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stopped to breathe smoke in, pulling wisps of it into her nostrils.
    When you do what, Cleo? Like you the one invented the idea of getting next to me? Now she was handing it to me, it
was smoking, and she was grinning back at me grinning back at her.
    I reached out for the cigarette and put it to my lips and drew it in, keeping both my eyes closed tight. I drew it in and—coughed and heaved, but somehow kept my lips together tight enough to keep the smoke inside. Even I knew that was what you had to do. When I opened my eyes, still holding my breath, the world outside still looked the same. Somehow I had thought it wouldn’t.
    â€œYou ain’t high yet, baby sis,” Cleo said, watching me while I looked around and waited. I guess I ain’t, I thought, but how’m I gon’ know it when...when suddenly I felt it—like something pulling out away from me, slow-motion out from under me. And all this heat, this depth and color rushing in at me.
    â€œWo-ow,” I heard myself sigh. In a way, my own sounds I made, my own thoughts I had, seemed like something I was hearing from outside myself. And the scene I was in seemed more like something I was looking at. It was like another depth to my perception.
    â€œYou like this, babe?” Naturally I thought she was talking ’bout the weed, until I looked down at her long hand and her longer fingers creeping all along my thigh. “Poppety pop,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Poppety pop my finger pop.”
    â€œMmmm,” I said.
    Cleo’s hand was moving, quivering on me. “You untouched, baby sis?” she asked.
    What difference could it make to her? I mean, God knew she wasn’t.
    â€œSam,” was what I said. Funny, I had gotten through the summer without so much as thinking about that ex-man of mine, and here I’d gone and mentioned him. At a very inconvenient moment too.
    She snatched back as though my leg had stuck her with a splinter. “Who the hell is Sam ?”

    â€œOh,” I waved my hand to show how bored I was with this topic. “This man I used to know.” Used to know. I didn’t like to lie like that.
    â€œYou know that man good as I know Cynamon?” Cleo asked. “Know that man all the ways I be knowing her?”
    Cynamon? Was I hearing right? Cynamon was the Lady Panthers’ center, who had a twitchy booty and not a whole lot more. What-all could anyone find to know about somebody like Cynamon? Cynamon painted her nails bright orange and looked at stories on TV, those times she wasn’t making up no even-more-stupid stories of her own about the boys she knew, away now in the army or sometimes the Marines, and the presents they bought or were going to buy for her. Not that I ever laid my eyes on present one:
    â€œMy baby Wally go’ buy me a microwave and eelskin shoes and satin underthings.”
    Now who was going to believe that, and who was going to care enough to tell her she was clear and plain a liar?
    â€œCynamon?” I wanted to know what Cleo knew about girls, every little bit of it, but I didn’t care to hear about Cynamon. “She likes boys, Cleo.”
    Cleo grinned. “Not no mo’ she don’t. Least not since I turnt her out, so’s to speak.”
    Turnt her out? I never had understood just what “turnt out” meant, but I’d never had known how to ask without seeming too sweet and churched and babyish.
    â€œHow’d you do that, Cleo?” I heard myself ask, despite the fact of it including Cynamon.
    Cleo tap-rubbed at my leg. “Turnt her inside out, I mean. Made her river run the uphill way.” Cleo moved in a li’l bit closer to me. Even with my eyes closed I could feel her, hear her jacket leather squeaking while she shifted.
    â€œYou wanting me tell you ’bout it, sis, or you wanting me to show you?”

    â€œMmm, tell me first.” Eyes closed, I leaned back all ready to be