Birthday(22)

“Here, man,” I say, offering a hand to help Eric up.

He struggles to stand. How much has he had to drink?

“Wow, yeah, okay,” Eric says as he wobbles forward.

“Come on, birthday boy,” I say kindly. I lead him toward the house by the shoulder. I will myself not to notice how firm and strong his shoulder feels under my fingers, how his muscles coil and shift as we walk through the door. “We should get you home,” I manage.

“Sure, sure,” Eric says, following me like a kitten.

We walk past the group of kids hanging out in the living room. They barely look at me, but wave good-bye to Eric. He gives them a sloppy grin in return.

Once out the front door, we make our way to where I left my bike. I’m suddenly weirdly grateful that I was so late getting to the parking lot that Jasmine had lost our ride. I ended up riding my bike here, while Jasmine caught a lift with someone else.

“Sleepover!” Eric says. “Let’s watch The Crow again!”

“Are you joking?” I say. “You hate that movie.”

“Yeah, but you love it, and I love you, dude.”

Dude. Dude feels … wrong, like a put-off, but Eric’s smile says otherwise. I can’t help but give him a goofy grin in return, enjoying this looser, even sillier side of my best friend. I’m coiling the bike chain around my forearm when, out of the blue, Eric reaches out, eyes serious, and strokes his fingers through my hair. I feel a wave of heat crawl up my neck and down from my cheeks. Horror mingles with the pleasure—because of the possibility of someone seeing, because of what this could mean, because of some other disaster I haven’t thought of. But also, it does definitely feel pretty good.

“Uh…?” I manage to say.

“Leaves,” Eric says. He steps back and sways a little. I reach out to steady him, only to grab his chest, feel how hard it is, and turn even redder. “You had leaves in your hair.”

“Oh,” I say.

There’s only one way to undo this weirdness. I notice a brown spot on his cheek from when he fell, lick my finger, and rub it off. He lets out this rough little laugh, more grown-up and deep than it has any right to be, and leans into my hand. “You had a … a smudge…”

“Thanks,” he says. He takes my hand between both of his and looks suddenly serious. “You’re such a good friend, dude. Like, what? It’s crazy! Have I told you I love you lately?”

He’s drunk. He’s so drunk. I need to get him home.

“You just said it,” I say, and my face has to be glowing at this point. “But before that? Not since we were little. Our dads made us stop in second grade, remember?”

“Well!” Eric says with a stamp of his foot. “You’re my best friend and I love you!”

“I love you too,” I mutter.

I put a leg over my bike and I turn around to look at him and notice his glasses are missing. “Where are your glasses?” I ask.

Eric touches his face and shrugs. I start to worry, which is almost a relief since it’s something to focus on besides being flustered, but then I remember his family’s loaded and he has a million pairs of glasses at home.

“Okay, well, come on then.” I position myself to stand on the pedals and pat the seat behind me. He wraps his arms around my chest, and I hate it—I hate that Jasmine was even a little right, but my body responds to his closeness. I’m just confused, I tell myself. I’m fourteen, I’m a nervous wreck, I’m hormonal, and my body doesn’t know what to do with something like this except … well. It’s Jasmine’s fault, really—she planted the idea in my head and my idiot brain’s running wild with it. Feeling Eric’s chest and stomach against my back makes me feel so small, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t an addictive idea, being small with someone you trust. Maybe … I mean we sleep in the same bed. Would he think it was weird if I wiggled my back against him one night? Would he wrap himself around me in his sleep? It wouldn’t have to be anything but that. Friends can cuddle, right? But then Eric lets out a sigh and his breath washes warm down my neck and I shiver.

Would it be bad if it were more? I shake my head—I’m not precisely sober either. Best to hit the road for now and think about this stuff with a clear head.

“Let me know if you need to puke,” I say to Eric as I start pedaling. He howls at the moon as we pull through the driveway and out onto the street.

I laugh as the wind whips my hair and we howl together.





ERIC



Streetlights and a buzzing Krispy Kreme sign slither and twist into glowing serpents. Did I lose my glasses? I remember Susan borrowing them and asking if she looked cute, and me telling her yes because I thought I was supposed to, even though I couldn’t see. I crane my head back and breathe in, smelling old rubber, dried leaves, a distant barbecue. And here, Morgan. Morgan, who just smells like Morgan. In front of me. In my arms. My best friend. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and laugh at nothing in particular, at how funny the world can be, at how weird it is that he’s a boy.

How weird it is that he’s a boy.

I wonder if that’s occurred to him. I try to focus on the thought, to pull it apart and examine it, but my brain feels as numb as my nose and the tips of my fingers. Still, it feels like a revelation.