Ghosting
moth to a flame.
The first time I met Noah, we were fifteen. My fifteen was all too wide waist, fatty hands and half spoken sentences finished with a soft nevermind. His fifteen was all rounded cheeks, false statements said in the loudest voice possible, and the sort of confidence that only comes to boys that age. Growing up only made one of us more attractive and more prepared for society. Take a guess which. I wonder sometimes what the girls that pant for him would think of the boy I met at fifteen. He was not so easy then.
The first time he talked to me was when the old church caught fire. Smoke brought people from the edge of town to see what had happened. I just wanted to go home. Standing there watching people try to quench the flames consuming a building no one had cared about in years bored me. Though the way the fire blazed, living from something it killed, I found beauty in that. He had saddled up from somewhere in the shadows, hovering like me at the far fence line away from the crowd. He was grinning at me like we shared a secret. I was glaring at him like he had wronged me.
“It’s amazing isn’t it? The way people gather to watch something die.”
I had looked up at him frowning, “The church wasn’t alive in the first place.”
The way he raised his eyebrows made me feel stupid. I hated him in an instant.
“You think so?” He had his hands in his pocket head tilted back to watch the smoke raise,”You don’t think all those prayers and all those wishes might give that building life?”
“I think that’s a fancy story.”
My hair was in my face again. Talking was so embarrassing. My thoughts had shortened up, scrambling for some sign that I was speaking normally. Some sign that what I was doing was acceptable. Later I would think about how little he seemed to care. He had laughed, explosive and startling. I had jumped, timid and startled. What a pair we were.
“Don’t you like fancy stories?” He asked face leaned in close, teeth flashing something vicious.
“Only the ones that end properly.”
It was a strange sort of truth that he hadn’t been expecting. My hands were damp and shaky, the fence behind me trembled. I had always been terrible about talking, about sharing opinions that might oppose. I could tell he had noticed, he could tell that playing with me the way he wanted wouldn’t be so fun if I broke. He laughed that laugh again, all teeth and shaking shoulders.
He leaned forward again one shoulder blocking my view of the church crowd, “You have a point.”
I recoiled sharply, the notebook in my hands meeting his face so quickly I hadn’t even realized I had done it. He jumped back surprised one hand on his nose eyebrows raised high. We stayed like that for a moment several feet between us both to startled to speak. He frowned first and I glared back. I shoved off the fence shoving my notebook back in my bag with unstable hands. My voice came out strangled the first few times I tried to speak. How I hated being around people.
“Personal space.” I snapped at the ground before gathering what courage I had and glowering at him, “Learn how to respect it.”
I headed back toward the crowd hoping to find my mother sometime soon. Dinner was hours ago, Angie would be furious. The fire still raged, smoke still blackened the sky and caused wheezing lungs. Irritating. Everything was so irritating. It wasn’t until I had wrangled my mother back into the car and was half way home that my hands stopped shaking. I wasn’t calm but I wasn’t coming undone. My mother chatted excitedly about the fire and I though about the strange boy and how he smelled like gasoline.
The first time he talked to me was when the old church caught fire. Smoke brought people from the edge of town to see what had happened. I just wanted to go home. Standing there watching people try to quench the flames consuming a building no one had cared about in years bored me. Though the way the fire blazed, living from something it killed, I found beauty in that. He had saddled up from somewhere in the shadows, hovering like me at the far fence line away from the crowd. He was grinning at me like we shared a secret. I was glaring at him like he had wronged me.
“It’s amazing isn’t it? The way people gather to watch something die.”
I had looked up at him frowning, “The church wasn’t alive in the first place.”
The way he raised his eyebrows made me feel stupid. I hated him in an instant.
“You think so?” He had his hands in his pocket head tilted back to watch the smoke raise,”You don’t think all those prayers and all those wishes might give that building life?”
“I think that’s a fancy story.”
My hair was in my face again. Talking was so embarrassing. My thoughts had shortened up, scrambling for some sign that I was speaking normally. Some sign that what I was doing was acceptable. Later I would think about how little he seemed to care. He had laughed, explosive and startling. I had jumped, timid and startled. What a pair we were.
“Don’t you like fancy stories?” He asked face leaned in close, teeth flashing something vicious.
“Only the ones that end properly.”
It was a strange sort of truth that he hadn’t been expecting. My hands were damp and shaky, the fence behind me trembled. I had always been terrible about talking, about sharing opinions that might oppose. I could tell he had noticed, he could tell that playing with me the way he wanted wouldn’t be so fun if I broke. He laughed that laugh again, all teeth and shaking shoulders.
He leaned forward again one shoulder blocking my view of the church crowd, “You have a point.”
I recoiled sharply, the notebook in my hands meeting his face so quickly I hadn’t even realized I had done it. He jumped back surprised one hand on his nose eyebrows raised high. We stayed like that for a moment several feet between us both to startled to speak. He frowned first and I glared back. I shoved off the fence shoving my notebook back in my bag with unstable hands. My voice came out strangled the first few times I tried to speak. How I hated being around people.
“Personal space.” I snapped at the ground before gathering what courage I had and glowering at him, “Learn how to respect it.”
I headed back toward the crowd hoping to find my mother sometime soon. Dinner was hours ago, Angie would be furious. The fire still raged, smoke still blackened the sky and caused wheezing lungs. Irritating. Everything was so irritating. It wasn’t until I had wrangled my mother back into the car and was half way home that my hands stopped shaking. I wasn’t calm but I wasn’t coming undone. My mother chatted excitedly about the fire and I though about the strange boy and how he smelled like gasoline.
♠ ♠ ♠
-A