I know he did, his expression unreadable. He found the seat farthest away from me, or at least, that’s what it felt like after the morning’s Tour De Failure.

“Did you see the new kid?” I ask Mason, fighting against the tug-of-war she’s having on my head to look up at her.

“The swimmer from Dallas?” she asks, half-interested, half-engrossed in the task at hand. She takes a glob of extra-hold gel and rubs it through a part she sectioned off. She used the forked edge of the rattail comb to hold one side of my part steady while she worked on the other one.

“No. That’s the tall white girl, right? I think she’s in my Government class,” I say, wincing at the cold goo. “The guy I’m talking about went to my old school on the Southside. Tall, light-skinned Disney movie protagonist type.”

“Oooh, another boy in your life? You haven’t even tested out Chadwin yet,” she joked, knowing I wouldn't be testing out shit. I’m terrified that he will try to hold my hand, "testing me out" aside. That’s a giant leap where I need baby steps.

“Hell no,” I say into my chest as she braids. “I didn’t know him at South Heights. The receptionist cornered me into giving him a tour, though. That’s why I was later than usual to Jacobs.”

“I bet that sucked for you.” She spreads another glob of gel across my scalp while I fidget with her plush carpet. “I didn’t see a new guy, though.”

How did she not see him at all? I couldn't stop seeing him after we parted ways by the library. The seventh period couldn't have come sooner, but he made it impossible to study him with that damn black hood. What had happened to him? Why could I feel his pain during our brief interaction? Why hadn't I been more afraid in that empty hallway? “He was just rude,” I shrug. “Who cares.”

Mason is more than happy to change the subject from the random person she hadn't seen to something juicier. Braiding sessions are meant for spilling tea, discussing whichever boy Mason is talking to at the moment, and browsing The ShadeRoom on Instagram for celebrity gossip. I scroll mindlessly, not really caring that another Kardashian just got cheated on.

“Did you see that bitch eyeing me down when we walked to the car after school?” Mason asks. I saw a few, and she could be referring to any of them. Sawyer Williams was shooting daggers toward us, probably still upset that Mason hooked up with her on-again, off-again Brad-like boyfriend. Mason didn’t discriminate, so his early 2000's swoop bangs and multiple pairs of boat shoes weren't a deal-breaker for her. She liked all kinds of boys, and the ones at East Harbor certainly liked her back. Ari Sang was looking Mason up and down, probably because they both wore new designer slides, but Mason wore hers better. Lizbeth Langdon was also staring, but I couldn’t think why she would look at Mason like she stole something. I'm the one she wants.

“Which bitch?” I ask, Lizbeth still on my mind. Liz is one of those not-a-hair-out-of-place types of girls. Perfect grades, college-winning extracurriculars, and the perfect boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend as of a few months ago. I don’t know why they broke up this past summer, but it was just a high school relationship, and they hadn’t been dating long. I think it’s socially acceptable to go on a date with him after all these months. Besides, Chadwin asked me out, so I'm not the one to shoot daggers at.

“Sawyer!” she says like I should have already known the answer. “I kept reminding her that they were broken up. They were basically fist-fighting at Bruce's R.I.P. Summer Rage-- everyone saw it happen. Tyler was free game.”

“How long had they been broken up?” I asked evenly. She won't get any judgment from me.

“I couldn’t tell you. It could have been at the party, for all I know. It was none of my business.” she pulls at a braid a little too hard as if to punctuate her sentence.

“Ow,” I cringe. “Don’t take it out on me.”

Mason apologizes, and I spend the next 45 minutes listening to her talk. It's one of the things that made us such good friends. She never questioned me about my parents, and when I want to be silent, to drift into a hazy plane of rotated responses, Mason is happy and willing to take the heavier side of the conversation. I think it helps her work better, and I am always willing to help.

“I’m just saying it would be a good business move for his team to set up a concert or festival in Houston. We could drive for three hours and get a hotel. Or camp like Coachella,” Mason muses as she brushes a toothbrush across my edges, pushing more sticky hair product across my forehead. I never liked the baby hair trend. The product was wet and thick and gave me pimples every time. “XXXTentacion, take me away from this mundane existence,” Mason whines. “Make me your emo bae. Come to Texas!”

