“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to the treehouse.”
“Because I wanted a change.”
“That’s going to take a lot more than rusty swings and worn-out tire bridges.”
Ben is always saying things like this, things that make me wonder if he’s not joking when he says he’s somewhat crazy. Things that sound like he’s been thinking too much about the tragic state of the world, or smoking some of Mason’s pot.
“I thought I told you you’re not allowed to read that beatnik shit anymore. It makes you too insightful,” I say, pulling him up onto the monkey bars. He perches on one of the bars, then sprawls back across three more. It can’t be comfortable, but he never seems to worry about whether or not he’s going to get hurt by something. He stares up at the quickly-darkening sky for a minute, then suddenly twists to look at me with a brilliant grin.
“‘The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,’” he says.
“You’ve been trying to out-drink my dad again, haven’t you?” I say. He laughs.
“‘The ones that never yawn, or say a commonplace thing,’” he continues, but then abruptly drops his torso down between the bars so he’s held up only by his knees, hooked around one of the bars. “Look, Al, no hands.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say, offering him a hand. He accepts it after a moment and lets me pull him back upright, and finally, he finishes.
“‘…but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see a blue center light pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’’.”
“Sometimes I think you only talk so you can confuse me,” I say. He shakes his head.
“If I wanted to confuse you, there are so many other things I could do,” he says. I snort.
“Like what? Make me do inverse functions? Try to teach me Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number Sixteen?” I say. He shakes his head again.
“No, like this,” he says, and he kisses me. It’s a very brief kiss, lasting no more than five seconds, and I can feel his lips trembling in a terrified, yet still determined way. When he finally pulls back, he stares at me with wide blue eyes that are bigger than the moon. Within a second, he’s slithering between the bars and hitting the ground at a run, leaving me staring after him and rubbing my mouth until it’s numb.
Stop.
Freeze frame.
Pay careful attention to this moment, because this is where it all really starts.
This is the kiss that starts my story.
“Because I wanted a change.”
“That’s going to take a lot more than rusty swings and worn-out tire bridges.”
Ben is always saying things like this, things that make me wonder if he’s not joking when he says he’s somewhat crazy. Things that sound like he’s been thinking too much about the tragic state of the world, or smoking some of Mason’s pot.
“I thought I told you you’re not allowed to read that beatnik shit anymore. It makes you too insightful,” I say, pulling him up onto the monkey bars. He perches on one of the bars, then sprawls back across three more. It can’t be comfortable, but he never seems to worry about whether or not he’s going to get hurt by something. He stares up at the quickly-darkening sky for a minute, then suddenly twists to look at me with a brilliant grin.
“‘The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,’” he says.
“You’ve been trying to out-drink my dad again, haven’t you?” I say. He laughs.
“‘The ones that never yawn, or say a commonplace thing,’” he continues, but then abruptly drops his torso down between the bars so he’s held up only by his knees, hooked around one of the bars. “Look, Al, no hands.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say, offering him a hand. He accepts it after a moment and lets me pull him back upright, and finally, he finishes.
“‘…but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see a blue center light pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’’.”
“Sometimes I think you only talk so you can confuse me,” I say. He shakes his head.
“If I wanted to confuse you, there are so many other things I could do,” he says. I snort.
“Like what? Make me do inverse functions? Try to teach me Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number Sixteen?” I say. He shakes his head again.
“No, like this,” he says, and he kisses me. It’s a very brief kiss, lasting no more than five seconds, and I can feel his lips trembling in a terrified, yet still determined way. When he finally pulls back, he stares at me with wide blue eyes that are bigger than the moon. Within a second, he’s slithering between the bars and hitting the ground at a run, leaving me staring after him and rubbing my mouth until it’s numb.
Stop.
Freeze frame.
Pay careful attention to this moment, because this is where it all really starts.
This is the kiss that starts my story.