Allison Roberts

Toomey McRay is brilliant. Like many thirteen-year-old boys, he prefers pizza to chicken, and the band Smashing Pumpkins to the Carpenters, but the similarities end there.

Toomey studies college-level Philosophy, among other subjects, and has been playing the trumpet since he was three years old. Bypassing all of his high school studies years previously, he has fallen in love with Kierkegaard.

“Though there is no exact quote from Kierkegaard stating time as spherical, many of his writings strongly imply this belief.” Toomey has said repeatedly to his philosophy professor. “And I find this idea intriguing, because Western civilization is much too linear in its thinking.”

Toomey’s seven-year old sister, Amanda, thinks Toomey is wonderful because he’s willing to paint her fingernails sparkle-pink—her favorite—while living the life of a genius.

Holding only Bachelor’s degrees, Toomey’s parents are baffled by him. Searching the Internet daily, they strive to find new ways to keep him occupied. They have sent him to numerous tutors in their community, who specialize in a vast array of subject matter, taken him on field trips to every museum in the state of New York, and Pennsylvania, set up appointments with distinguished scholars, and set aside a savings account strictly for Toomey’s insatiable reading habit. His personal library is a room off the back of the house that was once used as a pantry.

“Once I reach the appropriate age, I will get a job and pay for my own books,” Toomey has told his father numerous times. “I have calculated that if I work even 20 hours a week, making five dollars and hour, I can at least cover one third of my reading material costs. Of course, by the time I am seventeen, I will have a doctorate and hopefully making more than five dollars an hour; though realistically, one never knows with today’s economy.”

“He didn’t get his mathematical abilities from me,” his father, a technical writer, is known to boast at dinner parties. “I barely got through college statistics.”

“Oh, don’t talk about math—in any form. It makes me nauseous.” His mother, a costumer for local theaters, is terrified of math and anything relating to numbers. When forced to add, she shudders and furiously bangs out numbers on her calculator, swearing under her breath. To take actor’s measurements, she’s designed a tape measure, with color-coated lines to replace numbers.

“The less vibrant the colors get on the tape as I measure, the smaller the actor is.” She shakes her head with an authoritative nod and croons that Toomey, though marvelous, must be from Mars.

Toomey likes math. Actually, he likes everything except water polo, which he finds silly and cold.

“I dislike being in the water for long stretches of time. A good swim is exhilarating, and a bath is soothing, but during polo matches, I tend to wrinkle, and then while waiting for an opportunity to assert myself, I begin to think too much.” Toomey shrugs and resumes his card game with Amanda.

“You always think too much.” Amanda has very long legs. She looks like a colt.

“And you are notorious for not thinking at all.” Toomey, though gifted, is not beyond insulting his little sister.

“Mom!” Amanda flinches, and glares at Toomey, “Toomey is being mean.”

Toomey, aware of his mistake, pulls Amanda’s hair and tells her that although she may not think as much as he does, she is by far the funnier of the two, and will probably go on to great stardom someday.

“I, on the other hand, will more than likely become a professor who teaches obscure subjects to young people who are just as odd as myself. And what fun will that be?” Toomey hands Amanda a new card and she smiles.

Toomey is technically a senior in high school, though still mixed in with kids his own age. His school, Morrow Heights, is a small enough facility that his teachers are able to supply him with individualized attention. Over the years, his parents were given a lot of advice on Toomey’s education.

One guidance counselor suggested sending him off to boarding school, while still another said that packing him off too far away from his family and friends would do more harm than good. Mr. and Mrs. McRay were told to try to, “slow” him down, speed hhim up, give him more homework, give him less, get him immediately into therapy, leave him alone, and hire a tutor and keep Toomey home. They were pitied as well, for the amount of work it must take to raise a genius, and reminded constantly, not to acknowledge Toomey’s intelligence too frequently, for fear it would make him arrogant.

When asked about his intelligence, though, Toomey really has very little to say.

“I’m not sure if I am a genius or not. I cannot sing or dance well. Yet I seem to be very good at foreign languages, math, computer science, history, Physics, three-dimensional design, and philosophy. But whether or not that makes me a genius is unclear. Oh, and I’m not as funny as I’d like to be. And I seem to have difficulty understanding the basic concepts of French cooking.”

