From the kitchen window, 12-year-old Varna watched her brother Haney slip off into the woods behind their father's shed. She knew where he was going. She had followed him before, hid in the bushes, watched Haney meet his friend Cal, who was always equipped with cigarettes and liquor. Hiding in the bushes wasn't easy for Varna, already 5'9" at 12, and as heavy and as strong as Haney, who was 15. But Varna knew quiet. She knew how to move without making a sound. Like a cat, Varna maneuvered through the trees and brush and found ample shrubbery to squat behind. She would peel apart the heavy branches and watch Haney—short for Henry—smoke Lucky Strikes with Cal while they passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth.

She followed them often, not caring so much what Haney was doing, but just to look at Cal. Thin, blond and handsome, with strong arms and wide shoulders. Cal's eyes were as green as the grass they stubbed their cigarettes out in and when the sun hit his face, yellow melted from the bright green irises like sap down sturdy maple trees.

Varna would withstand the cramps and the pains of sitting motionless, silent, just to look at Cal as he lighted Lucky Strikes for him and Haney. He stretched out across the grass, sometimes taking his shirt off and rubbing his hand across his chest, feeling the heat of the bright summer sun. She would withstand her popping knees and the limp she would have all the way back to the house just to see him. It wasn't necessarily love, but Varna didn't know much about lust at 12. She knew about like and love and crushes and how that Patsy Cline song made her think of Cal lounging lazily in the grass. She knew that he would never love her, his best friend's big little sister. She knew that Cal thought she was ugly. He never said it to her, but he didn't have to; it was true. Even Varna knew it. Too big; too heavy; too tall. Her hair was too wild. Her skin too white. Her freckles too many. And Cal? Well, he was perfect. Beautiful. And she would sit for hours in the woods like an animal patiently stalking prey just to see his perfect form.

On the way back to the house, her calves tingling with pins and needles, she would sing Patsy Cline songs and imagine she was heading home to cook dinner for Cal, or to make up their bed with sheets pulled fresh from the line. She would pretend that he would be waiting there for her, arms open, glad to see her, waiting to kiss her full, bright pink lips.

Now, she stood at the kitchen window and saw Haney and Cal slipping into the woods. Once into the trees, it was difficult to see them, which was why, she knew, they took that route rather than follow the path from the yard. She had taken the more treacherous route, scratching her legs against thorny bushes, small trickles of blood and red lines rising to the surface of her pale skin.

After she could no longer see the two boys, she stepped quickly to the living room and told her mother she was going to meet Judy, her only true friend.

"Be back soon, Varna," Mrs. Moses told her daughter. Varna looked at her mother, knitting in her chair, her legs swollen with pain, her knees lost in the fat flesh. Now, Mary only moved from the bed to the living room and back again. She was so big that her knees had given out; her body was tired and frail from supporting so much weight.

"I will, Mom."

"I mean it," she said.

"I know."

Varna slipped out the back door, careful not to let it make a sound at all. Slowly and quietly, she sneaked behind the shed and wound her way through the oaks and the maples and the birches until she was in a clearing. Then, she stealthily made her way through the scratchy shrubs, not caring about the new scratches over the old ones, barely three days old. She found her spot, crouched and separated the green arms of the full bush and peered forward.

There was Cal. The sun was shining down on him, splashing of his blond hair and melting his eyes. And there was Haney. Physically he and Varna were so much alike, but the features and the size were more pleasing on a man, or at least more acceptable. She watched Cal light two Lucky Strikes and Haney smoked his so expertly, but hardly as sophisticatedly as Cal. She lowered herself down further, resting her thighs on her calves, her shoes twisting a secure place in the dirt and she watched them and listened to them talk. The words were unimportant to Varna. She had already supplanted Haney with herself. She was sitting next to Cal; he was passing her the bottle of whiskey, blowing smoke up into the air, teaching her to make smoke rings.

Teach me how to do that, Varna said, as she watched Cal blow rings of smoke up into the air.

"It's easy," he said. He handed her the cigarette and she inhaled. Then he put his long fingers against her mouth, forming the "oh" that she needed. "Now, just puff the smoke out," he told her. She let it out all in one exhale and they both giggled.

"Like this," he said, keeping his fingers on her lips. Instead of inhaling again, Varna just pursed her lips together and kissed Cal's fingertips. He brushed some hair off her forehead and behind her ear, then leaned in and kissed her mouth.

Then, Cal whispered something to Haney, and Varna was snapped back into reality. Had he seen her? What would he have to whisper in a secluded, empty clearing in the woods? What was so personal that it couldn't be said aloud, even there?

Nervous of exposure, she backed away, letting the bush close in on itself and she stepped backward, still crouched, and when she was far enough away, stood, turned and ran back to the house.

This time, she let the door slam.

"Varna? That you?"

"Me, mom."

"I dropped my knitting needle," she said.

Varna slowly made her way to the living room, letting her mother wait a minute or two. She stopped at the kitchen window and looked out into the trees behind the shed. Just beyond, she knew Cal sat whispering secrets to her brother. What was it he was saying?

"You are so beautiful, Varna. I love you." She heard the soft breeze of Cal's voice drift through her head.

"Varna ... "

"My needle, Varna. Varna? Varna!"

She remained at the window watching, hoping they would come out of the woods.

"Varna, do you hear me?"

She picked up the knitting needle, good therapy for arthritic fingers, her mother was told. There were blankets and sweaters and booties all over the house.

"Why don't you start dinner, Varna, honey. Your father should be home soon. And where are your brothers? Where's Philip?"

"Philip's in town with Joey."

"And where's Haney? Where's that Haney always running off to?"

"I don't know, Mom."

Mrs. Moses looked at her daughter.

"Where were you that you got so dirty? Dirt on your legs, Varna? Where were you at just now?"

"Just out."

"You kids. Go start dinner, honey. Chicken. I'd like some chicken, I think. How about you? Some chicken, Varna, honey?"

"Fine, Mom. Chicken's fine."

Back in the kitchen, cleaning chicken parts over the sink, Varna hardly watched what she was doing. Instead, her eyes concentrated on the edge of the shed, waiting for two cigarette- and whiskey-smelling 15-year-olds to totter into the yard. Finally, they emerged from the side of the shed as if it had borne them into the world.

"Dinner's almost ready, Cal," she thought, and watched Cal disappear down the side of their house. Haney stood in the yard, watching Cal, not turning toward the back door until he was gone from sight. Then the back door slammed and Haney came in, his eyes glassy and his breath heavy; he was smiling.

Varna wondered if he knew she had watched them.

"Hey, Varn."

She didn't answer him, but craned her head toward the window as if she could see Cal through the walls, maybe see the melting green streak behind him like tears in the wind as he headed toward the road.

Copyright © Joe Austin 2003