oligotrophic

[written late at night/early in the morning, all in one go, on the train, and as of yet woefully unedited. may be fixed someday.]

Stephanie finished her environmental studies final with the feeling she had skipped a page. It had seemed too short, or too easy, and both thoughts worried her. Her fingers combed nervously through her black hair as she flipped through the test's seven pages, unable to find the phantom eighth. Unwilling to agonize and relieved, in any case, to have it over and done with, she handed in the exam and left the building with an appreciative breath of the fragrant, humid air. After a month of 80-degree days spent locked indoors, Summer, that cruel tease, had arrived.

She had appeared to some earlier than to Stephanie. A freckled figure lay on the grassy quad outside her dorm, and in its freckled face lay a familiar pair of hazel eyes. They rose to meet Stephanie as she approached, their look expectant.

“So, how’d it go?” asked Pluck.

“Fine, I think,” answered Stephanie. Her boyfriend’s name was Peter, but he preferred Pluck, a nickname given to him by his father, whose first name was Joe, and whom Stephanie simply called Papa Fletcher.

“Good.” He grinned and grabbed her around the waist, spinning her around on the concrete path and planting a kiss on her mint-balmed lips. “Congratulations –– you’re done.”

Stephanie smiled. “Tell me about it.”

The pair dropped Stephanie’s bag in her room, then headed back outside to soak up the sun. Reclining with his head on his girlfriend’s stomach, Pluck informed her that had a surprise planned for her that evening. Stephanie asked after the nature of it, but to no avail: Pluck just smirked and wagged his finger at her, mischief sparkling in his hazel eyes. When she protested, he tickled her; when she protested louder, he kissed her.

“Tonight at eleven,” he told her. “I’ll come for you.”

“Fine,” Stephanie answered. Soon after, as he began the trek back to his own dorm, she called after him, “What should I wear?”

Pluck turned and walked backwards to answer. “Doesn’t matter,” he called. “You know I don’t pay any attention to clothes.”

“I’m onto you, Pluck Fletcher,” she cried, grinning irrepressibly. Pluck just smirked and waved goodbye before disappearing around the corner of the dormitory.

She spent the intervening hours with her hallmates, relaxing and rejoicing in their newfound freedom. Tomorrow, everyone would start trickling away from campus, but tonight was not a night of packing: it was a night of silly revelry, as well it should have been, thought Stephanie. The sounds of dance music and xBox consoles filled the dorm.

After dinner, she retired her jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers for a long skirt, tank top, and flip-flops. Her outfit was overwhelmingly green. Stephanie had liked to wear green long before her treehugging tendencies took hold; it brought out the best in her tan, Vietnamese skin.

Pluck was predictably late, but came bearing a white rose, which Stephanie promptly cut short and tucked behind her ear, despite Pluck’s objections.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she pointed out. “Even if I had a vase for it, how could I bring it home?”

“I guess,” he conceded.

They stepped outside, then he blindfolded her and spun her in circles.

“This is unnecessary.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “it is absolutely necessary.”

“Don’t lead me off any cliffs.”

“Don’t worry, baby.”

Pluck gave Stephanie no opportunity to feel out his secret route: the next moment, he had scooped her into his arms. The sounds of campus were uniformly celebrative, and were therefore of no help to her. Her sense of direction completely befuddled, Stephanie gave up and hung on tight.

“Ready?” Pluck whispered after what seemed like an hour of walking.

“Maybe?”

“No, really –– get ready.”

“Why?”

In answer, Pluck held Stephanie away from his chest and dropped her. She expected to fall shortly to ground, and was therefore quite alarmed when, after a drop of several feet, her skin met with cool water. The soaked blindfold fell from her eyes in time for her to see Pluck, a swimmer by trade, dive into the lake next to her, clad only in his khaki shorts. Her feet came to a rest on the silty lake bottom, her shoulders left just above its glassy surface.

When Pluck emerged from the water, he was attacked by a furious and waterlogged girlfriend.

“What the hell, Peter! “

“Relax, Steph.” Pluck smiled and slipped his hands inside the waistband of her skirt to rest on her hips. “I did my homework. No gross algae to worry about here. The lake’s oligotrophic.”

“It had damn well better be!” she cried indignantly. “I kind of like this skirt, you know ––”

And she would have continued, had not a merciless dunk silenced her. Pluck loved the panicked look in her eyes underwater almost as much as he loved her.

the missing sweater

[self-medication is a poor practice. case in point: this.]

She is tired of school –– the work, not the place. The place she loves, especially this particular place: Every day at the closing bell, she emerges from the back doors to this patch of soft, green grass. Everyone does, of course –– the buses line up along the sidewalk –– but she alone lies in the grass and stares at the sky, waiting for the bus that inevitably comes late, especially when the rain is pouring.

The year is almost over, and instead of being relieved at her prospective freedom, she is horrified at the thought of losing this place.

“June!”

It is June, she thinks. She feels cooler; the summer sun must’ve ducked behind a cloud.

“June, are you asleep?”

“What?” she asks. Her dark brown eyes open to a familiar silhouette.

“The buses are gone.”

“Damn.” June sits up and observes, yes, the buses are gone. “I guess I was asleep.”

“Do you need to get home soon? I can give you a lift,” offers the familiar silhouette, a skinny senior whose name is Joshua. Josh lives close by, and drives, and is therefore useful in addition to being stunningly handsome –– well, stunningly handsome to June, anyway.