No one dislikes Toomey, as far as he knows, but people do tend to steer clear of him. Except Beth Miller, the next-door neighbor, whom Toomey’s mother refers to as the “sledgehammer.” But Toomey’s parents, staunch democrats, don’t dislike Beth. They don’t dislike anyone, except President Clinton, for disappointing them in the past, and acting like a boy young enough to date Beth.

“Hey, McRay, you’re like one of those idiot savants, or whatever they’re called—a real fuckin’ weirdo. How do you come up with this shit?” Beth grunts at Toomey, and hands him a cigarette.

The fort they share, originally built by Beth’s father as a playhouse, has since been renovated into a pigsty, and used for parties, food fights, and sexual encounters. Beth is fifteen.

“No thank you, Beth.” Toomey pushes the cigarette back in Beth’s direction. “Cigarettes make me flatulent.”

“Huh?” Beth stops in mid-light to wrinkle her nose at Toomey.

“Um, they cause gas, Beth.” Toomey hates cigarettes and can’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would smoke.

“Gas? No shit. Well, Mr. Fart-o-rama, they make me skinny. In the year since I started smokin’ em, I haven’t gained one fuckin’ ounce.” Beth pinches her side and spits out a miniscule bit of tobacco. “How do you like that, Brain-head?”

“Cigarettes may indeed increase your metabolism, Beth, but they also cause lung cancer. What will it matter if you’re thin but dying?” Toomey tilts his head and frowns. “The statistics for women dying from cancer has risen substantially over the last five years. It’s a shame, Beth, to waste your young life this way.”

“Huh? Ya know, McRay, it’s a good thing you got all that killer hair—all those fuckin’ curls—cause most anyone would kill someone like you. The fact that you’re okay lookin’ saves you.”

Beth has taken to allowing Toomey into the fort more often. This particular week, Beth let him in four times. Toomey is intrigued. Beth has large breasts.

“You ever kiss a girl, Einstein? Or maybe you dig boys. I see you playing that trumpet of yours. Next you’ll be joining marching band.” Beth gives Toomey a shove.

“No, I don’t like boys, in that regard, anyway. And as far as kissing goes, I am thirteen years old, Beth. Kissing has not become a matter of habit with me.” Toomey leans his head out the window and takes a deep breath, wondering if he is supposed to admit to this or not.

“A matter of habit? What does that shit mean? I swear, McRay, you are one weird mother fucker.” Beth opens the door to the fort, which is actually an army blanket, tacked to the door molding. “Now shove off. I gotta piss like a racehorse. But you can come back this weekend. I’ll be hanging out in here most of Saturday. That’s my dad’s day off and I don’t want to be in the house with him. He’s such a prick.”

“Beth, is that any way to talk about your father?” Toomey is being dragged to the fort “door” by Beth, while she smoothly moves her cigarette from one side of lips to the other, by what appears to be just her tongue.

“If your dad was as much of a turd-herder as my dad is, you’d be calling him a prick too, McRay. Now scram. My back teeth are starting to float.” Beth gives Toomey one last push, and he stumbles out of the fort.

At home Toomey writes in his journal.

Dear journal,

Let me first address Beth. Her language is different than anything I’m familiar with. I’ve heard the word fuck before, but to hear it so often—in such a sort span of time—is…well, I guess vulgar, but also kind of intriguing. In some ways Beth is very creative. To string together so many nasty words, and deliver them in one breath, takes some talent. I think. Plus I have no idea how she moves cigarettes around in her mouth that way—using just her tongue. And the way she talks about her dad. I feel badly. I know Mr. Miller isn’t the quintessential father knows best type—I’ve seen him in his underwear, sort of drunk on their back deck, yelling at chipmunks and shooting crows with his BB gun—but to be referred to as a turd-herder; well that seems a bit extreme. I know he’s a plumber, but still. It seems very disrespectful. Anyway, I feel as if my fingers have gone numb. I wonder if there are any studies on the physical affect of language. Plus I am not pleased with the whole kissing question. I’ll have to go to the library.

And he does. The following day after trumpet practice, and homework, Toomey rides his bike to the library. He parks where he always does—in the third section from the right of the bike gate—locks his bike, straightens his shirt, and goes inside.

Toomey stares at the computer screen. “Type in a title,” he reads. “Like what? Sex? Love? Kissing? What?”

He spends one hour in the library: twenty minutes on the computer, ten battling with the printer, and at least a half an hour finding the books he searches for among the shelves.

