Crash Into Me

It takes only fifteen minutes to reach West Orchard Preparatory School, pull up to the handicap-accessible area at the front, and help her unload. As with most days when she brings the wheelchair, she doesn't use it herself but instead sets her backpack in it and pushes it around so it'll be handy if she needs it. She hates to rely on it, and I understand that. But like she said, if she pushes herself too hard, she's not doing herself any favors either. I'm glad she has it and the school has elevators.

I go to put the ramp up but feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn, and she's standing in front of me, looking around quickly to see if anyone is watching, but the normal drop-off zone is all the way down near the gym and there's no one around. She throws her arms around me, and squeezes. "Thank you so much, Collie," she whispers. "Love you!"

"Love you too," I reply. Then, unable to control myself, I lean forward and give her a quick peck on the cheek. She puts her hand slowly over the spot where I kissed, and I wonder if I've crossed a line, when she breaks into a smile and blows one back at me. Then she turns and is gone, pushing her wheelchair towards the automatic doors, ready to take on the real world of senior year for one more day.

Well, while she's facing the pressure cooker of senior year, I've got my own responsibilities. I clamber back up into the van, ease out of the parking spot, and head back to the road. I should make it to work with plenty of time to grab coffee on the way.

The girl behind the counter of 'To Bean or Not To Bean', a cheery olive-skinned, raven-haired college student named Ruby, calls my drink order as soon as I walk through the door: "One medium iced coffee, double sweet, with room, for Colleen."

"You're the best, Roo." She gives my total, we exchange money, and I dump my change into the tip jar like always. She's adorable, with her silver nose stud and perpetual grin, but I've seen her smooching her girlfriend while on break so I know she's taken. At any rate my heart belongs to another, even if said other doesn't know and can never find out.

"Tell Lynn I said hi," she calls as I walk to the other side of the counter and retrieve my drink.

"Will do," I reply as I doctor it with half-and-half and two extra packets of sugar, wave, and head out the door. As I look back, Ruby's attention is already buried in a true crime paperback. Not the first thing I'd guess if I were trying to determine her reading habits, but if my job has taught me anything it's that people's tastes run far and wide when it comes to their book selections.

* * * * *

Since there's no need for me to spend seven hours a day with Lynn at school, I spend five hours a day, Monday through Friday, at the local second-hand bookstore. The woman who owns it, Lori Cunningham, couldn't be sweeter if she was Georgia-brewed tea. Ever since I was old enough to read, I wanted to work at Lori's Library. When I needed volunteer credits to graduate from West Orchard, I earned them shelving, sorting, and tidying up while she and the rest of her staff went about the business of buying and selling. You know the saying, 'Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd'? Well, nothing attracts dust like a building full of old books.

I told Lori (and myself) when I applied this would only be a temporary job, but my third anniversary approaches and I don't see myself moving on anytime soon. The rise of eReaders coupled with Amazon's stranglehold of the online book business has cut into Lori's profits. I take some ribbing from some of my co-workers because I have a Nook, but it's not like I abandoned real books. There's something magical about them, especially older ones. You open them up, smell the pages, look over the words, and wonder who the last person was to read them before you.

Lori can't afford to pay much, and at part-time I wouldn't be making bank even if she could, but she gives me something no other job could offer: flexibility. She knows Lynn comes first, and if something happens, if I need to drop everything and pick her up, if I need a day to take her to therapy, whatever, I get the time off, no questions asked. Plus I live at home, drive a long-paid-off Dodge Neon, and don't have student loans hanging over my head...money's hardly my foremost concern. That said, it's far from a career. So far I've been able to brush off Dad when he drops the 'But what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?' bomb, but I'll worry about that once Lynn's off at school. My life's been on hold for three years now. Another few months of the same won't hurt.

* * * * *

I'm barely in the door when Mom unloads her opening salvo: "I saw you took the van, is everything OK with your sister? Did she push herself too hard in therapy yesterday? I told her not to overdo it, but she never listens to me. Maybe you can talk to her?"

"Hello to you too," I reply in the space when she stops to breathe. "In order: Lynn is great; she wanted the wheelchair just in case; and she doesn't need anyone lecturing her about her health. Also, my day was fine, thank you for asking. How's grandma?"

