by David Kummer
With two beers in hand, I navigated my way through the crowd of bodies and emerged onto the familiar back porch. There were only a few people out here. One couple made out to my left. Two boys stood just ahead, leaning on the railing and chatting, like my father and Jed would’ve done. Maybe these were two old-souls. I turned to my right, where I knew a bench rested against the wall, but even there I found someone. One girl, dark hair in a bun, a pale crop-top that accentuated her darker skin. She stared off into the distance, a lonely kind of way. I assumed that meant “don’t talk to me.”
For a moment, I thought about going back inside. But the air out here felt so nice, so cool on my skin. Not at all like the heat waves pulsing inside, the dank stench of spilled beer and body odor. I even enjoyed this peaceful darkness, unlike the throbbing lights and sexualized atmosphere of every room inside. So I made a move. I sat down next to the strikingly beautiful girl.
She turned to me and smiled, just a little. I could tell she had an incredible smile. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a face like that. The kind where you just know every inch of her is incredibly gorgeous, even if you don’t look at her body. Just that face. That’s all it took. A piece of wallpaper had been ripped away from inside, and now I took my chance.
“Hey.” I stuck out my hand. Jesus Christ, a handshake? Is this a job interview?
The girl, to her credit, glossed over this awkwardness and shook with a soft, gentle grip. “Hey. I think I recognize you. What’s your name?”
It took me a moment. Even her voice just floored me, especially sitting this close to her. But I finally said, “Hudson. You?”
“Layla.”
Something about the way she said that, I instantly wanted to lean over and kiss her. I figured, however, that this might border on sexual assault and definitely wouldn’t make for a good first impression. So I just tried to play it cool, tried to ignore the squelching sounds that emanated from the other side of the porch.
“You mind if I… sit here?”
Layla’s almond-colored eyes sparkled. “You already are.”
“Right. That.” I grinned, sheepish. At that point, I would usually recoil into my turtle shell and escape down the hill. But I resisted this urge. “Don’t really enjoy… all that, so…” I gestured a hand at the cabin, at the blaring music, at the sea of grinding bodies beyond the wall.
“Me either. Not really my scene, y’know.” She shrugged and granted me another one of those cute half-smiles.
In the moment, that expression sounded like a really witty statement and only attracted me even more. I wanted to press on, get a real, wide smile out of her. So I launched into one of my many stories about the cabin. I told her about the time I got black-out drunk, wandered down to the creek, and just laid there for a while. She didn’t interrupt me, didn’t even laugh really, but her lips did part and show off her flawless teeth.
“So you know the guy?” Layla nodded toward the cabin. “Whose party this is?”
“Yeah. We’re good friends.” All the air deflated inside of me. My chest shrunk a solid inch. I tried not to sound like it, but I assumed this meant the end of my chances. Every time a girl asked me about Mason, that meant she was into Mason. I prepared myself for the usual, “he’s taken” apology, and then I would make my graceful exit to the creek. Alone.
“So… is he gonna miss you?” Her grin shifted a little, something more devilish. Layla went on in a teasing sort of tone, “If you’re… gone for a bit?”
“Don’t think he even knows I’m out here,” I answered, leaning closer. That sounded like a good answer. Should I put my hand on her knee or something now? Kiss her?
Layla, thankfully, took the reins at that point. Maybe she sensed that I was gonna fall on my face or maybe she was just the kind of girl who liked to take charge. Either way, I didn’t care in that moment. I felt wildly magnetized to her, more than I had to any girl in a long time.
“You wanna show me that creek from your story?” she said in almost a whisper, tugging on the bottom of my shirt. “I’m not quite drunk, but it still sounds nice.”
“Absolutely.” I stood up right away. Together, we moved off the porch, into the trees.
* * *
The creek was nothing impressive, especially not at night. There really wasn’t much to see in the daytime, just an inch or two of water that bubbles over the stones and pebbles. Sometimes I’d catch sight of a frog or a snake down there, but usually at night just crickets. And tons of them. Their constant chatter overwhelmed the brain until you learn to tune it out.
