1
JERICHO
EIGHTH GRADE
Isaw him for the first time when I was thirteen years old.
He was a vision, twirling and spinning through his front yard, his black hair rustling in the wind. The humid air tightened my chest and made it hard to breathe, the small puffs of air passing my lips little more than gasps of oxygen. He turned towards me, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the new kid moving in next door to his family. I lifted my hand in an awkward wave. I’m not sure what reaction I expected, maybe a wave back or for him to introduce himself, but he promptly turned his back to me and ran inside his house. The loud echoing of the door meeting the frame felt so much louder in the silence of the street.
I let my hand fall, the appendage dangling uselessly at my side and my heart thumping erratically in my chest.
“Come on sweetheart, we have to get everything moved in before the storm comes. I don’t want these boxes to get wet.” My mom calls out to me from the back passenger side door. I quickly disregard the boy from next door and help her and my dad carry boxes in until my arms are sore and thrumming with my pulse. Our house is nicer than the last one we were in. The red brick finish on the outside matches the rest of thehouses in the neighborhood, but by the time my mom is done decorating the front porch, I’ll be able to find my way home easily.
When my dad brings in the last box, dropping it unceremoniously onto the linoleum floor, he heaves a deep breath and looks at me. Coming over and rustling my short hair, he sits beside me on the couch. Boxes are strung out across the floor, random labels andmisc.written in quick letters across the brown cardboard.
I’m used to moving with my parents, my dad’s job can upend my whole life at any point. It’s not his fault, he followed in his dad’s footsteps and joined the military. Exactly as I’m expected to do. Every man in our family has joined some branch of the military and I don’t think I’m getting the choice when I turn eighteen.
It’s not as simple as saying I want to go to college and do something different. Instead, I’ll be expected to put my life on the line for a country that sends my dad off every other year to fight a battle against an enemy I don’t even understand. The times he spends with us feel like a casket, slowly being buried underground and throwing handfuls of dirt on us until we’re completely covered.
He leaves for his next deployment soon. I’m not sure how soon since he can’t discuss those details with us. Or maybe he chooses not to. But the way he and my mom are acting, I know it’s coming The whispers when they think I’ve gone to bed. The extra love between them, and towards me. I have time to prepare, but even if I had all the time in the world it wouldn’t be enough. I’ll always want one more hug, one moreI love you,one more dinner where he sits at the head of the table and regales me with funny stories of him and his brothers when he was younger.
“How you doing, son?” He asks, leaning his head over on my shoulder. I can feel the short tendrils of his hair tickling mycheek. He has to keep it buzzed short for work so I do the same thing. I want to be like him, in any way that I possibly can.
“I’m fine.” It’s my standard response when he or my mom ask me about my feelings. I don’t want to burden them any more than I already have to. I do my best to give them an easy life. I do my homework assignments on time. I learn everything I can so they don’t have to worry about teaching it to me. I stay quiet and don’t talk back.
Sometimes I picture packing us up in my old toy truck and driving us away from everything, giving them the worry free life they so clearly desire.
“Go unpack your stuff in your room, we’re ordering pizza for dinner.” My joy is immediate, pizza means sitting on the couch and watching movies together. It’s one of my favorite things that we do together as a family.
“Okay!” I exclaim, standing up and rushing around the edge of our couch.
“Slow down!” My mom hollers from in the kitchen and I obey, slowing my steps to a brisk walk and I hear my dad chuckle from his spot on the couch.
I open the door to my bedroom, the sign on it artfully crafted in my mom’s handwriting to proclaimJericho’s Roomin bright orange, with flames dancing across the bottom of the words.
The bare space is bland, white walls with sheer curtains hanging, barely covering up my windows and offering any privacy. My bed is pressed against the wall to my right, my blue sheets and comforter waiting for me to put it on there. Boxes of my stuff are neatly stacked on the other wall beside the closet. That’ll be the first thing I do after I make my bed.
Thunder rumbles outside, the loud sound shaking the windows and a smile breaks across my face. Storms are my favorite, especially the loud ones with lots of lightning, brightening the sky until it looks like an expensive painting
I rush across my room, my sock covered feet sliding against the hardwood floor. I wrench the translucent curtains back and stare outside. My window faces the other house, not the backyard. I’m not sure what I expected, but a rush of disappointment floods my body. I could go to the back door and watch the storm, but I know I need to finish putting everything up first before I can enjoy anything else.
A flash of color catches my eye. I lean closer to the window to get a better look, my breath fogging the glass when I have my nose pressed against it. The same boy from earlier is in his room, or what I’m assuming is his room. I can barely make out anything besides a comforter laying across the floor and a mess of books on a table. It looks messy, and how he’s able to walk around it without adjusting anything prickles my skin.
He’s changed, the clothes he had on earlier were darker, black, I think. What he has on is not black anymore. It’s bright pink, almost an eyesore. But when I see his dark hair and think of his furrowed eyebrows, that feeling from earlier comes back to my chest. A too tight feeling that I don’t understand and can’t put into words.
I stare at him through my window, knowing it’s wrong, but I can’t stop it. The voice in my brain tells me that if I look away from him now I’ll miss something. Something major and life altering. Something I'll never get back.
So I watch him. I watch him as he twirls through his room, similar to what he was doing in his front yard. The flow of his arms as they follow whatever music he is listening to. The slow movements and dramatic dips and I’m hypnotized.
His head turns sharply, his eyes catching on mine and I’m not quick enough to hide. I’m not ashamed that he caught me watching him. He deserves to be watched, to be revered with the way his movements flow. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Not even the dancers I’ve seen on TV can move the way he does.
His lips turn up, a slight smile taking his face and a sassy wave before he walks over to his window and closes his blinds until the only thing staring back at me is a black abyss.
The thunderstorm continues to rage on, the sheets of water pounding into the ground and ricocheting off my window. A loudcrackechoes across the space between our two houses, shaking the foundation and ruining whatever I knew about myself before I saw him.
“Sweetheart! Are you almost done putting your things away?” My mom calls to me, and the heady feelings promptly disappear as I realize I abandoned my responsibilities to stare at a boy. An ache starts in the base of my rib cage, the oxygen I’m inhaling feels more like nails cutting into my soft tissue rather than one of the main things I need to survive.
“Almost!” I say loud enough I hope she can hear me and doesn’t come to check on me. If she caught me I’m not sure if I would see disappointment or curiosity on her face. And I don’t know which one of those scares me more. The fear of letting down my parents, or having to explain that the boy next door caught my attention.
