Spontaneous

by Aaron Starmer

  “Slow down!” Dylan shouted.

  I did the opposite. I put my arms out and head down and I charged toward the patch of woods near East Campus. The leaves had all turned and even in the moonlight I could see the brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds. I ran my hands across the first few trees I passed, feeling the grizzled landscapes of bark, and I imagined this was a haunted forest, a forest that would eat you if it could, that would chew you with its mouth open and swallow half of you in a big gulp, but let your legs writhe in the foggy air.

  When I reached a little hill where the trees weren’t so thick, I stopped, turned, fell to my butt, fell to my back, looked up at the web of branches and the blanket of stars, and began to wiggle and laugh.

  Dylan was soon above me, feet planted next to my hips, arms crossed, a witness to my weirdness. I laughed even harder.

  “It happened again, didn’t it?” he asked. “Who was it?”

  “Does . . . it . . . matter?” I said between gasps.

  “Of course,” he said. “It matters to someone. To many people, probably. To me.”

  I thrust my arms into the air and he grabbed my hands and pulled me up and against his body. Leaning forward, my nose grazed his cheek, and I kissed him, a tiny peck on the neck. “I’m pretty sure it was Perry Love,” I told him.

  “Crap. I liked that kid.”

  I kissed Dylan again, and the little hairs on his neck tickled my lips. “I hardly knew him,” I said, which was the nicest thing I could say at that point. When we lost Katelyn and Brian, it had torched my insides. With Perry, I felt . . . not nothing, exactly, but this particular horror was more communal. It seemed obvious. We were all going down together. Sure, that was worth crying about. But it was also worth laughing about.

  “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I saw you looking toward the bench instead of the end zone and then I saw the blood and then . . . dammit, I wanted to be there for Perry.”

  I kissed him again and whispered, “Be there? What do you mean?”

  “When you die, don’t you want someone to see it? People say that everyone dies alone, but that’s a bunch of bull.”

  “We do everything alone, essentially,” I said as I kissed him again. I was going to keep kissing him. This wasn’t going to be another Brian Chen incident. These lips would not be ignored.

  He put his hands on my shoulders and nudged me off his neck. Looking me in the eyes, he said, “To have that moment etched in people’s memories, in the very biology of their brains, that’s not dying alone. That’s a magical thing. And you’ve been there for three people’s last moments.”

  “I’d hardly call it magic,” I replied.

  “Yet you’re laughing. And you’re here in these woods, with me, as alive as you’ve ever been.”

  He was right, obviously. I had an undeniable spark in my body. A feeling of lightness, of thereness. So when he leaned in and finally kissed me, it was one motherfucking blockbuster of a kiss.

  Sirens in the distance answered one another’s howls and the wind gusted as I pawed that boy’s body. It wasn’t all contoured and smooth. There were riffles and lumps. Not a perfect body, but I didn’t want a perfect body. I wanted this body—whole, intact—there in the patch of woods not far from where three of my classmates had blown up.

  it will come as no surprise

  There was chatter about patterns. When one kid blows up, it’s an anomaly. When two blow up, it’s a disturbing coincidence. Three and you’ve got yourself an epidemic. So what happens when a kid blows up at a football game that’s supposed to symbolize a town’s return to normalcy?

  Things get weird.

  Football season was officially canceled. No surprise there. No real complaints, either. It was easy for terrified players to shoot down arguments from meatheaded fathers waxing nostalgic on how “kids were tougher back in the day.”

  “Tougher, eh? Did your teammates randomly splatter all over you back in the day? No? Well then, shut the fuck up, Dad.”

  School was closed indefinitely. We all learned this via the press conference held on Saturday morning. Press conferences were nothing new to us, but Sheriff Tibble didn’t use the steps of the library to deliver his shrugs and empty promises this time. He moved the production to a vacant field past Brighton Orchards. It was the only way to accommodate the people who had arrived as soon as the death toll had reached what-the-fuck?-able numbers.

