by Anne Eliot
“Oh. Strange.”
“Yeah. Welcome to my life.” I move on to her next question. “It does hurt when I get tackled. Sometimes more than others depending on that dog-pile you mentioned. The pain also varies based on the types of hits I get. And no,” I risk a sideways glance at her before going on, “I’m not afraid when the other players pile on me because, like you brought up I guess—we are all sort of asking for it by playing football in the first place. Me, especially.”
She blinks her wide black eyes and tilts her head. “Pardon? The last one—explain.”
On a massive gust of wind I lay my wish into the air. “I’m not afraid of getting hurt.”
“Because you’re so strong, you probably won’t?”
“Not exactly, just to me—if I get hurt—it’s not going to be a big deal because football doesn’t really mean anything to me. Maybe my dad will be upset, but I’ve just got this idea that I won’t mind at all, so that’s why I think I play so well sometimes. I’ve got zero anxiety about getting crushed. In all honesty, I actually would be relieved if I didn’t have to play anymore.”
I soak up her earnest, bewildered expression. “What?” She’s gone completely pale. “I didn’t hear you right. How could you not mind if you get hurt?”
“It’s just part of the game—them running at us—us running at them—the tackling. It’s expected that some players do get hurt. I don’t care if one of those players is me, and in fact better me than someone else who wants to play football forever.”
“You don’t? I thought you did.” She wrinkles her brow, scanning my face as if she knows I might have more to say on the topic. Just as she opens her mouth to pick apart the secrets I’m not certain I want revealed—but secrets I will not be able to lie to her about if she asks me directly—the wind saves me.
Huge, sharp gusts off the lake slam into the grove. “Wow,” she cries out, ducking her head away from being sand blasted. The branches, leaves and ropes roar over us.
I shout over the roar, “Must be some kind of front moving through! Or a squall off the lake!” I move to my knees so I can turn my back against where the sand is whipping in at us off the beach, then bow my head next to hers, hoping I’m wide enough to give her some sort of relief. For two full minutes, we huddle there together unable to speak or move as the noise escalates and my back feels like it’s getting sandblasted.
Then, as quickly as they’ve come, the gusts stop and the trees, the sand, and the wind silence completely.
Before either of us can take a breath, thousands upon thousands of tiny, pointed willow leaves drift slowly down. So many that it’s like we’re in the epicenter of a glitter-gold blizzard! They’re falling in sheets, catching the sunset, flickering and glowing as they spin and blanket all around and all over us.
“This is…awesome! And it’s so…very…” She looks up and smiles.
I’m memorizing every line on her face, every curve in her smile, every gold sparkling leaf reflected in her ink-black eyes.
“Beautiful,” I breathe out, but I’m not talking about the falling leaves one bit.
Suddenly we both have our iPhones out.
She’s snapping shots up at the leaves, and so am I. It’s a race to see who can take the most, the best, the craziest angle without standing up. I’ve scooted one way, and she’s gone another, and when we turn around she and I are laughing and almost knee-to-knee. My last shot is a close-up of Ellen, smiling, holding her iPhone into the air while she’s laughing and turning in my direction. I don’t even have to look back at my photo feed to know it’s the best photo I’ve taken so far.
She’s staring at my head, still laughing. “You’ve got,” she points, “a leaf helmet.”
“As do you.” I’m really close to her now so it’s easy for her to scoop up a handful of leaves off the top of my head. Still laughing, she flings them at me.
“You should see what you look like.” I move forward to scoop up some of hers and retaliate, but pause my hand just over the top of her head. “Only…they look so great against your dark hair I can’t—won’t—touch them. It’s like you wove them into your hair to look like this on purpose. You should leave them.” I swallow. “Look. See? It’s so—”
I move my hand over the length of her braid, pulling it around her shoulder for her to see how the tiny leaves have settled into the lines of her braid. As I let it go, my knuckles brush against the heated glow on her cheek.
I whisper again what I think about her, “So beautiful.”
Her breath catches so I slowly lower my hand, wondering if I’ve made her nervous because she’s paused the arm that was going to scoop more leaves off my head. Her gaze meets mine and I smile. She smiles back with what looks like trust. Friendship. Attraction? Could it be possible she has a crush on me as well, or am I doing that wishful thinking thing again?
When I speak next, my voice catches with way too much hope and longing. “My hair collects things like sticks and leaves all the time. No way can I get these all off by myself.”
“Okay, but…close your eyes for a second.” I do as she asks, and suddenly her hand is in motion again. I feel her fingers flicking off a ton of leaves, then tentatively her hand skates across one of my eyebrows!
When she stops and I open my eyes, I’m surprised to find her face really close to mine.
“I don’t want to take all of them out, either. Your hair is also really beautiful against these golden leaves. And—next to your eyes. These…darn eyes.” She sighs. “I feel guilty taking such perfect, yellow framing away from them,” she whispers. “Oh wait. Hold still.” Her pinkie finger brushes tentatively against the lashes of my right eye. A touch so butterfly-light, it sends sparks into my toes. She tilts her head closer, peering deeper. Each word she utters sends a puff of candy-scented air against my cheeks. I’ve pretty much melted into some sort of coma as she goes on, “See, gold and gray are opposite colors on a color wheel. Right now, I’ve never seen anything so perfectly balanced.” She bites her lip and furrows her brow. “Do you mind—artist-to-artist, of course—if I have a closer look at your eyes?”
