twenty years of snow

2-discovering

Billie Mae has soft careful hands and her kisses are the same; she holds me like I'm precious, like I have bird bones and fragile lips, though I'm taller than most girls. I've never been treasured by anyone before. It's an unfamiliar feeling and sometimes I don't understand it, don't realize the reasons her voice softens when she speaks to me, or the smile she gives me when I say something she finds cute.

I've never been loved by a girl before, never been in love with anyone but her, and she is so radically different than anyone I've dated before. There have been a few beards in my life, and my current one is Marcus.

Marcus and I have each other's backs for a fundamental reason: we live in a small conservative religious town, and an asexual boy is just as looked down on as a gay girl. We know each other just well enough to feel safe around each other, but we don't hang out.

Marcus is the only beard I've had that has actually known he's a beard. The other ones thought we were really dating, thought they were entitled to the things that couples do. I let them do things with and to me, and I tried to love them or even like them, but I just couldn't.

Colton Johnson was the worst; Colton was the one that reinforced my fear of men's raised voices and makes me shake like a dry brittle terrified leaf when I dream of him. Sometimes I can't hear his name, or the name of his sisters or mother or father or best friend, without having to leave the room and close my eyes and remember how to breathe.

"Earth to Charlotte, earth to Charlotte Clementine Walker," Billie whispers in my ear. I turn my head and look up at her. She blends in with the dark night, but her skin has a sheen of starlight on it and when she smiles at me her teeth stand out like pearls.

We're lying in the crook of a dying tree, sandwiched together by the curve in its trunk. I love it when she's the big spoon because I'm safe and warm and I can hear her easily, but I'm so content that I was close to falling asleep when she spoke to me.

I smile back to her, basking in the warmth of her love (and the South Carolina air). "Are you making fun of my name, Wilhelmina Mabel Hermia Miller?"

She cackles and tightens her arms around me gleefully. "How did you learn my full name?"

"Not tellin'!"

I'm not gonna tell her that I broke into the yearbook office looking for something to vandalize last year and saw her funny stupid cute name on a student list; that would take the romance and magic and fun and innocence out of it. 

"How did you learn mine?" I ask, realizing suddenly that she knows my middle name and I don't know how she knows.

"Asked your Mama one day at Piggly Wiggly," Billie Mae chortles, unable to stay still with her gleeful pride. Her entire body shakes when she laughs and she squeezes me tight with her arms, pressing her chin into my shoulder. I giggle and shove her face to the side when she won't settle down.

"You did not!" I yell, forgetting to be quiet, and kiss her stupid cute mouth.

"Did too!"

A flashlight shines from far away in the woods and I hear my Dad yell.

"Charlotte!"

Fuck. I scramble out of Billie Mae's arms, grabbing her hand and pulling her with me. Her eyes are big now, panicked, and I can feel our hearts pulse through the air around us as we scurry behind the nearest bushes.

"Charlotte Walker!" He sounds closer now. Doesn't that cane slow him down?

"Shit, babe, I'm so sorry, I have to go," I whisper frenziedly, kissing her cheek. Then I sprint.

"Charlotte Clementine Walker, get your ass over here," Dad shouts as I run to him. His bushy black eyebrows are snapped down tight over his dark eyes and fuck, he looks imposing and I'm suddenly terrified of that cane he's holding.

Why am I so scared of hearing my full name from my parents?

There's a midnight family meeting tonight, called when Dad stumped in dragging me by the elbow. Mama didn't know I was out of the house until I'm back in it; Dad apparently found out when he was in too much pain to sleep and heard voices out the open kitchen window.

So Mama and Dad are set down across the table from me and I'm alone on the other side, feeling like a criminal.

"What the hell were you doin' out of bed at this time of night? And down by the swamp?" Mama leads the questioning like she always does, her scary light eyes blazing, but I've never done anything WRONG before now.

"Watching the stars," I say defiantly.

Dad smacks the table with his fist and roars, pointing at me. He's scary angry. I've never seen him like this, fuck, he's terrifying. The sound echoes around our empty matchbox of a house. "She was out there with some little fucking punk. I saw him run off."

The disappointment in Mama's eyes is familiar to me. There's a taste in my mouth like ashes and guilt and Billie Mae. "Charlotte, were you really?"

"No!"

"She's lying," Dad says, scarily calm now.

Mama leans across the table and takes my hand with both of her own, looking deep into my soul. "Charlotte, tell me the truth. Are you sneaking around with some boy?"

A sick feeling spreads from my heart to the rest of my body, but I honestly say, "No."

"She's telling the truth, Eric," Mama says, turning to Dad. "I know when my baby's lying."

"You didn't know when Jackson was lying," he rumbles balefully. Tears spring to my eyes and Mama starts to scream at him, but the doubt is planted and the damage is done.

Mama sets up a cot in my room that night. "To get some bonding time," she says. But I know she's doing two things: watching my every move, and staying away from Dad's accusing stare.