  You’d think a town full of exploding teenagers would scare people away, but no, there was a mass migration here. Scientists came in search of samples—water, dirt, blood, anything they could stick under a microscope. It had been a calm year for hurricanes, tornados, and other natural disasters, so the storm chasers and aggressively charitable types came rolling through in RVs, hoping to get off on our tragedies. I don’t think I need to mention that the religious fanatics swarmed the streets and public buildings like a proverbial plague of . . . religious fanatics. My favorite of their charming picket signs?

  THE DEVIL INSIDE YOUR CHILDREN HAS FOUND HIS WAY OUT!

  It was inevitable that their signs also zeroed in on the whole Perry “Gay” Love angle. Soon almost everyone would focus on that angle. It was the one obvious and tangible difference he had from the rest of the herd.

  But what did that mean about Katelyn and Brian?

  “I kissed Katelyn once,” Jenna Dalton told me the Sunday after the game, when she picked me up at Covington Kitchen on the way to an emergency town hall.

  “Not listening,” said Joe, who was sitting shotgun and sticking his fingers in his ears. “Do not wanna know who my sister has or hasn’t kissed. No thank you. No way.”

  “Like really kissed?” I asked.

  Jenna shrugged. “Yeah, I mean we were on molly and it was dark but, you know, tongue and everything.”

  “But you’re not gay,” I said.

  Jenna shrugged again. “I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what Katelyn was either. It was a good kiss. I can say that for sure.”

  Other girls had also kissed Katelyn and were now telling. The only thing it proved, of course, was that Katelyn was into a bit of experimentation, but when the stories hit the comment sections, suddenly she was gay too. And when photos surfaced of Brian Chen in fishnet stockings, it was case closed for an assortment of morons and homophobes.

  The seeds were actually sown at that emergency town hall, when Tina Parcells, self-proclaimed “social media guru and internationally renowned mommy-blogger,” grabbed the microphone and asked, “Has anyone tested their DNA?”

  Our mayor, the perpetually harried Roger Giancola, answered from the podium. “I do not know all the science behind an autopsy, but you must remember that we don’t exactly have a lot of . . . autopsy material.”

  There were groans from the crowd, and I looked around hoping none of the Ogdens, Chens, or Loves were present to hear their dearly departed referred to as “autopsy material.” I didn’t see any of them, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. The town hall was held in the State Street Theater, just like Katelyn’s memorial, but it was even more packed than that had been. Priority seating was given to town residents, and the rest was standing room only. When the place reached fire-code capacity, the crowd spilled out into the streets, where there were giant speakers, a projector, and movie screen rigged up to broadcast the proceedings. There were also live streams provided by major news outlets, which meant some kid in a yurt in Mongolia could fire up his laptop, snuggle under a yak blanket, and join us, so long as he had a decent Wi-Fi connection. It was like the World Cup. Only not boring.

  “You only need a drop of blood to do DNA tests,” Tina said. “It’s as if you haven’t watched a movie or TV show in your entire life.”

  Mayor Giancola’s tone became decidedly perturbed. “I’ve watched plenty of movies. I’m quite the cinephile, as a matter of fact, but I don’t see what DNA has to do with the
crisis we’re currently facing.”

  “You and the sheriff keep telling us that there’s no evidence of explosives,” Tina said. “So if it’s not an external problem, then it’s an internal one. I’ve been told Perry Love was a homosexual. And while I don’t want to take anything away from the bravery required to live such a difficult lifestyle, I’ve been told that homosexuality is genetically determined. So maybe this whole thing is as well. Look at their DNA is all I’m saying.”

  That wasn’t all she was saying. By introducing this line of reasoning, she was telling people to consider Perry’s sexuality, and by considering Perry’s sexuality, they also had to consider Katelyn’s and Brian’s. The rumors about Katelyn had already been spreading by the time the town hall started, and within a few hours after it, the fishnet picture of Brian was trending.

  Never mind that the picture was taken by his mom one innocent Saturday morning last spring when Brian was thinking about auditioning for the community theater’s production of Hedwig. Never mind that even if Katelyn was gay and even if Brian was gay—and part of me kinda hoped that he was after that bus kiss snub—there’s nothing about being gay that makes a person more combustible. Most sane and reasonable people realize this.

