Part 2

“What are you doing?” Zoe asked, pulling down her sunglasses. She bit the black temple of the glasses.

“Killing hornets.”

“You can die if they sting you.”

“I’m pretty good at it.”

“Come here and sit with me. Matthew will come soon. You two can play together then.”

Camille dropped the hornet’s corpse back into the grass and walked over to Zoe. She pulled at the tall grass stalks that tickled her thighs and palms.

“What’re you reading?” She looked at the magazine.

“Vogue Italia.”

“What’s that?”

Zoe looked at her with amusement. “It’s a fashion magazine. I collect them. You’ve seen the stacks in my room. I have collected all the issues for the past six years. It’s a very expensive magazine.”

“But it’s in Italian. Do you understand it?” Camille’s eyes slipped from the magazine that shaded her breasts and down to her legs in the denim miniskirt.

“I understand some. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, putting her legs back on Camille’s armrest. Her white panties peeked from the rim of the skirt. Camille’s heart rose. Her eyes circled from the panties to the magazine, to Zoe’s father in the garage.

“Here, smell this,” Zoe dropped her feet to the ground, peeled the folded side of a page open, leaned toward her, and pushed the fold into her face. Camille sniffed the paper’s sweet scent. At the same time, she saw deep into the crevice of Zoe’s salmon T-shirt, past the curves of her breasts and down to her belly button.

“Doesn’t it smell wonderful?”

Camille shrugged.

“You are too young. You don’t understand,” Zoe frowned.

Camille liked that furrowed forehead.

Zoe leaned back. “Sometimes they have little packs with perfume wipes, too. Are you looking at my scar?”

“What scar?” Camille stirred in the chair. Her naked thighs stuck to the plastic.

“The one over my eyebrow. I have a scar there.” She smiled and rubbed a place above her eyebrow.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Here. Look.” She leaned toward her again, lowered her face, and closed her eyes. Camille smelled the cucumber shampoo while looking down toward the belly button again. Her heart rose.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Here, right here,” she pointed.

“That little freckle?”

“Yes. That. It was a large cut too. I fell and hit my head on a doorframe when I was ten. The doctor gave me neat small stitches because I was a pretty girl.” Her plump lips curved in a smile.

“That’s nice.” Camille lowered her head.

“You are a silly little girl,” Zoe laughed. She leaned back, and her feet came back up on Camille’s armrest. Camille observed the red nail polish on the toes of Zoe’s small, shapely feet. Something stirred inside of her for the first time. Then her hungry eyes crawled up Zoe’s smooth legs, to the magazine covering her face, and back down to the snow-white panties. Zoe slipped forward in the chair, and the skirt rolled up over her hips, and the panties came fully into view, and the sacred, velvet curls textured the cotton. Camille’s abdomen pulsated, and the sensation of electricity rose higher into her heart and her brain.

* * *

Now Camille exhaled the smoke into the darkness and clutched Zoe’s hand. Camille drank, and Zoe laughed.

“So, how is life abroad?” Zoe asked, smiling, then she looked away and squeezed Camille’s hand again. Camille squeezed back.

“It’s good. Right here with you. I’m on vacation, so I’m very well. It’s the best.”

“Why do you always complain? It’s not very nice. You should respect your choices.”

“I know I should, but I lost something when I left. I must blame somebody, blame something, and somebody must absorb that fury. It’s like therapy, and the loathing tastes like sugar to my bitter self. I’m in pain, and bitterness is the sedative. I’m sorry it’s that way, but that’s the way it is.” Camille squeezed her hand. Zoe freed herself and lit a cigarette. Candles flickered. She raised the tall green bottle to her lips and held it up for an eternity as the drink poured into her. Camille searched for Zoe’s hand again.