Heather(18)

You can’t hear any passing cars from the road where you turned. He’s had to slow the car to a crawl to navigate the tightening path, the trees at the edge of the road brushing against the side view mirrors.

Finally, you stop in a small clearing. Out the windshield, bright-blue water.

You don’t know where you are, but you know that color and what it means: aquamarine, jewel-bright. The Pine Barrens is known for its cedar water, the tannic creeks and lakes the color of tea left to brew too long. This water, though, is a Caribbean blue, the beckoning blue of tropical islands. Of warmer places studded with palms and home to easy, soft breezes.

But here? The color of the water is a warning.

Sinkholes. The woods here are riddled with them. Blue Hole is the most well-known: Every other year some high school kid or out-of-towner from Philadelphia takes a swim on a dare, having heard the stories but not believing them. Not believing that water that looks so inviting, so placid, can be home to deadly crosscurrents, that blue holes are really as deep as people say. One hundred feet to the bottom. The water can be cold enough to cause hypothermia, to make your muscles seize and your lungs tighten and your blood go to ice in your veins.

When you turn to him his eyes are on you, that same play of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The windows are still down but he’s turned the engine off. Without the music there’s just the sound of the woods. The trill of birds from up above and the crack-crack of squirrel patter in the trees.

A second later and his mouth is on yours, the moment shifting so quickly you wonder if you missed something, your brain skipping forward like a stone skimming the surface of a lake. It is so different from your first kiss, a chaste, dry, spin-the-bottle peck from Gregory Lepone last year. His fingers are cold up your shirt before he takes it off.

It is jarring, to see the pale of your body exposed in bright sunlight, to see the contrast of his tanned hands against it. He touches you through your jeans and you whimper, but too soon he takes his hand back, starts working at his belt buckle and then his fly. You feel embarrassed when you see him exposed, have to fight back the urge to giggle and wonder how he’s not embarrassed too. But he only grabs your wrist and clamps your hand where he wants it, guiding you up and down and up and down. His head drops back. His hand—your hand—moves faster and faster.

This can’t be it, you think. This can’t be the reason Sabrina takes so much time choosing her outfits, why she roots through the Goodwill looking for new T-shirts she can knot at her hip, slash the necklines with scissors. Why she spends hours in her room, prodding and poking and posing. You wrestle your hand out from under his and for a moment he looks at you with such disdain you are worried he might slap you.

And then, that smile again, the half smile that makes you both excited and nervous. “I know what you want.”

He reaches into the back seat for a blanket, opens his door. You don’t know if you should wait for him or not, as you watch him spread the blanket on the ground next to the car. In the end he opens your door for you and guides you to the ground. A pebble bites into your shoulder but you forget it as he unbuttons your jeans, the zipper so loud in the silence. With a single hooked finger he gets your underwear off too. You watch it move down your thighs, over your knees, your shins, your ankles, like it is happening to someone else.

It feels good, his mouth on you, his hands wrapping around your thighs. It helps you understand why Sabrina has pulled away from you these past few months. There is so much in life that you both want, so little you can claim as your own. And here is something to want, this pleasure, that you can reach out and take, just like that.

He stops, positions himself so that his pelvis lines up with yours. You know what comes next and yet you can’t believe it will actually happen. You are afraid and you wonder if he notices, the way your fingers have started to tremble. If you don’t say anything now, today will be the day you lose your virginity. You will be transformed, remade, by him, a deep crack running through your life, Before and After. The Coyote. Why does Sabrina call him that, you wonder. The thought costs you a few seconds, and before you can resolve whether or not you are ready he is over you, and then inside of you.

The pain is immediate and shocking, and instead of making you cry out it makes your voice crawl somewhere deep inside you, small and hidden. You hardly notice him moving above you, the sounds he’s making. All you can think about is Sabrina. Had Sabrina felt pain like this? How did she survive it? How did she get to the other side?

Your eyes prickle with tears. You count backward from 1,000 and reach 364 before he shoves into you one last time. He makes a high, loud sound, not the groans you’ve seen in the movies, or that you once heard from your parents’ bedroom at night. You aren’t sure whether you want to laugh or cry. You want, most of all, to tell Sabrina that you understand now. That you are in on the joke. The Coyote. It suits.

As he stands you turn your head to one side, notice a single blond hair caught in the weave of the blanket, and wonder whether it is yours or hers.



* * *



He drops you off, your face raw and stinging with stubble burn. Already the afternoon has taken on the feeling of something unreal. Something that you will tuck away in your mind until you have the time and space to make sense of it.

“You might be even crazier than she is,” he says, that rough chuckle again, a sound that makes the hair on your arms stand up.