Layla followed close behind me as we moved through the trees. Down a gentle, sloping hill, we held onto tree branches for balance and shuddered anytime something brushed against our legs. Snakes are cool-looking and all, but I’ve never liked them. Layla didn’t mention anything specific, but I could only imagine she felt the same way.
We reached the creek and stopped dead. The quiet, trickling water and those chirping insects were the only noises. I glanced upward, trying to glimpse the moon and stars through the treetop canopy, but wasn’t able to. When I turned back to Layla, she’d stepped closer. Her hand touched my hip and then my back. I pushed against her, my fingers on the bare skin of her stomach and sides, feeling just above her skirt,
“There’s just something about you…” she said, biting her lip now. God, that killed me. “What’d you say your name is again?”
“Hudson.” I reached up with one hand and brushed her cheek, her collarbone. “But it doesn’t really matter.”
“Dunno.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. It had an edge, where she sounded almost out of breath, but I recognized it as desire. That really got me. I didn’t think I’d ever had somebody so beautiful seem so genuinely into me with such passion. “Maybe… I’ll need it later.”
Then we kissed. I couldn’t say who started it and to be honest I didn’t think much about the kiss at all. Just that my lips were wet all of a sudden and I felt a different tongue in my mouth. I realized, at that moment, how awkward it really is to kiss somebody. Layla wasn’t my first, not by any means. I mean, I’d had sex before. Just not a ton. And not a ton of girlfriends, either.
“I want you so bad,” she murmured, pulling off her crop top in a swift, seductive motion.
It caught on a branch and hung just above her. I smirked, my confidence building. She kissed me again, relentlessly, and tried to undo my pants. I had to help out with that and sat down on a grassy area. In the meantime, she unclasped her bra. Then she pounced on me.
Laying there together, the grass sticking to our sweaty backs and bare flesh, Layla attacked my lips over and over, ran her hands across my entire body. I tried to return the favor but kept jerking around anytime a sharp rock dug into my shoulder blades or ankles. She would chuckle and wait for me to reposition, then go at it again with the foreplay.
We moved around for maybe ten minutes, at most, from the time her bra dropped to the moment she reclasped it. It just happened that way. Before we actually did anything, before I even took her underwear off, she just kind of… tossed herself beside me on the ground. We kissed for another minute or two, but she stopped pushing forward, and I didn’t take control. Once I realized my mistake, I just didn’t feel like correcting it. Sex is weird in that way, I guess. Sometimes it happens, and then sometimes the moment just dies.
Our candle flickered and then reduced itself to melted wax. Layla stood up and redressed, mumbling something apologetic. I tried to answer, but my jaw refused to budge. She did a kind of half-wave as she left, back toward the cabin. I watched her silhouette disappear into the dark trees, moving into those sparkling lights up on the hill. The cabin party still raged on. I could almost hear the music, if I really tried.
It was a shame how things ended with Layla. I wasn’t sure I could even label our encounter “things.” For a brief moment of time, maybe half an hour total, we shared a place in the world. We explored the creek bed, we tasted each other, and we danced on the ground. T
hen she vanished. I knew I’d see her again, of course. In Little Rush, you always see everyone. But I didn’t expect us to ever speak or even acknowledge each other again. That’s the way things were. A lost chance. An empty ending. I knew I’d have to tell Mason and Willow eventually. God, that would be embarrassing.
A part of me understood that I could’ve forced her into it. I was stronger, in a position of power, and I could’ve gone through with it. I almost wanted to, for a moment. The alcohol buzzing inside, hot blood coursing through me. But I shook the thought away almost as quickly. That wasn’t me. Not even in this drunken state. Layla deserved better than that. Whatever we had, it’d simply sizzled out, and that was something I’d have to live with. I wasn’t a forceful person. I wasn’t bad… But then again, would a good person even have the thought?
