by Whitney G.
And I will not be jealous because I’m getting my first kiss from Rachel Ryan today. She said we will do it like the French.
I will let YOU know how it goes after school.
Sincerely FIRST kissed,
Carter
Arizona balled up my note and rolled her eyes at me, as the bell rang.
I closed my notebook and followed her to her locker, where we always met after school.
“Are you ever going to get those braces out of your mouth, Ari?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I don’t want to hear you cry when no one but Dawson wants to be your boyfriend. It’s because of your braces.”
I’d thought they couldn’t get any worse, but sometimes she stuck colored rubber bands in them, so she could eat. Sometimes I told her she should just starve.
“Did you and Rachel pick a meet up spot?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’re going to meet at the tree outside the gym. What about you and Dawson?”
“We’re going to do it in the parking lot behind the football team sign,” she said. “Do you really think he’ll care about my braces?”
“Depends. Do you really think Rachel will care about my hair?”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Last week, you told me it was itchy.”
“It was itchy.” She closed her locker. “Because you fell asleep on my shoulder.”
“Oh yeah.” I remembered. We’d both gotten detention after school last week for passing notes during science class. And as usual, whenever we got sent there together, I used her shoulder as a pillow.
“Ari, do you think we should—” I paused. “Do you think we should …”
“Do I think we should what?”
“Like, since we’re both getting kissed today, do you think we should test out the kiss first? On each other? That way, we can be honest and fix whatever needs to be fixed?”
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” She let out a deep breath. “If we do that, then we both won’t be so nervous when it’s time.”
“Okay, cool. Follow me. “I motioned for her to follow me down the hallway. I looked both ways to make sure no one was coming, and then I opened the door to the janitor’s closet and pulled her inside.
She set her books down on a ladder and I locked the door.
“So …” She looked really nervous. “How should we start?”
“Well, first this.” I stood in front of her and made sure our shoes were touching. Then I did the thing I always saw my dad do whenever he kissed my mom—tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“And now, we’ll kiss on three.” I cleared my throat. “One.”
She shut her eyes and grabbed my hands.
“Two.”
“Wait! I forgot something!” She pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her pocket and glided it across her lips. “Now, you can count.”
Ugh! Girls.
I rolled my eyes and started over. “Okay, starting again … One. Two.” I shut my eyes and leaned forward. “Three …”
We pressed our lips together and let the seconds pass, waiting. Waiting for something.
It was nothing like the movies. Nothing was happening at all.
“How long are we supposed to stand like this, Carter?” Ari asked, her lips still touching mine.
“I don’t know. Maybe five more seconds?”
“Okay. Cool.”
I softly counted to five and stepped back.
“So,” she said. “Did you notice my braces? Were my lips too glossy?”
“No to the braces, but make sure you put on the gloss before you get to him. How about me? When my forehead touched yours, was it itchy?”
“Nope. It felt normal, but when you kiss Rachel, just count to yourself and not out loud.”
“Got it.” I grabbed her books and handed them to her. I unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob, but it opened before I could push it forward.
“What the!” The school janitor, the man who made us help him clean up sometimes during detention, looked back and forth between me and Ari. “You know what? When it comes to the two of you, I don’t even want to know. Get out. Now.”
“We weren’t doing anything!” Ari snapped.
“Then hurry up and get out of my closet before I tell everyone that you did.”
We both rushed out of there and went our separate ways—she to Dawson and me to Rachel for our very first kisses.
Track 4. Sad Beautiful Tragic (4:13)
Carter
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dean of Political Science spoke into the mic, “please welcome our last honoree of the night, Carter James!”
There was loud applause as I walked onto the small stage and accepted my award—a silver plaque with “Student of the Year,” etched across its front.
Tonight was the private post-graduation ceremony for the top students in my major. For whatever reason, the officials thought it would be a great idea to have it several days after all the other departmental graduations. They also thought it was smart to have it on the roof of a famous hotel, so those of us who got bored, could easily stare at the beach in the background and look like we were paying attention.
“Thank you all so much for coming out to honor the top twenty students in our department,” the speaker continued. “We’ll also have you know, that each of the students we honored tonight has scored a 177 or higher out of a perfect 180 on the LSAT.”
More applause.
I looked at my watch.
“Help yourself to plenty of the gourmet desserts before you leave, and please be sure to keep in contact with us, as you start your exciting careers in the law!”
When another round of applause began, I stood up and headed toward the dessert bar—to say goodbye to the few classmates I actually talked to during undergrad.
“Well, if it isn’t Carter James.” A grey-haired man stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “What an interesting transition you made, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Superstar athlete to superstar student.” He smiled, looking at my right leg. “It’s too bad you got injured. I think the team definitely would have gone places, if you’d never gotten hurt. Supposedly.”
