I remember this game.
And the night that followed.
Two weeks before my eighteenth birthday. My last year of high school. I refused to go off to college as a virgin, and I wasn’t about to lose it to some girl just because it would be easier. No. Intent on cherry popping, I set my sights on Caleb from math class and didn’t look back.
Bogey fists my shirt and clenches tight enough to startle me. “Look. Listen.”
The awful vortex is back, but only briefly, bringing us high into the bleachers to hover over a group of students. They sit in a tight clutch, away from the preppy kids I usually hung out with. These are nerds. The robotics team, the mathletes, some theater kids. A hodgepodge of rejects I never had time for.
All but one.
Caleb sits hunched and pink-cheeked in the center of the group. The conversation seems to be revolving around him. He looks just as I remember. Straw-blond hair swept away from an angular face. Grayish-blue eyes. Big. Expressive. Full of excitement over the smallest things. Glossy pink lips, shining and sticky sweet with the strawberry Chapstick he favored.
This is the worst time to get a boner. I hope Bogey doesn’t notice.
“Why do you even like him? He’s such an ass,” says a brunette with a mop of frizzy curls and a mole on her upper lip. I think she was Caleb’s best friend. I’m not sure. I ignored most of his friends.
“Max?” Caleb asks. His voice is just as I remember it, a clear alto, maybe a little high for a man and always full of enthusiasm. “Um, hello. Have youseenhim?”
I preen a bit at this praise. Even back then, I worked hard on my physique.
The girl rolls her eyes. “Yeah, we’ve allseenhim. Hard not to the way he takes up all the space in the hallways, knocking people around with those stupid shoulders. But looks aren’t everything.”
“I know that.” Caleb glances at his feet. “But it’s not like I have a ton of options. There are only so many guys who like other guys around. Besides, Max likes me.”
“Are you kidding? Max Scrooge doesn’t like anyone.”
“That’s not true. He likes me. He said so.”
I didn’t say that. Did I say that? I told him how much I liked his mouth, but that’s different. Caleb was the right guy at the right time, no more, no less. Sure, I could have broadened my search, found someone better to tear up the old V-card with, but Caleb was available and good enough. Me, on the other hand? I was a great catch. Caleb couldn’t have done any better. Why is his friend ragging on him when she should have been happy for him instead?
They lean their heads in close together, whispering in low voices, but somehow, I can still hear them crystal clear. The rest of the friend group isn’t paying them any attention anymore, watching the marching band and chattering among themselves.
“Have you kissed him?” she asks.
Caleb’s cheeks color scarlet, giving away our secrets. We’d done a lot more than kissing. All that was left was the big bang, if you get my meaning.
“I may have kissed him, yes, in quite a few places.” Caleb giggles as the girl’s jaw falls open.
“Whoa, okay, Caleb Michael Wilkerson, you’ve been holding out on your bestie.” She nudges his shoulder playfully and grins. “Tell me everything!”
I’m eagerly anticipating Caleb’s response, but their animated conversation fades away. Bogey directs my attention back to the field. The band finishes playing, the cheerleaders clear to the sidelines, and the teams come barreling back out.
Well, if I can’t eavesdrop anymore, I might as well search for myself. The young, cocky version of me that doesn’t know it yet, but is about to get properly laid for the first time behind these very bleachers tonight. What a stud. There he is, in our school colors, blue and yellow, fists pumping in the air, ready to kick ass and take names. Atta boy.
Bogey grips the back of my head, and I startle. His fingers are freezing, bony, and hard as steel. He turns my face to his.
Lead fills my chest. My spine quakes. The fear comes racing back. This isn’t a happy waltz down memory lane. We’re here for a reason, and something tells me I’m not going to like it. Maybe it’s Bogey’s face telling me that. His misshapen, weird, shadowed, melty face. I can hardly look at it, though I know better than to cringe away. That would only make things worse.
He opens his mouth, and I forget I shouldn’t cringe. I startle back. Worms flail over his lips as he rasps. “Prepare for what’s to follow!”
8
Max
The game vanishesas a nauseating maelstrom of swirling wind grips me and throws me to the orange clay ground beneath the bleachers. I catch myself hard, my palms scraping raw.
It’s night. Pitch black. Cicadas howl their mating call in the distant trees.