“His music is so depressing!” I say as she wraps a scarf over her work and blasts a hairdryer in my face. She has to yell over it for me to hear her.

“I know right!” she responds as if my review of his music was a compliment. “He just gets me.”

“Are you depressed?” I half-scream, attempting to look up at her. She shrugs and nudges my head back down, moving the hot air over the scarf.

I don't have time to question her further before she abruptly cuts the dryer and pushes me up to look in the mirror at her vanity. I gasp when I see myself.

Mason showed out. The parts are perfect and glisten like a silver tiara under the mirror's bright bulbs. The light cuts across my face, and I look like I could be in a magazine. Maybe even on one. She gave me a skunk stripe—two braids clustered together to form a long white streak from my left temple to my lower back. The clear beads clink as I swing my braids in tune with the cute, normal girl in my reflection.

“Mason,” I breathed, looking at her in the mirror. She’s beautiful and free and so sure of herself, and right now, I feel those things. Her hardest life experience was losing her grandma during the Swine Flu pandemic of 2009, but she barely knew the lady. Nothing is holding her back from just being her. Now, for a short time at least, I can pretend to have that too. “I love it, Mase.”

“Of course you do, but X is so fine, he can cry his sexy, angsty tears on my shoulder any day.” She hugs me from behind, and I don’t feel the need to flinch. “So, what will you wear tonight? And when is Chadwin picking you up?”

“Well,” I glance at my feet. “We’re meeting at the restaurant. I wasn’t sure about the car.” I try to imagine nothing but a glove compartment between us. I’ve seen his car at school; it’s a Range Rover, spacious enough for all its intents and purposes, but no more than an elbows space between driver and passenger.

“Hey, that’s okay. Baby steps, girl.” Mason redirects with an excited squeal. “And what are you wearing?”

“It’s just food, so I’m going to wear this,” I gesture to my slept-in t-shirt and scuffed boots.

“No,” she says definitively. “I have the perfect top!”

She grabs a silky black crop top with an obscenely low back from her closet and lines it up to my torso. It’s gorgeous, and it’s so not me. “You’re kidding, Mase?”

I start to picture the girl in the mirror, wearing the revealing top and layers of confidence on a date. She’s edgy, not constantly on edge. She’s funny, not a secret joke made at parties. They don’t whisper that she’s allergic to boys when she walks by the hall.

“Just take it and give it a try. I see it paired with a mini-skirt and white sneakers. Kind of sexy-preppy,” Mason demands.

“Uh…” I want to say no, tell her I’m not good enough for a top like that, but my last session with Dr. Kate plays in my head like a cut scene. “I want you to look for a safe male figure. Someone you know and trust that will allow you to test your boundaries at your own pace,” Dr. Kate had said, crossing one stilettoed foot under the other one. “You’ll have to fight against the fear, Lili.” Maybe that person could be Chadwin. Maybe this top will make it easier to connect with him.

“I’ll try it on,” I finally say.

I decided to change inside the closet. It’s the only space with no mirror in Mason’s massive room. Mason and I are close, but we aren't at the “taking our bras off in front of each other” part of our friendship. I close the door and grab the bottom of my t-shirt to pull over my head. A few minutes of figuring out straps later, and I’m back in front of the vanity, mouth agape.

“Absolutely fucking no,” I say, eyes wide in horror, as Mason screams a deep appreciative, “YEEES!”

My B-cups are practically waving at me from the sides of the top, squarely cut for maximum side boob exposure. What I thought was a low-back is actually no back, as the shirt is held together with what might as well be charger cords crisscrossing down my spine. I feel exposed, open, like I’m asking to be touched. The cords seem to be digging into my flesh, restraining me like a rope. Or duct tape. First is the shaking, then comes the tears.

I’m clawing at the shirt, in full panic mode, when Mason drops her phone and jumps up from the bed to help.

“Hold on, Lils,” she tries to comfort me, grabbing the straps from my fumbling fingers.

“Get it off!” I say on repeat like the shirt is on fire, and she’s the only one near with a bucket of water. I feel it loosen before it falls to the floor. I move my hands over my breast and feel the hot streams of tears that puddle in the pocket of my arms.

