“He’s not,” I kept telling my mother.
But how could she understand? She didn’t see Mackenna and his remote, sad eyes. So sad even the silver turned to gray sometimes.
She didn’t know that nobody else had told him they were sorry for him. She didn’t know that when I kept going to “study” at other people’s houses, I really was going to meet Mackenna. She didn’t know how we talked, how we laughed. Sometimes we just sat by each other, doing nothing. Sometimes all I was aware of was the position of my hand and how it was in relation to the position of his hand. Sometimes all I knew was the sound of his voice—despite whatever words it said. Sometimes I caught him staring too. At my mouth. My boobs. Sometimes we went to the marina and stole a boat at night. We’d take a dip in the chilly water, and when we came up to the boat, we’d take off our clothes and warm each other.
He’d saved me in school. Now it felt like I was saving him.
He told me he loved me, and I wanted to say it back. But in all our time together, I never said it. He showed that he loved me in little things he did for me: carrying my stuff when no one noticed, quietly following me after school, sometimes waiting outside my house, in the rain, until I could sneak away for another moment with him. Maybe I was his source of compassion, and he couldn’t stand anyone hurting or touching me.
My mother didn’t know that long before the trial, I’d begged Mackenna to have sex with me.
He promised it would happen the following weekend. It did, and it was magical. He took me to the wharf, where we stole past the guards and into a hidden nook under the Ferris wheel. We climbed into one of the cabins, he spread out some blankets, and we made love.
He said he loved me. He asked if I loved him. I did. I really did. He made me tear up. I felt so beautiful, treasured, so perfect.
We kept meeting. Always in secret. Every time it was even better. Better than perfect. He hummed songs to me in his deep voice. At school, we’d have foreplay with our eyes, and then we’d touch each other at night.
Then the trial happened, and soon he didn’t come back to school.
But our plan still stood. After the trial, we’d run away.
Except he never showed up.
I even went to look for him at his uncle’s house, but he wasn’t there. Two older women were in his bed. “You looking for Kenna?” they asked.
I swallowed, wondering if they’d touched him, and if they hadn’t, where he was.
“He’s gone. Took a flight to Boston. One way. He said he sent you a message.”
“He lied. He didn’t send me shit.”
I ran, and ran, and when I got home, I locked myself in my room and went to pull out my box and tear up every picture of me with that lying, mean, cruel fucking asshole.
Nothing survived, except for that stupid pebble in that box from the time when he told me not to trip again.
Aren’t I tripping with the same pebble now?
I’ve told myself that it’s not like I remember. His hands. His lips. Our first kiss. He used to get so jealous about me.
One day, before Mackenna asked me to be his official girlfriend, we were arguing about Wes Rosberg. “He’s taking you out?” Mackenna asked, his eyebrows furrowing over his nose. “Where’s he taking you out? Why’d you say yes? I thought you didn’t like him?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said, shrugging.
He shoved to his feet. “Oh, yeah? What if he wants to have a girlfriend?”
I shrugged again. “Well, maybe I would like to have a boyfriend.”
“I want to be your boyfriend.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want to be your boyfriend.”
“Kenna! Get over here!” a voice yells from somewhere in the background, bringing me to the present. Hearing the rumble of his voice under my ear, I’m momentarily confused.
“I’m a bit busy here.”
Jokes, laughter, and bad words are exchanged, and I can hear his chuckle.
Under. My. Ear.
He’s eased his seat back and lifted the armrest, and his arm is around my waist. My brain is dazed as I try to understand why my ear is on Mackenna’s chest, and why his hand is spread wide and big across the small of my back. Conveniently my top is raised. Or did he raise it? His thumb ring is on my skin, tracing little circles over the dent of my spine.
I feel a pressure between my legs as I struggle with this realization, but I’m so drugged I can’t even open my mouth. Am I dreaming?
When the twins come over to engage in a discussion with him, Mackenna shifts his body and stretches beneath me, muscles rippling under my body, then he slides his hand from the small of my back up and up, to my nape, then up, to cup my ear. His husky voice is low, as if he doesn’t want to wake me while the guys discuss a party tonight.
“She coming?” I hear the muffled question.
“Obviously,” Mackenna rumbles. They laugh. I can still hear him under my ear. Between my legs, I tingle harder.
“Might not be such a good idea. The girls are plotting her murder.”
“Bah. This one could chew them up and spit them out,” Mackenna says.
I can’t figure out if he’s insulting me or not. Is he taking my side instead of his floozies’? Something inside me feels warm, but I quell it. It’s been too long since we were friends. Sure, we had a closet make-out, but that was crazy. Lunacy. An animal moment. Currently, I’m too weak to fight the pull of his hand. I can’t get up, but the fact that I’m right here doesn’t mean we’re okay.
