PURCHASE HERE
16-year-old Declan
I’m going to give up. Abbott has two more minutes… okay maybe five. Five more minutes and then I’m going to leave. I’ll go to the fireworks without him. This is such bullshit. He’s the one who called me and asked to hang out. He does this way too much lately. Asks to hang but then somehow a girl gets involved.
I sigh and glance over at my family’s booth. My parents aren’t against child labor. My siblings and I all had to work in the restaurant, but they also want us to have a life. So when there are events like this – the Founder’s Day celebration for the town – they give us the night off and use other staff so we can go have fun. However, standing guard so that Abbott can suck face with Stacy behind the Fried Dough stand is not my idea of a good time.
I heave in a deep, frustrated breath. The warm night air smells like oil and sugar. My eyes flicker over to the cotton candy stand. Mrs. Jones was notorious for not bringing enough supplies. She is always the first booth to be sold out at these events because she never brings enough flavored sugar mixture. If Abbott took much longer, I’d be denied cotton candy and a decent spot on the beach for the fireworks.
For some reason this revelation makes me curse Stacy, not Abbott. I’ve never been able to get angry at Abbott. But maybe I should start? I sigh and push myself off the metal framed booth. Fuck it. He can find me later. That’s what cell phones are for. Not that I have one. We have two cellphones between four kids and tonight Terra has one and the twins have the other. I lean against the booth again.
But before my shoulders can even sag in defeat, Stacy appears. Her long brown hair, which had been in a ponytail when she disappeared behind the booth, is now loose. And messy. Her brown eyes are glassy and her lipstick, which had been a dark pink and very glossy, was non-existent now. Her lips are red but not from that.
She blushes when she smiles at me. “Hi Deck. Bye Deck.”
She trots off and gets swallowed up by the crowd. A hand hits my shoulder and squeezes and I look over to see Abbott grinning. “Come on. Let’s go grab some cotton candy. It’ll get the scowl off your face.”
“I’m not scowling.” I probably am, but for some reason admitting it would make me feel like I was guilty of something.
He keeps his hand on my shoulder for the first few steps and squeezes it gently before he lets go. Abbott is a touchy-feely guy. Always has been. I think it’s because they maul each other on the ice when they score during hockey games, and Abbott’s been playing hockey since he was two. I had no idea they had teams for toddlers, but they do. When I was two my parents were too busy, and poor, to put me in sports. They were expanding the restaurant my grandparents started, we were living above it, and didn’t have the cash to buy me skates or much of anything. Not that I wanted to play. I don’t know what I wanted to do at two, but it probably wasn’t hockey. I don’t envy Abbott. He gets up most mornings at five to hit the rink or the gym. He has tournaments and games every weekend from October to March. I’m happy running track at school and working at the restaurant with my annoying, but tolerable family. Abbott’s family was not tolerable, which he once told me was why he liked being at the rink so much. And why he also joined the track team part-time and participated in track meets after school when he didn’t have hockey.
As we approach the cotton candy stand, I notice a group of four kids a few grades younger than us walking away with empty hands and frowns. I grit my teeth. Abbott bumps his shoulder with mine and it makes me want to growl at him. “She’s out already.”
Abbott laughs. Laughs! Like me not getting cotton candy is hilarious. When I turn to glare at him he’s grinning. “Your cotton candy addiction is terrifying but fascinating.”
“It’s not an addiction. I can live without it. I don’t eat it day and night or anything,” I reply, feeling overly defensive. “It’s just a treat I enjoy. Like you with your lobster and crab meat rolls with garlic mayo.”
Abbott groans and rubs his non-existent belly. “Yeah… those are so damn good.”
I stop in front of Mrs. Jones. “You’re out?”
“I am,” she replies but before my face can fall, she pulls a giant pink swirled cone wrapped in a see-through bag with her logo on it, from under her counter. “But Abbott pre-paid for one earlier.”
My head spins to him and he winks at me. “I got your back.”
“You sure know how to make up for shit,” I reply and take it from Mrs. Jones.
“You boys enjoy your night,” she says, and we turn and walk through the crowd as I tear open the plastic bag and yank off a big, fluffy piece.
I shove it in my mouth and savor the feeling of it melting on my tongue as I tip the bag to him. He yanks off a smaller piece and pops it in his mouth. “I really shouldn’t. It’s pure sugar and I’ve got training camp starting soon.”
“All the more reason to eat garbage now. You’ll be on nothing but kale and egg whites there,” I remind him. “Where is this one again?”
Abbott goes away every summer for three weeks to different hockey camps. It sucks because I miss him. He’s been my best friend forever, and although I’m not a social recluse, and I have other friends, I find myself spending more and more time with him lately. He gets me. I get him. It’s just easy with Abbott.
