FLYING OVER THE ALEWIFE DRAIN

by Alex O’Brien

15, and you don’t even realize how precious it is. You won’t get this teenage love again. This scrunchy swapping, after-school secret sharing, Jennifer’s Body quoting, girlhood love.

Before the heartbreaks and the betrayals and the horrible bad and the bullshit, there was this.

And this was pure.

“I love this song! Don’t you think Pete Wentz is kinda cute? In a dad way?”

Before the crying on your birthday and the anti-aging straws and the Venmo requests from the night before, there was this.

And this was hard. It was so hard and we knew it.

“Let’s walk to Towd today.” Laura wore a bikini outside the safety of her own backyard for the first time that day. It was pale pink with little yellow flowers. We got whistled at by some men in a work van. It made us feel dirty, and so began the slow corrosion. We didn’t have a thick enough shell yet, and it hurt, but we didn’t admit that to each other or ourselves until years later. We just cursed the van after it drove off and held hands for the rest of the walk.

“Just wrap yourself in your towel, we’re almost off the main road.”

We got to the bridge over the Alewife drain and stopped to look down. The water was deep, but I still remember the way the midday sun reflected off the schools of silver fish below us. Just brief flashes of tiny grey scales, gone in an instant and returned back to the cold dark water.

“Remember to tuck your knees in so you don’t get caught on rocks or fishing hooks.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be, you’ll feel like you’re flying.”

“1… 2… 3! Ahhhh!”

What a rush.

27, and I still catch glimpses of 15. I feel the spark of it in lip gloss recommendations and FaceTime debriefs from the party last night, in moonlit ocean dips, and in loaning an umbrella for the train ride home.

“You’ll get it back. I’ll see you for brunch on the 14th?”

And it’s all so hard. It’s so hard and we know it.

After the abrupt end to my college experience, I came home with my tail between my legs to a town I didn’t recognize anymore. It was a Friday, and liquor stores were one of the only businesses that profited from the pandemic. I bought a bottle of pinot grigio for Laura and I to split while we discussed our unemployment and instability and how hard it is to live with our parents. Still freshly 22, I reached for my ID.

“No need, you look of age to me.”

The boy in front of me couldn’t have been a single day over 18. My cheeks felt hot. Of age? To you? I smiled, although I wish I didn’t, and put up my hood while he ran my card. I guess the frat parties must’ve given me crow’s feet. I guess the late night cramming for finals must’ve given me greys. I guess I grew up—I guess I grew old.

“Hey Laura, since when are we old?”

“You’re not old and neither am I. They just want us to hate ourselves.”

She was right, of course. I just needed to be reminded that the enemy can look different every day. It’s so hard, but sometimes you need an old friend to tell you that it’s hard in order to believe that you’re not the problem.

I love being girls with her.

And I don’t think I’ll ever stop chasing the prickly sweet feeling of 15. The kind of spirit that you lose yourself in, the energy and the joy that only girlhood can bring. Insecure and honest and naïve and free. I’m still trying to fly, even if only for a second.

What a rush.