We sit in silence for minutes, both kneeling on the floor before I come to my senses, realizing my tear-soaked boobs were in my hands and Mason's room door was ajar. I bolt into the closet.

“Fuck,” I whisper as I clasp my bra behind the shut door. There’s no way she will just let this go. She’s been patient with me so far, but I can’t keep her in the dark before I risk losing my only friend. I scoop my crumpled shirt from the floor, mentally preparing to give her something, some explanation for why I’m this way.

“Mase?” I peek out of a cracked closet door, getting a chill. I need to calm down.

She’s sitting on the bed glassy-eyed when I open the closet door, the strappy restraining top sprawled on the floor like a giant squashed spider. I rarely see her not happy despite her earlier allusion to being depressed. And the way she is looking at me now, with hurt and a need to understand, makes me want to do whatever I can to fix the problem.

“Mase,” I sigh again, rubbing the ridges on my wrist with my thumb. I know I have to tell her something. Even if it isn’t the whole truth, she deserves something.

“I’ve never pried before… What happened to you is your business, you know?” she starts. I try to stop her, to explain, but she holds up a hand to stop me. “You never have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but this is a safe space for you.” Her eyes are wide and glistening, full enough that a tear could drop at any moment.

“I know it is,” I look anywhere but at her, trying to think of how I could frame such a story.

“I was… my family was attacked last year. Someone broke in, tied me up…" I held out my wrist to her so she could see the scars. "It messed me up. I swear if I could be normal, I would. I swear.” More hot tears. I barely gave her anything, but if she wanted more, I didn't put it past her to ask. She's admirably bold that way.

“No, ma’am, absolutely not. I never asked for that. Who the hell wants that? Normal is boring,” she rubs my shoulders, and once again, I'm grateful for the shitty encounter in the hall that brought us together. “I just want to get it, you know? So is that how your parents…?” she trails off, leaving the rest of the sentence heavy in the air.

“Yes. They were shot. The guy left no evidence, and the police moved on. It was...” my words fail me for a moment. “A bad night.” It’s a poor description and much less than Mason deserves, but it’s all I have right now.

“I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”

“Tell me about it.” I glance at the stupid shirt again and kick at it for what it did to me. It doesn’t move more than an inch, and I stare at it. When I glance up, Mason is looking at me, trying not to laugh at me. It spills out anyway, and I laugh, too, so hard that I tear up again.

She wipes a tear from my face. It's a moment worthy of a bad Netflix Original, a tear-jerking scene between friends.

Mason’s laughter dims, and she says, “He better not touch you, but we can let him see your killer boobs with a better top.”

“Okay,” I chuckle, rolling my wet eyes.

Some make-up and a perfect top later, and we’re back in front of the mirror.

“I love it,” I say, roaming over the puff sleeve, sweetheart busted top that makes my boobs look less sad than usual and much less exposed. They seem grateful to be free of my loose, unsupportive bralettes and firmly held in the top’s built-in cups. It’s yellow and almost makes my bland chestnut skin look bright.

“I should call my aunt. She wouldn’t believe this.” I felt bad for not telling Aunt Rose about my date, but she didn’t tell me about hers either.

“How are you thinking about your aunt right now? You’re going on a date, Lils! This is a first. Should we celebrate?” Mason hops over to her dresser before I answer and pulls out a thick glass bottle with a bulbous corkscrew seal. The silver label is set ablaze under her ceiling lights. She tugs at the cork until it pops out, spritzing a silver spray of tequila essence in the air between us.

“Is a shot of Patron a smart move before a date?” I ask. “I’m nervous as hell. This feels too soon.”

“It’s Chadwin,” Mason says like those two words alone hold an unspoken message. "Besides, you made a vow right? Tequila is the best way to keep those. For sure."

“Just because I know it’s Chadwin doesn’t mean my fucked-up trauma brain knows that,” I responded with a chuckle, relieved to talk about my issues without fear of judgment.

“It will take time, Lili. And that you take a chance.” She adjusts the waistband of her lent jeggings further up my hips, making my slim curves more pronounced. They aren’t my size and are a far cry from my baggy mom jeans. The one thing I wouldn’t let her take in this little makeover montage were my boots. They are worn but sturdy, reliable, and protective. They are staying with me.

