Day 17: Key

My dad’s construction crew finished work on the new house behind the mall. I know where he keeps the keys.

I didn’t tell the guys, because they’d be all over me, wanting to party there, bring girls, hang out after practice, whatever. But Jordan, my girlfriend, I trust. Tonight, she’s “babysitting,” and I’m “playing Madden at Brody’s.”

We lay in front of the empty fireplace, on the blanket from the pickup. It’s scratchy and smells like turf and dog, but Jordan said she doesn’t mind. It’s warm, anyway. Still, my hand shakes, tracing the sweat and moonlight on her shoulder.

Day 9: Trampoline

Mom said “ten more minutes” when I went in to get blankets, and that was at least a half hour ago. Probably. Or, I don’t know, because time isn’t real out here, laying under the stars with my two best friends.

Winter was invented for secrets. I was even keeping the secret from myself. But on the trampoline, each revelation comes with a tiny bounce; we ride and roll and bump together wrapped in quilts, agreeing, giggling, drawing the truth out as if we’re painting it with a brush.

I say I like girls. And the soundtrack of night agrees.