by Elizabeth Bennett
I wake slowly, blanket tangled around my feet. The bed is cold beside me. I blink the sleep from my eyes and sit up. Grayish light—soft and heavy with the remnants of night air—seeps around my thin curtains, pinning shadows against the walls and chasing lonely nightmares into corners. Sliding out of bed, I stand, stretching my arms high above my head. The hardwood is cold under my feet. My spine pops and cracks like a gun.
I shed my pajamas and flick on the radio beside my bed, cranking the volume down until the noise is a low hum. A jumble of static, the whining end of a pop song, and the announcer’s voice bounces against the walls of my quiet room.
“Good morning…”
Stepping over the pile of books next to my bed, tripping over a discarded sneaker, I fish a pair of jeans out of the—technically clean—pile of clothes left on my desk chair.
In the full-length mirror, I am naked and pale— a combination of awkward curves, prepubescent angles, and freckles. I yank on my jeans, slip into my favorite purple sweatshirt, and make sure to double-knot my sneakers.
As I pin my hair back into a carefully messy bun, my father’s snoring slips under the door. I wash my face twice, first hot and then cold, scrubbing hard enough to wash away the freckles. It doesn’t work.
◊◊◊
You arrive promptly at 7:03 A.M., like you do every week, waiting on my doorstep with two large to-go cups of corner-store coffee. You’re in a boxy black t-shirt, obnoxiously red shorts, combat boots, and black socks that stop just above your knees. Your backpack, yellow and bulgy, is hanging off one shoulder. You had shaved the side of your head two days ago, left the rest of your hair long, dyed a violent blue. You look sort of ridiculous standing there next to my mother’s hydrangeas.
By ridiculous, of course, I mean hot.
You aren’t wearing a jacket. You yawn, covering your mouth with one cup and offering me the other. “G’morning.”
I know for a fact that it isn’t going to get over 60 degrees, but I also know for a fact that you are going to ignore anything I have to say about the weather and the potential for hypothermia.
Closing the door behind me, I accept the cup but don’t take a sip until we are at the end of my street. The sky looks like it’s collapsing, clouds low and fat and dark. It’s still early enough that the houses on my street are quiet. We pass by them—mirroring rows of slightly different shades of beige, almost identical in every other way. The back of our hands brush against each other three times before we reach the bus stop.
The bus is unusually empty for a Saturday morning. You pay our fare and the driver waves us through. I nudge you to go first. We pass a young woman with tired eyes, her hand firmly on the head of a squirming toddler. A man with a greasy beard eyes you, whistling lowly at the inches of skin visible between your shorts and the tops of your socks. I try my best to glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice me.
We settle into hard plastic seats near the back doors. You let me sit by the window. The bus hums underneath me, vibrations traveling through the soles of my shoes. You drain what’s left of your coffee, place the cup on the floor between your feet, and turn to me.
“What’s the difference between Spongebob’s restaurant and an Irishman with an STD?”
Your laughter bubbles sharp and barely restrained. I wonder if you’d give up and tell me if I waited long enough. You blink at me—expectant with slight impatience—and your eyes are unabashedly seafoam.
I curl my fingers around my coffee cup. “What?”
“One is the Krabby Patty, and the other is a crabby Paddy.”
It is a horrible joke, really, but I laugh anyway. You grin and press yourself against me completely, shoulder to hip. The bus pauses, shuddering, and deposits the young woman and her whimpering toddler.
Our stop is the last on the line. Situated squarely in the side of downtown that brushes against the highway—a few rundown restaurants, a collection of unused office buildings, an adult bookstore with windows darkened by spray paint, and a maze of alleyways—all perfectly safe during the day. You allow me to step off the bus first, making sure to thank the driver as you follow me.
I gulp down the rest of my coffee—it’s cheap and bitter but I can feel the caffeine seep into my bloodstream almost immediately. I head straight for the alleyway between the bookstore and what I think is a Thai restaurant. It had started to rain and the air reeks of city and wet asphalt. I toss my cup into an open dumpster. It bounces against the lip of the bin and ricochets, landing somewhere to the left. “Should’ve brought a jacket.”
I step into the alleyway. The buildings loom on either side, pressing closer, lines of angry graffiti scrawled across red brick. Moving forward, trying not to gag at the stench of trash and urine, I feel you a half-step behind me. Our footsteps echo slightly. I reach back and our fingers tangle as you press your palm firmly into mine. Your hand is warm. Something sparks hot in my chest, leaking syrupy warmth into my veins.
“Shut up.”
We stumble out of the alleyway and you drop my hand. My palm tingles. A bowed, flimsy chain link fence stands between us and a ribbon of two-laned highway. You nod toward the fence. “Go on, sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes but step up to the fence. The metal is wet and sharp in my hands and the fence groans under my weight. I scramble over it, the jagged edges of the metal scraping at my jeans, and drop to the other side, landing hard on my hands and knees. Compacted dirt bites into my palms. I curse under my breath and haul myself to my feet. Your backpack lands with a thud and a few moments later you land lightly beside me.
“Okay?”
I nod and try to wipe the mud from my knees. You peer up at me. The corner of my mouth twitches; sometimes, I forget how short you are. “I’m fine, really.”
You hum, seemingly satisfied, and glance toward the highway. A semi-truck rumbles past. A line of oak trees stands, ancient and tangled, on the other side of the highway.
You shuffle forward, almost hesitant, and look back at me. Your smile is reckless. “Race?”