“Thanks, babes,” I tell her, glancing at my phone screen. “He’s going to be there soon, and I don't want to be late. I better call my ride.” I checked how long the Ride Grab would take to get to Mason’s. I didn’t want to worry Aunt Rose about this, so I stayed late enough to leave straight from here. I knew she would freak out even though she was doing the same thing by seeing someone. Trying to move on from last year. Or maybe she would feel relief knowing that we were betraying my parents together by looking for happiness in a world without them. Shared sins. I wasn’t ready to bond over that, not until I saw how the date went. It may not be worth anything to tell.

The ride share would be here in eleven minutes. Mason handed me a small shot glass with a vinyl overlay of the grand canyon on its face. She took one with a little ceramic Buckingham Palace and filled them both from her half-empty tequila bottle. What does Mason have to drink about so often? I think about her earlier comments as I toss the warm liquid back and let the warmth spread down to my toes. I will talk to her about it another time.

The driver, an older lady who kindly offered me water, dropped me off three storefronts from the restaurant at my request. I don’t want Chadwin to see I got a ride here with a stranger. He insisted on picking me up when he asked me out, but I assured him I would feel more comfortable driving myself. It was an unnecessary lie. There’s nothing wrong with rideshare or admitting that I don’t still don’t have a license. I came to discover it’s a regular thing on this side, mimicking the way of larger cities. The East is determined to set itself apart from the rest of the harbor.

My boots feel snug and secure as they carry me toward The Korean Barbeque place we agreed to meet at. I pass a worn brick building with freshly painted paneling and string lights in the windows. Volere Fine Italian has tables with white cloth napkins folded into intricate designs near utensil arrangements, and the scent of garlic and tomatoes is heavy in the air. The chandeliers above the tables almost look real, and the windows glow a warm gold at their insistence. Volere demands business casual attire at a minimum, and I would not be seated there tonight in this top.

The dessert place next door is bathed in a reddish-purple glow from the giant neon ice cream cone on the wall. It has a cherry and the words “LICK MY CONE” in bright blue letters next to it against a faux hedge wall. It’s an Instagram influencer favorite. It looks out of place next to a fancy Italian place, but to be fair, Seoul Food Korean Barbeque on the other side doesn’t fit in much better. This quarter of the Greater Harbor looks fictional with its quirky storefronts and mix-matched vibes.

Chadwin is waiting outside the door, hands in his jacket pockets and a smile meant to lead on his flawless face. Seoul Food’s sign is modern and plain. A black base with an easily illuminated white font. It covers his buttered brown skin artfully.

“Lili Myles,” he smiles, and I stop five feet from him, returning his smile with my own.

“Chadwin Johnson,” I do my best to pull some Mason-level charm into my voice, but it’s weak.

Chadwin looks at the top appreciatively. It’s a glance, just quick enough not to be impolite, but I can tell he likes the effort Mason put in. He doesn’t look so bad himself, and I can’t help but wonder if he ever gets overwhelmed with being so perfect.

He’s a good height, five foot nine if I had to guess, and possesses all the qualities a girl like Liz hopes to trap in a fiancé no later than the junior year of college. It’s a “Ring by Spring” mentality for perfect girls like her, and he’s the archetype of their expectations. President of East Harbor’s Black Student Union, small as it may be, with perfect SAT scores, Chadwin checks all boxes for the model minority. He’ll probably go to an Ivy or something while I get a college degree online or at my local coffee shop when my room at Aunt Rose feels cramped. That will be my reality if I can't work past my trauma. My smile dims a little at the thought but widens again when he opens Seoul Food's massive midnight-blue door for me, stepping aside to give me a wide walkway.

“Welcome to Seoul Food! It is just the two of you tonight?” a tiny red-haired hostess smiles at us as Chadwin settles an ample space away. He’s so considerate. I’m impressed by his awareness of my needs. He hasn’t reached out to give me a pre-date hug, something I discovered was a thing freshman year on my two crappy dates with Joseph Grant from South Heights. He picked me up for those and hugged me awkwardly at the door in front of my parents. Both times.

