Part 6 (1/2)

”Me too,” Hannah says. She leans forward and wraps Baker in a tight hug, losing herself to the smell of Baker's perfume and the beat of Baker's heart against her chest. ”You're the absolute best,” Hannah says, and then she kisses Baker's cheek.

Baker pulls back from her until they're looking at each other full on. And it's startling, because all Hannah can see are deep, dark eyes, the eyes she has trusted for years, but tonight there is something blazingly different in them, something ancient and yearning, something that calls to a feeling deep inside of Hannah. Baker leans in and kisses Hannah's cheek very slowly and gently-like she means it-and when she draws back Hannah sees that same something in her eyes again, and it prompts her to lean forward and kiss Baker's other cheek. Baker's skin is soft under her lips, and when Hannah pulls back she feels Baker touch her face again, her fingers gentle but commanding on Hannah's jaw, and then they're moving towards each other again, both of them wanting to kiss each other's cheeks, except this time they're facing each other directly.

They kiss each other's lips, and Hannah feels the spring of creation in her body and blood.

It's a bursting, awakening feeling. It's so potent that it almost hurts, the way it feels to eat a morsel of food after a long period of starvation. Every nerve beneath Hannah's skin-every deep, hidden crevice in her body-every tiny atom that makes her who she is-they all jazz to life, as if they had been long ago buried and were simply waiting to be called upon to arise. Hannah opens her eyes and finds Baker looking at her with a kind of breathless, frightened desire, like a child who just got caught with her hand in a cookie jar, so Hannah leans forward again before either one of them can think about it. She kisses Baker's lips, and once again all her nerves spring to life, and her heartbeat quickens in her chest, and the drunken part of her sings Oh, yes even while the sober part of her warns Oh, no. Baker's mouth moves against hers, and now they're full on kissing, their lips sliding against each other's while Hannah's heart rises up to fill the room around them. And it's magic, it's sacred ritual, it's G.o.d.

And now Baker's making small noises, and her hands are running up and down Hannah's arms, and her breathing is as erratic as her kisses. Her lips are wet and Hannah wants to kiss them, kiss them, kiss them, and in some distant, forgotten part of her mind, she finally understands what the big deal is, why people want to kiss, why this action communicates so much more than words ever could.

”Han,” Baker says against her mouth, and never before has Hannah heard her name p.r.o.nounced with such fear and such reverence. She answers with another kiss, with a turn of her head, and Baker receives her kiss with a desperate eagerness Hannah never knew she possessed.

And then their tongues are involved, moving into each other's mouths with exploratory fervor, and deep inside of Hannah there's a voice that says, This is your best friend, this is your best friend, over and over, and it seems to intensify the physical feelings even more. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and Hannah hears soft whimpers and breaths escaping from Baker's body, or maybe from her own, and she can't think of anything except how much she loves this.

”Hannah,” Baker says, her voice more fearful than reverent. She draws away and wipes her fingers across her mouth, and Hannah sees that her hand is shaking.

”Baker-”

”Let's go back out to the party,” Baker says, standing up and walking toward the door, her voice high and panicked like it is when she thinks she said the wrong thing to someone.

”Are you okay?”

”I'm just drunk-I think you're pretty drunk, too-I think we're both really wasted-”

”We're okay-” Hannah says.

Baker looks into the mirror and rubs her fingers over her lips again. Her hand is still shaking. ”I need some water,” she says. ”I think I'm pretty drunk.”

Then she leaves the bathroom, and Hannah's left sitting on the tub with her heart in her throat.

Joanie drives them home. ”I'm fine,” she a.s.sures Hannah. ”I only drank two beers and Luke made me drink, like, six cups of water before we left. What's up with you, Baker? Are you okay?”

”I'm fine,” Baker says, her voice high and breathless from the backseat. ”Just drank too much.”

Joanie snorts. ”That's a first.”

Hannah's mom calls down to them when they walk into the house. Hannah tries hard to sound sober and is grateful to Joanie for doing most of the talking. ”Yes, Mama, we're all heading to bed,” Joanie says, sounding exasperated as she kicks off her shoes. Under her breath, she says, ”You're driving next time, Hannah.”

Baker doesn't speak to Hannah as they get ready for bed. They change in silence-both of them turn away into opposite corners of the room-and brush their teeth without looking at each other's reflections. When Baker gets into bed and turns on her side away from Hannah, Hannah steps toward the door and says, ”I'll get us some water.”

”Thanks,” Baker says.

When Hannah returns with two plastic tumblers full of ice water, Baker is fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Chapter Four: Dirty.

When Hannah wakes in the morning, she finds Baker packing up her overnight bag, the tumbler of water next to her.

”Hey,” Hannah says.

Baker doesn't look up. ”Hey.”

”You feeling okay?”

”I think I'm hungover.”

”Yeah. Me too. Just drink that water. Want me to put on some coffee for you?”

Baker hesitates; she snaps in an earring and looks down at the floor.

Hannah sits fully up in bed. ”Look,” she says, tying her hair into a bun, ”I know we're both being weird about last night-”

”Don't,” Baker says, her face scrunched up.

”Don't?”

”Just-don't try to bridge last night and this morning. You always do that. You always try to bring things out in the open. Just let it be, okay? It was a party, it was a late night, we were both really drunk, so let's just leave it alone. I don't want to talk about it.”

”But we-”

”Hannah.”

Baker's voice is sharp when she speaks. Hannah feels something sink in her stomach.

”Okay,” she says.

Then they exist in silence, and Hannah feels like they are two little kids sitting in a mud puddle, unsure of how this submersion feels, unsure of whether they'll ever be clean again.

”I need to take Charlie out,” Baker says, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder. ”I'll see you later.”

”Have fun,” Hannah says, her voice sounding fake to her own ears.

Baker leaves the room, and Hannah retreats under the covers.

Later that morning, Hannah's mom drags Hannah and Joanie to Ash Wednesday Ma.s.s at St. Mary's. ”We don't want to go,” Joanie whines from the backseat of the car.

”Too bad,” their mom says.

”We don't want dirt on our foreheads,” Hannah says.

”Stop calling it 'dirt.' Be respectful. With all the blessings in your lives, you should want to go thank G.o.d for everything you have.”

Hannah sits through Ma.s.s with knots in her stomach. Father Simon delivers a homily about the start of the Easter season, about what it means for them as Catholics, about how they should remember Christ's deliberate sacrifice every day for these next six weeks. Hannah averts her eyes from the life-size Crucifix that hangs above the altar.

She falls in line to receive ashes, feels Father Simon thumb the ashes into a cross-shaped pattern on her forehead, hears the words-Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return-murmured all around her.

She returns to her pew and tries not to touch her forehead. To her left, Joanie and her mom seem unfazed by the ashes: Joanie picks at her nails and her mom closes her eyes in prayer. But Hannah cannot resist raising a hand to her forehead and pressing her fingers against the mark there. When she draws her hand away, her fingers are tainted with dirty charcoal. She does not look up at the Crucifix.