Grades 11/12 1st Michael Cheaito, “How to Have Your First Kiss”

How to Have Your First Kiss

“Let me get this completely straight: you don’t like The Simpsons because they’re yellow?” “Well, when you put it that way it sounds dumb.” Caroline had a way of pressing her lips together when she paused. “It’s just not realistic.” “I’d argue that most TV isn’t realistic, though. High school teachers don’t just become mastermind meth dealers. Politicians don’t throw people off of rooftops.” “Maybe they don’t do those things, but the characters do seem real. Are you telling me you believe in squibbly, yellow dudes who can do a thousand things in, like, one calendar year?” “You have a point. I guess I just like to suspend my disbelief.” You could hear little chirps coming in from across the hill. A few old trees seemed to swell above us at the wind’s command, and their grand, green appendages, brimming with lush wafers and scattered squirrels, were almost as pretty as the ringlets of fair hair that would brush off her shoulders when she laughed. Our hands were planted into thick patches of grass, and, though the sun made me squint, I couldn’t help but feel like those critical, emerald eyes were impossible not to see. “You’re staring.” “I’m sorry.” “You don’t have to be.” “...” “So what shows do you like?” “Documentaries. Have you seen Murder Mountain?” “I have not.” “It’s a wild story. There’s this place, in California, where people just grow acres of weed, and there are no laws. Something like seventy percent of American weed comes from there. People go there in search of money, or fame, and they call it murder mountain because-” “People get murdered?” “Yeah, and the police can never do anything about it. And we just keep buying their weed.” “That’s horrible.”

“It is! But you’re telling me that when you go back home, you’re just gonna throw out all your weed because people get killed to make it?” “I don’t smoke, actually.” “Oh. Well, a lot of boys do. And they wouldn’t throw out their weed.” When Caroline made a point, she would nod her head down and then turn it back up to you, like she was revealing a surprise. “You’re really cute, you know that?” I slid a little closer. “Mhmm. Real slick there, Edgar.” “Slick? How am I being slick?” “Oh? I guess you’re not.” There was another pause. “Do you like guys who smoke weed?” “Not particularly.” “So what do you look for in a guy?” “Huh… A lot of things, I guess. I like guys who are funny. Smart. Good kissers. I like guys who are direct.” “Direct?” “Like, forward. They have to be forward with what they want.” Her eyes had that discerning look in them again. She pursed her lips. I leaned in for a kiss.

“Oh, I-” She jerked back. “I’m sorry-” “No, it’s-” “Really, no, I’m sorry.” “No, don’t be.” There was a pause.

“Let me get this straight: you don’t like The Simpsons because they’re

yellow?”

“Well, when you put it that way it sounds dumb… it’s just not realistic.” “That’s a good point.” Chirps were coming in from across the hill, and a few old trees seemed to swell at the wind’s command. The sun made me squint, but I couldn’t help but feel like those critical, emerald eyes were impossible not to see.

“You know what I like?” I asked. “What?” “Documentaries. Have you seen Murder Mountain?” “I love that show! Did you know 70% of American weed-” “Comes right from that mountain. I know. It’s unbelievable.” Caroline smiled. “You know, sometimes I think about throwing all my weed away. I just don’t know where it comes from -- it’s like, who had to get hurt so that could get to me?” “You care a lot, don’t you?” “What do you mean?” “Nothing, just that -- just that you seem like the type of person who cares about things. It’s cool.” “Well, thank you, Edgar.” “...” “Are there things that you care about?” She asked. “Yeah. Some things.” “What do you care about?” “See, I would tell you, but if I did, you’d think I was lame.” “No I won’t!”

like?” “You probably would.” “I hate that. Do you think all pretty girls are that shallow?” “No I -- I don’t think you’re shallow. I know you’re not shallow.” “So then what do you care about?” I held my breath. “I like graphic novels.” “Like comics?” “You can call them comics.” “My little brother reads comics.” “See? That’s what I mean. Your little brother reads comics.” Caroline laughed. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. What comics do you

“Well, lots of different comics. Alan Moore’s my favorite author. There’s this series he wrote called Saga of the Swamp Thing. It’s a superhero book, but it’s also about other things. Like, our responsibility to nature, or what it means to be human. All his comics are about bigger things.”

it.”

“It’s hard to believe, right? Like The Simpsons?” “Yeah. But it’s cool that you like it.”

“I never talk to people about that.” “No?” “No. I think I’m scared to.” Caroline sent me a smile. “But you can talk to me about it?” “Yeah. I guess you’re easy to talk to.” Caroline leaned in a little closer. “I think I like you.” I said. “You’re sweet.” There was a pause. “Do you…” “What?” “Can I kiss you?” “Oh… I’m sorry, Edgar.” “Damn it!” Caroline jerked back. “Jeez, sorry. It’s just a little weird when you ask like that.”