I clenched my fists, somewhat grateful that I was wearing a suit; the fabric was less than forgiving, if I needed to punch someone.
The man didn’t wait for a verbal response, he continued talking—confirming what I’m sure every sorry ass fanatic on this campus wondered from time to time. “You don’t think you should’ve gone to another doctor for a second opinion? The doctor you went to wasn’t the best one. The school even offered to send you to New York to get tested. They also offered you rehabilitation, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Making the Dean’s List every semester and scoring a 177 or higher on the LSAT—”
“I scored a 180.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s impressive, son, but you could’ve gone places. Michael Jordan played in a pivotal playoff game with the flu. Hell, Willis Reed—one of the greatest centers of all time—played with a broken thigh bone. Broken. Plenty of players come back from the type of injury you had, so I just don’t understand why you couldn’t give it a try.”
“Are you done now?” I kept my fists low.
“What did your parents think about your decision?” He wouldn’t stop. “Did you ever talk to them about it? I’m sure your father would’ve never—”
“Fuck you.” I spat. “You don’t know shit about me, and I don’t care whether you don’t understand a decision I made regarding my own life. Live your own.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You won’t be saying much of anything else if you continue,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t let this suit fool you.”
He looked at me in utter shock.
“And for the record,” I said, stepping back—gi
ving myself some space, “Michael Jordan was a goddamn professional athlete when he played with the flu, I wasn’t. Yes, Willis Reed was one of the greatest centers of all time, but he retired because he couldn’t stop getting hurt, correct?”
He said nothing—just stared at me, so I walked away. I didn’t bother addressing any of my classmates or stopping by the dessert bar. I needed to get home, so I could be with people I actually wanted to be around.
I slipped into my car and turned the music all the way up, trying hard to put that asshole and his opinions out of my mind, but it was no use. Everything began to play in front of me like an antique film reel—frame dissolving into frame.
Five years ago, I didn’t have to think about taking the LSAT or picking an academic track at all; I was being scouted as one of the top high school basketball recruits in the country. I was the “unexpected phenom” and “unbelievable talent” who’d only started playing basketball during my junior year of high school.
From the outside looking in, I really looked like I was passionate about it. I spoke to coaches from colleges all over the country, led my already-talented team to a state championship my senior year, but I was only using the attention as a deflection from my pain. Pain I hid all too well.
I spent extra hours every day at practice because I didn’t want to think about anything, not because I wanted to improve my game. I pretended to be crushed and disappointed when we lost or when I missed a critical shot, but I didn’t really give a damn.
I even felt slightly guilty about accepting a full athletic scholarship to South Beach University—knowing that I didn’t want to play, and the media attention I was getting reached an all-time high freshman year.
Yet, four games into the season, I tore my ACL and my coping mechanism was ripped away from me within seconds. The media attention that was sudden and swift when it started, seemed to come to an abrupt stop.
Yes, the doctor had told me that I could play again with extensive rehab, that I could take six to eight months to heal and be just fine, but I asked him to write me a “should probably never play competitively again” diagnosis instead. I couldn’t bear to live the life of a college athlete for another day. I had to force myself to find new ways to cope.
Since I had no family to call anymore—only memories could bring them to life every now and again, I relied on my friends.
Just friends.
There was Josh—my closest male friend, current roommate, and fraternity culture-obsessed confidante, who had an excuse for almost everything. There was my former teammate Dwayne—soon to be a professional athlete and first round draft pick, who still got me tickets to every campus basketball game. And of course, there was Arizona, who’d stuck by me through it all—never letting me read what the papers were saying about the “Questionable Diagnosis,” always there when everyone else had left me behind; she was my best friend—the ultimate person I could count on, no matter what. And for whatever reason, she was the only one who was standing in my kitchen when I finally made it home from the awards ceremony.
“You wanted to have a graduation party with just four people?” she asked, as I came inside. “You know you could’ve easily gotten one hundred people here, and that’s just me counting your adoring female flock.”
“It just kills you that I’m sexually attractive, doesn’t it?”
“It kills me that you can actually describe yourself as ‘sexually attractive’ without laughing at how ridiculous that sounds.”
I smiled. “Would you like me better if I was modest?”
“I’d like you better if you were honest.” She laughed, and Josh and Dwayne came inside the house at that moment—arguing about basketball stats, as usual.
“You were serious about only inviting the three of us?” Dwayne asked, looking around. “No other girls but Arizona?”
“Is there a problem with that?” I asked.
“No.” Josh shrugged, setting a bag on the counter. “After going to ten parties this week that were far too crowded, I think I’d much rather hang out in a small group tonight. Well, minus Arizona. I’m with Dwayne on that one. We can always do without her being here, and since I live in this place as well, I vote for her to go.”
Arizona threw up her middle finger at him.
