“‘We’re going to ride the rides in the dark. We’re going to drink and smoke cigarettes.’”
Aimee began giggling. After her dour mood, the sound of mirth a blessing.
Ebon said, “‘We’re going to make out under the boardwalk.’” Then he looked over at Aimee. Their eyes locked through a flicker.
“Okay, fine,” she said, nodding. “Might as well. There’s nothing else to do, I guess. Even if we can’t go at night for real, because you have to catch the stupid ferry.” She reached into her pockets. “I don’t have any money though.”
Ebon patted at his bag, which he’d slung onto his back. Aimee shrugged. They continued to walk.
As they got closer to the pier, they found themselves walking in meditative silence. The quiet felt right — respectful rather than vacant, not awkward at all. It was the last day of their second shared summer. They were growing up, and incessant space-filling chatter was no longer quite as necessary. Ebon would be fourteen if he returned to Aaron next summer (which he wasn’t sure; the jury was still out). If not, he’d next see her in person at fifteen, and she’d be seventeen. Practically adults.
They arrived at the ticket booth to find a bored-looking girl with jet-black hair, reading a magazine. Ebon had his money out before they reached the window, and when the girl gave him her don’t bother me look, he glanced at the huge roll of orange tear-off tickets on the booth’s back counter to indicate what he was after. But the girl, not so much as lowering her feet from where they were propped, said “Go ahead” and waved his money away.
The pier was a calliope of sounds: children laughing and demanding treats from their parents, screeching gulls, lapping water, and music from the pole-mounted speaker — currently “Change the World” by Eric Clapton. The scents of wonderful food to ruin the stomach were everywhere. In a week or so, Ebon imagined most of the vendors would close shop as summer crowds dwindled, but for now they were bustling. Ebon smelled fries (crisp smelling and greasy; he could see a basket passing a vendor’s window, bound for a fat man’s hand), funnel cakes (both starchy and sweet smelling, pale summer yellow dough turned autumn brown by the fryer, dusted powdered with sugar like winter snow), and onion rings (different from the fries with a scent he could only describe as “crunchier,” brown and served still wet with oil).
“You want onion rings?” he asked Aimee. He’d never got into Aaron’s Party free before. With all his money still in his backpack, Ebon felt wealthy.
“Bleh,” Aimee opined.
“You don’t like onion rings anymore?”
“I never liked onion rings.”
Ebon wanted to object, but she was technically telling the truth. She didn’t like onion rings so much as she liked to dissect them like a biology experiment. When they’d had them in the past, she’d eaten the fried coating and left the actual onions in a limp white pile that looked like tapeworms.
“Lemonade?”
But Aimee was already gone, crossing the Party toward the carousel. Ebon trotted to join her and caught up at the gate. The horses had all been re-refurbished this spring (the original refurbishment had taken place a few years back), and the work, as Ebon saw it now, seemed excessive. The polished steeds had the look of shrink-wrapped things built to survive an assault, each with a shiny lacquer clearcoat that looked an inch thick. To get down far enough to touch the horses’ original paint, you’d need a chisel and an hour of effort.
“What, the carousel?”
“I’m just appreciating,” Aimee said. She seemed to have decided that the carousel was less lame than it had been last year. “Did you know my great-grandparents paid for it?”
“Only because you’ve told me, like, a thousand times.”
Aimee looked at Ebon with mock scorn. This was a constant thing between them. Aimee did most of their talking and seemed to only have a fixed number of good stories, so she repeated herself often without seeming to realize it. He usually played along, but she protested whenever he called her on it.
“I maybe told you once,” she said.
“Like, ten times.”
“Once. Maybe twice, but I don’t think so.”
Ebon could recall four times she’d spouted without even trying but said nothing.
“It’s pretty,” she said, looking at the colorful antique as it made its slow revolutions.
“Are you going to ride it?”
Aimee rolled her eyes. “I think I’m a little old for a carousel. Do you want to ride the Danger Wheel?”
“Before eating?”
“If you eat first, you’ll get sick.”
Ebon sighed. She’d said it the way his mother would have said it. Was she immune to getting sick? And besides, the Danger Wheel, despite its name and appearance, wasn’t terribly dangerous. It was a fancy Ferris wheel with a few extra quirks that made it cool. The pier wasn’t enormous; the carousel and the Danger Wheel were the biggest of the Party’s few draws. Toddlers, teens, and the elderly — everyone rode it.
“Fine,” said Ebon.
The line wasn’t long. Ebon and Aimee watched the ride fill once without them, watching as the tall, fire-engine red, circular gantry lowered to the ground and riders climbed into carriages at the outside. The ride ran and emptied. And then it was their turn.
They climbed inside. The door closed, and they perched on the carriage’s single metal bench, seat belts tightened with their sides mashed together.
After the rest of the carriages loaded, the ride began to creep upward. On the ascent, the big circle cocked and slowly rotated around the ride’s central tower, creating a slanted sort of Ferris wheel motion. Aimee made jokes about feeling frightened and “dangerous.” Then, sixty seconds later, they were rotating at the top, in a horizontal circle. The carriages were mostly solid, so they couldn’t see the other riders. The bay and each other were the only things to look at.
