Chapter Text
The Botswana trip is delayed by three weeks because two of the grad students serving as chaperones came down with mono and the organizers are scrambling to find replacements.
Amy doesn’t mind. But is Hope even still in town? And … "What do I do? Do I call her? How do I call her? What would I say?”
"Text her,” Molly points out, again, from the lower bunk where she’s been texting Jared. This is the fourth time she’s said those words.
"But what do I text her? I mean, it was so bad, you don't even know how bad it was.” Amy groans and stares at the ceiling.
Molly’s voice floats up to her. ”She said you kind of know what you’re doing! You told me! Text her!"
Amy texts: Do you want to do something?
A minute later Hope replies: Yes
“Oh my god. She replied. Fast. That’s good right? That’s good. She said 'yes,' what do I say? ... “ Amy scrambles down from her bunk to show Molly the glowing, one-word answer on the phone next to Hope’s photo (copied from one of the party pics) and her name.
Molly takes the phone away from Amy and types: Like what?
Hope: What do you want to do?
Molly-as-Amy: Ice cream in the park?
Hope: Sure. That sounds cute. Where?
Molly hands the phone back to Amy saying, "You're welcome."
*
Ice cream in the park seems safe enough, Amy thinks on her way there. Date-like. She’s going on a date with a girl! That she’d already pretty much fingered—almost in the right place—and really wanted to be doing that again—in exactly the right place—except without any of the disaster parts.
They get ice cream at the stand by the park that has the second best ice cream in town but a way better location than the first best. They sit between the playground and the dog park, at a white plastic table with a sun shade that used to be smaragdine (one of Amy’s favorite color words from a junior high pop quiz) or maybe just blue.
Hope is in that jacket and denim shorts. Amy is pretty sure she’s wearing a tank top under the jacket. Or a sleeveless shirt. But all she can see when she looks at Hope is her on the bathroom floor in nothing but that black bra. Should she have tried to get the bra off first? Should she next time, if there is a next time? There should really be a next time.
Hope asks, “What are you doing in Botswana?”
Also the intersection of ice cream and Hope’s lips is insanely good. Words aren’t quite wording together in Amy’s brain. It takes her a minute to remember that Hope asked her a question.
“Helping roll tampons,” she says. “It’s important. Lions, you know.”
“I don’t.”
“Uh, they’re drawn by the smell of blood and—“
“How often do lions actually attack people?” Hope asks in a beyond-dubious tone. “More often than people do?”
“No, but I mean, sometimes, and it’s about women’s bodies and shame and cultural messages.”
“And a free trip to Botswana, I get it,” Hope says. “I want to get away from here too.”
“And go where? Just wander? What do you want?” Amy means to ask about life in general, but it comes out like she’s asking about sex things because she is, while trying really hard not to.
Hope’s eyebrows go up, one higher than the other. “We’re talking about you. What do you want?”
Amy looks everywhere but at Hope: at the park toys with the kids shrieking around them, the weird little concrete hut that holds the bathrooms, the ice cream stand, the wood chips, the sidewalk and the tiny, tan dog taking a proportionally massive crap next to the sidewalk.
When she does glance at Hope, more pale ice cream is disappearing between those full lips. Hope holds her gaze. Like she’s daring Amy to say the only answer in her brain: you! I want you!
But Amy can’t say it. She looks away again.
Peripherally, she sees Hope shrugs as she says, “You don’t know what you want. But let me ask you this: do you really think anti-lion tampons is the best you can do with your summer?”
“Oh like you’re even doing anything. This is a terrible idea.”
Amy gets up and tosses the rest of her ice cream in the trash, stalks a half-dozen steps away and pauses in the shade of the bathroom hut to look back. Hope is standing, almost smiling. She turns to the table they’d been sitting at and picks up the napkins. Her ass in those shorts with her much too hot jacket … Amy is not letting Hope win by mean-girling their date into oblivion.
She stalks back, grabs the sleeve of the jacket and pulls Hope behind the bathroom hut.
“You’re making my ice cream melt,” Hope says.
Not a complaint. A fact, for sure. But it pisses Amy off anyway because she’s mad enough now that everything’s just going to make her madder.
Hope has eaten down the top half of the scoop, leaving a squat oval on a cone, starting to drip down the sides. Amy rakes two fingers through the ice cream and smears it across Hope’s lips.
“You want your ice cream? Here.”
Eyes widen with surprise, that smirky smile turns the corners of her mouth as Hope opens her lips. Amy puts the second finger-scoop of ice cream in Hope’s mouth, following with her own lips and tongue, tasting caramel and sweet cream—and without the booze and cigarettes of the party, Hope tastes like “yes” and “oh my god” and “please can I take your pants off again?”
She pulls back to check Hope’s dark eyes, to make sure she’s smiling. She is, even as the rest of her ice cream is melting down her hand. Amy grabs her wrist, licks sweetness off her fingers, the cone cracking as Hope’s hand tenses under her tongue.
“You’re making a mess,” Amy tells her.
“You’re making the mess,” Hope says. She holds the top of the ice cream cone in her thumb and index finger, then flicks her hand so that the cone falls to the ground and she can palm the last melting glob of ice cream.
Amy’s wondering if she’s supposed to open her mouth and let Hope feed it to her, when Hope rubs her cold, ice-cream-coated hand up under Amy’s shirt, across her belly. One icy mass sticks in her belly button. Another clump slides down to her waistband. Hope’s hand continues, smooth and cool, to her side, to her hip, pulling her closer.
Amy grabs the waistband of Hope’s shorts and slides her fingers under it, tracking downward, moving by feel because they’re kissing again, hard and breathless. This time, she’s doing it right. She’s under Hope’s panties, angling down, beginning to feel wetness—very hot wetness, not at all like the cool trail of ice cream melting down from her belly button.
“Mommy, there’s people kissing!” a kid yells from way too close.
They break apart and run, hand in hand, from the park to the stores. Walk along the sidewalk, still holding hands, partially stuck together with melted ice cream. The big glob of ice cream that had been stuck behind Amy’s waistband melts enough to slide down the inner curve of her hip. She stops, jolted by the cold slither of it.
“Problem?” Hope asks, lips still in that amused smirk, probably because Amy is staring down at her own crotch.
“You put ice cream down my pants. It’s slithering into places ice cream should not go.”
Hope laughs so hard she has to lean back against a sign post, but she doesn’t let go of Amy’s hand.
“So, take me home, we’ll shower,” Hope says.
“I can’t.”
"Aren't you out to your parents? You've been out to everyone for years.”
"Yeah but they think I'm dating Molly.”
"Of course they do. You could tell them you’re not.”
“Firstly, it’s not like I could shower with you at my house anyway,” Amy points out. “I mean, not if my parents knew. And secondly, that would be a whole thing. You don’t know my parents. And I haven’t talked to Molly about it. I can’t just fake break up with her without asking her. Can we go to your house?”
“Nope."
“Why not?”
“Long story. I guess it’s each to our own showers then. Text me,” Hope says, drops Amy’s hand and walks off down the street.
There’s half of an ice-cream wet handprint on her ass.
It is impossible for Amy to stay angry watching her half handprint walk away on Hope’s ass.