More on River Phoenix, believe it or not

Some of you know I'm working on a longer piece that's about being 13, and a little about Stand by Me too. This is a part of that. I'll post more of the first draft as it comes into being.

Annie lived on the edge of town at the end of a dead end street. Her house backed up against the woods. It wasn’t a long walk, but there was a giant hill on the way. The kind of hill you look at and think, “That would be great for sledding,” and resent that it was marred by a road.

I was on my way up it on a hot summer morning. I hoped Annie would want to go in her pool. Sometimes she was bored of swimming, so she didn’t want to go. It was a steep, long hill but I kind of liked walking up it. It made me feel strong to get to the top without getting winded.

I didn’t ring the doorbell when I got there. No one would answer it anyway. I knew to open the door and walk down the long hall to Annie’s room. Sara and Liz were already there.

I loved Annie’s room. She had to share it with her sister, but at least her sister was hardly ever there. They had their own bathroom with its own medicine cabinet and inside were tubes of lipstick, perfume bottles, little pots of makeup and pink, red, and purple nail polish. Cotton balls and q-tips were strewn around, along with the dust of blue, pink and purple powder—the eye shadow and blush that floated out of their makeup brushes. The room was its own world. Closed curtains kept the outside away. It was okay to shut the door, okay to play records loud or leave clothes on the floor, or have stacks of Seventeen Magazine on every bedside table. Not like at my house, where I had to pick up my clothes as hang them in the closet at the end of the day. Where I didn’t have my own makeup, but would sometimes pull out the tray of my mother’s makeup and stare at it. Here, there was jewelry—glittery bracelets, necklaces, and rings—scattered everywhere around the bedroom. Getting dusty. Lost. It made me want to clean things up.

Sara was on the bed with a bottle of orange nailpolish in her hands, delicately brushing color on each of her toes. It stood out against her summer tan. She got brown without even trying—something I always envied about her. No matter how long I sat in the sun I’d only burn and peel. The skate femmes called me “Casper,” and I hated it. She smiled at me as I entered the room.

Annie and Liz were in the bathroom. Halves of lemon littered the sink and floor. Annie was bent over and Liz was squeezing lemon juice into her hair.

“Hey!” Liz said when she noticed my reflection in the mirror.

“Hi. What are you guys doing?”

“We’re streaking my hair blond,” Annie said, a little muffled from behind all her hair.

“With lemons?” I asked.

“Yeah! I read about it in Seventeen,” Sara called across the room. It’s supposed to work as good as Sun-In.”

“Can I do it?” I thought it sounded cool.

“There’s only enough lemons for me,” Annie said. “Okay, I think that’s enough. Sara, do I rinse it, or leave it in?”

“I think you’re supposed to leave it in,” Sara answered. Annie grabbed a towel to wrap around her head. She plopped down on the bed next to Sara.

“You’ve got seeds in your hair!” Sara giggled.

“Well, get them out, will you?” Annie said.

“Hey, what do you want to do with all these lemons, Annie?” Liz said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just leave them there, I guess. Our housekeeper comes today.”

“Do you guys feel like swimming?” I asked, hoping that Sara and Liz would say yes, and then Annie would have to agree.

“I can’t.” Annie didn’t even let them answer.

“We can wait until your hair dries,” I tried.

“No … it’s not about my hair.”

“Oh … Aunt Flo’s visiting?” Liz snickered. She was still waiting to get her period and so she thought it was funny whenever any of us got ours.

“It’s not that either,” Annie snapped. She took the towel off her head and threw it across the room. “I’ll show you. Here.”

Annie rolled up the sleeve of her shirt. The letters B-r-e-t-t were carved into the skin on her forearm. They were red and puffy and caked with dried blood.

“Holy shit!” whispered Sara. “When did you do that?”

“Last night.” I could tell Annie was trying not to smile too much. She kept her lips pressed together.

“”Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Yeah. I though you didn’t even like Brett,” Liz said.

“Well, I changed my mind,” Annie said. She opened the drawer to her bedside table and pulled out a sewing needle and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“I dare you to write Andy’s name, Liz,” Annie said.

“No way! My mom would kill me if she saw it.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing it either,” Sara said, examining her toenails.

“What about you?” Annie looked at me.

“I don’t know…I don’t even have a boyfriend. Who would I write?”

“You kind of like Joe, don’t you?” Sara offered. Annie arched her eyebrows and zeroed in.

“Well, does it hurt?” I wanted to know.

“Not really,” Annie said. “It kinda felt good after awhile.

I took the needle and started with the “J.” Scratching through the top layer of skin wasn’t painful, but digging down, drawing blood was required for the letters to show. Annie was right, it felt a little like walking up that steep hill. It hurt, but it felt exhilarating at the same time. I carved the “o” and the “e.”

“I’m glad he has a short name,” I said.

Soon we were all doing it. Liz carved “Andy” into her ankle so she could cover it with a sock. Sara carved “Jason” into her arm.

It took weekly maintenance to keep the name from fading. I kept my own needle and rubbing alcohol, and a stash of cotton balls next to my bed for touch ups.

I would have been embarrassed if Joe or any other boy had ever seen his name carved into my arm, and I took elaborate steps to never let my mom or little brother see it. I wore long sleeves all summer, or covered the letters with band aids. It was a secret I shared only with my three friends. It made me feel close to them—literally wearing our hearts on our sleeves for each other.