“Montreal,” Abbott replies. “The coach of the NHL team there and a bunch of ex-players run it. My dad says it’s a good chance to get noticed. The draft is just two years away.”
“Is that why you made out with Stacy?” I ask when I could and probably should be asking a bunch of other questions. Like is he nervous for the draft? Does he care what team he goes to? Does he have a backup plan if he doesn’t get picked? What college will he go to instead? But no. Instead, I ask about the girl. Because it bugs me. “Because you’re leaving and wanted to hook up with her first?”
“Nah.” Abbott shrugs as I shove more cotton candy into my mouth. “I didn’t care if I ever hooked up with Stacy. But she wanted to hook up with me so… who am I to deny?”
I laugh and he does too as we wander away from the crowd. Without speaking we both turn right. We’re walking down Seaside away from the center of town. Seaside runs parallel to the beach. If we took any of the cross streets we’d be on the sand in a matter of minutes. But we always go to the last street, Porter, and head to the beach there. It’s got a bunch of rocks and the tide runs up and makes a sand bar there. No one really sits there because the fireworks are better viewed from the other end of the beach, since they’re shot off the pier by my family’s restaurant. But we always sit there.
“You don’t deny any girl,” I note as we continue walking, the road narrowing and turning from pavement to dirt. For some reason they never paved Porter. It’s still dirt. It always reminds me of what this town must have been like in 1881 when it was founded. “I’m not judging or anything.”
“Yeah, well you deny too many girls,” Abbott replies and tears off another piece of cotton candy. “Stacy said Kasey likes you. She says you guys text and stuff, but you haven’t made a move.”
“I didn’t know she wanted me to,” I tell him and furrow my brow. “She texts about algebra homework and French assignments.”
“God you are so dense,” Abbott complains and laughs. “Women are smarter than us, dude. They don’t need help with their homework. It’s a clear sign. If she wants help with French, it’s the tongue kind.”
“What?”
“French kissing,” Abbott says, and the toe of my sneaker catches on a piece of the sidewalk and I stumble. Perfect timing. His blue eyes widen and his mouth opens in an O. His tongue is bright pink from the cotton candy. Mine is probably worse. “You do know what French kissing is, right?”
“Of course I do you fucking idiot,” I reply and stand straighter after my almost fall. At least I didn’t drop the cotton candy. Not that there’s much left. I’ve been shoveling into my gob pretty fast. I take another big chunk and pop it in my mouth. “I’ve done it.”
“I hope so,” Abbott says but he still looks confused. The boardwalk to the beach is a few feet away and he doesn’t speak again until we reach it. And then he voice is different. Less upbeat or something. “With who?”
“Who have I kissed?”
“Yeah. With tongue,” Abbott’s voice is still weird. He isn’t looking at me so I can’t really read his face. His eyes are focused on the planks of the board as we climb the small incline to the beach. It’s not odd. The boards are old and uneven and he probably doesn’t want to end up on his ass in the dunes that flank the boardwalk. “I just… you don’t exactly hook up a lot and you’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“That’s a choice,” I reply. “It seems like it’s nothing but drama.”
“True. That’s why I don’t have one,” Abbott replies. “But I still get with chicks. You don’t.”
“I do,” I argue. “I’ve kissed Chelsea at the homecoming dance. And Miranda from the track team and I kissed the whole way back from a meet last year. In the back seat of the bus. It was dark and shit so no one noticed.”
“Why don’t you tell me about these things?” Abbott says, his voice lightening a little. He turns his head and throws me a smile but it isn’t his normal one. Something’s different. Or maybe it’s just the darkness from the barely-there moon that makes it look less jovial.
“I’m not into the locker room brag shit,” I explain. “It feels gross… and disrespectful for the girls.”
“I don’t want the details,” Abbott argued. “And FYI, I don’t do the whole conquest sharing shit that the other guys on the hockey team do. Trust me.”
“I do,” I reply easily. I’ve never doubted Abbott on anything. Besides if he was one of those fucking douches that gave all the private details of a hook-up to anyone and everyone I’d know it because he would have blabbed to me. But he never does. Not even that time I rode my bike to his place last year and he came out of his shed in the backyard by his pool with his shirt off and his swim trunks half off his ass and a girl from his chemistry class panting heavily.
We’ve reached the end of the boardwalk so we pause to kick off our shoes before hitting the sand. There’re clusters of people on the sand a few streets over and the crowds get bigger at the other end of the seven-mile beach, closer to the fireworks. I hop down into the sand and Abbott does the same a minute later. We walk right, even farther from the crowds, towards the rocks.
“Did you like it?” Abbott asks.
“Like what?”
