Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

She unhooked the three clasps of Susanna’s maternity bra. Her double-D body armor, they joked. Susanna’s breasts had been sore, filled with fibrous cysts, and Allie hadn’t held their weight in months.

“I miss your ponytail,” Allie whispered as she combed Susanna’s neat pixie cut with her fingers. “Remember? That first night?”

Allie dropped to one knee, and then on both, lifted Susanna’s shirt.

Susanna swatted her away and looked to the boys, her eyes wide in warning. She tried to step back, but Allie pulled the end of her long tee. Susanna stumbled forward.

“So?” Allie asked, ignoring the pain of her knees against the hardwood floor.

“The first night,” Susanna said, her voice deeper. Relenting, Allie thought.

She kissed Susanna’s navel. It had popped a week ago and was visible under her thin summer clothes. Allie had caught people looking at it when they walked down the street at home.

“Oh, yeah. The concert,” Susanna whispered. “You were such a god to me then.”

“And I’m not now?” Allie asked.

She ran the tip of her tongue around Susanna’s belly button; she could see the silvery pink scar where Susanna had pierced herself in college. Allie hummed quietly to imply pleasure and to hide the fact that she found the protrusion grotesque. Tumorlike. Remember, she told herself, this is where the umbilical cord begins, the life-sustaining nourishment. A fucking miracle.

Allie had been teaching at the Parsons School for Design less than a year when Susanna had registered for one, then two, and finally three of Allie’s four classes. Their relationship remained innocent although the tension of attraction was so strong that later Susanna would admit to dizzying panic attacks during student/teacher conferences in Allie’s small office overlooking Union Square. Mid — second semester, Allie got the call from her agent. It was the ten-minute class break, in which her classroom emptied, the students rushing outside to suck down a cigarette and refill their styrofoam coffee cups at the convenience store across the street. Her hand shook as she wrote down the details — the time of the Amtrak train, the hotel in Philly, and the name of the band’s manager, who would meet her in the hotel lobby in eight hours.

“Oh my God,” she said as she looked out into the classroom.

Susanna was sitting at a front-row desk, chatting with a friend of hers, a mousy and opinionated girl who annoyed Allie.

“What?” Susanna asked, and the breathy excitement in her voice startled Allie, made her want to share the thrill. So she told them. She was going to Philly to shoot Aerosmith in concert. For motherfucking Rolling Stone. The booked photographer was ill or something, and it was her gig now. After much oohing, aahing, and holyshitting, Allie had asked the girls if they wanted to come along, they could split the hotel room, and she’d score them some tickets. Hell yeah, the girls said, and Allie cut class short. They hopped in a cab, stopping only at Allie’s studio in Alphabet City to pick up her equipment, where Allie had liked the way Susanna studied every photo, book, tchotchke. Allie bought the train tickets, then food in the dining car, and they talked about art. Well, Allie talked mostly, and the girls listened with eager eyes and parted lips. Like delicate glass pitchers waiting to be filled, Allie remembered thinking.

It would become one of the most important nights of her life, the story that she’d tell for years after; at conferences, in classes she taught, to new acquaintances she hoped to impress, one of the few stories she would use to define who she is, was, and who she had always wanted to be.

She had taken her position onstage in darkness. The dim lights in the massive amphitheater seemed a primordial glow, the shuffling and whispering and intermittent shouts of the crowd like a dam ready to spill. She could just make out the silhouette of the band. The chords rang out, and the crowd detonated.

“More lights,” she called into the wings, and then louder, louder, shouting. It was too dark. The shots would be weak. She moved out onto the stage, standing where she knew the lighting dude could see her. She lifted her arms from her waist to above her head, again and again, like some crazy fucking referee in a football game, and there was an explosion of light, and a maelstrom of noise from the crowd, and it would always seem to her that the band let loose at exactly that moment. Allie would always feel as if she, like a conductor, had brought it all to life.

Allie tugged at the thick waistband of Susanna’s maternity pants until they lay in a pile at Susanna’s feet.

“We fucked our brains out that night,” Allie said, as she slid Susanna’s peach-colored panties down her legs, the fraying elastic stretching under her fingertips.

“That’s a romantic way of putting it.” Susanna laughed breathily.

Allie slid her palms up Susanna’s thighs.

“Oh, now, come on,” she said as she led Susanna, one hand in hers, to the bed. “You used to like talking dirty. What was that fantasy you had? The one in the stable? With the saddle?”

“The boys will hear,” Susanna whispered.

“They’re wiped out, babe,” Allie said.

She gripped Susanna’s elbow with one hand, Susanna’s hand with the other, and slowly guided her down onto the bed. Allie’s arms shook under the strain. Susanna had always been bigger — in height, in personality. In the impromptu photos they had taken over the years, their faces side by side, crowding the frame, even the features of Susanna’s face seemed more three-dimensional next to Allie’s own child-sized mouth and close-set eyes.

“Scoot back,” Allie commanded as she crawled onto the bed, using her toes to kick off her black motorcycle boots.

She felt sexy. Like a jaguar stalking prey, its haunches rising and falling. But the sight of Susanna trying to pull her body back on the bed snagged the moment. It was an awkward scuttle that made Allie think of the crabs the children had squealed over on the beach that afternoon.

Finally, Susanna fell onto her back with a groan, her knees falling apart in a position that felt too gynecological, like yet another appointment at the fertility doctor, where the waiting room was filled with sad women, their eyebrows lifted in a pathos that revolted Allie, as if they could see nothing more of themselves than an empty shell waiting to be filled. Once upon a time, she had been attracted to the kind of girl who wore that look, the ones that needed a teacher, not at all as innocent as they thought themselves to be.

Susanna had been different. Sure, she had been impressionable, eager to see meaning in every tag of graffiti on a concrete wall, every dead pigeon at the park, every Manhattan sunset burning with radiant colors only smog can birth. But it was Susanna who had been Allie’s teacher, who had transformed Allie from a photographer who shot celebrities and supermodels with unblemished bodies and symmetrical features, to an artist who photographed the wrinkled hands of an Iranian peasant. The scabbed limbs of a Sudanese refugee. The ravaged body of a Bronx AIDS baby.

The tip of Allie’s tongue circled Susanna’s clit until Allie heard her sigh from beyond the massive globe of flesh that stood like a wall between them.

“Oh,” Susanna whispered. “Yes.”

But Allie wanted to focus on what she was feeling, the zing in her throat the memory of the concert had awakened, that made her want to touch herself and think of other women, the young and lean and horny girls of her past — including herself — who lived on in her fantasies.

She rose to her knees and pulled her tee over her head. She’d never needed a bra, and the male glances at the dots of her nipples poking through her thin tee shirts satisfied her in an almost-intellectual way. A little curious. A little vengeful.