I remained in that patch of grass, wearing only my boxers, for probably an hour. The effects of the alcohol slowly dripped away. It was a miserable experience to go through, the whole process of sobering in silence. I preferred sleeping it off. But emerging from a drunken stupor, inch by inch, with my back covered in grass and sexed-up blood coursing through my veins, was really a miserable experience.
Jesus Christ, I wish I had a cigarette.
I didn’t want to go back to the cabin, of course. It really wasn’t for me. I told myself I’d head up soon to help clean and all, but I didn’t. Not for an hour or so. Maybe longer, I couldn’t be sure. I knew the party lights were still sparkling when I rolled onto my stomach. Without knowing why, I planted my face in the grass, wet with dew. I closed my eyes then and let the sounds of the forest really consume my brain. I tried to connect with the natural world around me as much as possible. I really did. But my mind kept returning to the topic I hated.
Sometimes I was lonely. And sometimes I mistook this decrepit emotion for wanting love.
I wasn’t the kind of guy to sit around and ponder “love,” whatever that really meant. But for that brief stint, laying naked in the forest, I couldn’t stop. I came to some pretty profound revelations that night but knew they’d slip away the next morning. All I had were the facts.
I’d never had a serious girlfriend or even a really hot girl like Layla show interest in me. In the end, she hadn’t been any different. All of them, even the ugly ones, they got to know me, and that was the problem. Once they understood a bit of me, they ran away. At this point, I couldn’t blame them.
Bruce, though… Bruce Michaels never had a problem with girls. He could have any girl he wanted, because everyone wanted him. In the grass, in the dark, I thought about him. In his prime, he’d probably fucked anybody he wanted. Probably still did, I considered. All sorts of hot and electric and freaky girls.
If I could be more like him, I told myself, dreaming. If only I looked like him.
In the end, I just wanted recognition. I wanted somebody to appreciate me on a deeper level. Somebody who loved the weird spots of my body and the flaws in my character. Somebody who made me feel a little less fucking suicidal.
It’s this town, I convinced myself, breathing in the fumes of the creek and the taste of the dirt. There’s nobody here for me. Nothing here. It just isn’t for me. The girls, the whole town. If I can just get out of here, maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe I’ll be okay.
18
Willow
I heard the scuffle from the other side of the room. I’d just poured vodka and pineapple juice into a thermos and turned away from the alcohol table. It started with some “oohs” and “get him!” but already I had a sinking feeling. Something like this could ruin the whole night.
I surveyed the scene quickly, tried to peer through the slowly expanding crowd of people. The funny thing about fights at parties is that everybody knows and also everybody is unaware. They all stared on, gawking, probably hoping for some punches or a headlock. Something exciting, full of action. But this same crowd of teenagers kept dancing, swaying, talking to their partners. Like they existed in two worlds at once.
“You son of a bitch!” Mason roared from somewhere in their midst.
That did it for me. I sprinted toward the crowd and started shoving my way through them. Sweaty arms and chests, hand-locked lovers, it all parted. I scratched and clawed my way to the front of the pack and saw them.
Mason, drenched in sweat, cheeks red, stood opposite the boy from earlier, Blough. Nobody ever called him by his first name, for whatever reason. Probably because last names carry more significance when your dad owns a third of the businesses on Main Street. They eyed each other dangerously, each with clenched fists. I held my breath for a moment. I probably should have rushed in, pulled Mason away, but something stopped me.
I’d never seen him this upset, this agitated. Especially not at somebody from our high school. I didn’t understand. And I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Maybe a part of me wished Hudson would come running out and join the fight, or at least stop it. I didn’t feel comfortable doing so. And I should’ve, really. I could hit harder than any of these bystanders, especially Hudson. But I didn’t get involved.
“Do it!” Blough stepped forward, puffing out his chest.
They were both really tan and you could tell they worked to keep up appearances. I think one of the girls behind me got really turned on by the two “models” fighting, because she kept moaning a little and taking shallow breaths. Swear to god, people are weird.
“I’ll break your fucking neck,” Mason shouted. He shoved him, not hard but enough to move them both a bit.
