I set down the glass of milk gently so as not to make any noise. In the living room, I scan a gallery wall of pictures of our family. “She needs to know”; I hear the memory of my mom’s shrill words. I replay the dreams of the car crash, the ones that had morphed into something more, something real, something to do with Matt.
Our photographs look like those of any happy family. I lean in to study a group of pictures from when I was in seventh grade. There is a close-up shot of me smiling from the stage of our winter choir concert. I have a bumpy complexion, not unusual for a seventh-grader, but by my fourteenth birthday, just over six months later, I look like the fresh-faced “after” picture of a teen acne commercial. I had always thought that I’d just gotten really lucky in the puberty lottery, but the shift in perspective makes me look harder. Any clue. Any confirmation.
And then it’s there. At least I think that it is. I take the first photograph off the wall and squint hard at it. On the right side of my neck, there appears to be a slight discoloration, a shade darker than my skin. A blotch that could nearly be mistaken for a shadow. I could be imagining it, but I really don’t think that I am. Not this time.
I yank another photograph off the wall and I see it, in a picture of me where I can’t be any older than fourth grade. I have a very faint birthmark. I feel a sensation like someone sliding an ice cube down my back as I walk, nearly in a trance, to the bathroom mirror, turn my chin to the side, and peer closely at a perfect patch of skin on my neck with not the faintest mark to be seen no matter how hard I look.
“Tell her, Peter. This is on you.”
Jenny says I can’t go to high school without having had my first kiss. I don’t even know if I like Jenny. Mom says friendships will change as I get older and I think she’s talking about Jenny. She had the first boy-girl party when we were in fifth grade. Mom wasn’t a huge fan of that idea and wouldn’t let me go. Things are different now, though, because I’m thirteen.
I’m thirteen and there’s a boy in my room. Not just any boy, either. Isaiah Fox. That’s his real name. He’s only in eighth grade and he already sounds like a movie star.
I’m not stupid. I know he doesn’t want to study geometry. If he did, I don’t think he would have shut my door when he came in. Or sat on my bed.
It’s entirely possible that I’ll have a heart attack in the next five minutes.
He’s sitting on the foot of my bed looking exactly like a boy named Isaiah Fox should. Honey-brown skin. Eyes the color of dark chocolate. Hair cut thick and close to his scalp.
Rain is splattering against my bedroom window, drowning out the sound of the ocean.
Isaiah’s missing the ragged rope bracelet that he wears on his right wrist, the one I’ve always admired, but that’s because he tied it around my wrist yesterday during fourth period.
I tug on the frayed bottom edge of my shorts, wishing that Jenny hadn’t convinced me to cut an inch off them, since they’ve started to ride up into my crotch.
“I don’t bite,” says Isaiah, patting the spot beside him. I sit down but leave a small space between my leg and his. “Cool room.” He makes a show of looking around, even staring up at the ceiling fan. Given that this is probably the least cool part of a not very cool room, I’m starting to suspect that he might be nervous too.
This revelation does me no good and I just stare at my lap.
Over the course of the school year, Isaiah and I have said very little to each other in terms of actual, out-loud words. We pass notes in class. Mainly games of tic-tac-toe, made-up mazes, and hangman. In groups, we stand near each other. Sometimes he pokes me, or steals one of my books and makes me pretend-wrestle him to get it back. Then there was the one time he called me and I had to tell him dinner was ready even though I’d already eaten, because the silence on the line was so deafening, it made my skin crawl.
Still, it is physically impossible for me to be anywhere on my school’s campus without keeping one eye out for Isaiah. And now here he is, in my room, because he said we should study for our geometry test together.
“I’ll get my book out,” I say.
He grabs my wrist before I can stand. “My sister taught me how to tell fortunes,” he says. I stare at my hand cradled in his larger one. “Want me to tell yours?”
Our hands are touching, our hands are touching, our hands are touching.
“Sure.” I tentatively look up and meet his eyes. Dead on. No pretending that we aren’t two inches away from each other’s faces. His breath smells like cookies.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” I say back.
And that’s when it happens. He kisses me. His lips press into mine and his tongue is cool and rough as it wiggles its way in a circle around my own. He is still holding my hand, but neither of us moves anything but our mouths. And I’m thinking this is actually kind of fun. Weird, but fun.
Then the door behind me flies open. “What is this door doing shut?” My mom’s voice has a You’re in trouble! edge.
I startle. Who can blame me? My mom has just walked in on my first kiss, but it all happens too fast. I make a strange choking noise that comes out as a snort while at the same time clamping down with my teeth and pulling away.
“Ouch!” Isaiah jerks back, his fingertips pressed to a red spot on his lip. On his chin is a disgusting, gooey wad of saliva that I’m pretty sure was hocked from my throat as a result of the great snorting fiasco.
“Lake Marianne Devereaux.” The edge remains in her voice as she enunciates each syllable in my name. “What do you think you’re doing in here?”
Isaiah has stood up. He’s wiping his mouth and then he swipes his fingers through his hair. His shirt rides up so that Mom and I both get a view of his stomach peeking over the edge of exposed boxer shorts.
Congratulations to me, because I must be setting a world record for the reddest face in the history of the planet.
“I’d better be going.” Isaiah angles his body so that he doesn’t touch me when he passes on his way out. “I rode my bike.”
Mom slides over to let him past without a word. It’s raining—pouring, actually—and she doesn’t even offer him a ride. I guess that’s because his house is only a couple of blocks away, but still.
“Sit back down, young lady.”
Hot tears are already soaking my cheeks and I’m not entirely sure whether they started before Isaiah left or after. “Screw you.” I shove past her.
I have never, ever spoken to her that way and I feel feverish with shame. The shame only fuels me, though. I want to get away from her, from this house, from myself if I could.
“Are you okay?” My brother, whose legs are slung over one arm of the couch, looks up from one of his fat books with tiny print.