“I picked up a cake for you, Carter,” Josh said, taking a six pack of beer out of a bag before handing it to me. “I figured you’d want an official one to celebrate tonight. Plus, I got some new alcohol that I need to use on a few of the slices later. Me and a few of my fraternity brothers want to run an experiment we saw on YouTube.”
“Of course, you do.” I flipped the lid off the box, shaking my head once I read the lettering on the light blue cake. “Congratulations, it’s a Boy?”
“They ran out of graduation cakes.” He shrugged. “Better than nothing, right? Should I have gotten, Congratulations, it’s a Girl?”
Arizona and Dwayne burst into loud laughter, and I couldn’t help but laugh, too.
I grabbed my own six pack of beer and motioned for the three of them to follow me outside, past the backyard gate and to the beach. This was our last summer before we all would have to chase our own separate dreams, and I wanted to cling to the carefree life for a little while longer. The life where I could get away with being slightly irresponsible and all would be forgiven with an eye roll and slap on the wrist from the campus cops. The life where spending hours upon hours in a diner with friends and talking about absolutely nothing, was the norm and not the exception, and a life where the beach was never more than a few blocks away.
Yet, as Arizona sat down right next to me in the sand— and began arguing with Josh as usual, I realized that something felt different about this summer already. But I couldn’t tell exactly what it was yet.
A few days later
I locked the door to my bedroom and read over my father’s obituary for what must have been the millionth time—stopping on the words “He leaves behind a son he loved more than anything, his ex-wife (a woman who he always considered his “best friend”) and a fiancée.” The “woman he always considered his best friend” was always the part that jumped out at me.
He’d disappeared somewhere between the sixth and seventh grade—in between one of my birthday parties and the start of puberty. There was no formal notice, no formal talk about why he was leaving; my mom and I woke up one morning—refreshed after our annual family vacation, and realized all of his stuff was gone.
The next time we saw him, he was on TV—heading some huge celebrity divorce case. The next time we saw him after that was in the newspapers—he’d just won one of the biggest class action lawsuits in the country. And the last time we saw him was at his funeral; his new, much younger fiancée had been drinking and lost control at the wheel.
To his credit, he gave my mother everything she thought she wanted in the divorce—alimony, child support, timeshares, and two vacation houses they’d bought together. He sent birthday and holiday cards like clockwork and every now and then, he sent us flight tickets to visit him; flight tickets that never got redeemed.
For me, he called once a week—going down his normal list of questions. “How are you this week, son?” “How are your grades?” “Your mother says you joined a summer league basketball team. How’s that?” “How is Arizona? Is she still your best friend?”
One day, circa seventh grade and tired of his bullshit, I cut off his checklist of questions and asked. “Why did you leave us?”
“What’s that, son?”
“I said …” My voice didn’t waver. “Why did you leave us?”
There was no immediate answer—only silence. After several minutes, I considered hanging up, but then he began to speak.
“I wasn’t happy. We were only getting along for your sake. We were supposed to stay together until you reached high school, but I honestly couldn’t do it, and I told her that, too. I should have been clearer and said that I just didn’t feel the same as I used to, and I guess tha
t’s why we should’ve stayed ‘just friends’.”
“That is the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Watch your mouth,” he snapped, his tone now glacial. “You asked me to be honest, so I’m being fucking honest.” He sighed and paused once more. “I never got to meet anyone new or find who I was outside of your mother. That’s the problem. We settled for each other and we, in turn, stifled one another.”
“You’re blaming her for you leaving?”
“I’m blaming us both,” he said. “No way can a man and a woman stay in love from childhood to forties and beyond. It’s unrealistic.”
“So, cheating on her with your secretary was the solution?”
Silence.
“How’s school?” He changed the subject completely. “Arizona? Does she still have those braces?” And that was the last effort I made at attempting to salvage our relationship. Which was why I was quite surprised to learn what he’d left me in his will. In addition to a college fund, a trust fund, and a few of his investment portfolios, he’d left me a condo on the edge of the beach.
I vowed to never use it when it was awarded to me, and even contacted a realtor to put it up for sale. But once I found out that the house was near South Beach University, I changed my mind and moved into it at the end of my sophomore year.
It was my much needed refuge from the hectic campus life and the beach fire parties, which was why I’d never invited more than three people over at a time. It was why I dreaded the idea of ever throwing a party here, but Josh was slowly wearing me down on the idea for this summer. He’d even begged me to have a business meeting with him about it at the end of my private graduation get-together the other day.
Sighing, I folded my father’s obituary and returned it to the back of my desk drawer.
I stepped outside my room and headed into the kitchen, where Josh and five of his fraternity brothers were sitting at the bar.
“You all wore suits?” I looked at all of their complementing grey and black suits.
“This is a business meeting, is it not?” Josh took out a folder.