  Alas, the world is neither sane nor reasonable, especially when ad-click revenue comes into play. Only the most callous and cynical “journalists” were trotting out link-bait like A NEW GAY PLAGUE? But that didn’t mean others weren’t implying the same thing.

  I tried to stay away from all that noise, but what was there left for a girl to do? There was no school on the horizon, and Tess could only afford so much gas, and Dylan . . .

  again, sorry

  I’ve been a cagey little weasel, haven’t I? You’re probably wondering what happened after that kiss in the woods, aren’t you? Did Dylan throw me down on the moss and ravage me? Are our clothes still hanging from the trees? Does the moon blush, thinking of the raw carnality she witnessed?

  Sorry to disappoint, but it was only kissing and petting, but kissing and petting aren’t nothing. Especially when helicopters show up and start stabbing the woods around the school with spotlights. Kissing and petting feel downright illegal at that point. And trust me, it’s always best to be fully clothed when you run out of the woods and find your peers huddled up and asking each other, “Again? Really? Again?”

  Really. Again.

  The police couldn’t round up and interview everyone at the football game. They certainly couldn’t rope off the scene. So when Joe Dalton spotted me, he rushed over and said, “We’re hightailing it out of here before shit goes crazy. Jenna’s pulling the car around to Rumson Road and we’re heading to Laura’s house to get blind. You in?”

  “Who’s gonna be there?” I asked, because guest lists are important when blindness comes into play.

  “Me, Jenna, Laura, Holly, Greer, and Rasheed,” Joe said.

  A more-than-acceptable roster, so I turned to Dylan and asked, “Do we join them?”

  It was like Joe didn’t even notice Dylan until I addressed him, like Dylan was some mythical beast that only materialized when its name was spoken. “Oh, hey, man,” Joe said. “Sure. You should come too.”

  Dylan pursed his lips for a few seconds, then replied, “Nah. Go on ahead. Get somewhere safe. I’m going to stick around here for a while.”

  I was in a bit of a pickle. I wanted to be with Dylan but I wanted to leave. The buzz of the night was wearing off and I was sinking back into the sludge of awareness.

  Really? Again?

  “Come on,” I said. “Nothing good will come out of staying here.”

  “Have fun,” Dylan said, and before I could object, he kissed me on the cheek and jogged away, in the direction of the flashing lights.

  I could have chased after him, I guess, but I didn’t want to. He had left at the exact right moment, leaving me in a state of anxious anticipation. At Laura’s house, all I needed was some gin and SunnyD to pick the buzz back up, and while everyone was trying to piece together what happened on the field, I was musing about what might happen next with me and Dylan.

  What happened next was a text, arriving at nine a.m., as I burrowed under a blanket on the living room couch. It read:

  Everything,

  I wrote back immediately.

  Me: Deep.

  Him: I meant that last night I felt everything.

  Me: Not every THING. Next time. Maybe.

  Him: When’s next time?

  Me: Not today. Parents got me doing a double shift at the hug factory.

  Side note: My parents weren’t big huggers but, after Katelyn, they rolled up their sleeves and did their due diligence, smothering their daughter whenever her face got all droopy. It worked at first, but ever since Brian, it was the opposite of what I needed. Still, Mom and Dad wanted me home that Sunday to be their little stuffed animal. I think they’d come to depend on the hugging, in fact. This was no longer about me.

  Him: When then?

  Me: Not tomorrow either. Working at Covington Kitchen. Keeping busy helps.

  Him: Should I stop in for an Oinker?

  Me: Yaaassss! Wait. No. Not because I don’t want to see you.

  Him: Too much of a tease?

  Me: Exactly. Monday?

  Him: MONDAY!

  As you already know, my deli gig was interrupted on Sunday by the emergency town hall. Cell reception was terrible at the theater, so even when I tried to connect with Dylan, I didn’t get through, and I certainly couldn’t spot him in that sea of anxiety. I’d love to break down all the bullshit that was shat out at that meeting, but I think covering Tina’s DNA witch hunt is enough. Because it represents when the theories went off the rails.