Blough just grinned, crossed his arms. Not a great defensive move, but I guess he didn’t expect things to escalate much farther. “Get outta here, pretty boy. You don’t want a fight.”
Mason narrowed his eyes. “You don’t fight without your group of retards, do you?”
“Mason!” I exclaimed, my eyes wide. I’d definitely never heard him call someone that before, not in a few years. I felt a tinge of anger myself.
He didn’t seem to hear me. He only scowled. Blough was sneering, arms at his sides now and fists clenched again.
“Don’t test me,” he breathed.
Mason went on. “Wanna call your mom? She’s probably fucking your neighbor’s brains out as we speak. What an ugly old bitch.”
Blough shoved then, almost enough to topple Mason. Everybody oohed, and I caught my breath. Then Mason pushed back, dug his heels in. The two were locked for a moment, each wrestling for a better position, clawing. The pulsating music hadn’t stopped. It made a weird soundtrack for the fight. The lights dazzling us, the smell of cheap beer and spilled booze. For a moment, I took in the whole scene at once like a single photograph. Appreciated it. Wild, youthful fun. Then the glass of my picture shattered.
Blough landed a punch to Mason’s midsection. He doubled over, coughing, out of breath. I lost my own at the sight. For just a split second, he stood defenseless. I expected this blow to end the fight. It didn’t.
Just as the beat dropped in some awful techno song, Blough struck again. He caught Mason right above the eye with a sideways swing and then again on the jaw with a nasty uppercut. Mason flew into the air —I swear he did— and then dropped to the ground on his back. I could already see the blood above his eyebrow. The crowd shrieked, backed away from the body.
“Oh my god!” I leapt forward and knelt beside him. He groaned and didn’t open his eyes. It didn’t look as bad as I thought, but it would all probably bruise. This would be some tough explaining to his dad.
“Fucking cunt,” Blough spat. I didn’t know if it was directed at me or Mason or both. Then he called, “Let’s get outta here,” and stormed toward the front door with his group of stuck-ups.
The rest of the crowd waited for a few moments, watching me kneel beside Mason. I finally glanced up and yelled for them to go. Once, twice, maybe three times, I lambasted them. “Party’s over!” or something along those lines. All a blur after that. The hatred boiling inside me, the anxiety over Mason’s injuries. Everything felt
clouded, foggy.
People started to filter out, taking beers with them as they went. I lashed out at a few, but it didn’t matter. I was preoccupied. It took me a few minutes, but I eventually gathered Mason, leaning heavily against me, and we trudged to the back porch. He groaned with every step, and his head slouched to one side. When we reached the colder air outside, he took a deep breath and winced.
“Get outta here,” I snapped at the stragglers on the back porch. One couple was making out to the left and two guys were chatting against the railing. They all lowered their heads and shuffled past me. One of them, carrying about seven beers, tried to sneak by. I reached out a hand, grabbed his shirt. “Leave them or I swear to god I’ll castrate you.”
I don’t think he knew what it meant, but my tone managed to explain. He set them on a bench and shuffled off the porch, back around the house. They would all be gone soon, I hoped. But I did question where Hudson had wandered off to. Maybe he’d left. He certainly hadn’t been inside, nor out here, and despite his best attempts I didn’t think he enjoyed the party that much.
Mason plopped into a deck chair and leaned his head back. I ran back inside, cursed at some remaining people, then located a paper towel roll and glass of water. Once I handed those to Mason, I took a seat beside him. He started to dab at the cut above his eye. I just fidgeted with one of the rips in my jeans. He didn’t say a word, not a thank you, not an explanation. I mumbled something about “I thought you stopped calling people the r-word,” and he sort of mumbled an apology. But besides that, no words were spoken. We just sat there for a while, the sweat drying on our bodies, absorbing the chilled night like a refreshing drink.
“What happened in there?” I asked finally. I turned to him. I couldn’t see well in the dark, but the moon offered just enough light. There were tears on his cheeks, I was pretty sure. “You don’t talk like that, and you never… fight.”