Annie Rossington (16)
Slowly fall shut
“Have you ever slept with a boy?” she asks, interrupting the blue silence of a night like this one. The sky is already brightening outside my bedroom window. The two of us are paying no mind to the fact that everyone else in the world is already asleep. I think of too much tongue and teeth that get in the way and grimace.
“I mean have you ever fallen asleep with a boy?” she clarifies.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“It’s different than sleeping with a girl. I can’t really explain how, but it’s just different.” She’s talking with her hands. I can’t see them through the darkness, but I know she is. I think of slurred I really-wanna-kiss-yous and of an Indian Summer when the nights were nasty and cold.
“Why are we sitting on the floor?” he yells over the music.
“I’m too drunk to do anything else!” I yell back. We laugh.
“You wanna beer?” he asks. His knuckles are cloaked in eczema and his cheeks in acne scars.
No. I hate beer.
He grabs me one before I get the chance to answer. At least it’s somewhat cold. They’re keeping them by the door, and the wind keeps blowing in every time somebody finishes their smoke.
“Sure, why not bring on the hangover,” I yell. He sits down beside me and his thigh grazes mine, lost in baggy jeans. Some guys in the corner start screaming along to the song, and I can’t hear what he’s saying, so I lean in close. He smells like cigarettes.
I mean, he’s kind of sexy, I decide. Devil-may-care vibes.
He gives up and raises his beer and his eyebrows at me. The universal motion for ‘chug it.’ I smirk at him and we do.
He wins.
I hate beer.
Out of breath, I crush the can and the cool metal gives easily in my hand. I throw it to the ground and it clatters against the concrete floor. He kisses me. There’s still foam on both our lips and it feels funny. The carbonation makes my mouth fizz against his. I drank too much. He leads me to a room and I’m almost certain there is someone passed out on the floor next to the bed. The room is spinning. My head hits the pillow and I don’t know whose hands are whose, I just know there’s lots of touching.
“Are you on the pill?” he whispers.
I’m a virgin.
“What?” I ask. His hands are rough. Whatever he is doing is starting to hurt.
“I said are you on the pill?”
No.
“I ca—” His tongue is back in my mouth before I can answer and my head is pounding. So is my heart. He pins me down.
The sky is finally brightening outside the bedroom window. His arm is dead weight across my chest and I can’t really breathe. Between each of his deep rattling breaths come my shallow clipped ones. I haven’t slept. I can’t sleep.
It would have been magic if he didn’t taste like an ashtray and if I weren’t so bloated from the beer and if my headache went away and if the room weren’t spinning, I lie to myself. I wait until I see the last star fade from the sky to push his arm off of me and pull on my clothes. 19 days later it snowed and I hoped he got mono.
“It’s like if girls’ eyelashes flutter then boys’ slowly fall shut,” she says, finishing her thought. I lay my head on her shoulder. We both look at the sliver of sunlight that’s shining on the wall opposite the window. I hear a muffled chickadee song.
“It’s tomorrow already,” she says quietly. I close my eyes tightly and tears roll down the sides of my face to my temples. I take a deep breath and turn on my side to face her.
“I have to tell you about something that happened to me.”
Annie Rossington is a 16-year-old who plays the oboe, reads, writes, and goes to high school in Selkirk, Manitoba. Her work has previously appeared in Mercy Street. Annie can often be found dropping something very expensive.
Slowly fall shut
“Have you ever slept with a boy?” she asks, interrupting the blue silence of a night like this one. The sky is already brightening outside my bedroom window. The two of us are paying no mind to the fact that everyone else in the world is already asleep. I think of too much tongue and teeth that get in the way and grimace.
“I mean have you ever fallen asleep with a boy?” she clarifies.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“It’s different than sleeping with a girl. I can’t really explain how, but it’s just different.” She’s talking with her hands. I can’t see them through the darkness, but I know she is. I think of slurred I really-wanna-kiss-yous and of an Indian Summer when the nights were nasty and cold.
“Why are we sitting on the floor?” he yells over the music.
“I’m too drunk to do anything else!” I yell back. We laugh.
“You wanna beer?” he asks. His knuckles are cloaked in eczema and his cheeks in acne scars.
No. I hate beer.
He grabs me one before I get the chance to answer. At least it’s somewhat cold. They’re keeping them by the door, and the wind keeps blowing in every time somebody finishes their smoke.
“Sure, why not bring on the hangover,” I yell. He sits down beside me and his thigh grazes mine, lost in baggy jeans. Some guys in the corner start screaming along to the song, and I can’t hear what he’s saying, so I lean in close. He smells like cigarettes.
I mean, he’s kind of sexy, I decide. Devil-may-care vibes.
He gives up and raises his beer and his eyebrows at me. The universal motion for ‘chug it.’ I smirk at him and we do.
He wins.
I hate beer.
Out of breath, I crush the can and the cool metal gives easily in my hand. I throw it to the ground and it clatters against the concrete floor. He kisses me. There’s still foam on both our lips and it feels funny. The carbonation makes my mouth fizz against his. I drank too much. He leads me to a room and I’m almost certain there is someone passed out on the floor next to the bed. The room is spinning. My head hits the pillow and I don’t know whose hands are whose, I just know there’s lots of touching.
“Are you on the pill?” he whispers.
I’m a virgin.
“What?” I ask. His hands are rough. Whatever he is doing is starting to hurt.
“I said are you on the pill?”
No.
“I ca—” His tongue is back in my mouth before I can answer and my head is pounding. So is my heart. He pins me down.
The sky is finally brightening outside the bedroom window. His arm is dead weight across my chest and I can’t really breathe. Between each of his deep rattling breaths come my shallow clipped ones. I haven’t slept. I can’t sleep.
It would have been magic if he didn’t taste like an ashtray and if I weren’t so bloated from the beer and if my headache went away and if the room weren’t spinning, I lie to myself. I wait until I see the last star fade from the sky to push his arm off of me and pull on my clothes. 19 days later it snowed and I hoped he got mono.
“It’s like if girls’ eyelashes flutter then boys’ slowly fall shut,” she says, finishing her thought. I lay my head on her shoulder. We both look at the sliver of sunlight that’s shining on the wall opposite the window. I hear a muffled chickadee song.
“It’s tomorrow already,” she says quietly. I close my eyes tightly and tears roll down the sides of my face to my temples. I take a deep breath and turn on my side to face her.
“I have to tell you about something that happened to me.”
Annie Rossington is a 16-year-old who plays the oboe, reads, writes, and goes to high school in Selkirk, Manitoba. Her work has previously appeared in Mercy Street. Annie can often be found dropping something very expensive.