But how could she understand? She didn’t see Mackenna and his remote, sad eyes. So sad even the silver turned to gray sometimes.
She didn’t know that nobody else had told him they were sorry for him. She didn’t know that when I kept going to “study” at other people’s houses, I really was going to meet Mackenna. She didn’t know how we talked, how we laughed. Sometimes we just sat by each other, doing nothing. Sometimes all I was aware of was the position of my hand and how it was in relation to the position of his hand. Sometimes all I knew was the sound of his voice—despite whatever words it said. Sometimes I caught him staring too. At my mouth. My boobs. Sometimes we went to the marina and stole a boat at night. We’d take a dip in the chilly water, and when we came up to the boat, we’d take off our clothes and warm each other.
He’d saved me in school. Now it felt like I was saving him.
He told me he loved me, and I wanted to say it back. But in all our time together, I never said it. He showed that he loved me in little things he did for me: carrying my stuff when no one noticed, quietly following me after school, sometimes waiting outside my house, in the rain, until I could sneak away for another moment with him. Maybe I was his source of compassion, and he couldn’t stand anyone hurting or touching me.
My mother didn’t know that long before the trial, I’d begged Mackenna to have sex with me.
He promised it would happen the following weekend. It did, and it was magical. He took me to the wharf, where we stole past the guards and into a hidden nook under the Ferris wheel. We climbed into one of the cabins, he spread out some blankets, and we made love.
He said he loved me. He asked if I loved him. I did. I really did. He made me tear up. I felt so beautiful, treasured, so perfect.
We kept meeting. Always in secret. Every time it was even better. Better than perfect. He hummed songs to me in his deep voice. At school, we’d have foreplay with our eyes, and then we’d touch each other at night.
Then the trial happened, and soon he didn’t come back to school.
But our plan still stood. After the trial, we’d run away.
Except he never showed up.
I even went to look for him at his uncle’s house, but he wasn’t there. Two older women were in his bed. “You looking for Kenna?” they asked.
I swallowed, wondering if they’d touched him, and if they hadn’t, where he was.
“He’s gone. Took a flight to Boston. One way. He said he sent you a message.”
“He lied. He didn’t send me shit.”
I ran, and ran, and when I got home, I locked myself in my room and went to pull out my box and tear up every picture of me with that lying, mean, cruel fucking asshole.
Nothing survived, except for that stupid pebble in that box from the time when he told me not to trip again.
Aren’t I tripping with the same pebble now?
I’ve told myself that it’s not like I remember. His hands. His lips. Our first kiss. He used to get so jealous about me.
One day, before Mackenna asked me to be his official girlfriend, we were arguing about Wes Rosberg. “He’s taking you out?” Mackenna asked, his eyebrows furrowing over his nose. “Where’s he taking you out? Why’d you say yes? I thought you didn’t like him?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said, shrugging.
He shoved to his feet. “Oh, yeah? What if he wants to have a girlfriend?”
I shrugged again. “Well, maybe I would like to have a boyfriend.”
“I want to be your boyfriend.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want to be your boyfriend.”
“Kenna! Get over here!” a voice yells from somewhere in the background, bringing me to the present. Hearing the rumble of his voice under my ear, I’m momentarily confused.
“I’m a bit busy here.”
Jokes, laughter, and bad words are exchanged, and I can hear his chuckle.
Under. My. Ear.
He’s eased his seat back and lifted the armrest, and his arm is around my waist. My brain is dazed as I try to understand why my ear is on Mackenna’s chest, and why his hand is spread wide and big across the small of my back. Conveniently my top is raised. Or did he raise it? His thumb ring is on my skin, tracing little circles over the dent of my spine.
I feel a pressure between my legs as I struggle with this realization, but I’m so drugged I can’t even open my mouth. Am I dreaming?
When the twins come over to engage in a discussion with him, Mackenna shifts his body and stretches beneath me, muscles rippling under my body, then he slides his hand from the small of my back up and up, to my nape, then up, to cup my ear. His husky voice is low, as if he doesn’t want to wake me while the guys discuss a party tonight.
“She coming?” I hear the muffled question.
“Obviously,” Mackenna rumbles. They laugh. I can still hear him under my ear. Between my legs, I tingle harder.
“Might not be such a good idea. The girls are plotting her murder.”
“Bah. This one could chew them up and spit them out,” Mackenna says.
I can’t figure out if he’s insulting me or not. Is he taking my side instead of his floozies’? Something inside me feels warm, but I quell it. It’s been too long since we were friends. Sure, we had a closet make-out, but that was crazy. Lunacy. An animal moment. Currently, I’m too weak to fight the pull of his hand. I can’t get up, but the fact that I’m right here doesn’t mean we’re okay.