“Ebon,” Aimee said.
Ebon looked over, able to swivel enough to do so comfortably thanks to the slack seat belt. He felt disoriented by the quick motion, his senses momentarily distracted by the height, the sea outside, the sounds of gulls now mingling with an Oasis song coming from the carnival broadcast speakers.
Aimee’s hair had dried. Despite being its usual mess, it looked very pretty. The sun poured intermittently through the carriage’s slots, shining beams through her mane’s flyaways. Ebon considered saying something about her looking like an angel, but there was an excellent chance that she’d laugh at him if he did.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“After today, I won’t see you for, like, eight months or something.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to write to me?”
“Sure.” It was technically true, but only his memo-length missives would come in response to her copious brain dumps. For every twenty words Aimee wrote to him, Ebon wrote maybe one back to her. He believed in quality over quantity, and that brevity made for the best communication.
“Because … well …” Aimee sighed, seemingly about to say something slightly uncomfortable, pressing on because this was their last day. “Because I kind of feel like I’ll need it,” she finished. “Hearing from you, I mean.”
Ebon considered asking Aimee what she meant, but he thought he knew. Once the summer people left Aaron, the island would become a ghost town, feeling small and lonely. To Aimee, the wide world’s breadth would shrink until it included only her cottage, her father, and whatever boys of distraction she could find to … well … he didn’t like to think about how that might progress as Aimee’s fifteenth year became her sixteenth.
“Okay,” he said.
“If you find other girls while you’re away, it’s okay to kiss them.”
Ebon wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Thanks.”
“Don’t touch their boobs though,” she added. “You’re too young.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He was watching the coastline revolve. This time of year, with the crowds thinning, ride oper
ators seemed to snooze at the controls and let the Wheel run for longer than they should.
“But you can kiss them.”
“I can, huh?”
“Sure. I won’t mind.”
Ebon looked at Aimee. She was watching him earnestly, her light-green eyes fixed on his. This was apparently a very serious discussion, but Ebon didn’t know where it was coming from. For a math professor’s daughter, Aimee wasn’t great at logic. The argument assumed she might mind if he kissed other girls, but why would she, given that they were just beach buddies? And since when was Ebon getting any offers? So far he’d only kissed relatives, usually against his will.
“Okay.”
“In fact, maybe you should make a point to kiss some other girls,” she said.
“Other girls?”
“You don’t want to get locked into just one, and having nothing to compare her to. That’s why I make sure I’m in a few kissing arrangements at a time. Think about it: what if you ate one kind of cheese and thought it was amazing and committed to only eating that cheese for the rest of your life, but then it turns out that, in the big picture, you chose a crappy cheese because you didn’t do your homework?”
“I’m not supposed to eat cheese,” said Ebon.
“When you come back,” said Aimee, “I want you to be a little more experienced.”
“Why?”
“Have you even done it before? Kissed a girl, I mean. What’s your technique like?”
This was a strange conversation. There were techniques? He’d been thinking about Aimee’s lips all summer, but now he feared he might have been approaching them like a dog chasing a car. If her lips suddenly became his, he wouldn’t know what to do with them. Did you just rub around? He knew that tongue use was optional, but advanced.
“Technique?”
“Oh, geez,” said Aimee. “Come here.” She reached for his head.
Ebon retracted his chin like a turtle retreating into its shell. “What are you doing?”
“Come here.”
“I’m sitting right next to you.”
Aimee ran her fingers through his hair to the back of his head, then pulled him toward her. Before he could protest (or not protest at all), their lips were pressed firmly together. Ebon felt himself go slack and surprised, certain that something very wrong had just happened. Aimee moved her lips around on his for a while, then pulled back. Her hand was still on the back of his head, but now she looked deeply offended.
“That was terrible.”
“Sorry.”
“Have you ever done this before? Tell me the truth.”
Ebon considered lying. Then he shook his head, giving himself a light scalp massage via Aimee’s stationary fingers.
“Well, good thing I asked then, because if you try to kiss a girl like that, she’s never going to let you do it again.”
“You caught me off guard,” said Ebon, defensive.
“Are you on guard now?”
“Um … ”
“Get ready,” she said. “Give me your best.”
“Shouldn’t we … ”
Before he could finish speaking, Aimee’s lips were back on him. Realizing he was on review, he quickly firmed himself into more of a kissy face. Aimee’s lips were moving, but now it felt like she was trying to paint something immobile, her lips a brush to his hardened canvas. The kiss was definitely something she was doing to him, not something they were doing together.
She backed away again. The Danger Wheel still showed no sign of lowering. The operator could end this awkwardness, but fate had other plans for Ebon Shale today.
“Also terrible,” she said. “And that was your best?”
“Well, not my best…” Ebon tried to say it like he feared being pinned down on a technicality.
She took her hand back, then put it on his mouth. She began squeezing at his lips as if massaging them.
“Loosen this up. Seriously, that was like kissing a statue.”
