Dark Places

toys that smelled good.
    Even her name was right—Krissi Cates was just a naturally coolname. By high school, she’d be a cheerleader, that long blond hair down her back, and she’d probably forget she ever went crazy over this older boy named Ben. He’d be what then, twenty? Maybe drive in with Diondra from Wichita for a game and she’d look over mid-bounce and see him, break into a big white smile, do a little excited wave, and Diondra would do her hee-haw laugh and say, “Isn’t it enough that half the women in Wichita are in love with you, you gotta pick on poor little high school girls too?”
    Ben might never have met Krissi—she was a grade above Michelle—but he got recruited one day at the beginning of the school year. Mrs. Nagel, who always liked him, grabbed Ben to help monitor the after-school art class. Just for the day. Her usual monitor hadn’t shown up. He’d been due back home, but knew his mom couldn’t get pissed at him helping with the little ones—she was always on him to help with the little ones at home—and mixing paint was a hell of a lot more inviting than hauling manure. Krissi was one of his kids, but she didn’t seem that interested in painting. She just moved the stuff around with her brush until her whole paper turned shit brown.
    “You know what that looks like,” he’d said.
    “Poop,” she said and started laughing.
    She was flirty, even for a kid, you could tell she was born cute and just assumed people would like her. Well, he did. They talked between long flatlines of silence.
    So where do you live
?
    Pour, slap, swipe. Dip the brush in the water and repeat.
    Near Salina
.
    And you come all the way out here for school
?
    They haven’t finished my school yet. Next year, I’ll go near home
.
    That’s a long drive
.
    Squeak of a seat, slump of a shoulder.
    Yup. I hate it. I have to wait hours after school for my dad to get me
.
    Well, art’s good
.
    I guess. I like ballet more, that’s what I do on weekends
.
    Ballet on weekends said a lot. She probably was one of those kids with a pool in the backyard, or if not a pool a trampoline. Hethought about telling her they had cows at his house—see if she liked animals—but felt like he was already too eager with her. She was a kid, she should be the one trying to impress.
    He volunteered the rest of that month in art, teasing Krissi about her bad drawings
(what’s this supposed to be, a turtle?)
and letting her go on about ballet
(no, you big goof, it’s my dad’s BMW!)
. One day, gutsy girl, she snuck over to the high school side of the building and was waiting at his locker in jeans with sequin butterflies on the pocket and a pink shirt that poked out in gumdrop lumps where her breasts would be. No one was bothering her, except for one maternal girl who tried to mother her back to the right side of the building.
    “I’m OK,” she told her, flipping her hair, and turned to Ben. “I just wanted to give you this.”
    She handed him a note, folded into the shape of a triangle, with his name written in bubble letters on the front. Then she pranced away, half the size of most the kids around her, but not looking like she noticed.
    Once I was in art class and met a boy named

Ben.
It was his heart I knew I would win.
He has red hair and really nice skin.
Are you “in”
?
    At the bottom was a big
L,
with
-onger -etter -ater
written alongside it. He’d seen friends of friends with notes like these, but hardly ever got them himself. Last February, he got three valentines, one from the teacher because she had to, one from the nice girl who gave everybody one, and one from the urgent fat girl who always seemed on the edge of crying.
    Diondra wrote him now sometimes, but the notes weren’t cute, they were dirty or angry, stuff she scrawled in detention. No girl had ever done a poem for him, and it was even cuter that she seemed to have no idea he was way too old for her. It was a love poem from a girl who had no idea about sex or making out. (Or did she? When did normal kids start making out?)
    The next day she waited for him outside art class and asked him if he’d sit in the stairwell with her, and he said OK but just for a second, and they’d joked around for a whole hour on those shadowy stairs. At one point she grabbed his arm and leaned into him and he knew he should tell her not to, but it felt so sweet and not at all weird and just nice, not like Diondra’s sex-crazed scratching and yelling or his