"You know, for a girl's room, your room isn't very girly," Guy said suddenly. I looked up from my chemistry book and took note of my surroundings. There were dresses in the closet, various make up items on the dresser, bras and panties in the drawers, and if you looked long enough, probably some tampax somewhere. The only major difference was a few miscellaneous hockey items and Guy Germaine himself, lying beside me on my bed.
"What do you mean," I said, "It's just a room, it's not that different from any other teenage girl's." He looked around again.
"I guess," he said, "but it's never been girly, even when you were little."
"That's where you're wrong. See, you've only known me since I was nine. When I was six, this room was filled with pink ballerinas." Guy laughed. I punched him in the arm. "I'm not joking, that's what I wanted to be, a ballerina." He was still laughing.
"You, a ballerina? I can just picture it, you in a pink tutu, turning ballet into a full contact sport."
"It just so happens I was a wonderful ballerina," I said, standing up. I executed a near-perfect pirouette for him. He applauded and I curtsied. I pulled an old picture from my dresser drawer. "See," I gloated, handing it to him. Took it and rolled onto his stomach, staring. The picture had been taken after my last ballet recital, the spring before I started first grade. "We danced to ‘Little April Showers'. I was a flower."
"Wow," he exclaimed, "you were so cute." He cracked a smile, "what happened?" I nailed him with a pillow.
"Oh, right, now I remember. You turned into the beautiful, sexy woman I see before me." I dropped the pillow and laid back down beside him.
"You really think I'm beautiful?" I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper. He smiled.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He traced my jawline with his fingers.
"And sexy?" My voice was barely audible.
"What do you think?" He leaned in and kissed me softly.
"Really?" I asked after he pulled away.
"Yes!" he laughed, "Why do you find it so hard to believe that you're attractive?" I shrugged.
"I guess for the same reason you find it hard to see me as a ballerina." He looked regretful. "I'm just not . . .girly, I guess."
"Maybe girly's a bad thing," Guy suggested, "cheerleaders are girly. . .prostitutes are girly . . ." I interrupted him with my laughter.
"Prostitutes? What in the world made you think of that? Prostitutes aren't girly."
"Yes, they are," he said with udder conviction.
"No, they're not. I don't know what prostitutes you've seen, but..."
"Julia Roberts! In that movie where she was a prostitute, she was girly."
"I guess you're right, prostitutes can be girly," I agreed after a moment, still laughing. Guy seemed satisfied with that and moved on.
"All I'm saying is you don't want to be girly," he concluded. I sighed.
"So you don't want me to be more feminine?"
"Connie, this is the way I see it - on the ice, when you're with the guys, of course you're not going to be feminine. But when it's just us, when you're laughing, when I'm kissing you, there's no way you could be anymore feminine than you already are. I love you either way. Understand what I mean?" I nodded.
"You're saying when I'm playing hockey, you want to jump my bones, when I'm with the guys, you want to jump my bones, and right now you want to..." Guy rolled his eyes.
"...jump your bones, yes it's all I think about, you, naked, with me on top of you." We both laughed.
"Thanks for clearing that one up for me," I said.
"No problem. So. . . now that we've established what my goal is, could we, maybe. . ." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
"I don't think so," I playfully shook my head, and added, innocently, "but you can help me figure out this chemistry problem."
"Close enough," Guy said. I heard him mutter under his breath, in disbelief, "Ballerina, my ass."