I smile a small as Chadwin answers her in that easy-going voice of his. He gets along with everyone in a way that would be annoying if he wasn’t so gorgeous. On anyone else, one might question whether they were just a poser or full-on histrionic. Anyone that charismatic would have to have a personality disorder.

Chadwin fit in with all the quirky, artsy, privileged students that make up East Harbor High. He fit in with me. Even more, he understood me. As the waitress led us to a rounded booth, he kept an appreciative distance. Then, he gestured me to one side, taking the spot directly across from me. The large curve of empty space between us felt comfortable.

"I looked for you this morning," he said, his eyes attentive and curious. "Mason made it seem like you were both coming to the breakfast social. Not that you had to, but I would have liked a coffee with you."

Now it was time to channel my colorful friend. Flirt, Lili. You got this. "Would you rather have coffee in a crowded common room or the dimly-lit restaurant, just us?" My attempt at a carefree, sultry voice came out awkward, but I couldn't tell if he noticed. He's so nice, he's probably just going along with it.

Everything was perfect. We vibed, we laughed, we stayed in the moment. He asked me questions that didn't probe, light easy stuff. He suggested a few entrees for us to order and instructed me on how to use the grill in the center of the table. He even made me a s'more, sliding the gooey marshmallow treat across the table, careful not to touch me.

I felt good, normal, and free of the burdens that come with surviving my parent's murder. I felt like maybe I could trust him; ask him to be my person to help me heal. I could see us growing closer over the months, giving ourselves closer allowances until I felt absolutely sure I was ready to touch him. I could maybe even see us kissing. I thought he understood. Then he ruined it all.

As we were leaving, after a date I couldn't wait to tell Mason about, he delayed, if not completely killed, the chance of us getting to the place Dr. Kate wants me to get to—that I maybe want to get to myself. No one would openly admit it, it’s just not the decorum at a school such as Harbor Heights, but people think I’m weird. I don’t want to be the freak anymore. I want to be rid of my irrational fears. Free of my anxieties. But he took liberties. He misinterpreted the moment. Or did he? I don’t think I sent a signal that said, Hey, all my issues are gone after this one date, so you should rush and grab me.

It was a tension-filled moment. I remember the tingle in my chest. A flutter even. It was a movement of some kind, tickling the back of my sternum with every heartbeat. I may have looked at him suggestively after that, but only for companionship. The suggestion was that what little we had could become a friendship because that’s what I needed. I didn't intend to signal any more than that.

I did not need for him to reach out to grab my arm gently and lightly as the man in my room had done. I didn’t appreciate the squeeze as he attempted to pull me close to him, and when I jerked away from him, wide-eyed and betrayed, Chadwin didn’t seem to need or want my stiff, flailing arms coming his way.

The sexy, so-not-me yellow top started to feel tight and more revealing. I backed away from him with a jerk, and he put his hands up as if to calm a scared kitten, ready to claw. I won’t hurt you, his hands seem to say. Just a pet.

“I’m—” I start, not really sure what to say. Another step back. Then another. My heart is pounding, and I feel cornered on this wide patron-filled pier, their eyes on the commotion our way. I don’t explain myself or say goodbye. I just turn and run. Fight or flight had a battle, and the winner was clear.

I’m sure mom is scoffing at me from wherever she is as she watches me run past the fancy Italian place. Neither of us would have guessed that my stamina was this good since, according to her, dancing in my room doesn’t count as cardio. She probably thinks that I could have tried out for sports. I run past the gelato stand, wishing I had taken Chadwin up on that scoop of vanilla bean. Sorry, mom, I think. My calves are in favor of us not making this running thing a regular occurrence, and I intend to listen to them.

In my fear, I ignore the burning and run until I see the corner store on the square's edge. I desperately need to sit down, and the square is so close. Far enough that Chadwin won’t come looking for me, but close enough to appease my laboring lungs momentarily.

Just get to the bench.

I round the corner and stop so short that I scrape my boots. I sidestep quickly to avoid running into someone walking in my direction on the other side of the corner. A big someone. Too much taller than me to be a woman. Oh no, I think as I barely avoid hitting the guy in my path.

The guy who is very, very close to me now.