Like Light

The keg line grows longer and snakes out of the kitchen, ending in a messy clump of guys in worn skateboard sneakers, girls picking at their dark, chipped nail polish. Chatter. The buzzing-hum of a warm Friday night and loud music. He kisses your neck and you end up on the couch downstairs next to the table covered with crumpled Solo cups, on a floor of brightly-colored balloons.

You make out like you’ll die if you don’t kiss again. It feels like running and screaming down hills. You end up with his cinnamon gum in your mouth and stick it to the bottom of the table. You trace the thick black tattoo on the inside of his wrist. The number three. Father, Son and Holy Spirit, he’d told you when you met last summer. That summer you hung out underneath reaching trees and snuck out of your bedroom windows at night so you could kiss in the dark, your hearts beating like two quick tick-tocking clocks, like two fists with their muffled punching.

When he takes you home he turns the engine off and you sit in his car in the driveway and your dad’s bedroom light is off. Good. He takes some of your hair in his hands. The part you and your best friend dyed bright pink last week you usually keep tucked behind your ear.

“What do you think will happen?”

“Happen when?”

“With us,” he says, slipping your hair through his fingers over and over again.

“I don’t know,” you say, letting him kiss you again.

And he makes sure you’re safe inside before he drives away.

By Sunday night that part of your hair is peacock blue and you’ve written your boyfriend’s name on your new pair of shoes, thin, black Sharpie ink sideways on the rubber. Your dad teases you about it but you don’t mind. And he’s right. You do love a boy. This boy is in college and you’re still in high school. This boy gave you his green hooded sweatshirt and you gave him some of your black rubber bracelets and you wear them when you’re not together and you wear them when you are together. You traded pillows so you can smell each other while you’re sleeping.

“I love it,” he says about your hair. He says he wants to do his. So you go back to the drugstore to buy the same color. You go to your house when your dad’s not there and you sit on the bathroom floor while you wait for the color to take. He hangs his head into your bathtub and you rinse his hair out. He throws a towel over his wet head and you tent yourselves and promise each other you’ll always always do shit like this. Even after you get married. Even after you have kids. Even when you get old.

“You’re everything,” you tell him.

When your dad comes home, he shakes your boyfriend’s hand like always and you get takeout Chinese food and eat it while you watch TV. And when he leaves your dad tells you he doesn’t like the two of you being in the house alone. You say I know I’m sorry. And he makes a face and says Goodnight. You write exactly what he said in your journal. You listen to mixtapes and think about how in three weeks you won’t be in high school anymore and maybe then you can do whatever you want. You plan your Friday night outfit as you’re falling asleep. Cut-off jean shorts and black leggings and your Doc Martens. Your boyfriend’s white v-neck t-shirt and your biggest hoop earrings.

You and your best friend ride together to the party this time. Your boyfriend will meet you there. He comes, but he’s late. And he’s with a group of his guy friends, but there are a couple of girls too. You haven’t seen them before. Maybe they’re college girls. They’re pretty. Your boyfriend grabs your hand as he walks past.

“Do you want a beer?” he asks.

You do, but you say you don’t because you’re starting to feel nervous and weird and you don’t like drinking when you already feel weird.

“Come with me,” he says, holding on to your hand supertight. That makes you feel better.

“Are you with those girls? They’re college girls?” You say into his ear.

“I’m not with them. I’m with you,” he says.

So you take a sip of his beer and you end up downstairs again, kissing and kissing with your legs wrapped around him. The blue in his hair is hanging down over one of his eyes.

“What about after you graduate?” he says in between kisses.

“We’ll be fine, right?”

“I think so. Do you think so?”

“I think so,” you say back.

“You’re my favorite girl,” he says into the darkness.

So when he tells you he hooked up with another girl and he’s sorry, you can’t cry hard enough. You can’t be mad enough. You can’t hate him enough. Your best friend brings over the reddest dye she can find. It’s slut-red. It’s boiling point-red. It’s called Emergency. You wash out the chunk of blue. You dye your whole head this time and feel completely fucking validated when you see the school bus in front of your house because the back of it reads stop when red lights are flashing.

“What happened?” Your dad wants to know. He tells you he likes your hair just fine it’s fine but what happened with the boy. But you don’t tell him. You shrug instead. And he hugs you and you hug him back.

You see your ex-boyfriend at a party after you’ve finally graduated. He’s got his arm thrown around some girl but he lets it fall down to his side when he sees you. He walks over and says Hey.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” he says.

“This is how it is,” you say and look down and notice he got another tattoo, a heart on fire.

“Well I don’t want it to be.”

“This is how it is,” you say again before turning away.

And tonight you feel small. You feel okay but you feel like nothing. Like you could float away. Like glitter or ash. Like light.