This is what he leaves with: Sex and the modern teenager; How to please your partner, so they’ll never leave you; Purple—the color of passion; and How to kiss without making a fool of yourself.

“I will never be able to face that library check out girl again,” Toomey gets on his bike, balancing the books on his right thigh. “I thought I saw her smirk. I hate smirks. Grins, grunts—even sneers I can take—but smirks are excruciating. But still,” he exhales loudly, “I thought my explanation about a sex education paper being due was a brilliant Red Herring.”

At home, Amanda begs Toomey to play Chess. He knows he will win and doesn’t have the energy to lose on purpose. “You aren’t very nice,” Amanda plops down on the couch and sticks her bottom lip out so far, Toomey has the urge to pull it way back, and let it snap.

“Sorry, Amanda, but I have an essay due.” He slips up the stairs, while Amanda mutters.

“You ALWAYS have a stupid paper due.” He hears her whack the couch pillow, while his mother sews furiously away on a costume that appears to be nothing more than a strip of white floss, covered with cotton balls.

“Ah, and how are we today?” The hamster, which Toomey has so eloquently named, the hamster, eyes him momentarily, and then resumes running in circles.

“Hammy, what an amazing creature you are. You are able to spin repeatedly for great lengths of time without vomiting. I wonder if Hamsters vomit.” Toomey sits at his desk and opens, How to kiss without making a fool of yourself.

He reads a paragraph six times before shutting the book. The only time he has ever read a paragraph more than once was in Kindergarten, when he didn’t quite grasp what “inside wire maintenance” meant on page 9 of the phone book.

He moves over to the bed. “This is the kind of reading that requires a reclining position.”

“Lift your partner’s chin up with your thumb and index finger. Gently lean into her lips with your mouth partially open. Make sure to keep eye contact, so that if she changes her mind, you will catch it before making a fool of yourself.” He feels as if his eyes are outrunning his brain, and when he reaches the section on tongue insertion, and a pulling sensation in his groin. He closes the book for good.

“This is embarrassing,” he hisses, shoving the books under his bed, where hopefully Amanda won’t find them. “Hammy, this whole kissing business is out of my league, I’m afraid. Good night.”

Not more than 24 hours later, however, he finds himself sitting in the fort, while Beth smokes and complains about ninth grade Algebra.

“You got it made, McRay. Math’s like a fuckin’ orgasm for you. I still have to count on my fingers.”

“Math isn’t for everyone.” Toomey stares at Beth’s breasts. They are tucked inside of a T-shirt that says “Girls Rule.”

“Math isn’t for anyone,” she mimics. “And quit staring at my tits.” Beth flicks a pebble at Toomey.

“Excuse me! I wasn’t…”

“You were looking right at them. I saw you, McRay. Don’t even bother lying about it.” Beth snorts.

“I…really, Beth, I was just…” Toomey has decided to end his life within the next few minutes.

“Forget it wonder-boy. No big deal. Too bad you aren’t a little older.” Beth winks and Toomey feels his face burn.

Suddenly Beth is sitting very close to him. She tilts her head to the left, then to the right. “You really do have nice hair, Einstein. And your teeth aren’t bad either. Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“What do mean…what? Open your mouth.” Beth grabs Toomey’s chin.

“Why in the world would I do that?” Toomey starts to feel a similar sort of adrenaline rush, he used to feel when he was about to get beat up the playground.

“Just do it, McRay. Why do you always gotta ask so many questions? Can’t you just do something for the hell of it?” Beth pinches his ear so hard he yelps. She peeks in his mouth. “Yup, your tongue ain’t too bad either.”

Toomey stands up. “Well thank you, Beth. It’s nice to know that you find my tongue…nice.” He wishes Beth didn’t have such pretty eyes.

She stares at him for a second and laughs. “What a whack job you are. You fuckin’ kill me, you know that?”

“Why? What did I say? Did I offend you?” Toomey is more bewildered than he was in fifth grade, when Shawna Jones, the girl who sat next to him, hauled off and punched him for no apparent reason.

“No you didn’t offend me. But now that you mention it, you didn’t return the compliment.” She eyes him suspiciously.

“Um, well, um…no, I’m sorry I didn’t realize that…You have very nice…”
“Don’t say tits, McRay. I’ve heard that before. Say something smart. You know, original.” Beth folds her arms, and stares at him.

“Original. Okay, well, you have nice…you have very nice hair.” Toomey gives a reassuring nod—a nod like his mother might offer after commenting on a stranger’s outfit.

