Early Summer

Luck has nothing to do with it.

At least, that’s what I like to tell myself. If I was going to be totally honest, it’d be proper of me to admit that I have no idea how I wound up here—going out with a superstar model of weaponized femininity, working out with the ginger slab of meat that came prepackaged with her like a two-for-one deal. In two short weeks but two long months ago, the trajectory of my life changed positions like an MMA fighter getting leg-swept in reverse. And ever since then, it feels like I’ve been dealing with the slowly blooming consequences.

If I took things day at a time the way I used to, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed that things were different. But like a timelapse of a plant growing on fast-forward, the more I started to plan things out and the more I had to look forward to, the more obvious change became.

For starters, both my father and I gained fifteen pounds. Unlike Dad, though, my metamorphosis was much more thanks to the hardwork and dedication of lifted steel than a determined application of Olive Garden coupons. But hey, I can’t fault a guy for living a little. Especially since the retirement home job has caused contracts to come rolling in with the showmanship of a wheelchair basketball team. First it was a mascot sculpture for the local middle school’s garden, then it was a metalworking motif for city hall. Apparently, not a single person in the entire West Elm Area had stopped to ponder if a rusting angel outside of a nursing home might be a bit too on the nose.

But I can’t complain.

Not when my graphics card got its first update since my elementary school graduation, and not when I haven’t had to spend a single cent on clothes or protein powder thanks to the unyielding generosity of Brian’s dads. And speaking of graphics cards, even the gaggle of knobheads I game with has undergone a change for the better.

Ever since Raisa went from lunchbuddy to core member of the group chat, the use of slurs and insult comedy has fallen off exponentially. She clicked surprisingly well with Ricardo and Co., even finding the honorary title of “one of the boys” to be quite amusing. Even more incredible than that was the amount of times I’d gone to sleep and woken up only to see her and Ricardo still in the same call together on an unbroken win streak.

Admittedly, that might be due to my still-awful sleep habit of four brief hours a night. But in my defense, there’s just too much for me to do for something as petty as sleep deprivation to weigh me down. Plus, Anne-Marie said the eye-bags really add to my “murderer’s mystique”, so I have that going for me.

Oh Anne-Marie, you unfairly kissable asshole. At the risk of coming off like a broken record made of goopy, molten mozzarella, why does she have to make me feel so damn chipper all the time? Those blue eyes fill me with the kind of pure contentedness that should be reserved exclusively for lobotomites and people overdosing on opioids.

And I’m gonna get to stare at them all goddamn day.

Nothing can bring me down right now. Not even-

“Yo dud r u coming 2 the party next weekend”

“Sure thing, B-dog,” I reply. “Where was it again?”

“Same place always. Its @ Drakes house, Og-dog”

My left eye twitches involuntarily at the mention of Drake’s name. But I’m a faithful little stage donkey, and I’m not gonna abandon my clown until the circus closes for the night.

“I’ll bring the beer,” I say.

“Tnx dawg ur da best”

I put my phone down, punch my arm through the sleeve of my stylish checkerboard riding jacket, and clear my throat.

“Daaaaad!” I yell.

There’s a peculiar series of clanks downstairs, followed by the sound of something massive and particularly squeaky being wheeled around on a floor that simply does not agree with the notion.

“Yeah, kid?” Dad asks.

“Can I take the truck out? I’m gonna meet up with a friend.”

“Is this the friend that made you clog the drain with pube hairs?”

My lips snap into my mouth like rubber bands. I groan, and cut straight to the point:

“Where did you leave the keys?”

“Somewhere.”

I shoot to my feet with a scowl.

“What do you mean, somewhere?!”

I hear a muffled, mumbled, “Idunno.”

Thanks, dad. Real helpful.

Fortunately for me, the keys were in the first place I looked—in the secondary tool cupboard, sandwiched between the backup nut wrench set and a cutout of Ms. Germany of ‘84 in a finger-wide neon swimsuit. I sigh, snap a picture, and roll the pickup out over our freshly re-grouted driveway with an orgasmically satisfying low crunch. Yeah, I think, as dad’s oldies playlist carries me all the way to the start of Fairy Pit trail:

Life’s good.

