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Authors: Wendy Wunder
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who can sense it, it becomes a tangible thing with properties like shape and weight and heat.
“You like it here,” Danny says. “On the lake.”
“I guess. It feels like part of my body,” I say. “It’s hard to explain. Leaving would feel like an amputation in a way.”
“But it would be cutting off the part that hurts,” Danny says, throwing a rock into the water.
“Exactly,” I say. He gets me. “But I would still miss it.”
“Want to see
my
favorite place to think?”
“Sure,” I say.
The old playground by the beach has not been updated since the seventies. It’s still made of metal and cement, so kids can still scrape their precious knees and get a few stitches, which is good for them, I think. Sometimes being poor is good. You learn coping skills.
“This is it,” says Danny, and he points at an enormous scratchy cement tube some construction workers thought would make a good play structure along with some old tires and splintery railroad ties. It’s tagged with a red spray-paint heart. He crawls in and sits down, puts his feet up on one side of the tube, and bends his legs into his chest. “I don’t really fit as well as I used to. Come on in,” he says.
I hate myself for doing it, but I
Seventeen
magazinerize this moment:
When a guy asks you to join him inside an enormous cement pipe with no one else around, do you: A. Crawl in next to him, ignoring the fact that he has a girlfriend. B. Tell him you have to go. C. Call the police.
I’ve been waiting for this moment for six years, so I choose A. His enormous feet are straddling a window-like hole in the cement that perfectly frames the pale disc of the sun. My athletic left quadriceps is grazing his, and I think I might spontaneously combust. Luckily it’s cool inside the pipe, so I feel the blush on my face turn from fuchsia to carnation pink.
“See how it blocks out the outside world?”
It is silent. The constant chatter of the universe is finally quiet for once. I take a deep breath and remember what that feels like. Breath. It seems like I’ve been holding mine for a long time.
Danny places his hand on the knee of my brown corduroys and traces my patella in wide concentric orbits. I put my hand on top of his, and he flips it over, using that magic index finger to follow the lines inside my palm.
“You read palms?” I ask him.
“Indeed,” he says. He brings my palm closer to his face and shakes his head,
tsk
ing.
“What?” I ask.
“You are a hard worker,” he says, tracing a line at the inside of my wrist.
Like sands through an hourglass, my insides are draining through my core.
“That’s what I like about you,” he continues. “You try. Not everyone is like that.” His hand finds the waistband of my sweatshirt and moves up beneath it. I am not wearing a bra.
“That’s not my palm,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry, it’s part of the process,” he says.
“Really,” I say. “I’m suspicious.”
He leans his long torso over and kisses me then, pressing his lips softly against mine, taking gentle nip-like kisses until I open my mouth.
I am immediately in love with him. As if touching tongues was the final step in some ancient magic ritual.
I try to think of Zoe stuck in bed, her hair matted against her face, or my dad drinking at the end of the bar, or Rebecca Forman’s bad teeth. I think of her posse of cheerleader friends who wouldn’t be afraid to beat the crap out of me. That does it, and I break away, remembering to suck in a little like Zoe taught me. The sign of an expert kisser.
“I have to go,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says, and I love him even more for not pressing the issue. His lips are wet and red and glossy. His cheeks are flushed. And he looks at me, shaking his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me. He likes me, I think, but I push it out of my mind.
We crawl out of the pipe, and walk back to my bench. A pair of mallards flies low and furiously over the surface of
“You like it here,” Danny says. “On the lake.”
“I guess. It feels like part of my body,” I say. “It’s hard to explain. Leaving would feel like an amputation in a way.”
“But it would be cutting off the part that hurts,” Danny says, throwing a rock into the water.
“Exactly,” I say. He gets me. “But I would still miss it.”
“Want to see
my
favorite place to think?”
“Sure,” I say.
The old playground by the beach has not been updated since the seventies. It’s still made of metal and cement, so kids can still scrape their precious knees and get a few stitches, which is good for them, I think. Sometimes being poor is good. You learn coping skills.
“This is it,” says Danny, and he points at an enormous scratchy cement tube some construction workers thought would make a good play structure along with some old tires and splintery railroad ties. It’s tagged with a red spray-paint heart. He crawls in and sits down, puts his feet up on one side of the tube, and bends his legs into his chest. “I don’t really fit as well as I used to. Come on in,” he says.
I hate myself for doing it, but I
Seventeen
magazinerize this moment:
When a guy asks you to join him inside an enormous cement pipe with no one else around, do you: A. Crawl in next to him, ignoring the fact that he has a girlfriend. B. Tell him you have to go. C. Call the police.
I’ve been waiting for this moment for six years, so I choose A. His enormous feet are straddling a window-like hole in the cement that perfectly frames the pale disc of the sun. My athletic left quadriceps is grazing his, and I think I might spontaneously combust. Luckily it’s cool inside the pipe, so I feel the blush on my face turn from fuchsia to carnation pink.
“See how it blocks out the outside world?”
It is silent. The constant chatter of the universe is finally quiet for once. I take a deep breath and remember what that feels like. Breath. It seems like I’ve been holding mine for a long time.
Danny places his hand on the knee of my brown corduroys and traces my patella in wide concentric orbits. I put my hand on top of his, and he flips it over, using that magic index finger to follow the lines inside my palm.
“You read palms?” I ask him.
“Indeed,” he says. He brings my palm closer to his face and shakes his head,
tsk
ing.
“What?” I ask.
“You are a hard worker,” he says, tracing a line at the inside of my wrist.
Like sands through an hourglass, my insides are draining through my core.
“That’s what I like about you,” he continues. “You try. Not everyone is like that.” His hand finds the waistband of my sweatshirt and moves up beneath it. I am not wearing a bra.
“That’s not my palm,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry, it’s part of the process,” he says.
“Really,” I say. “I’m suspicious.”
He leans his long torso over and kisses me then, pressing his lips softly against mine, taking gentle nip-like kisses until I open my mouth.
I am immediately in love with him. As if touching tongues was the final step in some ancient magic ritual.
I try to think of Zoe stuck in bed, her hair matted against her face, or my dad drinking at the end of the bar, or Rebecca Forman’s bad teeth. I think of her posse of cheerleader friends who wouldn’t be afraid to beat the crap out of me. That does it, and I break away, remembering to suck in a little like Zoe taught me. The sign of an expert kisser.
“I have to go,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says, and I love him even more for not pressing the issue. His lips are wet and red and glossy. His cheeks are flushed. And he looks at me, shaking his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me. He likes me, I think, but I push it out of my mind.
We crawl out of the pipe, and walk back to my bench. A pair of mallards flies low and furiously over the surface of
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