Page 26 of When We Were Younger

"Butterfinger?" I ask, holding the candy bar I grabbed from the market this morning up between our faces. He raises a brow at me, but quickly shakes it off and grabs the chocolate out of my hand. He snorts as he tears open the wrapper, and just before taking a giant bite, I hear him mutter, "Damn, Dorothea."

14

STEPHEN

Age Fifteen

I lean up against the chain-link fence that surrounds the football field at our school, kicking an empty can back and forth between my feet as I hum to myself. The game ended over half an hour ago, and since our school won, the bleachers and the parking lot have already mostly cleared out.

The students and half the town will be out on Main Street, celebrating the win and the winning touchdown, thrown by my buddy Dean. He was on fire tonight, which was awesome since there were college scouts in the crowd. I gotta hand it to him, he could so easily coast on his dad’s name if he wanted to. Being the only son of an NFL hall of famer certainly should have its perks. But Dean has the raw talent and the grit to back up his big-league prospects.

But even with all the fanfare, I wasn't here to watchhim or the team tonight. I had my eyes on my best friend in her red and black cheer uniform, dancing and cartwheeling on sidelines under the bright Friday-night lights. Dorothea and Kira both made the Varsity cheer squad despite being freshman, and I've come to every single one of their games to cheer them on while they cheer on the team. After the games, they always have to attend a quick team meeting, so here I am, waiting by the nearly empty bleachers for them to be done so we can hang out.

I don't have to wait long, thankfully, because when I lean down to pick up the can and throw it into the nearest trash cans, I spot my two blonde friends bopping across the field, arm-in-arm. Dorothea lifts a pom pom and waves it at me, and my chest grows tight as I wave back. It's a very inconvenient, fairly new feeling I've been getting every time my best friend is around.

Which is almost all the time, considering she's my best friend and all. Mom says that the two of us are attached at the hip, and that's pretty much accurate. We do everything together. We have a bunch of the same classes, which is awesome. I suck at math, so she helps me with Geometry, and she's not so great in American History, so I help her memorize dates and the names of the battles. We go on walks together in the afternoons like we did when we were younger, and sometimes she sneaks out of her house at night and knocks on my window. I'm not supposed to let her in. I think Mom would be pissed if she knew, but Dorotheahas bad dreams, and she says she sleeps better in my room.

I always let her take my bed, and I lay on the ground on those nights. But sometimes, I think it might be nice to lie next to her. Just like sometimes I think it might be nice if I could hold her hand while we walk down the hallways or through town on the weekends. I know her hands are soft, because I let her play with my hair whenever she wants to. I let her think I don't really like it and that I just do it because she likes to braid it. Secretly, I love the way my scalp tingles when she touches me. And while she’s twisting my hair this way and that, I can smell the fruity body wash she uses. It's raspberry, I think. I want to ask her, but she'd probably think that it's a weird question.

Sometimes when I'm alone, on the nights when she isn't sneaking through my window, I close my eyes and wonder if her lips are as soft as her hands.

"Stephen Stephen Bo-Bephen, Bo-na-na fanna Fo-Phephen," Kira begins to chant as they get closer, and I join in.

"Fee-fi-mo-mephen," I sing-song and then point to Dorothea.

"Stephen!" she finishes, sticking her pom-pom into the air and waving it about.

"How'd I get so lucky to have my own personal cheer team to follow me around all day long?" I muse, and Kira scoffs.

"Please. You're the one followingusaround all day, Steve-O. We can barely shake you. It’s a good thing youpay for stuff. Speaking of, are you coming to town? I need to meet up with my dads and brother, but I'll totally let you buy me a hot chocolate first," Kira says, and I roll my eyes. I know she's just messing with me. She talks a lot of shit, but she's one of the sweetest, most generous people I know. She's always treating Dorothea and me to coffees, fries, and whatever else when we hang out, and she almost never lets us pay her back. Plus she’s the smartest person in school, and she always helps me with my homework. I reach out and muss up her hair a bit, careful not to move the perfectly placed bow holding up her half ponytail.

"Not tonight, Kira. I'm not in a peopling mood." I tell her, and Dorothea sighs.

"Thank god, me either. Do you mind walking me home? I don't want to be around all the happy people in town, I've had enough peppiness while cheering tonight," she says, unhooking her arm from Kira’s and holding it out for me. I link my elbow with hers, and I hope she doesn't notice the way my hands shake with anticipation when she shimmies up next to me.

"Boo, boring. Text me tomorrow, Dot! I need help picking out a new signature scent!" Kira calls out, having already skipped halfway across the parking lot towards the direction of town. I nod the other direction and we start our walk back to our houses. Slowly, like we have all the time in the world.

"Is a signature scent really a thing?" I ask as trudge across the back side of the school building, dimly lit by one streetlamp and the football field lights behind us.

"Oh, for sure. It's the best way a person can distinguish themselves. It also helps that it will remind people of you at the most unassuming of times. For example," she makes a fist and holds her wrist up, brushing the warm skin against the cold tip of my nose. I inhale, and there's that fruity scent that makes my mouth water.

"Now, every time you eat a raspberry, you'll think of me!" she says brightly, confirming what I thought I knew, that she smells like raspberries. Or maybe all the raspberries in the world smell like Dorothea. Impossible to say.

She moves to pull her wrist away, but I capture it, wrapping my thumb and forefinger around it and inhaling again, deeper this time.

"You're right. Every time I eat a raspberry for the rest of my life, I'm going to remember just how sweet you smell," I say, tipping my lips up into a sly smirk. She probably knows that I took that move from a Ryan Gosling movie she made me watch over the summer, but I don't care. It was smooth as hell. She stares up at me, and I watch as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She steps closer to me, slowly, and barely. It's such a slight movement, I would probably miss it if I wasn't so locked into her and her presence. Her head tilts back, and this is it. This is my moment. I'm going to lean down, and I'm going to kiss her. I'm not going to ask, I'm not going to hesitate, I'm just going to do it.

I am Ryan Freaking Gosling in this moment.

Except, I'm not Ryan Gosling. I'm not quick enough,because before I know it, she takes a big step back. Her wrist falls out of my grip, and she wraps her arms around her chest and shivers. It's only then that I realize that even though she's got a pair of black leggings on under her cheer skirt, on top she's only got her uniform tank, and her poor arms and shoulders are bare against the cold November night.

"Damn, Dorothea. You must be freezing," I say, quickly pulling the flannel I'm wearing over my head without unbuttoning it and slipping it on to her. I help her feed her arms through the holes, and the sleeves come down further than her hands, which I guess is a good thing, because she bunches the fabric up into her fists, covering her fingers.

"Thanks," she says on a breath, and I nod. Now I only have a t-shirt on, but I don't care. If one of us is going to freeze to death, it's going to be me, not her.

We chat about everything and nothing on the way back. Mostly about how neither of us wants to get started on the paper we have due for English next Thursday. When we get to our street, we both clock the fact that there are no lights on in her house. That’s a good sign, since it usually means that her mother is already passed out and therefore not waiting up. I run into my house to grab two blankets, and we head out to lay in the meadow. When we make it through the clearing, I lay the bigger, orange flannel blanket on the ground and when we sit, I drape the thicker, fleece blanket over our legs.

"Oh!" Dorothea exclaims, reaching into her bag andpulling out her headphones. "One Direction's new album is out. We gotta listen. You're totally gonna love it!" She plugs the white earbuds into her phone and hands the left one to me before popping the right one in her ear. I don't even pretend to groan or bitch about her making me listen to a boy band. I'm man enough to admit that One Direction has some catchy songs, and I'll tell anyone who asks just that.

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