Sprout

it.
    “There, there, drama queen. Madonna’s career bounced back after American Life . We’ll get through this too. Now, can we please rinse the bleach out of what’s left of my hair?”
    (Over the past four years, Ruthie had revised her position on the whole Madonna v. Cyndi Lauper question. She now acknowledged Cyndi had brought about her own demise by acting as a muse for professional wrestling—“Although really, she was ahead of the curve by twenty years if you think about it”—and Madonna deserved points for “longevity,” if nothing else.)
    “ American Life sucked, it deserved to tank,” Ruthie said as she unceremoniously bent me over the sink. “This year’s gonna suck too.” She blasted my burning skull with a jet of cold water.
    “Hey! This isn’t prison! Go easy on me.”
    “Oh, settle down, you big mary.” Ruthie combed her fingers through my hair to keep it from tangling. The fact of the matter was, after four years she was pretty good at this. She cupped one hand over my forehead to shield my face from bleach-tinged water, used the nails on the other to scratch lightly at my skin, restoring sensation. I closed my eyes, started to relax into the scalp massage, but Ruthie’s next words made me snap my head up and hit it on the faucet.
    “You think Abernathy’s in your Spanish class?”
    There was very little I’d kept from Ruthie in the course of our friendship—there was very little a person could keep from Ruth Wilcox, if she wanted to find out—but I’d never breathed a word to her about what went on between me and Ian. Keeping my voice as nonchalant as I could, I said,
    “Probly. It’s the only thing that keeps his GPA high enough for him to play sports.”
    “Oh right, his mom’s from Chilly. Ugh, he’s so gross.” She grabbed a towel and rubbed it into my hair. “But,” she said almost whimsically, “I would kill for his permatan.” She pulled the towel off, let out a little shriek. “Oh my God, your nipples are rock hard.”
    Did I mention that I was shirtless? I was shirtless, so the dye wouldn’t get on my shirt. Duh.
    “It’s the water. Brrr.”
    Ruthie pinched the left one, and I yelped and did my best not to jerk out of the sink. By now she was slathering green dye on my head, and it would’ve gone everywhere. Somehow I had the feeling she’d planned it that way. I crossed an arm over my chest like a virgin guarding her modesty.
    “So, uh, why the sudden interest in Ian Abernathy?”
    “Oh nothing. It’s just that I think I need to sleep with him.”
    The dye in my hair felt like a thousand-pound weight when all I wanted to do was look up. I turned my head, squinted one eye open. “You think you need to … ?”
    Ruthie nodded. “Sleep with Ian Abernathy.” Like all she was telling me was who she would vote for, if she was old enough to vote.
    She finally slipped the showercap over my gloopy hair and I was able to stand. A line of cold water ran down my spine, but that wasn’t why I shivered.
    “Ian Abernathy ?”
    “I’m six teen , Sprout. It’s time I joined the club.”
    “Um, what club would that be?”
    “ Um , the I’m-not-a-virgin-anymore-and-thank-the-god -damned- Lord club?”
    I shrugged. “What about France? Last year?”
    Ruthie smiled, one-quarter guilty, three-quarters pleased. “I kind of exaggerated that whole thing a little bit. Right before Jean-Claude and I could’ve, you know, done it, it occurred to me that he was probably uncircumcised, and I was afraid I might laugh or, I don’t know, puke.”
    (In fact, I’d pretty much figured out Ruthie was lying about losing her virginity one day when we were fooling around with a box of condoms we’d found in her mom’s bedside table. Ruthie tried to put one on a banana—hey, it seemed funny at the time—but she put it on inside out, and then couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t unroll.)
    “Okay, fine,” I said now. “But: why Ian ?”
    “Look, I know he’s got this thing with always picking on you and getting you detention and stuff, but come on. You must’ve clocked by now that he’s smokin’ hot.”
    Thank God my head was covered in green dye. Ruthie probly couldn’t see my blush, although my cheeks felt so hot I was surprised the water didn’t steam off them.
    “But you just said he’s gross.”
    “I meant his personality , what he stands for, all that Nazi jock stuff. I mean whatever. I don’t want to have his babies. I just want to …” It was