I shake my head, ‘no’ and manage a little shrug, because that’s just about all I can do right now.
“Are you aware your eyes can be both smoke and sky, and all the colors of the lake in winter and while doing this back lit moon LED looking thing if the light is just right? Sometimes it happens at the very same time.”
I shake my head and arch a brow as if to question her about this madness, but only a little because I’m terrified she’s going to stop talking. Or worse, move away from me and I don’t want her to. Ever.
“Mine are just so blah. But yours—every minute—I swear there’s something changing in yours.” Her finger traces against the edge of my lashes again. “I seriously wonder if you actually see differently than I do. Like right now, is the world more beautiful because you’re looking out from these things?” She flushes slightly when I don’t answer. “I probably sound stupid. You’ve heard it before. Since the day you were born.”
No. Not so it comes out like a song. Not from anyone important.
I swallow, searching for the right thing to say, but all I can manage so far is a head shake, because her eyes are pulling me in and her fingertip has begun a slow trail down the side of my cheek and doesn’t stop until she’s placed her whole hand on the side of my face! I let her turn my head toward the setting sun, but I never take my eyes off hers. A few leaves slide down the back collar of my shirt raining sudden shivers down my spine.
She whispers, “I want to photograph your eyes. Like this. One day. At sunset. If that’s okay?”
I’m suddenly half goose bumps, half fire and all courage.
“Sure,” I start, biting away my urge to ask her if I’m in some sort of dream. Then, in case this day is not a dream—or d
amn, in case it is—and I can do whatever I want, I reach for the gently curved hand that’s lying forgotten in her lap and twine my fingers into hers like I should have done the first time I held it. Then, I tighten my grip just enough so she knows I never mean to let it go again.
I don’t pause when she gasps. Instead, I lean my cheek into her other hand. The one she hasn’t moved that’s resting against my face, and I whisper back, “I want to kiss you. Like this. Now. If that’s okay.”
Just as the wind scatters more golden leaves down over our heads she nods and whispers, “So do I, if that’s okay?”
I’m leaning in to find a way to put my lips against hers, but she’s already there.
ellen
*Wonders: Is this what kissing is?*
Cam’s lips are soft. Warm.
So very gentle against mine. I decide to press farther into the kiss—into him.
As our lips move, I get this sensation that I can suddenly count every wave off the lake hitting the shore behind us. I can make a note of every single leaf that’s hit my head. I can feel the tag from my shirt at the back of my neck tickling my skin. And strangest—most crazy of all—is this idea that I’ve pulled in every caramel-candy flavored breath coming off him. I could swear he’s somehow breathing for me, and I’m somehow breathing for him.
*Wonders again: Is this what kissing is? Frozen heartbeats? Peeking through lashes? Sunset’s last purples flickering on the planes of his face. Wind in my hair. Butterflies weakening my spine, goose bumps and shivers in the spot where his thumb traces over and over my wrist. Is this what kissing is? Trembling. Him. Trembling. Me.*
I’ve let him pull me up so now we’re both kneeling and I’m close—very close—against his chest because there’s no way I can keep my balance with the sky spinning overhead like it is right now all while the ground is going the other direction.
Before I can topple or gather any conscious thoughts, he’s broken the kiss and gathered me up. Suddenly he’s seated criss-cross and I’m sitting sideways on his lap. He’s also done it all without letting go of my bad hand.
At first I was kind of annoyed because his move took my good hand away from its perfect resting spot against his face. But it’s only a half-second complaint, because now he’s kissing me again and I realize how perfectly my body fits in under his chin like we’re matched puzzle pieces. As much as I miss my thumb against his high, solid cheekbone, I’m now able to reach my good arm around his neck and touch the soft edges of his hair. I love how, up close like this, I’m catching whiffs of soap mixed in with the windblown leaves that are all over both of us again.
*Is this what kissing is? Smells, and sounds, warm spots at the back of necks and sighs?*
I close my eyes when he slides my long bangs away from the side of my cheek and moves away from my mouth to place a kiss along my cheekbone and down toward my neck. I know when I open them again—this will surely all be over. I’m also avoiding his scrutiny. Where he’s kissed me—and every where he hasn’t—is now burning, melting.
He might have asked to kiss me first, but it’s pretty obvious I’m the one who started all this by pulling his face one inch from mine so I could stare at his eyes. Did he catch on that I went from staring at his eyes to wishing for his lips to hit mine in about three seconds flat? Can he tell—feel—just how much I don’t want this to stop right now?
He’s tangled his fingers underneath my braid and I turn up my face, searching…thinking the unthinkable…wishing for impossible things. Wishing at least for just one more real, long kiss.
As if he can read my mind, he says, “Ellen…” Then his lips, warm and sure, find mine again. Relieved, I finally let myself breathe and my mind spins on an opposite axis, recording facts and taking notes for later.