"Oh, she's driving me up the wall, but that's nothing new. I'm sorry, I can't seem to get much of anything right today. How are you, Colleen?"

"I'm okay. Just thought I'd take a nap before I pick Lynn up." I head down the hall.

"Sweetie, I can get her," Mom calls to me as I leave the room. "Why don't you rest?"

"It's all good," I say over my shoulder. "Just make sure I'm up in an hour. You'll have your hands full with dinner anyway. She'll be ready to eat a horse when she gets home."

"She gets that from your father, I'll have you know!"

"See you in an hour, Mom." I walk into my room, close the door behind me, then lean against it, eyes shut for a few moments. Thoughts suitably gathered, I strip off my t-shirt, get out of my jeans, remove my socks, unclasp my bra, twist my blinds closed, then pull the curtains. The room darkens as the drapes block out the majority of the afternoon light and I crawl into my bed. My sheets, cool from the breeze circulating from the ceiling fan, raise goosebumps on my legs and arms as I settle in.

For a minute or two I listen and can barely make out the sounds of Mom moving things around in the kitchen. When I'm certain she's fully engaged in her cooking, I slide my hand down between my legs, touching my sex gently through the fabric of my panties. Eyes closed, I tune out everything around me and call forth the memory of this morning as my sister steps out of the shower with my help. Her skin glistens like a radiant prism. Her hair, sodden with moisture, clings to her body and angles downward with that artificial straightness produced by a solid washing. Her lips form the beautiful crescent of a smile as she meets my gaze, and doesn't look away when I allow that gaze to wander down her chest.

I push my panties off my hips, then resume the slow, lazy strokes of my finger. I'm already damp, heart pounding anxiously with the knowledge of what's coming. She watches me watching her, lingering on every line, every curve, every tiny stream of water as it runs over her body and down to the rug beneath our feet. I focus, like a laser, on the memory of that lone water drop dangling from her nipple.

Here is where reality bows off stage. Instead of leaning into me and catching itself on my shirt, the droplet stays, suspended from the pink nub like a gymnast hanging from a bar. Slowly I bend down, mesmerized by its sway as Lynn breathes. My tongue snakes out quickly, darting from between my lips, makes contact with the droplet and brushes my sister's skin oh-so-briefly before retreating back.

Head folding back into the pillow, I prod my clit with my fingertip and simultaneously, in my fantasy, my sister lets out a soft coo. The water, though it's but a single drop, tastes the way lavender smells, the way a perfectly-tuned orchestra sounds, and I want more. Leaning up, I plead with my eyes, begging for her to let me keep going. She smiles, nods, and I slide my lips over her skin. With one little intake of air, I suck her nipple into my mouth. My mind's a blank, and suddenly my imagination is going overtime trying to fill in the gaps with what that little alluring bump tastes like.

I can't think any more as my hips quiver, and I find myself arching my back, fighting to stifle the moan, then giving up and letting it gasp out of me. Jolts of pleasure ping through my skull, down my legs, through my arms, and like a willing puppet, I dance through the sudden climax.

Skin slicked with sweat, ears red with heat, I kick the sheet off my legs and take a moment to compose myself, then look at the clock. Eleven minutes since I laid down? I shake my head. Even in my fantasies, I can't last fifteen fucking minutes without coming. God help me if I ever got Lynn in bed... It would be all over for me before I could even finish undressing her.

Undressing her? Oh my God... What if she let me? Is that how it starts, not in the shower, but before? So many what-if scenarios. Anything could happen.

My hand slides back between my legs to ponder the possibilities. I manage to last a whole eight minutes before I have to shove my mouth into the crook of my elbow to make sure Mom doesn't hear me. When I'm done, I really want that nap. I close my eyes, knowing whether or not I fall asleep, it won't be long before Mom's knocking at the door.

I kick my panties off completely, roll over on my stomach, move my knees apart, hold the pillow with my left hand and put my right back down between my legs. At this point, sleep seems pretty pointless. My fingers go back to work, stroking my clit, spreading my lips, and pushing their way deeper inside me until they aren't my fingers any longer; they're Lynn's.