“I can’t exactly … ”
“And use your body a little. Not a lot — don’t go trying to feel me up or anything — but at least lean into it a little, you know? In fact … ” Aimee reached down and took his hands as if showing him something he hadn’t known were there. “You want to use your hands. But again, not on my boobs. Not yet.” In the pause, Ebon wondered if “yet” might include next summer. “Put them up here, on my face. Or run your fingers through my hair. Move your lips around a little, but don’t make them too sloppy. Just kind of medium-firm. I move my lips, and you move yours, and we’re doing it right if you hear little wet sounds. Just little ones though. I swear, Ebon, don’t you dare try to stick your tongue in my mouth.”
She looked at him very seriously when she said this, but Ebon had no problem nodding his rapid agreement. Not only did they not have a tongue-in-mouth relationship (nor, really, a kissing relationship, but that ship had sailed), but the notion of putting his tongue in someone else’s mouth sounded disgusting. Mashing lips: good. Sampling her breakfast leftovers: kind of gross.
“Okay. Try again.”
They tried again. This time it was better. Ebon still wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, but the motions were better and smoother. Her lips felt softer. And the inside of the carriage was filled with tiny wet sounds, just as she’d indicated. When they pulled apart, he looked at her like he’d look at a teacher he hoped would give him a good grade.
“There,” she said. “Much better.” Aimee ran a finger along her lips to clear them of what Ebon feared might be a little too much moisture. Then she turned back in her seat, the lesson finished, looking out at the water.
“So that was right?”
“Pretty good,” she said, not turning.
“But not great.”
“If that was your first real kiss, then it doesn’t need to be great.”
“I want to do it great.” Ebon realized he was too eager. He also felt lightheaded with a full-body flush of warmth. “You know me. I like to get things right.”
There was a jolt, and the horizontal motion became slightly more vertical. In seconds they’d be doing a Ferris wheel motion, mostly up and down. A while after that the wheel would again be flat, allowing riders to disembark. Ebon counted seconds in his mind, somehow knowing that this had been a watershed moment he’d remember forever. Leaving the carriage would pop that moment like a bubble. Summer would end, and the world would wither for long months of absence.
“You did it right,” said Aimee.
“You seriously have no notes for me?” Ebon felt his voice becoming desperate, but he’d just pulled out the best weapon he could wield against Aimee. Maybe the moment of wanting to teach him to kiss had passed, but the moments of wanting to tell him what to do would never end.
She turned toward him again, precious seconds escaping with each motion of the ride.
“Okay,” she said. “If I have one criticism — and this is an advanced one, but you asked — it was that I didn’t really believe it.”
“You didn’t believe it?”
“I just sensed your mood was a little awkward, like you weren’t committed. If we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I’d be offended because you weren’t really into me.”
“Maybe that’s because you sprang it on me and we’ve never come close to kissing even once,” he said. At this moment in particular, it definitely wasn’t because he wasn’t into her. She might be teaching, but he’d become the world’s most willing student over the last thirty seconds.
“So just be ‘committed’ when you do it, and you’ll be fine.”
The ride was halfway down. He wanted to reach for her and ask for another shot, but he couldn’t. This was one-sided, teacher to student. She was done teaching, and now she’d taught the final lesson — one that didn’t really require a redo … and, if the advice was literal, shouldn’t even improve a redo because they were just two friends. He looked at her, feeling like his chest was swelling, suddenly desperate. But the moment was over.<
br />
She reached out, again sliding her hand behind his head. Again their lips came together. Ebon breathed through his nose, her lips soft and silky against his. One of his hands slid around her neck and through her hair. The other — awkwardly, in the ride’s restraints — went around her waist. He felt himself pull her closer without meaning to, felt her respond and tug him as well. Their heads moved on swivels. He could feel the small press of her breasts against his chest. He closed his eyes without meaning to.
Ebon opened his eyes. They were still facing each other, their hands touching in the space between them, the professorial look gone from Aimee’s face. The carriage shuddered, and Ebon realized the ride was docking.
Ebon looked at Aimee.
Aimee looked at Ebon.
Outside the carriage, the slanting, autumn light of their final day together winked behind a speck of cloud.
Then the hatch was sprung from the outside, and a man in his early twenties was standing above them, his face covered in stubble, his shirt dirty.
“Exit to your left,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Boat in December
“EBON … ” AIMEE TRAILED OFF. THE SINGLE word was a sentence in itself. Ebon had learned to read Aimee well in the time he’d known her. She was actually saying that although she’d never tell him what to do (even though she always had), she thought he was making a bad choice. But not just a bad choice — possibly a dangerous one.
Ebon looked over. Aimee was huddled into her too-large winter coat, her head covered in a wool cap with earflaps. Her lower half was less coordinated, thematically: She was wearing clodhopper shoes meant for mud, but her pants were capris that stopped well above her ankles. He hadn’t given her time to change before making his announcement, and she hadn’t planned to go outside in the middle of painting the built-in bookshelves. She’d had to hurry, inviting herself on an errand he’d merely been informing her about rather than asking for permission or advice.
Still, Ebon (more sanguine in a black pea coat and no hat) felt himself wanting to explain as he met Aimee’s eyes. But he couldn’t. The knot was too thick. He had too much to explain, and not a single explanation would help anyone understand — Ebon included.
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