  That Sunday evening, my parents were still huggy, so I was constantly retreating to the bathroom for alone time and giving in to the stupid urge to pull out my phone and shake a virtual fist at all the trolls. TV was even worse. A tour of cable news resulted in teeth-grinding and blind-pulling because I was sure that some helmet-haired reporter was creeping through our shrubbery, about to thrust her head through our window and say, “So is it terrorists, homosexuality, or the overall crappiness of your hometown that’s tearing your generation apart, young lady, and do you mind holding your answers and tears back until my cameraman gets the proper lighting in place?”

  So I went dark for a few hours. I didn’t text Tess or Dylan because if I couldn’t see them in person and hold on to them, then it wasn’t worth it. All I could do was get in bed and wait for sleep to grab me and whisk me along to a future closer to my date with Dylan.

  a little further in the future

  On Monday morning, less than three full days after Perry Love spontaneously combusted, Cranberry Bollinger’s dad waltzed into his daughter’s room to wake her up and found Cranberry sauce all over her Miyazaki posters.

  Fuck. Sorry. Bad joke. Old habits die hard. But come on, the girl’s name was Cranberry.

  It was and has always been Cranberry, as far as I know. My earliest memory of her is the first day of fourth grade, when Ms. Caldwell took attendance and said, “Cranberry Bollinger. Is Cranberry Bollinger here?”

  “Here,” came a soft voice from the back and we all turned around to see a purple-haired, dark-skinned girl wearing a black T-shirt with a ghostly face on it. I didn’t know until years later that the ghost face represented a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of Anonymous, everybody’s favorite zit-faced army of hackers.

  Yes, Cranberry was a hacker, a gamer, a cosplayer. Even back in fourth grade. I would tell you more about her if I knew more about her, but I don’t. She was always just Cranberry, the girl whose name launched a thousand corny puns.

  “Don’t get bogged down, Cranberry.”

  “Hey, Cranberry. You know what my favorite cocktail is? A Cape Codder. Because it’s a mix of vodka and you.”

  “Yo, Ocea
n Spray!”

  She seemed to take it in stride, usually rolling her eyes and saying, “Hilarrrrrious!” or “Only heard that one about a billion times.”

  Granted, most of it was harmless. Can’t pack much punch into cracks about cranberries. It wasn’t like she was named Cherry, Peach, or some other sexy fruit. Cranberries aren’t sexy and neither was Cranberry. She was awkward. She was quiet. Outside of class, her headphones were always on and her head was always buried in a tablet. And yet . . . and yet . . .

  She had a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. Her consummate companion since ninth grade was Elliot Pressman, a fellow hacker, a fellow gamer, a fellow cosplayer. In other words, Cranberry was not gay. She was a lot of other things. She was black. She dyed her hair—pink being the latest and last incarnation. She was aggressively nerdy. But she was not gay.

  Elliot Pressman could certainly attest to that fact.

  When word got around that Cranberry was gone too, everyone turned to Elliot’s Tumblr to offer condolences. What we found there was a tribute to a girlfriend. Tender and, well, I should let it speak for itself:

  Cranberry, my love. While I was making love to you last night with the moonlight streaming in through the windows and caressing our naked torsos, and as the sweat from our bodies pooled up on the floor, and when our moans of pleasures shook the heavens, I knew our love was eternal and . . .

  Okay, that’s about enough of that. It goes on and on and you get the picture. Turns out Cranberry, bless her heart, was a wildcat in the sack, a lover for the ages. At least by Elliot’s estimation. Not that he had many points of reference, but there are worse ways to be remembered by your boyfriend. No wonder I was once jealous of the girl.

  That was a while ago, late spring of sophomore year. Tess and I were in chemistry. I was doing my best maintaining-my-B by gazing out the window at a gym class softball game. Cranberry and Elliot were in the outfield, but they weren’t exactly waiting for their call up to the big leagues. They were lying next to each other in the grass, holding their phones aloft. Their other hands were buried in their softball gloves, but since Elliot was a lefty, and Cranberry a righty, they could hold hands with the gloves. How very cute and hygienic.