“Would you? I’m not in a rush, but I don’t want to bug my parents.” As she stands, and her eyes adjust to the light, June observes that Josh is wearing a white collared shirt, jeans, and –– as always –– a plain silver cross. June loves the way he dresses. He dresses like he paints, crisp and cool, with long, neat lines. June met Josh in art class last fall.

“Sure.”

“It’s not too much trouble?”

“No, no. Don’t worry about it.”

Josh picks up June’s bookbag for her. She stopped complaining about this sort of behavior from him a while ago. He was brought up in rural Georgia, and has always been something of a gentleman. June cannot decide if this is annoying or endearing.

And Josh himself, of course, she can’t quite decide about. He’s a good kid –– too good for me, she imagines –– and he’s leaving to go to school in a matter of months. He’s going to Middlebury to study French and religion.

“Lead the way, Joshball.” It’s her nickname for him. He smiles whenever she says it.

He leads the way. As they walk, June’s attention is drawn to the back of his neck, below the last curl of dark brown hair. His skin is, perplexingly, tanned and freckled at the same time. June loves his skin, especially that one big freckle on his collarbone.

What a creep I am. (June is not actually a creep. She drew Joshua’s portrait in class mere days ago, and the freckle on his collarbone was hard to miss.)

It takes her a moment to notice that they’re going back into the school, not directly to Josh’s house.

“Picking something up?”

“Yeah –– backstage.” Josh is a techie for the school’s drama club. His friends generally say this is his excuse to wear black all the time.

He looks amazing in black.

“Oh dear. . . what’ve you been up to back there?” She likes to keep a sense of humor about whatever love life Josh might have. He’s single according to Facebook, but God knows what lurks backstage.

“Sweating my ass off.”

“On the couch?” The drama couch: the scene of many a sordid love affair between theater kids.

“No,” he says pointedly. “Striking set. I left my sweater back there.”

“Oh.”

The drama club is done for the year, and the theater is empty when they enter. June isn’t entirely sure what she should do with herself –– she’s not in drama club, and has never been comfortable on stage –– but, after a moment’s hesitation, follows Josh behind the curtain.

He’s looking through a pile of props, apparently for his sweater.

“Do you have any work for tomorrow?” he asks.

“Not really,” she admits. “I should be reading for stat and English, but it’s not like I actually will.”

“Right,” he says. He stands up, sweaterless.

“Can’t find it?”

“Who do you think I would have been on the couch with?” he asks suddenly. June had no idea, until now, how close he was. She can feel the edge of his breath on her cheek.

“I don’t know,” she says, feeling the blood rise to her face. Why is he doing this? ”I don’t follow your every move.”

“You must know I wouldn’t do something like that,” he says, his voice incredulous. “You’ve known me all year. I’m not the type. Am I?” He shifts his weight, and his freckled chest falls into the slit of light allowed in between the curtains. The cross that lies there shimmers; his fingertips rest on its surface.

“No,” she says, stepping back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about it.”

“But who?” he asks, stepping forward out of the light to close the distance again. “Really –– I want to know. Is there some rumor?”

“No,” she stammers. “Nothing like that.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

Silence falls like a velvet curtain. June can’t see well enough to make her way out, but she feels as if Josh probably isn’t so keen on giving her a ride anymore. Neither of them are thinking about Josh’s sweater.

He speaks again without warning. “I’m glad school is almost out.”

“. . . why? You like school, right?”

“It’s a rumor mill.” Something falls next to their feet –– his messenger bag, June realizes. He’s dropped it. “I don’t like people talking about me, or people I care about.”

Another thud. Her backpack.

“Josh? . . .”

“Drama club’s over,” he says softly. His face is an inch from hers. “No one’s coming back here.”

June takes another step back, and finds her shoulders against the smooth wall of stage right.

“Josh, you just said ––”

“I’m not the type,” he agrees, this time leaving space between them. “No. I’m not the type to sleep with freshmen because I know I can, to run around sowing my wild oats because I’m a stupid hormone-driven teenaged male –– no. I’m not.”

“Then ––”

“But,” Josh interrupts, “I’m human, and as such have flaws.”

“Right,” June concedes, now uncertain. Where the hell is he going with this?

“Such flaws being shortsightedness, irrationality, et cetera.”

“We all have them.”

“You too?” She can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Well, yeah,” she admits, shrugging against the wall behind her.

“And as such you experience emotions that are troubling, illogical, and overall just a pain in your ass?”

“Sure.”

“Like jealousy?”

“Yes.” The image of a freshman girl pressing her ill-covered chest against Josh springs into June’s mind. He planted it there, unknowingly, when he assured her he would never sleep around, and now it boils inside her, she grits her teeth ––

“Like hatred?”

“Yeah,” she says, a little impatiently now.

“Like love?”

June didn’t notice him stepping closer, but now he is there, warm and moist as the summer air. She cannot move.

“Yes,” she confesses, pressing herself into the cold blue paint as if she could escape through it. Her voice trembles, and her heart pumps adrenaline through her body faster than her mind can correct it: She wants to run, but she wants to stay. She wants him, and for so long, she’s been afraid to admit it.

And do you . . . ?

His hands find June’s, and they press her wrists gently against the stage right wall.

“Then you’re going to have to forgive me,” Josh whispers, his quiet words both shocking and calming, “for my flaws –– for my love.”

June has no time to respond before his lips silence her. All the worry, all the heat bottled in her chest ripples outward, warming her from heart to fingertips. Josh’s hands slide down her arms to her waist, and she wraps her arms around his neck, playing with his hair.

The kiss breaks after an eternity –– an eternity far too short for the tastes of Josh and June.

She opens her eyes.

“Forgiven,” she whispers.