You don’t give me time to respond before you dart across the highway. I call out to you, a sound shaped like your name. Your answering laugh is flung back from across the highway.
“Bastard,” I mutter.
Half a dozen other insults crawl up my throat, sweet and heavy on my tongue. I suck in a breath and step up to the highway, the toes of my sneakers edging onto the wet asphalt. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it started—an April shower, my mother would call it—and the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. The air shimmers with an in-between precipitation, something like mist.
A sports car, definitely too fancy to belong in this town, speeds passed me. I jump away from the highway. The airstream left in the car’s wake spits droplets of dirty water and asphalt into my face. I grimace and wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. Glancing both ways, I jog across the highway.
You have disappeared into the treeline—I scoff; not like I wanted you to wait for me or anything—but I can faintly make out the yellow splash of your backpack among the foliage.
I languorously pick my way through the tangle of roots and undergrowth. After five minutes, your voice floats through the trees. You’re reciting poetry loudly and dramatically—Shakespeare, I think, or maybe Sappho—because you’re a dick. I wait until you have finished the last stanza before I stumble through the trees.
Our clearing is small. At this time of year, it is carpeted in bluebells—clusters of thimbleweed and primrose scattered like white flags. I breathe in. Everything smells of rain and earth—new growth. This is a holy place.
You have settled on the slope at the far end of the clearing. You wave at me and I scowl up at you. I’m too far away to see your face clearly, but I don’t need to imagine your shit-eating grin.
“—I conversed with you in a dream,” your voice floats across the clearing, vaguely smug and entirely too pleased.
By the time I reach you, my shoes and the cuffs of my jeans are damp and sticky with pollen. You’re lounging on a tattered flannel blanket, a picnic of grapes, juice pouches and chocolate chip cookies arranged neatly in one corner. You prop yourself up on your elbows when I crest the slope, squinting up at me. Sunlight filters through wide oak leaves, turning your skin gold and stamping a shifting, shadowy tattoo against the shaved side of your head. Your eyes are young; green and enteral.
Something in my chest aches, dropping into my stomach, spreading and setting roots.
I settle carefully next to your limp backpack, facing you. “What’s with the picnic?”
You shrug, glancing away and wetting your lips. You pull yourself into a proper sitting position, criss-cross, and rip a grape from the stem. You toss it high, head tilted back, mouth open. It bounces off your nose, but you manage to catch it with your tongue.
You shove the grape in your cheek and grin at me, “Everybody loves picnics.”
I hum—a response just vague enough to be noncommittal—and grab a cookie. I break it in half unevenly and hand you the larger chunk. I finish my cookie in two bites—just to be polite, really—and you laugh as I try to stop the crumbs from littering my sweatshirt.
“Got a little-”
You lean forward, perching yourself up on your knees. You flood my senses, sudden and demanding. You reach up and your thumb brushes across my bottom lip. I breathe in. Your fingers slip down my neck and across my galloping pulse to the hollow of my throat.
“-chocolate.”
Something swells in my chest. I stare, unblinking. You give me a look that is at once soft and sharp, and entirely unreadable. I swallow down the impulse to kiss you. I pull away. “You’re a tease.” I try to push warning venom into my words. But it all comes out in a breath—soft and almost regretful.
The corner of your mouth quirks upward. “With you, I can’t help it,” you say.
You stare at me with a curious expression, and I watch the sunlight slip shadows down your face and neck and into the collar of your shirt.
“Who was your first kiss?”
I look away, focusing on the far side of the clearing, and swallow hard. “Um, you first.”
“Bobby Jackson. Third grade. We were at the bus stop.”
I hum quietly—just vague enough to be noncommittal. I hope. Your laughter is something between a huff and an exhale. I hear you shift and then there is pressure on my knee; your head is on my thigh and you squint up at me, expectant. I sigh and lean back on my palms, slowly shifting my weight until I can unfold my legs straight out in front of me. You hum, satisfied, and scoot up until the knot of your skull is pressed into the fleshiest part of my thigh.
I glance down at you. You are swimming in my shadow, skin rendered dark against my jeans. Your eyes are closed and I can almost count your individual eyelashes. I reach down, scrubbing my palm against the shaved side of your skull. A noise rises from your throat—something close to a whine—and you turn into my palm.
My fingertips dance across your forehead, slipping down over the arch of your eyebrow, light against your eyelid, over your cheekbone. I slide my palm against your cheek, careful to avoid touching your lips, and tap your chin. You tilt your head back, pressing into my thigh in a way that is almost painful, and expose your neck.
“Feels good,” your voice is barely a whisper.
I nod, watching the fluttering trip of your pulse. I really want to kiss you.
I stop, my fingertips against your lips. I’m vaguely aware of the pound of my heartbeat and I wonder if you can hear it too. You crack one eye open, curious and playful.
“Why’d you stop?” You mumble against my fingertips. Your breath is warm.
I swallow hard, my tongue heavy in my mouth. Heat uncurls from the base of my spine, fuzzy and molten in my veins, pooling somewhere below my stomach. I nudge you off me and scramble to my feet.
You peer up at me for a moment before you haul yourself up.
“We should go.” I’m not wrong; it is getting dark and it’ll take ages to get back without light.
“Jealous?”
I blink down at you. “What?”
“Are you jealous that my first kiss wasn’t you?”
I listen for sarcasm in your voice.
“Of course not.” It’s a lie and we both know it. I step off the blanket and take a few steps down into the clearing. I look back at you, waiting until you meet my eyes. “Race you.”
