Birthday(38)

I grip. I flex my knees, and they burn like a wildfire. Nothing happens at first. I close my eyes and grind my jaw. My feet shift centimeters and I put my back into it. The weight starts to lift and the guys go silent. No more smartass comments now. With shaking knees, I bring my legs, inch by inch, to their full extension. Almost there. None of my muscles want to listen but, and this is the secret, the most important secret: I am not my body.

My body is a machine.

Machines don’t get to say no. They take orders until they break. I don’t care if this machine breaks. I growl and give the order, over and over. And suddenly, though unsurprisingly to me, my back straightens out and my shoulders roll back. The guys start hollering, jumping around, pumping their fists in the air. Their disrespect evaporates like a shallow, scummy puddle.

Three hundred and fifty pounds. Nothing. The barbell drops and the impact rattles the weight room. I slam my chest as the room buzzes around me. Eric runs in and slaps my shoulder, yelling congratulations. I’m an inch taller than him now. I fight my body in that moment—my body that still wants more than a slap on the shoulder—and I win. This machine shuts off when I tell it to. But my heart hurts more than my shoulders or back. I can’t look him in the eyes.

“Excited about tonight?” he says. “Birthday blowout!”

“Right, awesome,” I reply.

There’s a party being thrown by Nate’s older brother in Knoxville and we’re all carpooling after the game. A college party, with college girls. I’ve had to pretend to be excited for weeks. I try to nonchalantly add, “Is Susan coming?”

It’s already hard enough being around them when she invites herself along to hang out with us, her playing with his hair, watching them lace their fingers together, listening to their kissing sounds whenever we go out to a movie.

“No word yet,” he says. “She’s probably planning some big birthday surprise.”

“Girls, right?” I say. What’s that even supposed to mean? But he laughs anyway, or fakes a laugh. I slap his back with one hand and step away. The bell rings.

“See you tonight,” I say. I grab my shirt and head for the door before he can respond.





ERIC



I inhale a protein bar on the way to AP English. I’ve got to keep my energy levels up before the big game tonight. The room’s empty when I get there, nobody but me in a hurry to discuss ancient Greek poetry. Gives me a quiet moment to skim back through the assigned passages from The Odyssey, and I focus on the section we’re reading today, about Tiresias in the underworld.

“Know why I like you?” Susan says.

I blink and look up from my book to find her leaning over me. She smiles, flips her hair, and sits on my desk. I focus on my beautiful girlfriend and all the details of her I’m still learning, like the pattern of the freckles on her shoulders, and can’t think of much to say. My family might be coming apart at the seams and Morgan might be turning into someone I barely recognize, but at least this part of my life is still here, uncomplicated and good.

Susan’s finger tips up my chin.

“Why’s that?” I say.

“Are you a jock? Are you a nerd? Are you a hipster?” She shrugs. “It’s the layers.”

“I try,” I say.

“So I wanted to talk to you about your birthday present…” She leans in for a kiss as the rest of the class files in. Sometimes I kind of suspect Susan likes me more for what I am than who I am, like it’s important for her to be seen with me. But I genuinely like being around her, so I move my lips against hers and let the thought fly away.

“Save it for the backseat,” my English teacher, Mrs. Brown, says. A few of the students give a scandalized, “Ohhhhhhhh.” Susan’s face turns red, but when she drops into her own seat I notice she’s smiling.

Class proceeds. As interested as I am, it is the golden hour after lunch, so it’s hard not to drift off.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I flinch in surprise. The students around me quietly laugh. Susan hisses and I pull my phone out, opening a text from her. I glance at it, and immediately feel my cheeks turn hot.

I think I’m ready, it reads. Tonight? A line of hearts and suggestive smiley faces line the bottom of the message. We’ve talked about it before, but I didn’t want to push. I grin to myself and send back a smiley face. If Susan is ready then I’m ready too.

We could probably go to my house, as long as my parents aren’t whisper-fighting in their room—which is pretty much the norm these days. With both Isaac and Peyton permanently moved out now, maybe it feels like they have less to hide, or maybe things have just gotten that bad. Isaac’s all the way in Seattle, drafted by the Seahawks, and nobody’s heard anything from Peyton in forever—I can’t believe it, but I miss him. It would be nice to have someone at home to distract from Mom and Dad’s constant sniping.

My brain fast-forwards to after tonight’s game, to how it will all go down, when I stop in my tracks, remembering that it would mean bailing on the college party and Morgan and my birthday plans—loose as they are. Barring the third grade chicken pox fiasco, our birthday streak still stands, and it seems like a shame to break it. But, I mean, I can’t tell Susan that. What guy refuses to lose their virginity so he can hang with his friend?