The Photo on the Wardrobe

Her bed was soft and smelled good. Disney DVDs lined the shelves in perfect rows, and a wind chime hung from the ceiling without moving a millimeter. We couldn’t kiss—her boyfriend’s photo on the wardrobe made that functionally impossible—so instead we read each other passages from a sex book, laughing ourselves stupid at phrases like Goofy’s cock parade and anal safari, using the absurdity to paper over the shock we’d both been carrying since that morning, when they split us up.

The class reshuffle had been arbitrary, unfair, and completely pointless. I pushed hard enough to get Jenny moved back that even the teachers ended up on my side—the new students apparently thought I was class president. Technically I got what I wanted. Except the offer was for her alone, not her best friend. She couldn’t leave her behind. I understood that. So I let it go.

Now we see each other every break. The hugs are sometimes careful and sometimes like collisions. There’s something good about feeling this way—stupid, teenage, half in love with someone I can’t quite reach. The most childish feelings are always the ones that hit hardest. Her laugh cuts straight through whatever I’m thinking about. I’m completely gone for it.