By the time I'm done, I can barely move. Little sparkling dots bob and weave in front of my eyes, I've no idea where my underwear went, and I need to wash my sheets. There's definitely something wrong with me, but I'm sure as hell not interested in fixing it. You shouldn't have to fix something that feels this good.

Mom taps my door and I drag my face away from my pillow long enough to tell her I'm awake. Then, on shaky legs, I collect my clothes, pull a fresh pair of undies out of the dresser, and make myself presentable to the rest of the world.

* * * * *

Turns out my sister didn't need her chair at all today, so after she helps me stow it in the back of the van, she clambers up into the passenger seat, ignoring the staccato bursts of quacking ducks issuing forth from her phone indicating she's got approximately nine thousand incoming texts. I pass on Ruby's message, and she grunts noncommittally in response. Whatever's on her mind, she'll either tell me or she won't, and I know better than to pry. She'll talk when she's-

"Mr. Perler is such an ass."

The remark, completely out of left field, catches me by surprise and I can't help but laugh. Then, when I notice she's not joining me, I pull myself together. "Sorry. It's just, that was my assessment when I had him too. What happened?"

"He hates 'Dead Poets Society'."

I gotta admit, that takes me even more by surprise. You'd think a guy with his life tied up in poetry as much as Perler would love a film like that. "Not surprising. Robin Williams makes him look dull by comparison. Is that it?"

"No, it's... He doesn't understand poetry as much as he thinks he does."

This is getting more interesting by the minute. "So, when you left him you were but the learner, now you are the master?"

"I'm serious, Collie. Wes suggested we watch the movie in his class, and he proceeded to lecture us on how Mr. Keating's take on poetry is wrong, he uses verses out of context to make points they were never intended to make, and his tactics are dishonest to his students."

As the light in front of me turns red, I ease the van to a stop and look over at Lynn. "Well, maybe he has a point. If you're taking something out of context, you're not being honest. I mean, think about a movie where the reviewer writes, 'The story is nothing spectacular, and the effects are hardly out-of-this-world.' If the DVD case quotes the reviewer as saying, 'Spectacular!' and 'Out-of-this-world!' that's dishonest, right?"

"Yeah, but we're not talking about film reviews, we're talking about poems."

"What's the diff?" The light turns green, I check both ways, and head into the intersection.

"Reviews are somebody's opinion, and if you cherry-pick words to make a quote say the opposite of what it does to fool people into seeing your movie, then you're a dick. Poetry is meant to inspire you, help you reach new heights, make you want to sieze-"

"-the day," I finish with her. "Yeah, yeah, 'carpe diem', 'gather ye rosebuds' and all that. But if the poet had something sad in mind, should we use those same words to make ourselves happy? Isn't that kind of...I dunno, rude?"

"We can't control where we find inspiration," she counters. "Take music. Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in the U.S.A.' is about one guy's ridiculously shitty life. He's born in a slum, gets in trouble with the law, is drafted, winds up in Vietnam, and sees his best friend die. Then he comes back to unemployment, exchanging one country that wants nothing to do with him for another. By the end of the song he has nothing. 'Nowhere to run, ain't got nowhere to go' is the exact opposite of the American Dream."

"Okay..."

"But the song sounds uplifting, right? I mean, you've got it on your workout playlist. How many other people do too? You can't help that hearing the first few bars of 'Born in the U.S.A.' makes you want to get up off the couch. His intentions for the song can't control how we respond to it. Poetry's the same."

I have to admit, Lynn's making a creepy amount of sense. "I can't fault your argument."

"Mr. Perler can. He's just wrong, Collie. It's not up to him what inspires me." Point made, she crosses her arms, turns her head, and stares off into space out the window. God, she's adorable when she pouts.

We pass the remainder of the drive home in silence. As we reach the turn for our neighborhood, I lean over and put my hand on her knee. Without turning to look at me, she sets her hand on top of mine and squeezes. Score is 1 -- 0, I think. Your move, Perler.

* * * * *

"She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes."

I concentrate on the words as Lynn recites them from memory, and work the shampoo into my hair. I think and think, but try as I might, familiar as the words are, I can't place them. Finally I settle on Browning.

"Robert, or Elizabeth Barrett?" Lynn asks.

"Ah ha! So it is a Browning then?"