“Kissing girls.”
I let out a huff of air in confusion. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”
We reach the rocks and we both drop our shoes and then climb up onto the biggest rock, which has a smooth flat top big enough for both our asses. My toes can reach the sand when I sit here now. Last year they didn’t. Abbott’s graze the sand but just barely. I shot up in height last year to over six feet. Abbott is still hovering a little under it. But he’s thick and solid looking whereas I look like an overstretched piece of gum. The word lanky might as well be my middle name. Abbott told me to come do some weights with him because just running all the time in track wasn’t going to bulk me up. But I hadn’t done it yet. I felt weird about working out with him for some reason I didn’t get.
I hold up the bag of cotton candy. There’s one chunk left. He shakes his head. I take the chunk and split it in two and hand him half. He smiles and takes it. I pop mine in my mouth and savor it with my eyes closed. Why is this so fucking good? Abbott speaks again. “Okay so I’m guessing you gave Miranda the tongue? Because I saw that kiss on the dance floor with Chelsea at homecoming. It was PG. Disney Channel-type bullshit.”
“Because it was on the dance floor with assholes like you watching,” I retort, and he laughs. “No. I didn’t French kiss Miranda. It was someone else. Before Miranda.”
“I’m so fucking confused,” Abbott declares. “Why not French kiss Miranda if you’d done it before?”
“Why do you care?”
“I didn’t say I cared. I said I was intrigued,” Abbott argues and grins, his perfectly white teeth glinting in the moonlight. He’s lucky he hasn’t lost one in hockey yet. He says he wants to because it gives him ice cred, which is like street cred for hockey players. “I mean I first gave the tongue to a girl in seventh grade and never looked back.”
“Probably because you’re good at it,” I mumble.
“What?”
The first firework explodes and a wave of hoots and claps echoes from somewhere down the beach. We both turn to watch the sky and I figure that, thankfully, this conversation is over. But ten minutes later, halfway through the fireworks, Abbott decides to revisit the topic. “Did you say because I was good at it?”
“Shut up and watch the show.”
“Declan, seriously.” Abbott’s voice is low and pleading, which pulls my focus from the colorful display in the sky. His eyes are laser-focused on me, ignoring the reds and blues and purples of the fireworks exploding in the sky right now. “Do you think you’re a bad kisser?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Watch the fucking fireworks.”
He turns away and tips his head back. As he puts his arms behind him and leans back on his palms, his shoulder bumps mine accidentally. I feel a tingle. The kind of tingle I shouldn’t feel for my best friend. It’s happened before and I ignore it this time like I have in the past.
After about a minute he makes a noise. It’s like this disgruntled groan or something and I turn and find he’s looking at me again. He sits straighter and pulls his arms back into his lap. “You can’t drop a bomb like ‘I’m bad at kissing’ and fucking ignore me.”
“I didn’t say I was bad. I said you must be good.”
“That implies you aren’t good.”
“I had a complaint,” I blurt out, and I can feel my cheeks getting hot and I hate this moment suddenly. “And I am so not going to talk about it with you.”
Abbott’s normally happy, easy-going face is creased with concern. “Who the fuck complained?”
“I am not talking to you about this.”
“Jesus Christ Deck. I’m your best friend,” Abbott says hotly. “Who the hell else will you talk to about this?”
“I won’t talk about it.”
“So, you’re going to do what? Become a priest or something so you never have to play tonsil hockey with a girl again?” He’s kidding, I think, until I look at his face and see his expression is actually serious.
“You know I hate church. I’m not about to join in,” I remind him. “I’m sure I’ll be fine with women. Eventually. Just fuck off okay. This is weird.”
Another firework explodes. It’s pink and white and looks like a flower. I feel like it looks how cotton candy tastes in my mouth, brilliant and gorgeous and fleeting. Suddenly Abbott’s hand is on my knee. Every muscle in my body tenses. “Deck. This is only weird because you’re embarrassed.”
My cheeks get hot again. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Yeah. But I would also tell you about it,” Abbott replies firmly. “I tell you absolutely everything, Deck. If you asked me anything. If you needed help with anything, I’d be there.”
“I know. I just…” I close my eyes. The fireworks light up the inside of my lids. “It was Aspen.”
His hand is gone from my knee so fast the motion ruffles the hem of my shorts like a gust of wind would. “My sister?”
“Yeah. That Aspen. The one and only.”
I open my eyes and he’s gaping at me like I just farted or something. “At the party last year. Robbie Ellis’ party when his parents weren’t home and we played that fucking closet game.”
I can see his brain spinning behind those deep blue eyes. We spun an empty bottle and had to go into the closet for two minutes with whomever it landed on. He went in with a girl from the track team. Aspen spun the bottle and got me. “She said nothing happened.”
