always, though a little tidier. Her walls are covered by shots of her from various modeling shoots. Some are enlarged, practically showing the miniature pores in her flawless skin.
I can’t imagine having pictures of myself this close up everywhere around me. Then again, maybe if I had glossy dark hair and a winning photogenic smile like Tristan’s it wouldn’t bother me so much. My hair is more mousy-brown than blonde, and when I smile for pictures, my round cheeks make me look like I’m still twelve years old.
In some of Tristan’s shots, I swear she looks like a twenty-year-old supermodel, and I think again of her being in Milan. She’s modeled a lot, but the most impressive place was an hour away in Detroit. I’m excited by the idea of her experiencing a place so far away and different.
Like I’ll be doing in only a few days. I just have to make sure Sawyer doesn't get in our way.
Right on top of Tristan’s desk there's a whole stack of papers she’d given her parents several months ago. I move the brochure like the one I’ve already got from the top of the pile and flip through a few other pages. It makes me feel better just seeing all this information and knowing Tristan's with a legitimate program that knows what they're doing. Maybe they don't know how to keep their email program from bonking out, but neither do I, so I can hardly blame them for that.
I find a parental consent form that looks identical to the one my mom needed to fill in for my Spain trip. There are application forms, more pages of information on the program, maps of host family locations, and testimonials. I scan all of it, feeling better and better by the second. There are snapshots of students being hugged by their host families, and pointing at different European monuments. For just a second, I can picture myself and Tristan in those photos. Finally, in a stack of informational pages, I find a contact phone number.
I don’t want to take any of the papers in case the Bishops need them, so I reach for a pen from Tristan’s desk drawer. I have to move a lot of junk aside to find one—notepapers, hair clips, and lip gloss. Who has ten tubes of lip gloss in their desk drawer, but not a single pen? Oh, right. My best friend.
I have to dig to the very back of her drawer, and finally I find one under a box of condoms. My face heats up as I pull out the box. I remember Tristan telling me about her first and only time having sex. It was with a cute young photographer she met and then dated after a photo shoot. I’d gone with her to buy the condoms when things started to get serious, but I never had the guts to ask Tristan to let me have a look at them.
I don’t have to ask permission now.
I pull open the already opened end of the box, and I’m expecting a stream of them to fall out, like I’ve seen on TV. But there are only two condoms inside, with a perforation tear line between them.
I let my thumb feel the round shape of one, but now my mind is somewhere else. I check the package and it says there were ten in here. Where did the other eight go?
But then I realize something else. This isn’t even the same package as Tristan and I had bought together. We’d spent at least half an hour nervously giggling in Walgreens before we’d finally settled on a type with extra-lubrication—For Her Comfort.
I squint down at the Bareskin pack of Trojans.
Tristan hadn’t wanted to talk much about her first time. All I knew was that she hadn’t enjoyed it and didn’t want to do it again. She’d seemed embarrassed and maybe a little depressed about it, so it wasn’t something we talked much about. I figured one day she’d be ready to try again, especially because in groups she always acted like sex was no big deal. Or maybe the next time she’d be in love, and it would be different because of that.
I’m about to replace the box, feeling suddenly bothered more than curious, but as I feed the two condoms back inside, a small piece
I can’t imagine having pictures of myself this close up everywhere around me. Then again, maybe if I had glossy dark hair and a winning photogenic smile like Tristan’s it wouldn’t bother me so much. My hair is more mousy-brown than blonde, and when I smile for pictures, my round cheeks make me look like I’m still twelve years old.
In some of Tristan’s shots, I swear she looks like a twenty-year-old supermodel, and I think again of her being in Milan. She’s modeled a lot, but the most impressive place was an hour away in Detroit. I’m excited by the idea of her experiencing a place so far away and different.
Like I’ll be doing in only a few days. I just have to make sure Sawyer doesn't get in our way.
Right on top of Tristan’s desk there's a whole stack of papers she’d given her parents several months ago. I move the brochure like the one I’ve already got from the top of the pile and flip through a few other pages. It makes me feel better just seeing all this information and knowing Tristan's with a legitimate program that knows what they're doing. Maybe they don't know how to keep their email program from bonking out, but neither do I, so I can hardly blame them for that.
I find a parental consent form that looks identical to the one my mom needed to fill in for my Spain trip. There are application forms, more pages of information on the program, maps of host family locations, and testimonials. I scan all of it, feeling better and better by the second. There are snapshots of students being hugged by their host families, and pointing at different European monuments. For just a second, I can picture myself and Tristan in those photos. Finally, in a stack of informational pages, I find a contact phone number.
I don’t want to take any of the papers in case the Bishops need them, so I reach for a pen from Tristan’s desk drawer. I have to move a lot of junk aside to find one—notepapers, hair clips, and lip gloss. Who has ten tubes of lip gloss in their desk drawer, but not a single pen? Oh, right. My best friend.
I have to dig to the very back of her drawer, and finally I find one under a box of condoms. My face heats up as I pull out the box. I remember Tristan telling me about her first and only time having sex. It was with a cute young photographer she met and then dated after a photo shoot. I’d gone with her to buy the condoms when things started to get serious, but I never had the guts to ask Tristan to let me have a look at them.
I don’t have to ask permission now.
I pull open the already opened end of the box, and I’m expecting a stream of them to fall out, like I’ve seen on TV. But there are only two condoms inside, with a perforation tear line between them.
I let my thumb feel the round shape of one, but now my mind is somewhere else. I check the package and it says there were ten in here. Where did the other eight go?
But then I realize something else. This isn’t even the same package as Tristan and I had bought together. We’d spent at least half an hour nervously giggling in Walgreens before we’d finally settled on a type with extra-lubrication—For Her Comfort.
I squint down at the Bareskin pack of Trojans.
Tristan hadn’t wanted to talk much about her first time. All I knew was that she hadn’t enjoyed it and didn’t want to do it again. She’d seemed embarrassed and maybe a little depressed about it, so it wasn’t something we talked much about. I figured one day she’d be ready to try again, especially because in groups she always acted like sex was no big deal. Or maybe the next time she’d be in love, and it would be different because of that.
I’m about to replace the box, feeling suddenly bothered more than curious, but as I feed the two condoms back inside, a small piece
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