Was that what it was like being Jackson, kissing you? I don’t think so because I didn’t feel fireworks.
Remember the Fourth of July?
It was only the end of the second week, but already we’d been at Camp Cavanick forever. Life before felt impossibly far away and irrelevant. There was no reason to even think of an after. Six more weeks of perfect summer stretched before us.
We sat on the grassy hill, facing the lake, our abandoned paper plates at our sides. Other campers were all around us, but distant. Tossing a Frisbee in the last remnants of dusk; confiding secrets by the campfire; lounging in groups or pairs on the hillside like us.
When the sky was almost black, the first fireworks went off with a boom and crackle that echoed across the water. Everyone hushed. You slapped a mosquito on your leg and leaned your head against my shoulder. We watched. I’d never gotten the big deal about fireworks before, but these ones felt magical. Spectacular. I remember thinking, This is really my life, and being glad of it.
“Have you ever been in love?” you asked.
“Like, in love in love?” I asked.
You lifted your head and my shoulder felt cold. “Yeah.”
I had never even been kissed. “I don’t think so.” You waited, so I went on. “I was kind of in love with my fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Henry,” I said. You smiled. “And I had an embarrassingly huge crush on my brother’s friend Jascha for a while, but I’m not sure either of those counts. Have you?”
The glow of the next firework reflected off your face. “No. I thought I was, last spring. This girl Jasmine I went out with for a while. She was in my homeroom. We hooked up at the Valentine’s dance. But now I think it wasn’t love, exactly. I liked her a lot, but there weren’t any fireworks. More like . . . fireflies. We kind of flickered in and out, until it stayed out. There was never any huge, like, passion.”
“Oh,” I said.
You shifted. “What did you like about Jascha?”
I thought about it. “He was kind. Much kinder than anyone else I know. Just . . . thoughtful.”
He must have known about my crush on him, and it clearly wasn’t mutual, but he was always sweet to me anyway, right up until he left for college. I haven’t seen him since. “What did you like about Jasmine?”
“She smelled good.” I laughed. You shrugged. “Pheromones, I guess. But mostly I liked how much she liked me.”
I felt sad for Jasmine then, and weirdly a little triumphant.
But here’s the thing: I don’t think there was a Jasmine. Am I right?
Everyone you’ve ever made out with—or allegedly made out with, because no way could your mouth have been that busy—has emerged from the woodwork since the news about Jackson broke. Clearly some of those guys, if not all of them, made it up for the attention, or they’re confusing their own fantasies with reality. Your supposed sexual history is a topic of national discussion. But there has been no mention of Jasmine.
I’ve scoured every photo I can find of you, and of parties you might have attended, searched the accounts of everyone you were friends or friendly or acquainted with in the spring of last year. There doesn’t seem to have been a girlfriend. There doesn’t seem to be anyone at your school named Jasmine. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would have lied about it. Lied to me.
Maybe Jasmine was a nickname you gave her, like Randy. But my gut says that isn’t it.
Maybe someday, when this is over, I’ll get to hear an explanation. Maybe you’ll offer me one that’s real.
A week or so after the Fourth, you found fireworks with Jackson. I don’t know how it felt when you kissed him, but I know the rest was plenty explosive. I guess that’s what you wanted, and I guess I should have known—you’d straight-up told me so, hadn’t you? But I didn’t understand it in that moment. I thought you meant something else.
Me kissing Ian tonight wasn’t like you kissing Jackson. It was closer to me kissing you—or to you kissing me, to be more accurate—but without the audience. And with less shitty motivations. Still, I was using him with those kisses, just like you tried to use me.
I don’t think he minded.
You know what it felt like when you kissed me the first time? It felt like falling. Not in a good way. It felt like we’d been gliding along, flying high, and you shoved me out of the airplane with no warning, no parachute, just a gentle laugh and a slip of tongue. Your lips were soft on mine, but what I felt was my insides plummeting.
Still, I kissed you back. By then I was so accustomed to going along with your performances, I had no way to react besides playing along. Nitin looked away and Jackson basically salivated—which was the purpose, wasn’t it. You kissed me in front of Jackson, for Jackson, to prove some point that had nothing to do with me. I had always been your sidekick and coconspirator, but in that moment I was only your prop.
You knew it was a mistake. You were extra good to me in the days after, extra present in a way you mostly hadn’t been since thoughts of Jackson had hijacked your brain. You never apologized with words, but I forgave you. It was a quick, thoughtless moment, and friends forgive each other those all the time. No harm done.
The second time was more confusing. It wasn’t in front of Jackson. We had no audience, but still, I felt heavily aware of your awareness of him. The audience was implied, though not present.
That kiss lingered longer, and I felt it and tasted it. I wasn’t falling. But it ended with a thud.
Did you feel it too? I pulled away and you opened your eyes and they seemed to brim over with questions. I shook my head and tried to answer one. “I just feel like that isn’t what you want,” I said. You’d kissed me, yet somehow I was the one left explaining. “You shouldn’t kiss me unless you mean it,” I added. I wasn’t sure I wanted you to kiss me even then.
It hadn’t occurred to either of us to think about me.
“Who says I don’t mean it?” you asked, and I was quiet, because you’d made it worse. You grew flirtatious, defensive. “Can’t it just mean kissing is fun?” Like how you would have said it to anyone. Anyone who didn’t matter.
This wasn’t what I’d thought our friendship was about.
“Don’t do this.” I was honest with you, and I wanted you to be honest back. “Don’t use me for revenge, or as bait to lure him back to you. Don’t pull me into it like that. It isn’t fair.”
I felt the motion of the dock on the tiny, lapping waves, and focused on the lake’s unsteady rhythms. My vision blurred and I did not look at your face.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “You’re right. I won’t do it again.”
I didn’t move.
“I’ve been a shitty friend. You deserve better.”
I lunged and squeezed you in the tightest hug, but was the wetness on our cheeks from your tears or mine? I’m not certain. You squeezed back and we laughed, like that tornado of emotions was funny. Was there any disappointment mixed into your relief? It’s a blur for me. I don’t know what I felt.
That was only five days before the end.
I disentangled from Ian tonight when Dina came to find me, and dismissed him with a quick “See you in math.” My lips felt numb from overuse.