A Kiss in the Dark

by Gina Ciocca

  Coach Simmons’s whistle shrieks through the air, and Joel’s head snaps toward the field. When he turns back to me, his brow is furrowed. “Listen, Mace, I know it’s a lot to digest. So you don’t have to give me an answer right now.” He takes his phone from my lap and stands up. “But think about it, okay?”

  He starts down the steps, telling me he has to go pick up his brothers. At least I think that’s what he says, because I’m only half listening at this point. I’m too busy replaying everything he said before it.

  But as I sit there with the silver locket still resting in my palm, it’s what he didn’t say that’s bothering me the most. And that’s not one word about the kiss in the dark.

  * * *

  In my peripheral vision, someone is approaching my locker. I’m praying it’s not Noah or Joel. I purposely got to school early to avoid bumping into them, and I’m not ready to pick up where I left off with either one.

  Trying to come up with an excuse for why I couldn’t immediately accept Noah’s homecoming invitation was right at the top of my Most Awkward Moments list, or at least a solid top-ten contender. My guard had gone flying back up once I’d suspected he’d lied about kissing me on the football field.

  What I didn’t know was how to explain to Noah that history is repeating itself. And now that Joel’s asked me to homecoming, it’s repeating itself twice.

  I am a moron.

  To my surprise, it’s Ben who stops and leans against the wall of metal doors next to me. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I wanted to apologize if I was kind of a d-bag at Mugsy’s the other day.”

  I shake my head. “No, you were fine. I know things are still weird.”

  “The thing is, Meredith and I talked about everything a long time ago.” He plows ahead like he didn’t even hear me, like he really needs to get something out. “I know where I stand with her, and she knows where she stands with me.” The way the words tumble out of him tells me he’s nervous, which makes me nervous. I didn’t plan to take my windbreaker off, since our school is always freezing. But anticipating whatever Ben is working up to is making me overheat, and I reach for the zipper at my chin. “You and I, though, we never spelled things out. And I meant it when I said we should tal—” My zipper parts, and Ben’s eyes bulge as they fall on my locket. “Where did you get that?”

  “This?” I close my hand over the silver heart. The horrified way he’s looking at it makes me want to hide it, even though it’s way too late. My voice is unusually small when I say, “Joel gave it to me. Because of the one I used to wear. The one my brothers gave me.”

  I sound like I’m making excuses, even though I have no reason to.

  “Where did he get it?” Ben looks furious, and even though I want to ask how I’m supposed to know or why it matters, I simply tell him I don’t know. “He just gave it to you?” Ben’s hand curls into a fist at his side, and I’m half wondering if he’s going to punch a locker. “Like, handed it to you and said, ‘Here you go’?”

  “He gave it to me yesterday”—I wind the chain around my fingertip so tightly that it goes numb—“when he asked me to homecoming.”

  Ben’s expression goes slack, and for a moment he stands there like I’m the one who’s punched something—him. Then a humorless bark of a laugh bursts from his throat.

  “Nice,” he says. “That’s fucking perfect.”

  And then he’s gone, leaving me with the all-too-familiar feeling that I’ve done something very, very wrong, except I have no idea what.

  Fifteen

  JUNIOR YEAR

  It’s strange being a passenger in my own car. But it’s even stranger that I’m leaving the hospital without my necklace and that Ben doesn’t seem to know what to say to me since retrieving me from Joel’s arms in the hospital lobby.

  So after a few minutes, I break the silence. “Thanks again, Ben. I’m really grateful that you stayed with me.”

  His posture relaxes, like he’s relieved I spoke first. “It would have been a lot to handle by yourself.” He sneaks a sideways look at me. “Do you want me to stick around? I mean, instead of going home. I could keep you company for a while.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I asked if you wanted me to.”

  I’m not the kind of person who needs constant company, but the thought of a silent, empty house amplifying the noise inside my head makes me fidget with anxiety.