This is our third kiss, and yes…I am counting them. This one floats me somewhere between the center of the Earth and all of Jupiter’s sixty-seven moons.
*Is this what kissing is? Elation at the sound of my name on his lips? Regret for the minutes I wasted not kissing this guy? Longing…longing…longing for more? Breathing. Him. Breathing. Me.*
I already know I will never forget the sound of his heart beating along with mine like it is now. I’ve made a permanent record of the unfamiliar sandpaper-feel of his face that’s scraping against my chin and cheeks and recorded forever the way his lips are dry, but wet and soft and curved—yet somehow perfectly gentle—as they move against mine. It’s like we both know what to do even though I’ve never kissed anyone before. Like this is familiar and right instead of insane and totally wrong!
It takes every ounce of what’s left of the person I used to be only moments before to tamp down the butterflies and deny the strange rush of tears threatening to flood in as he pulls away from me.
I open my eyes and our gazes lock.
His eyes seem over-bright and he’s looking way too deeply into mine which makes me feel half like running, half like punching him hard and for no good reason.
*Wonders: Is this what kissing is? Waiting and hoping for another? Wanting to kill someone because you’re pretty sure it’s not going to happen again?*
I glare slightly at him now because it’s his fault my mind has melted. Instead of glaring back he’s just looking at me all soft and friendly and bewildered. Which of course he should be, because I did just throw myself at him and I think made out with him—kind of like a pro! But of course I can’t bring that up now can I? Because thanks to him and the fact that my lips feel all funny right now, it’s not a surprise that I can’t really move at all.
That’s because even though I’m pretty sure this first kiss has changed me forever—because aren’t first kisses supposed to do that—I’m still the girl who’s CP spikes when she’s nervous as heck. The girl who’s a champion at not moving when she really wants to.
Because my eyes still work, I tear my gaze away from his face, knowing I should say something or at least try to explain why I sort of…jumped him. But this whole time, I’ve been scouring my brain for something rational in my head and nothing rational is left.
I’m stuck on ridiculous phrases that will not work at all like: Did you know you are the most amazing kisser in the world—not that I have a comparison. Then there was the fleeting idea that I should shout something. Do something. And now I’m picturing a mini-mind movie of me, leaning out of a window, holding lit sparklers and screaming, I first-kissed with Cam Campbell-wheeeeeeeeeeeee!
I finally go with my standard, “Sorry.” And a little shrug.
He pulls in a fast breath and tightens his arms around me. “Don’t! Ellen Foster, if you ever say the word ‘sorry’ to me again, especially after we’ve kissed, I will honestly lose my mind.”
He moves the hair away from my eyes and tilts my face up so I’m forced to look at him. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Okay? I’m a mess. I shouldn’t have kissed you—and I did—and it was—so perfect I won’t regret it and I hope you don’t either.”
He pulls in a long shaky breath which makes me really jealous because his words have made it so I can’t seem to breathe at all as he goes on, “Here’s the deal. I’ve promised myself like two hundred times that I wasn’t going to approach you. At all. Ever. And now I’ve gone way over that idea, haven’t I?”
“Why? Didn’t you want to, or am I not your type or…never mind. Don’t answer that.” I blink, confused.
“No, it’s because my life is a mess and because I promised Patrick I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You—spoke about me—with Patrick?” I shout out.
“He and I talked when the project started. I promised him and promised myself that I wouldn’t hurt you. And me, kissing you is probably eventually going to hurt you.”
“Not if I don’t let it. You guys are so stupid. I can take care of myself, you know?” I look back up at him, and I f
eel the color firing in my cheeks so hot with anger I’m surprised parts of my eyes haven’t turned into flame throwers. “Well, Patrick will be the one hurt when I rip his head off for thinking he had any right to discuss me with you.” I shake my head. “And FYI, the kisses didn’t hurt, and look—wow—we are both completely fine!”
“Speak for yourself. My heart kills right now.” He shakes his head, staring away from me and muttering up into the sky. “I shouldn’t have kissed you—just shouldn’t have kept kissing you but I couldn’t—didn’t want to stop,” he says in this whisper-raspy voice that sends a new wave of shivers down my spine when he finally looks at me again. “See…I’m so busy. Honestly. My life is in this constant turmoil because my schedule is terrible. And my parents—well they have this habit of being insane and they are even more insane about stalking and micro-managing my every move.” He rolls his eyes. “You have no idea how much they suck out my soul. So, because of the fact that they exist at all as part of my life, you should not be near me let alone have kissed me . This is all what I already told Patrick. That, along with football and homework and SAT’s and AP tests looming and I—crap—I’m saying this all wrong, aren’t I?”
“Okay. Okay. Yes. All wrong.” I hold up a hand to stop him from making more excuses that will just humiliate both of us even more. I’m sure, despite the part where he kindly called the kissing stuff perfect, that I did it all wrong. He’s trying to get out of doing it again or—hanging out with me more, or whatever! What was great for me was obviously terrible for him. At least he’s trying to be polite.
