Under The Bleachers

Do you remember your first kiss? I remember mine. It was under the bleachers as most things were, surrounded by hundreds of tally marks, each one a kiss, a makeout, or something more. Apparently that was the thing to do if the rumors and gossip were to be believed. It was under the bleachers (not on top of the roof, beneath the scoreboard, or beside the graffitied wall) because that was where they were supposed to happen, at least according to the sharpie notes written in the stalls of the girls’ bathroom.

It was with the one who had the long brushed-back hair. He had just gotten contacts, and I remembered how they made his eyes shine just a little bit more. He had a splattering of mud on his jeans at the knees from where he had bent over to put down his soda can. I think it was something orange because the skin around his mouth was tinted. I don’t remember his name. It could have been Jimmy or Tim or Larry or Vincent. It might have been something more exciting, but those are the ones I assigned him.

We had left watching the football game that had entered the third quarter. The trombone above us kept the beat going for the cheers, and occasionally the bleachers would vibrate with a boom as someone jumped up to yell at the team. I had just begun telling him about my parents’ divorce when he leaned in and puckered. It lasted thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. I had just begun to wonder if I should be closing my eyes or was that only something done in the movies to show the audience that it was important when the moment was over. His breath smelled like that gum he had popped a few minutes earlier. Juicy Fruit was it? It was overpowering. I don’t even know what it meant. I didn’t know if he was trying to make me feel better, or shut up, or if he genuinely wanted it. One of his hands had gone for my back but then settled for my shoulder like he was patting me better. Had I missed a dozen signs that night or even the week before? Had I nodded yes to something he had said? Had it been because of my mascara or the fact that it was starting to run a little on my left eye?

The next day at school I went to ask but couldn’t find him anywhere. Not at the second study hall, or the workout room, or even the basketball games I knew he always watched. I never saw him again. I thought about asking my best friend at the time. She knew everything about everyone—which cheerleader had gone home with whom that weekend, to which vending machines could be tricked into giving two candies for the price of one. But when I finally found her after school she was slipping towards the bleachers with someone new. His hand was over hers, pulling her forward like he knew exactly where to go and what to do. She gave me a half-smile that I knew meant she would mean to text me afterwards but would forget. Later she would tell me about the new tally mark they had added “with enthusiasm.” A week later, I overheard a couple argue over whether their mark should be horizontal or vertical, like it meant something and could end their relationship forever if they chose wrong. They ended up doing both to cover their bases properly, but it ended up looking like a cross which then made them laugh even harder.

It was nothing like the kisses I read about in those novels with such gusto. Our tongues did not “fight for dominance.” The air did not seem to press up closer. His hands did not find me in all those perfect places. His eyes did not “darken with desire and need.” I did not feel the passion burning within like a thunderstorm come alive. There was no sense that he was fated for me. There were no wings unfurling from backs. There was no thrusting. The crowd did not vanish. They cheered as a touchdown must have occurred. In fact, I distinctly remember nacho cheese sauce landing on my hoodie, falling from someone above. It took me three washes with scrubbing to get the stain and smell out.

It was wet, short, and forgettable. I brushed my teeth and tongue for at least twice as long as it had lasted. I wondered if I had done something wrong. Had I angled up instead of down? Tilted left instead of right? Breathed off beat? Later, I practiced once, grinning in the locker room mirror, trying to look like someone who had thoroughly enjoyed it and wanted more. Someone walking by asked if I had eaten something that was now coming back up. How did everyone else come back from the bleachers looking like they had done something magical? Had they hidden a manual that we had somehow missed? How could something that was supposed to be incredible have gone so wrong? Who actually has their first kiss in the rain after a grand declaration? Who stands in the middle of the local fairgrounds clutching a giant teddy bear while literal fireworks go off?

I have refused to believe that was my first kiss. When people ask, I tell them it was in the rain, the water pouring around us as his shirt stuck to his chest and my hair was in my eyes. I tell them it was on a beach, by the fading sunset. Spectacular shades of red and orange splashed over us, and sand was found in my clothes for weeks after. I tell them it was at the top of the Ferris Wheel at Disneyland as the fireworks crackled and boomed around us. I tell them it was at the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, while he teased me about eating escargot right before. I have retold the story so many times I barely remember the real one. But then, I see a stick of Juicy Fruit in the store and it’s like I’m right back there, under the bleachers, where the only proof is a faded scratched-in tally mark, worn from time and weather, almost gone completely.