Sometimes, I wish that I grew up in the 80s so that I could wear neon without feeling retro and catch new movies without knowing anything more about them than what the posters let on. There’s an arcade called Bixby’s about twenty minutes away from my house that I think understands that wish. The whole thing is brimming with rainbow lights on the ceiling and punch-o-meters and the sounds of “Take On Me” or some other one-hit wonder track humming from a tinny speaker. You can get a coke for a dollar at the concession stand. The main attraction, the games, forgeo a credit-card scanner so that you still need quarters to play.

“Hey man, you done?” A kid behind me asked.

I checked my pockets, but found nothing but lint. “Sure. Have at it.” On my left, a looming obelisk of a game projected the letters “Dollhouse of Death” in violent red font. A couple of townies were jeering at their unconscious friend while a little screen showed him being eaten alive by a Barbie. I made my way outside and buzzed my mom on my earbuds. “Hello?” “Hey Mom.” “Hey honey! You’re back from school already?” “No, they let out early.” “Oh. How was your day?” “Good.” “That’s good. There’s risotto left in the fridge if you’re hungry.” “Actually, I’m at Bixby’s.” “Of course. Are you having a good time? “I was. But I kinda… ran out of quarters.” “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I’ll be off work in about a half hour. Can you wait for me to come by? I can pick you up.” “I kind of wanted to play another round. Can you bring some change?” I heard a phone ringing on the other end. “Oh, well honey, you’ve been spending a lot of time playing games recently. We should get home.” “I know. Just one more, mom. I can wait for you. It’ll only take five minutes.”

you.” “Well… alright then. I have to wrap up here. I’ll be there soon. I love

“Love you too.”

Inside, mega-sized boxes stood around, some painted with seductive images and obstructive 18+ holograms, others advertising photorealistic Martians and piss-your-pants space invasion. I know, it’s nerdy, but I always had my eyes set on something else: in big, blocky letters, a pink hologram read “How to Have Your First Kiss.” Caroline was smiling on the cover art. She had a dimple on her right cheek. I watched the kid in front of me glaze over and sulk into the armrests, and I waited for a few more quarters to slip-inside.

“I never talk to people about that.”

“No?” “No. I think I’m scared to.” “But you can talk to me about it?” “Yeah. I guess you’re easy to talk to.” Caroline leaned in a little closer. A bird camped on the swelling trees above us let out a chirp. “Can I ask you a personal question?” I asked. “Well, that depends. What type of question?” “It’s not personal, I guess -- just -- well, what’s your idea of a good

time?”

“A good time?” “Yeah. Just something you like to do for fun.” Caroline pointed those emerald eyes towards the sky and the scattered clouds; I’m not sure if it was just me, but they seemed to shift ever so slightly when she did. “I like picnics.” “Oh yeah? So I assume you’re having a good time now?” “It’s a nice picnic.” “What else, though? You know? Other than the things you do here? “I don’t know, Edgar. Why don’t I ask you something about yourself?” “I don’t really want to hear what I have to say. I’m just curious about

you.”

Those critical eyes seemed to settle. “Well that’s sweet. I like gardening.” “What do you like about gardening? “Seeing a carrot grow from a seed to a full plant. It’s a magical thing to

watch.”

“Yeah?” “Yeah. I like swimming.” “Really? I have a pool behind my house.” “Oh, I can’t stand the taste of chlorine. Lakes. Lakes are just gorgeous -- you know, when you’re swimming on the shallow end and you can just feel the algae tickling at your feet? And the rocks that you have to dodge so that you don’t cut yourself.” “Shit.” “And I love camping.” “Really? God, I would, but it’s all the insects. I went camping once,

but I couldn’t sleep because I kept seeing little ants and -- and spiders -- just thinking about how spiders could crawl into my mouth if I fell asleep.” “That’s part of the attraction! My dad used to take me camping when I was little. We’d spend the day hunting for small game -- you know, rabbits and the like -- and my dad would set up a fire at nighttime. You can always see stars in the forest, which never happens in a city, because all the lights drown them out. And when we’d go to sleep -- see, I’m just like you in that I couldn’t sleep -- so I’d spend time counting all the bugs that would pass me by, and if I saw one twice, I would give it a name.” “That’s adorable.” “I remember this one black beetle called Candice. She kept passing by my sleeping bag, so I pointed her out to my dad, who was already drifting off, but I think he listened. Candice just -- just kept coming around, and I would stick out my finger and she’d crawl on top. I eventually fell asleep, you know, and when I woke up, she wasn’t there.” “...” Every once in a while, you can feel your chest pump at a few hundred beats a minute and your fingers start to get real sweaty. Your breath starts to pace, but not in that even, weighted way -- it’s like it’s just running out ahead of you. And you figure -- you figure, if you’re ever gonna feel better -- that you just gotta ask what’s on your mind. “Do you wanna catch a movie next Saturday?” “Which one?” “I don’t know. Something believable.” Caroline’s eyes always saw right through me, but this time, they didn’t seem to try to. “I think so. Sure. We’ll watch something believable.”

I’d never kissed a girl before, and I still haven’t, but that night, I was rubbing my cheek all the way until I went to bed. It wasn’t red anymore, but it was warm. I think I could still feel the kiss.