Molly, pt. 3
“She was snoring in spurts from the bridge of her nose, choking on a dream or something.”
First, Molly, pt. 1: “Just paint, guys, this is a Fun Day. Just paint.” Previously, Molly, pt. 2: “Molly was kinda cute, you had to admit.”
They were whooshing through the pristine moonlight on the way back from regionals, where the Tyson High Symphonic Band placed third.
When Corey woke from a wavering nap at the back of the bus, Molly’s head was toppled firm onto his shoulder, nestled into the drape of his neck, like a key tucked snug into a lock. She was snoring in spurts from the bridge of her nose, choking on a dream or something. Molly could have just leaned against the window, but here she was drooling onto Corey’s t-shirt. Corey stirred, jerked his shoulder as his arm tingled numb; and Molly snorted up and muttered and straightened up in her seat.
Then Molly farted, it sounded like.
But it was just her butt rustling against the leather seat.
But it sounded like she farted.
And by Corey’s glancing at her long and strange Molly braced this misunderstanding. And for once, the only time Corey had ever seen her wince anything resembling shame, Molly whimpered apologetic.
“No, it was the seat. It was just. My skirt’s all. Bunched.”
Corey already knew it was the seat. Now Corey felt bad that he’d made her blush and stutter. So Corey smiled with a bare laugh, like, Yeah, yeah, I know, I got you, I got you.
Crossing her arms with a counterfeit pout, “See, this is why no one talks to me,” Molly muttered to the back of the rattling headrest in front of her, half-whispering so as not to piss off the night silence and everyone dozing in the seats ahead.
Corey said, “You’re alright,” which was the only response that came to mind. It took him a second to grasp that he actually meant this, sincerely if vaguely.
Molly wiped the spit from her lip with the back of her hand and, with her bangs a sheer tangled curtain across her eyes, turned to Corey.
“I think I’m gonna quit band next year.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. No one likes me.”
“I like you,” which wasn’t exactly what Corey meant to say.
“Is that why you sat next to me?”
The answer was yes.
“No.”
Molly lifted Corey’s palm and landed it just above her knee, which felt nice. Warm groove. Like warm dough. Like the dough Mrs. Zimmern taught them to make in home ec. back in seventh grade. Molly was there for that too, though on the opposite side of the room, where she pummeled her allotment of flour and sugar and yeast and water into (what some may have discerned as) a heart and carved a smiley face in its center with a spoon. Mrs. Zimmern kneaded the dough heart back into an ugly aborted oblong before she’d let Molly sprinkle the mozzarella.
“Yuh-huh,” Molly murmured in return, her lips caught between a smile and a smirk, her eyes glinting grey without blinking, not even once.
Corey nodded as if to concede, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was admitting here, with his mere meek yeah whispered too soft to matter. He thought to surrender further, and louder. Spill his guts to her pried perfect teeth.
Felt, rather. Felt he should—
Molly was a smart girl. By the busy blinking evasion of Corey’s eyes even as he declined to glance elsewhere, as his cheek nested against the headrest with his face rolled toward hers, Molly could tell. She could even take Corey’s pulse; she tugged his index, rolling his knuckles gentle but familiar as a cigarette. Her knees shifted a bit. Corey was trying to be absolutely still, but then he shimmied in the seat a bit, curled toward her subtle as he could manage. Molly’s far knee bowed further toward the window, thudded against the AC rail as she steered Corey’s finger along the inner curve of her thigh, which felt more like rough tire rubber than dough; to the touch of wet cotton pressed along an alien patch of skin and tiny hairs.
Corey didn’t resist any of this. Felt about right, actually. Just right. Like whatever he knew, or thought he knew about wanting or skin or privacy or other people, now he succumbed without doubt or dispute to her posited wisdom of where fingers belonged, why they belonged there, their most sacred applications, and what came next.
Neck writhing, Molly’s chin swiped away, contemplating the window with her eyes closed. Corey’s left hand was tense, listless, tapping the butt of the armrest, twitching envy of the spelunking right. When Molly turned back toward him, Corey blinked and nodded yes for no real reason. She arched up, peered once over the headrest, and after that, after she eased back to onto the cold leather with Corey’s fingers tickling her verge, the bus was just the two kids breathing hot traces of ham sandwiches at each other with a view of the moon slipping away over sleeping tobacco.
As Corey curled his finger deep inside her sticky terrain, Molly cooed and clamped her thighs gently around Corey’s wrist. Skin warmer still. With eager strain Corey prodded deeper, finding Molly quite vast and intriguing within.