Beth is silent. She stares at him for so long, he thinks she may have fallen asleep sitting up.

“Nice hair? I got nice hair? Get out McRay.” She turns and grabs her cigarette pack.

“Beth, did I…” Toomey watches her move abruptly around the fort, gathering up her jacket and purse.

“Shut up, McRay. You worry too much. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” But she won’t look at him. “I gotta go in. Shove off, okay?”

“Beth, are you…”

“Relax, brainiac. I’m just tired. I got to go in before my mom gives birth to a freakin cow. She’s gonna call me in any minute to eat some horrible casserole she serves up as dinner. Shove off!” She pushes him again.

Two days go by and Beth does not invite Toomey over. He sits in the living room, after trumpet practice, and stares at the backyard, watching her move around in the fort.

“Flowers!” he says out loud, springing up from the couch. “I will buy her flowers. That is a nice gesture. I’m sure she’ll like that very much. I hear girls do.”

At the florist shop, he stares at glass cases filled with every flower imaginable.

“Can I help you?” A woman dressed in jeans, a red T-shirt, and a green apron stands next to Toomey and looks down at him. Either she is very tall, or he is still short. He guesses it’s the latter.

“Um, I guess I’ll just take some daisies and roses mixed together.” Though familiar with botany, he has no idea what to buy for a girl. Especially a girl like Beth, who smokes, drinks, and swears. He begins to feel afraid that he is making a terrible mistake. But it’s too late to back out now. The woman has rung up his order.

Beth is sitting with her back to the fort door, looking through a Glamour magazine. She blows smoke rings up toward the ceiling. “I know you’re there, McRay, so don’t bother trying to be quiet. I saw you walk over here. Plus you breathe really loud. What are asthmatic too?”

Toomey jumps, not realizing he’s been seen. “Yes—no, I mean I’m not asthmatic, but thanks for asking… I just um, I, um, I just wanted to drop by, and, well no reason in particular. Just to give you these.” He pulls back the army blanket and steps in, shoving the flowers toward Beth.

Beth says nothing, which makes Toomey want to slit his wrists.

“Perhaps it was inappropriate, or something…” he stammers, and begins to back out of the fort.

“Oh, don’t be an asshole. I like flowers like any girl, McRay. Just fork em’ over and come in for God’s sake. You’re such a moron sometimes.” Beth takes the bouquet and sits back down.

“Roses smell pretty good, don’t you think, McRay?” She inhales the flowers and stares at them. “They smell like old ladies. No offense, but that’s what I always think of when I smell roses. My grandmother used to always have Rose water at her house, in the bathroom mostly. And in her bedroom, she had this small round container with face powder in it. It smelled like roses too. I used to love going over there.”

“Yes, I have always been fond of roses myself. You used to love going over to see your grandmother. Don’t you see her anymore?”

“Nah. She died. Had some big-ass brain tumor. Killed her dead in like two months. Sucked.” Beth inhales the flowers again, and hides her face.

“I’m sorry, Beth.” He wishes he knew what to do with his hands.

“Whatever. It was like last year or something. It’s done. Sit down. I mean you don’t have to fuckin’ stand there all night.” Beth motions to the torn up beanbag chair in the corner.

“Well, no, of course not. I won’t be staying all night anyway. It’s almost dinnertime and…” he falters when he catches sight of Beth’s smirk.

“Well you are cute, McRay.” Beth winks, and takes off her coat. There they are: those firm, upright, breasts, pointing out with a strong sense of direction.

Toomey clears his throat. “So, what have you been doing lately?”

“Come sit next to me.” Beth waves Toomey toward her chair, which is the front seat of an old Ford Escort. “Come on, chicken. I won’t bite you.”

“Of course you won’t bite me, Beth. You’re not an animal.” He finds himself seated so close to Beth, that he can feel her inhale. His palms sweat.

“So.” Beth plays with the flowers.

“Yes, so. What’s new?” Toomey wishes his eye would stop twitching.

“Not a fuckin’ thing. As a matter of fact, I hate life.” Beth searches around for her cigarettes. “It’s so fuckin’ predictable. Same old shit, day in and day out.”

“Well I wouldn’t say that’s true, Beth. I mean each day is a new day. If you think about it, that saying is true: today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

“Yea, right. You’re so fuckin’ funny, McRay. But I wish I had your parents.” Beth looks out the window of the fort. “Mine suck.”