"Still waiting on your answer."

I tilt my head back under the water, washing the suds down the drain. "Robert," I decide. "Final answer."

"Ooooh, I'm so sorry. The correct answer was 'Lord Byron', but thank you for playing."

"Damn it," I mutter.

"Taking this a bit personally today, are we?"

"Coincidence. I got soap in my eye," I lie.

"Ouch. Need the towel?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."

"Great. See you downstairs!" I hear the floor creak as she walks out of the bathroom. When I'm sure she's out of sight, I run my hands through my hair to collect the last of the shampoo, brush them over my breasts, pinch my nipples gently, move my legs apart, and push my finger into my slit, doubly slick from the water and my own heat.

Today, before helping Lynn out of the shower, I'd stripped off my pajamas on the pretense of running late. Skin-on-skin, my contact with her was electric. I didn't care how wrong it was. I wasn't about to force myself on her, but I saw no reason not to take advantage of a good situation.

What I got were her breasts on mine as she reached for the towel. My nipples hardened immediately, and it was all I could do not to press my lips to hers and breathe her into me right then and there. I held her steady as she toweled her midsection off, then sat on the toilet to dry the rest of herself. I hurried into the shower and deliberately took my time so she'd be done and leave before I got out.

The tile wall sends a shock of cold up my spine as I lean back against it, but the warmth inside me cancels it out quickly. A few gentle strokes of my throbbing clit, and I feel the shudders starting in my thighs. Eyes closed, head tilted, I ride the wave up, crest, then slowly return to sea level. This would have to do.

God damn it. This would always have to do. I broke her once already. I will not break her again.

* * * * *

I walk into work thirty minutes before my shift starts.

"You're not scheduled until nine," Lori says, looking up from her desk where she's tabulating payroll. "Need some extra money?"

"No, just wanted to shop if that's okay."

"Honey, I've never turned away a customer. Just make sure you've got your name tag on by the time we open. Oh, and you're on register first hour, so leave time to count in."

"Got it." I place my purse into my little cubby, pin my name tag to my shirt so I'll be ready, then walk out of the back room and into the store proper. Bolstered by Lynn's words yesterday about not being able to control what inspired us or how, I make my way to the poetry section. Maybe somebody would have something to say about unrequited love. But where, outside of George R. R. Martin's 'A Song of Ice and Fire', does one look for wisdom concerning loving one's own sister?

The poetry section in our store takes up one column of seven shelves. The first five are devoted to individual works, collections, and the occasional biography, alphabetized by poet, while the bottom two are for anthologies and selections from multiple writers. It's to these lower shelves I gravitate, figuring my best chance for success at finding something that speaks to me is to sample a bunch of writers at one go.

After scanning and skipping over some truly mammoth collections, I finally settle on a comparatively smaller anthology of one hundred poems. The table of contents reads like a who's who of the big names I had studied in Perler's class along with those familiar to me through popular culture, but sprinkled within are poets whose names I don't recognize. This, I decide, will be my start, so I settle on the floor, cross-legged, and begin. I like the verse Lynn recited this morning, and a quick check of the index brings me to "She Walks In Beauty" by Lord Byron.

I drink the words off the page. Every line carries an image of Lynn: her brow, her smile, her face, her cheek, her hair.

Her heart.

As I read, I read not with my voice, but hers; not with my eyes, but my sister's, hanging on every line until I reach the end and feel my heart beat anew. Byron, you magnificent bastard...you captured Lynn's essence in your words, and it only took two hundred years for me to find it.

What else I could find of my sister between those covers would have to wait for later, as a glance at my watch reveals it's five 'til. Closing the book, holding it to my chest, I get off the floor and haul ass to the cash register.

Lori looks up as I walk behind the counter, and a broad grin stretches across her face. "I know that look, Colleen. Been in this business twenty-nine years, and if there's one thing I know, it's the look of someone who just fell in love. So: who is it?"

I stammer, wondering how she could know about my feelings for Lynn, then realize she's not talking about a person. Blushing anyway, I hold up the poetry anthology.

"Oh, thank God," she says after seeing the title. "For a minute there, I thought you were gonna show me 'Fifty Shades' and I was gonna have to introduce you to the customer service stick."