  “Maybe . . . maybe just until Meredith gets there? We have homemade lasagna,” I offer.

  My mother forbade me to do any cooking while she was gone, though I’m sure I could’ve handled boiling water for mac and cheese without burning the house down. Then again, I also thought I could handle babysitting my brothers for a day, and look how that turned out.

  At any rate, Mom left a whole roasted chicken and a lasagna the size of a picnic bench in the fridge, as if we were about to hibernate for the winter rather than survive two and half days.

  “Worth it.” Ben pumps his fist in victory and then looks over at me. “Kidding. I would’ve come with or without the lasagna.”

  But he still devours a brick-sized piece when we get back to my house. I pick at mine, more nauseous than hungry. I’m not sure if it’s because my stomach has been empty for so long, or because I keep touching the spot on my neck where my locket used to lie, or because every minute feels more ominous each time one passes without a call from my parents.

  Ben follows me into the living room when I give up on trying to enjoy my food. I collapse onto the couch, but he stands next to the coffee table and picks up the oversized sketch pad that Michael left lying there.

  “Did Aaron draw these?” he asks, clearly impressed at the superhero renderings inside.

  “No. Michael’s the artist. They make their own comic books. Michael draws the pictures and they collaborate on the story and dialogue. Half the time they end up fighting and trying to color each other’s faces, though.”

  “Typical. The face coloring, not the drawings. These are really good. I used to do the same thing, making up my own comics. I had one where Superman and Lex Luthor were both exposed to red kryptonite and it turned Superman evil and Lex good. Which probably couldn’t happen because Lex isn’t Kryptonian, but—” He cuts off when he glances up at me, and his brow furrows. “Are you feeling okay?”

  I’m really not. I hate that I’ve made such a huge mess and that Ben squandered the majority of his day helping me clean it. I hate that I had to bail on helping with the homecoming float. I hate myself for not doing a better job of watching my brothers and for losing the gift they gave me, without even noticing.

  And I especially hate that I’m going to cry again.

  I cover my face, because there’s no stopping it. “Why haven’t my parents called yet?” I wail behind my fingers.

  I hear the sketch pad hit the coffee table, and then the cushion next to me dips. Ben gingerly puts his arm around me. “Aw, Macy, don’t be upset. They probably haven’t heard anything yet. And don’t forget they have to call Michael and everyone else who’s worried too. Maybe no news is good news.”

  “But what if it’s not? He fell so hard, and his head was bleeding and he kept saying he couldn’t see. What if no news is bad news?”

  I wipe away the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my hand. Ben dashes into the kitchen and reappears a second later with a tissue, returning to my side as he hands it to me.

  “It was scary as hell, I know,” he says. “But you handled everything like a champ, and Aaron is exactly where he needs to be so he can get better. That’s what you need to concentrate on right now.”

  I nod. When I go to dab my eyes, my bracelet catches my eye. “The boys were right,” I say, holding up my wrist. “I am bad luck.”

  Ben flicks the dangling horn with his fingers. “Maybe it is just a sperm after all.”

  I can’t help cracking a smile.

  “Here,” he says, stretching toward the coffee table. He grabs a
red marker that’s lying next to the sketch pad and uncaps it. “Forget lucky chili peppers. Let me give you something way better.” He takes my hand and holds it so that my knuckles are facing him. The marker tickles my skin as he starts to draw, biting his lip in concentration. When he finishes, he tosses the marker back onto the table, still holding my hand.

  “See?” he says.

  “The Superman S?”

  One side of his mouth turns up. “It’s not an S. On my world, it means ‘hope.’ ”

  I want to tell him he wins everything for that quote. I want to hug him. I think maybe I do hug him. I’m not entirely sure, because the next thing I remember is waking up with my face smooshed against Ben’s shoulder. Only, now we’re not alone.

  Meredith is standing over us, staring at my and Ben’s bodies slumped against each other on the couch. And more specifically, at the spot where my hand is still nestled on top of his.

