Birthday(23)

Who knew beer was so good? I crane my head up and take a deep, bracing breath. The smear of the heavens twirls as Morgan’s bike takes a turn and my breath hiccups as I realize how big everything is, and how small we are, and how in the whole span from the first star, to the end of everything, this moment will never be seen again. This thought makes me dizzy, so I wrap my arms tighter around Morgan’s chest and press my face into the back of his neck, into his brown hair.

“So I read something crazy about The Crow,” Morgan says. It’s been his favorite movie since we found an old VHS copy at the McKay’s in Knoxville. He fell in love with it immediately. Usually I tease him about it, but I just want to hear him talk.

“Tell me,” I say.

“So Eric Draven—”

“Who?” I say.

“The main character!” He says. “God, dude, we’ve watched it three times.”

“I never paid attention,” I say. “It was an excuse to spend time with you.”

He’s quiet for half a street, and I feel his body shift under my hands. I lean to look at his face, but seeing him without my glasses brings back a feeling I’ve had a few times in the past year. The idea that I’ve made him blush or overwhelmed him—the way girls get sometimes when you give them an unexpected compliment, the way he got when I played with his hair a few minutes ago—makes my chest tighten.

“Anyway,” he says. “Eric Draven was played by Brandon Lee, Bruce Lee’s son.”

“Uh-huh.” I feel a little bit of my balance come back so I sit up straight and hold my arms out, twisting my hands as the wind passes over them.

“But he died filming the shootout scene. You know, the big one in the warehouse? Something went wrong with the blanks.”

“Oh damn,” I say, not completely focused on what he’s saying, and lost in my own thoughts. “You’re so smart, dude, it’s amazing.”

“But … uh, that’s why the editing’s so weird in … in places. Why it’s a little janky.”

“I see,” I say. “I don’t think I ever noticed editing before. You should go to, like, film school or something.”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says. “Maybe.”

Suddenly I can imagine Morgan in New York City or LA, going to some fancy college—writing papers about this sort of thing, lounging with trendy kids on a hill, expounding on film in a way that would go over my head. And maybe fitting in there in a way he never does here. It’s almost like I can see it. But then, would that mean he’d leave me behind? Does UT have a film school? Would he even want to go there? Probably not.

With everything being about football this past year, I can barely see farther than the next pass I’m going to catch. But say I get into college, and say I go, and say Morgan’s not there with me? The thought makes my stomach sink. Worse yet, say I’m trapped in Thebes forever, and Morgan’s the one who leaves … I swallow the bile in my throat and push the thought away.

“I don’t know,” he says. We sweep through the kudzu-choked roundabout on Lafayette Street. Another long moment passes. I flap my arms slowly. He takes a deep breath.

“So, Jasmine kissed me,” he says.

The lights coil and snap into a shape I can’t make sense of. What did I decide I shouldn’t forget? Something about how Morgan should have been a girl? But he’s not is the thing, and maybe that thought, that weird thought, I realize with a sickening lurch, was just a perverted, roundabout way of wishing I could keep him forever. If Morgan’s a boy, which he is, then eventually he’ll get a girlfriend and spend more time with her than me. I picture them kissing, their hands under each other’s shirts, their thoughts focused on nothing but each other, and my vision swims.

My balance gives out and I start to sway, and suddenly the only thought in my whole skull is this: maybe beer isn’t actually great.

I let go of Morgan’s chest and go crashing off the bike. Asphalt bites into my arms and I lay on my back, dazed by the spinning streetlights, unable to move.





MORGAN



Pedaling suddenly becomes so easy I shoot forward a few yards and slip my foot to the ground, leaving a streak of old sneaker along the asphalt. I’m confused for a second, but then I hear a hard thud and a groan.

I look over my shoulder to see Eric on his back, rolling and holding himself. I drop my bike on the sidewalk and run to him. Stupid. It was stupid to tell him about the kiss. It was meaningless anyway. Plus, Jasmine thinks I’m gay now, so it meant less than nothing. But after feeling his face on the back of my neck, and his endless stream of compliments, it was kind of a lot. I felt like a cat who’s been pet a little too hard for a little too long, but instead of biting, I dropped a bombshell on my drunk friend. Guilt eats at my insides.

“Hey! Hey.” I stumble to a stop next to him and fall to my knees. “Hey. Oh my god, are you okay? Talk to me.”

Eric doesn’t say anything, just moans and pushes himself to a sitting position. I support his neck and shoulders and look him over, trying to remember what Dad taught me about concussions. I pull Eric’s head into my lap and inspect him. His blond hair drapes across my legs, and his neck is heavy against my thighs. It doesn’t look like he’s bleeding or anything is broken. I take that as a good sign.