Streetlights and a buzzing Krispy Kreme sign slither and twist into glowing serpents. Did I lose my glasses? I remember Susan borrowing them and asking if she looked cute, and me telling her yes because I thought I was supposed to, even though I couldn’t see. I crane my head back and breathe in, smelling old rubber, dried leaves, a distant barbecue. And here, Morgan. Morgan, who just smells like Morgan. In front of me. In my arms. My best friend. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and laugh at nothing in particular, at how funny the world can be, at how weird it is that he’s a boy.
How weird it is that he’s a boy.
I wonder if that’s occurred to him. I try to focus on the thought, to pull it apart and examine it, but my brain feels as numb as my nose and the tips of my fingers. Still, it feels like a revelation.
Who knew beer was so good? I crane my head up and take a deep, bracing breath. The smear of the heavens twirls as Morgan’s bike takes a turn and my breath hiccups as I realize how big everything is, and how small we are, and how in the whole span from the first star, to the end of everything, this moment will never be seen again. This thought makes me dizzy, so I wrap my arms tighter around Morgan’s chest and press my face into the back of his neck, into his brown hair.
“So I read something crazy about The Crow,” Morgan says. It’s been his favorite movie since we found an old VHS copy at the McKay’s in Knoxville. He fell in love with it immediately. Usually I tease him about it, but I just want to hear him talk.
“Tell me,” I say.
“So Eric Draven—”
“Who?” I say.
“The main character!” He says. “God, dude, we’ve watched it three times.”
“I never paid attention,” I say. “It was an excuse to spend time with you.”
He’s quiet for half a street, and I feel his body shift under my hands. I lean to look at his face, but seeing him without my glasses brings back a feeling I’ve had a few times in the past year. The idea that I’ve made him blush or overwhelmed him—the way girls get sometimes when you give them an unexpected compliment, the way he got when I played with his hair a few minutes ago—makes my chest tighten.
“Anyway,” he says. “Eric Draven was played by Brandon Lee, Bruce Lee’s son.”
“Uh-huh.” I feel a little bit of my balance come back so I sit up straight and hold my arms out, twisting my hands as the wind passes over them.
“But he died filming the shootout scene. You know, the big one in the warehouse? Something went wrong with the blanks.”
“Oh damn,” I say, not completely focused on what he’s saying, and lost in my own thoughts. “You’re so smart, dude, it’s amazing.”
“But … uh, that’s why the editing’s so weird in … in places. Why it’s a little janky.”
“I see,” I say. “I don’t think I ever noticed editing before. You should go to, like, film school or something.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says. “Maybe.”
Suddenly I can imagine Morgan in New York City or LA, going to some fancy college—writing papers about this sort of thing, lounging with trendy kids on a hill, expounding on film in a way that would go over my head. And maybe fitting in there in a way he never does here. It’s almost like I can see it. But then, would that mean he’d leave me behind? Does UT have a film school? Would he even want to go there? Probably not.
With everything being about football this past year, I can barely see farther than the next pass I’m going to catch. But say I get into college, and say I go, and say Morgan’s not there with me? The thought makes my stomach sink. Worse yet, say I’m trapped in Thebes forever, and Morgan’s the one who leaves … I swallow the bile in my throat and push the thought away.
“I don’t know,” he says. We sweep through the kudzu-choked roundabout on Lafayette Street. Another long moment passes. I flap my arms slowly. He takes a deep breath.
“So, Jasmine kissed me,” he says.
The lights coil and snap into a shape I can’t make sense of. What did I decide I shouldn’t forget? Something about how Morgan should have been a girl? But he’s not is the thing, and maybe that thought, that weird thought, I realize with a sickening lurch, was just a perverted, roundabout way of wishing I could keep him forever. If Morgan’s a boy, which he is, then eventually he’ll get a girlfriend and spend more time with her than me. I picture them kissing, their hands under each other’s shirts, their thoughts focused on nothing but each other, and my vision swims.
My balance gives out and I start to sway, and suddenly the only thought in my whole skull is this: maybe beer isn’t actually great.
I let go of Morgan’s chest and go crashing off the bike. Asphalt bites into my arms and I lay on my back, dazed by the spinning streetlights, unable to move.