“Why do you say that?” Toomey feels Beth slip her arm around him.

“Forget it. So, kiss me.” She looks into his eyes, and doesn’t flinch. “Come on. Get it over with. There’s got to be a first time. And it might as well be with me. I’ll show you what’s what.”

Beth kisses Toomey hard on the mouth. He feels a burning sensation in his feet.

“Ahh!” he leaps up, stomping his foot on the ground.

“What the fucks the matter?” Beth stands up, searching the floor for the culprit.

“Um, shoot. I mean…Beth, did you throw a cigarette on the floor? I think I burned my foot.” Toomey shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Beth laughs so hard she gets hiccups. “Shit, McRay. You got your hiking boots on. I mean even if I did throw a butt on the floor, you wouldn’t feel it through those shit-kickers. I didn’t throw a cigarette. It’s just hot in here, man. If you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and forcefully thrusts him back down onto the car seat.

This time she sits on his lap, facing him. “You want to try again, McRay.” She pulls her shirt off and there they are, tucked into a white bra with Tweety bird smiling from between the cups.

“Beth. I…” Toomey tries to lift Beth, but she is bigger than him. All he manages to do is sway her from side to side, while she hangs onto his neck, screaming out peels of laughter and hiccups.

He gets an erection and thinks that he will surely die. “Oh, God.” He closes his eyes, and when he reopens them, Beth has removed the bra.

He hasn’t experienced such stillness since the time he pulled his blanket out onto the roof last summer, and stared at the stars.

Beth takes his hands and places them on her breasts. “Just touch them, McRay. I know you want to. You stare at them all the time. I see you doing it.”

“But Beth, I don’t mean…” The sensation he feels, as Beth moves his hands over her breasts, is paralyzing.

She kisses him again, this time darting her tongue into his mouth. He is surprised and somewhat ashamed to feel his hands eagerly circling Beth’s breasts. Beth moves ever so slightly on his lap, until his hard-on is in direct line with her crotch.

“Somebody’s happy to see me,” she giggles. “You like this McRay?”

Toomey is too dumbfounded to talk. He can’t take his hands off Beth’s breasts, nor can he manage a sentence. Suddenly Beth stands up. “Come back and see me again tomorrow. Same time.” She pulls her shirt on quickly, and moves her jaw around, as if she’s rearranging her teeth.

Toomey stares at her, unable to move.

“Come on, McRay. It’s like 6:30. You’re ma’s gonna have a conniption fit and come looking for you. You eat at the same time every night. You don’t want to fuck with your  mother’s OCD. Come back tomorrow. Now move it.” Beth throws her coat at him. “Get up.”

He does not remember walking home. Nor does he remember much of his dinner. His mother asks him if he’s feeling okay, and he believes he gives her a coherent answer, but wouldn’t lay any bets on it. In bed, he stares at the ceiling. Beth runs through his mind like a reoccurring math problem he can’t solve. When he thinks of her, his dick hardens to the point of pain. Masturbating, he falls asleep.

Beth is completely naked, explaining that a good kiss isn’t sopping wet. “Just don’t move your lips all over my face, man. I hate that. Judd Myers used to get my mouth so wet, I got chapped lips. Remember him?”

“The guy with the black army boots?” Toomey wipes a trickle of sweat off his eyebrow.

“Yeah, him. He was a shitty kisser. But he had a motorcycle. Then he moved away. Try again, Lover boy.”

Like this?” Toomey rearranges his mouth on Beth’s. His tongue, after at least four days of rehearsal, has finally found a rhythm they both like.

“Yes, much better. Man, I was beginning to think you’d never get it right.” Beth nuzzles Toomey’s neck. “Now, on to bigger and better things.”

Beth gets up and rummages through her backpack. Her ass is not big, but it is also not small, and Toomey has the insatiable urge to sink his teeth into her cheeks.

“What are you doing?” Toomey rearranges himself and crosses his legs. He sits in Fruit of the Loom briefs and red socks.

“I’m lookin’ for a rubber, snub-butt. You ain’t going in me without it. I may not be in fuckin’ college level classes, bud, but I ain’t stupid enough to get Prego!” Beth yanks out a piece of cellophane and whips it at Toomey.