  Sixteen

  SENIOR YEAR

  I know I can’t avoid Joel and Noah all day. My plan is to talk to Noah at lunch, but he materializes from nowhere as I’m heading to my first class and tugs me into an empty hallway.

  “You got a second?” he says.

  “Listen, Noah, about yesterday—”

  “Yeah, about that. You seemed kinda shaken up by the whole thing, so if I came on too strong, I’m sorry.” He glances up and down the hall. “I wanted to tell you there’s no pressure for homecoming. If it’s easier, you can pretend I never asked.”

  I must look taken aback, because I am. And if I’m being honest, maybe a little relieved, too. “Are you rescinding your invitation?”

  “No, not rescinding. I’d definitely like to go with you. But if you want to go with me, I’ll leave it up to you to say so. Even if it’s as friends, I’m cool with that. Otherwise, we’ll pretend it never happened.”

  “So if we go together, I have to be the one to ask you?”

  Somehow this feels like more pressure, not less.

  Noah takes my hand. “Mace, I’m not gonna lie to you. I like you a lot, but I had my own, uh, less-than-honorable reasons for asking you to homecoming.” He threads his fingers through mine and takes a step closer. “I’d really like to see where this goes. But I don’t want to start off being a prick.”

  I swallow hard. “So you admit you asked me because you’re trying to piss off Joel?”

  “It’s not—it’s not all that simple. But that might’ve been part of it.”

  My lips press into a hard line. “And the kiss?”

  To my own ears, my voice sounds razor-sharp. But Noah doesn’t seem to notice. He brings our joined hands up to his face. “That’s up to you too.” He traces my fingertips over his bottom lip. “I’m willing to try again.”

  That’s so not what I meant. I’m trying to give him a chance to say once and for all if he was the one to kiss me on the football field, and his response is to ooze sex appeal all over the floor. If he’s expecting me to giggle and melt into the linoleum, it’s not going to happen.

  In the split second when I hesitate instead of ripping my hand away from his mouth, I hear the squeak of sneakers at the mouth of the hallway. I turn in time to see Ben’s disgusted face, a second before he bolts out the door.

  * * *

  I head toward the Yearbook Club room with my lunch, because I am so behind on my assignments for the week.

  Definitely not because I’m avoiding anybody.

  My phone starts to ring, and I’m puzzled to see it’s Jadie. When I pick up, she squeals, “I just ran into Fielding. Guess who won the bid to design the homecoming bulletin board.”

  “Oh my God, please say we did.”

  “WE DID!”

  I do a little celebratory jig in the empty hall. Each year, two members of the yearbook staff are chosen as lead decorators of the bulletin board outside the gym, the first thing people see as they enter for homecoming. We had to present our ideas in a report, and Principal Fielding personally chooses the winning concept.

  There’s an extra bounce in my step when I arrive at the empty yearbook room. The first thing I do is pull up the Ridgedale’s Finest page to see what’s worth highlighting. It’s mostly the usual fare: students’ selfies, shots from club meetings and sporting events, groups of friends cheesing for the camera, a few attempts at snaps made to look candid when they’re definitely not.

  A lot of homecoming-centric pics are starting to pop up too. Guys posting “she said yes” photos, girls showing off their bouquets of roses, or in one case, a giant heart made of flower petals in the middle of the hall with “Homecoming?” spelled out with stems and more petals in the center.

  It’s cute, and yet I frown at the screen. I’ve posted to this page tons of times, because I’ve always thought of pictures as a method of preserving the moments you can’t get back, a way to hold on to something beautiful. And I still think I’m right. But after talking to Joel and Noah, I have to wonder about how much of what people share is for attention. And how big the disparity is between what’s real and what passes for reality.

  I plug in my flash drive with a sigh. A second later, my sigh turns into a gasp.

  Somehow, I managed to throw the wrong Cruzer into my bag this morning. Because the folder I clicked has opened into hundreds of tiny scenes from junior year.