She’s standing there as impeccable as always. Except now that the long winter’s finally over, Anne-Marie saw the chance to show an unexpected—but not unwelcome—amount of skin. A glittery, knee-length fold skirt, and a simple band poster graphic tee is all it takes for her to make my chimp brain salivate.

I stroll up to her, meeting her smile with an extended elbow. She tiptoes up to kiss me, but I end up bumping her nose with my chin.

“You dick,” she hisses, and follows up with a proper peck on my cheek.

“Is that any way to greet your ride?”

“Better be talking about the car.”

“That too,” I say, and start sauntering out into the woods.

She follows me with a furious pitter-patter, and harpoons her hand through the gap between my elbow and hip.

“Where do you think you’re running off to?” she asks.

“The Fairy Pit, right?”

“I was thinking…” She pauses, to thumb her cheek. “That we take the scenic route.”

I raise an eyebrow, and she leads me down a freshly-bloomed tunnel of greenery. Crawling with oversleeping ivies, overrun with squirrels frantically searching for their nuts like they’ve misplaced an essay. Overgrown and ruddy, and presenting a supernatural stench, it’s truly like the school hallway of the forest.

But, much like a school hallway, it sort of fades into the background once you focus on your actual destination.

The path takes us in a swirling, uneven climb around the unshaven flank of Leafwatcher’s Trail. Between the grottos and groves and fallen logs, we can see Makeout Hill sloping in the distance like mother earth’s chubby lovehandle. It’s warm outside, more like an early summer than a timely spring. And it’s even warmer amid the heat trapped between fresh saplings and trees growing out their mossy beards. By the time we reach the hill, I’ve had to tie my jacket around my waist and suffer the consequences.

“You look like you forgot your colostomy bag at home,” Anne-Marie snickers.

“Oh?” I say. “Should I go back and get it then? You can wait here if you like.”

She squints at me, and acknowledges my point with a, “Hmph.”

We arrive at the top of Makeout Hill just in time for the noon sun to not directly blind us through the trees. It’s just the two of us, presiding over an evergreen auditorium from a podium of spongy black basalt and tiger-striped sandstone.

Ever since my first visit to the Fairy Pit, I’ve tried to understand what makes places like this magical. But all that’s done is throw me down a dozen different rabbit holes about all the kinds of rocks and trees out here. Since then, I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to let magic exist without questioning it. And yet, in the meantime, I have to admit that I’ve come to find the finer points of birds and mushrooms and shit to be pretty interesting.

Anne-Marie, on the other hand, seems to find the finer points of my face to be equally fascinating. Her finger explores the contours of my nose, and then dips into the dip above my lips. It trails out along my cheek, curling around the bottom of my chin.

And she pulls me in.

We kiss. For a long, long time. So long that I start losing track of myself, and I find my hand reaching for her chest on its own. I notice it in time, and pull it back. But so does Anne-Marie. She pretends not to, though, and has gotten good at hiding everywhere except for the down-curled corner of her lips.

“Is everything okay?” I murmur, into her soft hair.

Anne-Marie pulls away, if only by an inch or two.

“Yeah,” she says. “Well, no. I don’t know.”

I lay a hand on hers, and she allows it.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Anne-Marie lets out a long, stifled sigh, as if she’s taking the last drag from a cigarette in reverse. Then she looks me in the eyes.

“I got waitlisted for U-Chicago.”

“What.”

Like a lego figure hit by a train, and it takes me a good bit to collect my scattered self.

I mumble, “But your grades…”

“And extracurriculars. And sports. And volunteer work-” She spreads her fingers out as if she’s scattering pixie dust. “Poof. All for nothing.”

Considering that the best offer I got was a partial scholarship to a community college up in Milwaukee, I feel a bit out of my depth. What do you say to someone who just got their dreams crushed.

