Birthday(17)

Both of us.

At least Morgan came tonight. He seemed better than usual, which is a relief. With my miserable practice schedule, we’ve gotten to hang out so rarely, and more and more I feel that pressure at the back of my neck that means Morgan needs me. Jasmine’s nice, and I consider her a friend or at least an acquaintance, but has she known Morgan for fourteen years? No. Has she stood by him through everything from scraped knees to a dead parent? No. Does she just know when he’s sad? No way.

I sigh, roll over, and watch through my window as a van trundles by in the orange glow of streetlights.

Maybe it’s not normal to think about Morgan this much. My mind races back to a sleepover we had a few weeks ago—he’d just gotten out of the shower before bed, and I’d barged into my bedroom without knowing he was still getting dressed. He was standing with his back to me and I froze.

I see other boys’ bare backs constantly in the locker room, but his was so slender, and so smooth, with hips that flared out just a little, and with his long brown hair plastered all the way between his shoulder blades … for a moment, just a moment, my brain screamed that I’d walked in on a half-naked girl and I slammed the door behind me.

Who knows what the hell I should think about that. It’s probably just my head being weird and crossing wires because I worry about him so much. My cell phone chirps and I flip it open with a groan—one text from Isaac and one from Morgan. Not sure how I missed the first one. I open the message from Isaac first.

Happy birthday lil bro! Heard you whipped Dogwood ass tonight! Four years in a row I lost to those assholes, and now here you are in 9th grade. Respect! You’ve probably got people telling you to not let it go to your head. Fuck that. You’ll never be 14 again so go do something crazy.

Staying in on a Friday night after a big win suddenly feels even more pathetic. Count on Isaac to make me feel like a baby even when he’s not here.

I open the text from Morgan and have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He’s sent a picture with him and Jasmine in the foreground, their faces somber like the couple in American Gothic, while in the background a pixelated girl is tumbling down from a kegstand, her panicked face blurred as foam sprays everywhere. The text below it reads, Wish you were here!

That settles it.

I roll out of bed, grab my glasses, slip into jeans and a Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt, cram my Razr into my pocket, tie my hair back, consider grabbing my guitar, but decide I don’t want to be “that guy,” and slip down the hall past my parents’ room—it is technically after my Friday night curfew, which is going to make this tricky. I pass Isaac’s old room, then knock on Peyton’s door as lightly as I can.

“Peyton,” I hiss. He doesn’t answer after the first light knock so I tap his bedroom door a little harder, keeping an ear out for any signal that Mom or Dad are onto me. “Peyton!”

“What?” He yanks the door open with a look of surprise. We stand eye to eye. He’s still not used to me being the same height and weighing almost as much as him. He smells like sausage and flour. “What are you doing? I thought you had practice in the morning.”

“I’m skipping it,” I whisper. Peyton actually looks impressed—he used to go out more, or I feel like I remember that, but between working twenty hours a week and actually paying attention in his junior year (nobody gives you a pass when you’re not on the team), he’s tired all the time. “Now I need your help.” He braces his elbow on the door frame and motions for me to continue. “I know you like to mess with me, but we’re in brother-code territory here, and if you don’t come through for me now—”

“Jesus Christ, why do you have to be so dramatic all the time? Get to the point.”

“I need to borrow your car.” Normally I would never ask Peyton for something this crazy, especially after what happened tonight at Waffle House. But really, it’s our car. It was Isaac’s before he left for college, and it’s Peyton’s now, and when he turns eighteen and moves out, it will be mine. So really, I’m just borrowing against my own future property.

“Fuck no,” Peyton says, leaning back like I’m a bad smell. “You’re fourteen, idiot.”

“Then give me a ride,” I say.

“You know Dad’ll kill both of us, right?”

“Call it a birthday present!” I say, desperation creeping into my voice.

He rubs his face and sighs. “Gimme some details,” he says.

I square my shoulders and raise my chin. “It’s that girl, Elena. I’m sure you’ve seen her—junior? Short? Curvy? It’s her post-game party. And I know her cousin.”

Peyton raises his eyebrows and tugs at his lip, suddenly intrigued.

“You’re not talking about that Mexican your little gay friend always hangs out with?” he says.

I want to punch him in the neck, or at least yell that Jasmine’s from Dalton, and Morgan’s straight, but I have to pick my battles, so I frown and nod. “You’re not trying to get with her, are you? She’s clearly after the gaylord. Brother to brother? That’s not a good love triangle to step into.”

“Whatever,” I say. “It’s not like that. There’ll be more girls there. Cheerleaders.”

Peyton takes a long, deep breath, then shrugs and sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But you better at least touch a tit or something.”