“She lied,” I manage to croak out. My throat feels dry suddenly and I wish I’d bought a soda or something. “I said we should just kiss to make it legit. I was kind of kidding but I mean, Aspen is hot, so why not?”
“Fucking gross.”
I ignore him. I said the same to our family friend Jake once when he said my sister was cute. “So, I gave her a kiss. Like a peck, I swear, but suddenly she was… into it and so it kept going and—”
“Stop talking!” Abbott barks harshly and covers his ears. “I do not want to know about Aspen and you.”
“There is no Aspen and me,” I assure him. “No offense. I’m not saying it judgey cause I don’t think less of her for it, but your sister has kissed half the school. I’m not special.”
“Runs in the family,” Abbott replies without looking the least bit offended. A couple more fireworks explode above us. “So, she didn’t like the kiss.”
I nod. “I mean, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t think it would go like that. I just…”
I shrug instead of finishing the sentence because I’m overcome with embarrassment. How do you suck at kissing? I mean, I like doing it. I didn’t actually like doing it with Aspen though so maybe that’s why I sucked? I keep staring into the sky at the fireworks, not really enjoying them, but it’s better than looking at his face. My best friend now knows I kissed his sister and it was terrible. This is not how I expected the night to go. I wish I had more cotton candy.
“Aspen is a drama queen,” Abbott says, and I steal a quick glance over at him. He’s looking up at the display like I am. “I’m sure it wasn’t bad at all and even if it wasn’t great, kissing is a two-person deal. She’s probably the one who sucked.”
I don’t respond because if Aspen Barlowe sucked at kissing you’d think word would get around and people would stop wanting to kiss her. But they don’t. She’s my sister Terra’s best friend and Terra complains a lot about how many guys chat her up just so they can get to know Aspen. She loves her best friend, just hates the shady way guys act. Finn, Logan, and I are thrilled that no guy in our school has tried to hook up with Terra. It means we haven’t had to threaten to murder anyone yet. I don’t know how Abbott handles it.
He leans back on his hands again, which I’m already doing, and his fingertips brush over mine where they’re spread on the rock just behind us. And he leaves them there. Kind of on top of mine. That tingle comes back and my brain tells me to move my hand, but I don’t. The fireworks will be over soon and we’ll both get up anyway. This isn’t a big deal.
“So you’re never going to kiss another girl? With tongue? Because my sister said something stupid and snarky?”
“Oh my God you are not going to let this go!” I pull my hand away from his so I can drop backwards onto the rock. Now I’m lying there, flat on my back. I can barely see the fireworks display as they’re kind of out of my sightline, but I see the glow from them every time they explode.
“Sorry,” Abbott says and then he’s gone. I feel a quick movement and when I crane my neck to see, he’s no longer on the rock. I can only see the top of his dirty blond head. He’s dropped down to the sand with his back against the boulder. I feel guilty. Like I’m being too hard on him and we’re on the verge of a fight. I’ve never fought with Abbott and I don’t want the first one to be about this. So I slide off the rock too and plop my ass down in the sand beside him.
“I’ll kiss, like that, again. One day. I just haven’t had the nerve yet. Or the girl I want to kiss that way, you know?” I mumble, giving in a little because I don’t want a rift between us.
“I don’t know,” Abbott replies. “Because I kiss every girl like that. Sometimes I don’t even really like them, but it’s something to do. And I like that they like me.”
I look over at him, the different colors from the explosions in the sky are illuminating his whole face. Girls love Abbott, which I get. He’s attractive. I mean, you’d have to be blind not to see it. I said that once out loud and my dad chuckled and shook his head and said, “Guys don’t tell other guys they’re good-looking Deck.” And so I haven’t ever said it again. I mean I didn’t actually say it to Abbott. I just agreed with Terra when she said he was cute. He doesn’t need me or anyone else to tell him though. He can tell because girls are always fawning all over him. I get smiles and glances too, but I guess I don’t relish it like he does and I’m not sure why.
“You should practice,” Abbott says out of nowhere. “It will build your confidence.”
“Practice kissing?” I ask and he nods so I laugh. “On what? One of Terra’s old dolls?”
“No genius,” Abbott laughs and shakes his head. “On a real, live person. Someone you trust who will give you an honest critique.”
“The only people I trust are related to me so yeah, that’s a no,” I reply and shift a little against the rock so a pointy bit stops sticking into my back above my left shoulder blade. My hand is palm down on the sand between us and then, before I can move it, he puts his hand on top of it. I figure he’s just shifting position too, but he doesn’t move it so I look at him.
“You trust me, right?”
“Yeah…”
“So?”
“So…”
“Practice on me.”