“What? No. I, we can’t…Beth, you’re not serious. I mean kissing and, you know…touching is one thing, but I, I…” Toomey holds the condom between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Oh, come on, McRay. You’ve gone this far and you mean to tell me you’re going to chicken out? Jesus!” Beth grunts and slaps herself on the forehead.

Toomey is dressing quickly. He has lost the condom somewhere on the floor, and struggles to get his jeans on over the one sneaker he must have put on without knowing. “Beth. We can’t just…do it.”

“Why the fuck not?” She stands naked in front of Toomey. “You got something better to do this afternoon? Oh, yea, fuckin’ trumpet practice. I forgot.”

“Beth, duck down. My mother can see you from here if she steps out into the back yard.” Toomey grabs Beth and attempts to push her to the floor.

“Let go of me. I’ll stand wherever I choose, Mr. Man.” She wiggles around the fort, darting in front of the window with her stomach leading, like a belly dancer.

“Stop, Beth. Your dad will see you and my mom. Then the shit will really hit the fan.” Toomey covers Beth with her sweatshirt.

Beth stops and stares at Toomey. “Holy Christ, McRay, you just said shit. I don’t believe it. You swore!”

“It just slipped out.” Toomey grabs his shirt and whacks his knee on the Formica coffee table.

“Yea well, however it came out, I like the new you. Say something worse. Give me a good loud fuck. No? Okay, just say…bastard then. That’s not such a bad word. It just means illegit kid, don’t it?” Beth dances toward Toomey and twists his arm behind his back.

Beth and Toomey struggle for a few minutes until they hear a car horn.

“Shit, that’s my dad. Fuck. He’s got the worst timing.” Beth hurriedly throws on her pants. “That old duck dick is dragging me to some parent teacher family Zen granola eating inner child meeting crap at the school.”

Toomey, catching his breathe, finds endless relief in this change of plans. “Oh, how nice. That will be good, Beth. Perhaps you and your dad can clear the air, so to speak.”

“Clear the air. Yeah, right. The only air he’ll be clearing is the air in the car, after I let one rip.” She laughs and makes a fart noise that is astonishingly real.

“You and me here tomorrow. 4PM. McRay.” She vanishes, leaving him holding the army blanket over the door.

He knows it is wrong that he has not gone over to see Beth in three days. He knows he will have to face her at some time. He is well aware of the fact that he may have hurt her feelings. And he cannot ignore the fact that he is horny.

His mother notices his quiet moods, and decides it’s related to the stress of trying to decide where he will attend college. He has six colleges to narrow down, and three weeks to do so. All have accepted him eagerly.

His father, though acknowledging that Toomey is a bit young still, attributes his moodiness as normal adolescent behavior. “He may be brilliant, but he’s still a boy.” He has heard his father say this repeatedly to his mother.

Amanda just tells him he’s mean and stupid and ugly. Then she asks him to play cards.

It is midnight on the fourth night sabbatical from Beth, when Toomey realizes he will not sleep. He sneaks out to the fort. The car seat smells like Beth’s cigarettes. Gum wrappers, pop bottles, and cigarette butts litter the floor. And then he sees the condom, still wrapped, lying near the beanbag chair. Tentatively he opens it. It is shriveled and a bizarre shade of purple. It even smells like grape.

He lies down and falls asleep with his finger inside the rubber, like a stick inside a balloon.

“McRay. Hey, dumb head. You better get your ass up. Your mother’s gonna give birth to a whole fuckin’ herd of cattle if you don’t go home.” Beth stands over Toomey and pokes him with a Popsicle stick.

“Breakfast of champions,” she says, when he opens his eyes, licking the popsicle stick.

“What time is it?” Toomey leaps off the car seat and grabs for his coat. The condom, still attached to his finger, flops around like a flag waving in the breeze.

“That isn’t how to use it, McRay, but I’m glad to see you’re at least trying.” Beth lights a cigarette. “Relax. It’s only like 7 AM. You got some time.”

It is noon before he finishes his fourth round of sex. It took Beth three tries to get the condom on him, after he failed four times, and at least two times to get it to stay on. Then after a tremendous amount of rolling, fumbling, falling off the car seat, and removal of splinters, he lasted one whole minute inside her. Beth is persistent however, and by the third time, he actually enjoyed the sensation.

“So, McRay, not so bad after all huh? And you ran home and stayed there for a fuckin’ week. Bet you won’t do that again, huh?” Beth, blows smoke rings up toward the ceiling. The poster of Collective Soul, tacked to the beams, is curling in on itself.