  I scroll through silently, my lips parted in awe. It’s amazing how memories can hide in the corners of your mind, like a favorite old pair of shoes waiting to be unearthed from an overstuffed closet. Treasured but forgotten, until they’re stumbled upon again.

  There’s Meredith and me with my brothers at Stone Mountain Park. Some of my first sunset pictures, many of which now hang on my bedroom wall. Joel, mid-leap on the football field, seconds before catching the ball spiraling toward his waiting hands. Jadie in her cheerleading uniform, hands cupped around her mouth, cheering for Tyrell. The promposal at the diner. Ben sitting between my brothers on Aaron’s bed, a guitar across his chest. Ben and Meredith, their cheeks sucked in around their straws in Meredith’s float.

  I stop scrolling when I get to a series of streetlamp-lit photographs taken in the parking lot of Snow in Georgia, the slushie stand where everyone congregates before the weather gets too cold.

  I let the pictures run in slideshow mode, and can’t help but smile as the images flash by. I’ve barely touched alcohol since that night, and for good reason. Since the photos are sorted from oldest to most recent, it’s like watching the night devolve all over again. But as the frames fade in and out, my smile fades too.

  The last pictures of the night are off-center selfies of Joel and me sitting on the hood of his car. My grin is sloppy and unbridled, and both our eyes are bleary. His are bloodshot, almost like he’d been crying.

  I hate him.

  The words ring through my head again, the same way they did right before the blackout on the football field. Something contracts in my stomach. Because as I study the picture again, I’m certain now that I do remember Joel crying—not before we took this picture, but after.

  I let it sink in for a minute, trying to dredge up more details from the sea of booze I drowned them in. There’s so much more that I need to know about that night. I sit perfectly still, afraid the memories will scatter like spooked birds if I move a muscle. I stare for so long that the screen goes dark.

  As I’m about to reach for the mouse, a voice says, “Can we talk for a sec?” and I almost hit the ceiling. Meredith is standing in the doorframe. I do my best to look collected and motion toward the empty chair next to me.

  “Of course. I’m just working on something for yearbook. Grab a seat.”

  Meredith settles into it and crosses her long legs. “So I heard Joel asked you to homecoming.”

  “How did you—” I start to say, but then I realize. “Ben told you.”

  She nods. “Did you accept?”

  “Not yet. He said he wants to make up for what happened last year, but I don’t know.” My hand moves absently t
o the locket Joel gave me. “He’s still adamant that he had nothing to do with the fire.” I look at the floor. “But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “Fire or no fire, you don’t have to justify it to me, Macy. It’s your decision.”

  Okay. That wasn’t the response I expected. Meredith shifts and sits on her hands. It hits me that she’s not acting agitated and aloof the way she did when I cornered her in the courtyard. She seems uncomfortable, nervous about something. “And as far as trying to make up for last year . . . I think Ben is doing the same thing. Which is why I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “First? As in . . . ?” I leave the question open and wait for her to fill in the blank, even though I have a feeling I know what’s coming next.

  “He asked me to homecoming.” Yep, I knew it. There’s an odd heaviness in my chest, like someone punctured my lungs with a pin. “I totally didn’t expect it, but I think he feels bad too, about the way the last one ended, and it sort of happened.” She smooths a piece of hair behind her ear. “But I didn’t want to say yes without talking to you first.”

  “Why is that?”

  She fixes a hard stare on me. “Macy. You’re sure nothing happened between you and Ben last year?”

  The look on Ben’s face when he saw Noah and me in the hall flashes through my mind, and so does the way he reacted to my locket from Joel.

  I think we should talk about what didn’t happen that night, he said.

  And yet he asked Meredith to the dance. It’s the same as saying that the window of opportunity for that conversation is closed, locked, and boarded up. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  “Nothing. I swear.”

  “See, that’s the part I’m not so sure about. Even if it was nothing to you, I think it was something to him.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say softly. “If that’s what you thought, then . . . why is he the one you forgave?”