Birthday(20)
“How’d you know about this spot?” I say. I lean back into the tree and let out a long breath. “It’s, uh, pretty far out here.”
“Me and Elena explored all through these woods when we were little,” she says. I hear her rummaging in her purse. “No cable, so all there was to do out here was sword fight with sticks and push over dead trees.”
“Why would you push over dead trees?” I say. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“It made a lot of noise.” She laughs. “There’s some choice woods on the south edge of your trailer park so I know you and Eric must have done it too.”
“We never thought of it,” I say. I pull my knees to my chest and fiddle with the tears in my jeans. “Plus, we didn’t move there until after Mom died.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Jasmine says. “I forgot … I didn’t mean to bring it up. Are you okay?”
I rub my forehead and shake my hair out, surprised by how quickly a bad feeling slides off my brain after two beers. Maybe I should drink more often.
“It’s fine. I mean it hurts but it’s fine.”
Things get quiet for a while, which I’m okay with. I know Jasmine’s trying to be respectful, giving me distance to process my feelings. It’s not how Eric would do it, though—Eric always works out these comedy bits for when I start to feel sad. He’ll make me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
His most recent series of bad jokes involves nonchalantly stating horrible opinions about my favorite movies over and over until I crack. “I started Pan’s Labyrinth the other day, but who wants to read a movie? Next I tried Princess Mononoke, but would you believe it was a cartoon? As if I’ve got any interest in cartoons. And don’t even get me started on The Crow! There’s just no point including violence and foul language like that!” Inevitably I’ll get worked up, he’ll laugh, and I won’t be able to help but laugh with him. Just thinking about what his next bad movie take might be makes me smile.
In the silence Jasmine riffles through her purse until she finds whatever she’s looking for. The wind starts to blow, parting the canopy and letting moonlight filter through, and I watch in the silver light as she parts her lips, eyes half lidded, and reapplies her lip gloss. Everything about it—her lips, the arch of her back, the way her thigh slips out from under her skirt—holds me in place. It makes me feel like some hidden, private world is being opened before me.
But then she sees me looking and I feel like a deer in headlights. My face flushes, ashamed, but then Jasmine smiles and I realize she wants to be seen. For a moment, I let my mind wander and I think maybe there are ways of living where I might want someone to look at me like I’m looking at Jasmine right now too.
She sidles close, drapes her legs over my lap, and touches my shoulder. What is she doing? Why is there a look on her face like she’s figured out a secret? We’ve never touched like this before and I can feel my shoulders tense, my hands searching for balance in the dried-up leaves as she shifts her body weight onto mine.
“Don’t look so scared, Morgan.” She laughs, leaning closer.
My heart races, and I can’t tell if this is the desire I’m supposed to have felt this whole time, or if I just want to run. Didn’t realize that desire could feel like panic. Her hips shift against me and her fingers come up to brush a long strand of hair out of my face. I swallow painfully, my mouth dry.
“I saw you watching me,” she says. “Do you think I’m pretty?” I can smell beer on her breath, but more than that, I smell her mango shampoo, a hint of strawberry from her lip gloss …
I nod. Jasmine lets her hand rest against my shoulder and brushes my neck with her long fingers. She leans in, lips parting, breath coming slow and deep—or is that mine? Who can say? Something touches my fingers and at first I flinch, thinking it’s a bug, but then I glance down and see her other hand on mine, feel her fingers lace into mine. Her lips press against my lips, and suddenly I’m having my first kiss.
At first it feels like nothing, but then I find myself fantasizing that I’m Jasmine, that I’m the one being watched, the one radiating beautiful smells and glowing in the moonlight, and suddenly I feel what I think I’ve been meant to feel this whole time. I lean into her and rest my hands on her hips. She guides my hands under her shirt, where they graze up to her rib cage. Her skin is so soft and I imagine it’s my own skin and I’m kissing a boy. I imagine him running his fingers through my hair, and how small I would feel in his arms, and how soft my chest and thighs would be against him. I imagine his hand at the base of my spine, running up my side, cupping my chin, squeezing my thigh. I imagine a lot of things.
But then the fantasy keeps going.
And then the boy is me—taller every day, with gawky shoulders, and the shadow of a moustache on his upper lip.
I pull back, keeping my eyes clenched shut.
“What’s wrong?” Jasmine says.
I shake my head.
“Did I do something wrong?” Her voice sounds like broken Christmas ornaments.
“No,” I say. I can hear my own voice shaking. I force a smile but can’t open my eyes. “No, this is … this is great. I love this. But it’s getting late. And. Uh.” My brain thrums like a generator as it searches for an excuse. “And Eric might still be awake, so I should try stopping by to say hello while it’s still our birthday.”