“No. Um, probably not.” Toomey glances at Beth’s profile. She is quite pretty actually.

She leans up on her elbow. “What does that mean? Probably not? You already blowing me off, McRay?”

“What do you mean? No. That’s not what I mean. It’s just…hey, I like…this, you know. I. I’m going to college, Beth.” Toomey pulls his sock out from where it has lodged itself in between his toes. “I mean I’ll only be here for like two more weeks.”

Beth stands up quickly and grabs her pants. “I know that, hot shot. What, you think I don’t know the genius boy is leaving? You feel the urge to rub it in?”

“I’m not rubbing it in, Beth. But you made it sound like…” Toomey watches Beth button her shirt. It pains him to watch her breasts disappear.

“I made it sound like what? Don’t fuckin’ worry about it, lover boy. I can certainly live without your ass around. It isn’t like I haven’t all along.” Beth rifles through her pants for a cigarette. “I just fuckin’ forgot you were going that soon, that’s all. No big deal.”

Toomey is deflated in more ways than one. “Oh. Okay. Well I do have to go in two weeks and I won’t be back until November break…”

“I know the fuckin’ calendar, McRay. Just cause I failed math two years in a row doesn’t mean I can’t keep track of the months. You go off and do your college thing. I mean you have to, don’t ya? You’ve used up all the classes you can here.  Not to mention the people.” Beth intensely ties her sneaker.

“What do you mean by that? Using what people? I haven’t used you. You practically forced yourself on me.” Toomey’s chest aches.

“I forced YOU? Ha! That’s a good one, McRay. Yea, you fuckin’ hated sticking it to me, didn’t you? I mean all that groaning you were doing. Must have been pain, huh?” Beth’s eyes are what Toomey imagines laser beams must look like.

“Beth, I did like it…I’m just saying…” Toomey watches as Beth bolts from the fort, leaving the army blanket door swinging.

He mopes, reads, mopes, sleeps, eats, and mopes until the day he loads the rest of his belongings into his father’s SUV. He doesn’t have much, and finds it takes him less than half an hour to finish. The hamster is in the faithful care of Amanda, and the books he couldn’t fit into his five boxes, he leaves in his room. How to kiss without making a fool out of yourself is the only book he keeps in his back pack. He is only partly ashamed of himself for stealing it from the library.

“Well,” his father says, nodding at the loaded SUV, “Dartmouth will be honored to have you, Toomey.”

“They sure will,” agrees his mother, who nervously plays with Amanda’s ponytail. “Just remember, sweety, that if you’re lonely, you call me. That doesn’t make you a baby. I’ll come up immediately if you need me.”

“I know.” Seventh grade is coming around the corner for the few friends Toomey has. But there is nothing to do in seventh grade that he did not already do in third.

He hesitates to get in the car. It’s so final, and…so…he glances toward the fort, and from the corner of his eye he spots Beth. She opens the army blanket flap and stares at him. He waves, but she closes the blanket. He hasn’t cried since he was six years old, and an old familiar stinging sensation taps against his eyelids. He stares at a blob of bubble gum smashed into the driveway, and blinks.

“McRay!” He looks up to find Beth heading in his direction. “Wait up a minute.”

His parents, struggling to find the appropriate amount of genuine sounding politeness, acknowledge Beth, and step off the driveway toward the back yard.

“Hey.” Beth punches Toomey. “Off to become a college boy, huh?”

“Uh-huh. My dad wants to get started on the drive. It’s a ways, I guess…” Toomey watches his feet. They haven’t changed.

“Well I just wanted to say good bye and good luck and all that happy horse shit.” Beth taps her sneaker on the pavement. “And I wanted to give you this.” She pushes a book into his hand.

“Famous philosophers,” Toomey reads the title. “Wow, Beth, thanks. That’s so nice of you…”

“Yea, and there’s a little something else in there too. A bookmark for the book worm. A special bookmark. A little something to remember me by. But don’t open it here. Wait till you get there.” She wiggles her eyebrows, smirks, and then heads for the fort.

Half way through the ride to Dartmouth, he can’t wait any longer. While his dad stops to refuel and use the bathroom, he opens the book to the bookmark. It is placed in a section entitled, “What is a body?”

Taped to the back of the card stock bookmarker is a condom. It is pink. Hot pink and it smells like strawberries.