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Authors: Carrie Mesrobian
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saying, “ Tommmmmm … ” in that dragging way that girls must think is appealing but I’ve always found to be a dick-shriveler. I stood up to head out.
“Loadie party, dude,” Taber said, holding out his concrete block fist to me so I could bump it. Then, because I suddenly felt like I would die if I couldn’t get in my bed, far away from everyone, I followed Tom and Kelly out, where they staggered and veered off toward the compost patch presumably for some kind of groping that didn’t involve penetration. My father was now talking to the gay, yoga-sheep-farming, feminist boyfriend, looking like he was actually enjoying himself, and I shuffled home without saying good-bye to anyone. Not that I could remember their names, to start with.
***
Back home in the bathroom, feeling panicked and a little drunk, I trimmed my hair with the scissors I kept in my shave kit, snipping a bit on my left ear, which bled like hell until I wrapped it in toilet paper. I stripped out of my shitty, bonfire-smelling clothes and got in bed, eager for descriptions of beaver dams and the sound of waves from the open balcony window to knock me into the usual oblivion.
But just as E. Church was lulling me into my coma, I realized that the only person who didn’t declare her Last Chance Activity was Baker. She had asked everyone else to say theirs but hadn’t spoken hers. Was that because there was too much a bossy, virgin girl like her had left to experience? I thought about how weird she was. Her name, her mix of normal and deviant. Her potty mouth, her tour guide act. Her nice legs and cute face. It was a long time before I slept.
Dear Collette,
Say it’s your last summer before college. Or your last summer after high school. Whatever. Going to college for me sounds like going to Mars. Anyway. What would you do, your last summer? Your Last Chance to hang out with the same people you’ve gone to school with this whole time? What would you do?
Except, that doesn’t really work for you and me. Because you’ve switched schools and so have I. Maybe you have old friends in Boston? I don’t know anyone. Anyway. What would you do? Your last summer as a teenager. Kinda. WHATEVER. I’m trying to come up with something myself.
Nothing sexual, for one. That’s been done, and while I’d hope to have it happen again sometime before I hit the old coffin, it’s not exactly on the urgent must-do list.
And I don’t need to try any drugs or whatever. I mean, I like getting drunk and smoking weed here and there, but I’m not crying out to learn what crystal meth feels like or anything.
I guess I just don’t want to do anything risky with my body. Not anymore. My body is so fucked up, and I feel like an old man sometimes. So cliff jumping or skydiving or driving at high speeds (my car’s a fucking Subaru, which disqualifies it from coolness in all ways) all sound like terrible ideas. I don’t want to get in a fight with anyone.
I think I got that experience covered.
All I talk about is shit I don’t want to do. I don’t even know what I like.
Later, Evan
----
ChaPter Four
My father must have drank too much at the bonfire, because it was almost noon and he was still in bed. This was his first hangover I’d ever been aware of, and it was working in my favor so far. Across the way, I could see Baker and her mom and Gay-Yoga-Sheep Guy setting up food around a picnic table.
I went to brush my teeth and have my daily staredown with the shower. Pushing back the curtain, I didn’t see any spiders, just one of those ladybug things that aren’t ladybugs but some kind of exotic beetle. I smelled like hell since I couldn’t go in the lake last night because of the bonfire. But even reaching out to turn the water on freaked me out. So I just wiped down my pits with a washcloth, put on deodorant, trimmed down my hair a little more, and got dressed.
Then I drove as quietly as I could up the drive and then into Marchant Falls to
“Loadie party, dude,” Taber said, holding out his concrete block fist to me so I could bump it. Then, because I suddenly felt like I would die if I couldn’t get in my bed, far away from everyone, I followed Tom and Kelly out, where they staggered and veered off toward the compost patch presumably for some kind of groping that didn’t involve penetration. My father was now talking to the gay, yoga-sheep-farming, feminist boyfriend, looking like he was actually enjoying himself, and I shuffled home without saying good-bye to anyone. Not that I could remember their names, to start with.
***
Back home in the bathroom, feeling panicked and a little drunk, I trimmed my hair with the scissors I kept in my shave kit, snipping a bit on my left ear, which bled like hell until I wrapped it in toilet paper. I stripped out of my shitty, bonfire-smelling clothes and got in bed, eager for descriptions of beaver dams and the sound of waves from the open balcony window to knock me into the usual oblivion.
But just as E. Church was lulling me into my coma, I realized that the only person who didn’t declare her Last Chance Activity was Baker. She had asked everyone else to say theirs but hadn’t spoken hers. Was that because there was too much a bossy, virgin girl like her had left to experience? I thought about how weird she was. Her name, her mix of normal and deviant. Her potty mouth, her tour guide act. Her nice legs and cute face. It was a long time before I slept.
Dear Collette,
Say it’s your last summer before college. Or your last summer after high school. Whatever. Going to college for me sounds like going to Mars. Anyway. What would you do, your last summer? Your Last Chance to hang out with the same people you’ve gone to school with this whole time? What would you do?
Except, that doesn’t really work for you and me. Because you’ve switched schools and so have I. Maybe you have old friends in Boston? I don’t know anyone. Anyway. What would you do? Your last summer as a teenager. Kinda. WHATEVER. I’m trying to come up with something myself.
Nothing sexual, for one. That’s been done, and while I’d hope to have it happen again sometime before I hit the old coffin, it’s not exactly on the urgent must-do list.
And I don’t need to try any drugs or whatever. I mean, I like getting drunk and smoking weed here and there, but I’m not crying out to learn what crystal meth feels like or anything.
I guess I just don’t want to do anything risky with my body. Not anymore. My body is so fucked up, and I feel like an old man sometimes. So cliff jumping or skydiving or driving at high speeds (my car’s a fucking Subaru, which disqualifies it from coolness in all ways) all sound like terrible ideas. I don’t want to get in a fight with anyone.
I think I got that experience covered.
All I talk about is shit I don’t want to do. I don’t even know what I like.
Later, Evan
----
ChaPter Four
My father must have drank too much at the bonfire, because it was almost noon and he was still in bed. This was his first hangover I’d ever been aware of, and it was working in my favor so far. Across the way, I could see Baker and her mom and Gay-Yoga-Sheep Guy setting up food around a picnic table.
I went to brush my teeth and have my daily staredown with the shower. Pushing back the curtain, I didn’t see any spiders, just one of those ladybug things that aren’t ladybugs but some kind of exotic beetle. I smelled like hell since I couldn’t go in the lake last night because of the bonfire. But even reaching out to turn the water on freaked me out. So I just wiped down my pits with a washcloth, put on deodorant, trimmed down my hair a little more, and got dressed.
Then I drove as quietly as I could up the drive and then into Marchant Falls to
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