“I got the email on the way here,” she continues, putting on a nasally, authoritative voice, “‘Don’t get discouraged, as seats may open up at a moment’s notice. Regardless, we would love to see you reapply next year’. Moment’s notice my dumb, useless ass.”

I frown, and offer, “Hey, don’t talk about my lunch that way.”

“This is serious, Ogden,” she replies, cradling her chin in her hands. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

“That’s valid. But you can always just go to a different college for a year and reapply, right?”

Anne-Marie shuts her eyes. “My only other good offer is a no-scholarship at UCLA.”

“But the out-of-state costs-”

“Yeah,” she says.

I lay an arm around her shoulders.

“Look. I don’t know shit about college stuff considering that I have all twenty-four out of twenty-fourths of a future arts-and-crafts career, but there’s gotta be something you can do.”

She tussles her hair in a “no”.

“Nothing at all?”

“No point even if there was. If I can’t even get a scholarship from a college ten rankings below my dream school.”

“Well, what did the girls say?”

Anne-Marie replies through clenched teeth. “Well, Wendy’s taking a gap year to save the turtles in Costa Rica or whatever. Trissie’s already saved up for a dorm at Boston-U Pre-med with her Onlyfans money. And Teddy’s on a fast-track-full-ride to Harvard Environmental Law.”

“Shit,” I say, without thinking. “It seems like everyone knows what they want to do.”

“Yeah. That’s the fucking problem,” Anne-Marie replies, her voice straining at the very end.

My heartstrings twang like someone put the neck of a guitar in a guillotine. It’s almost never been harder to breathe, how much it hurts to hear her get choked up over this. And I had pneumonia twice when I was eight.
“Look, Morning,” I perch a hand atop her head. “If there’s anyone in the whole world that can figure that kind of thing out, it’s you.”

She shakes her head free. “Easy for you to say.”

“Hey. What’dyou mean?”

Anne-Marie winces. And then, sucking in air through her teeth, she replies:

“Everyone has something they’re good at, that they’re really passionate about. It makes it feel like it’s a crime to be indecisive. To just exist.”

I laugh. “If that’s a crime, then I’m getting life without parole.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says, meaning business. “You have all your handicrafts and media passions. Plus, you’re like a social wizard now. I’ve seen you fix everything from a sink to a jock’s broken heart.”

There’s an indignant, molten seed in my throat. One one hand, she’s genuinely complimenting me. On the other, it’s entirely for the purposes of talking down to me while devaluing herself.

I practically yell, “And you have soccer! And mathletes, and friends, and fashion sense and an unbroken home.”

She looks away. “It’s not ideal just because it’s not broken.”

“That’s fair.” I sigh. “I can’t think of anything that is. But you’re the one who taught me that all of that stuff can be interesting and valuable without needing to consume you.”

“But that’s the problem-”

I see a glint in the corner of her eyes. As if she’s on the verge of tears.

Anne-Marie continues, choking out her words, “Now that all of that stuff is just part of me instead of all of me, I suddenly have to come up with something else entirely! Something that will be my future. That’ll pay my bills.”

“I…”

This is what I get for trying to play optimistic pep-talk guidance counselor. Awkward, tear-streaked silence. Guilt, regret, and the selfish impulse to grab her by the shoulders and make her mind spin.

It’s not like I have a plan, either. I spent the last four years—the prime of my life, according to some—hanging out, jacking off, and grinding for ranked leaderboard points with equally sweaty losers. Doing just well enough at school that I can bury myself in these inane hobbies without question- hoping that an answer would find me magically.

But I think I’m starting to realize that answers don’t come to you.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m not that smart. And I don’t have my shit together. There probably isn’t a piece of advice I can give you in the whole world. But-” I wipe the tears from her eyes with a finger and lay my hand in hers. “I can give you this.”

Bit by bit, the sun returns to her eyes. I can see her realize that it’s way too warm today for the cold grip of despair. Anne-Marie swallows her sorrows in a single gulp. And she embraces me. With a sniffle, she mumbles:

“Thanks, Goggles.”

Looks like summer really did come early.