I stood out on the deck, staring up at the night sky into the
face of the end of the world.
Inside, my family and a large group of their friends drank and
laughed and danced to old songs, some I remembered, some I didn’t. Upstairs, my
two little brothers and the younger kids of the partiers’ slept—with a little
help from Benadryl—blissfully unaware of the fact they would never wake.
In the valley below, the town sparkled like the Fourth of July,
now a month past. The sultry breeze carried the faint sounds of music and
laughter up the steep hillside to my family’s summer home.
Was the whole world celebrating?
The president had announced a few months ago that Delaroche was
on a collision course with Earth, but for no one to panic because all
the countries with nuclear capabilities would launch their missiles at the
comet when it was close enough and would either destroy or divert it from its
course. That hadn’t happened. The firing of the entire world’s nuclear arsenal hadn’t
altered its path.
There had been some minor rioting when the president had given
his final speech informing the citizens of the United States of the failure to
stop Delaroche, and advising us all to make our peace with God and spend the
few remaining days with our loved ones. But no one had burned buildings, looted
stores, or did all the other things people have done under extreme
circumstances. Almost everyone, like the president, left their job and went
home to be with family and friends. Televisions were turned off, the internet
wasn’t accessed, cell phones were tossed down and forgotten. Now that it was
too late, people realized what was important.
Delaroche would strike the earth around sunrise. And that would
be it. I knew I should be scared, but I wasn’t. I was a little sad, though. I
was fourteen years old. I would never go to a prom, never have a boyfriend,
never fall in love, never get married, never have children.
A few years ago, I had decided I wouldn’t even consider a
serious relationship until I had finished college, gotten a degree in
neurosurgery—specialists like my dad made tons of money—and set up a practice.
Now...well, now none of that mattered.
Behind me, the party noises increased in volume, then I heard
the door snick to. Footsteps across the porch. Two hands settled onto
the railing beside mine, one holding a bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet
Sauvignon, my father’s most expensive wine.
“Why’re you out here by yourself?”
I shrugged.
The bottle went up, and my eyes followed it to the face of my
mother’s best friend’s son, Mathew. Though we were the same age and went to the
same school, we had never exchanged a word. We moved in different social
circles, he with the dorky geeks, me with the honors students and cheerleading
squad. Why, I didn’t think I had ever really looked at him before, and if you
got past the acne cooking on his cheeks and forehead, it was a nice face,
friendly and open.
He lowered the bottle, saw me staring. “You wanna drink?”
“Sure.” I took the bottle from his hand and took a big swig—my
first taste of alcohol. Wasn’t too bad. I tipped the bottle to my lips again,
then passed it back.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asked.
Again, I shrugged. My eyes traveled back up to the sky.
Delaroche had swallowed more stars, stolen more of the darkness. “I wonder if
it’ll hurt...”
“It’s a fucking monster, and we’re at ground zero.” He took
another drink, passed the bottle back to me. “It’ll be over like that.” He
snapped his fingers. “No time to hurt.”
I downed what was left, then set the empty bottle on the
railing. I turned toward him. “Will you kiss me?”
He looked surprised. Stunned actually. “Well...uh...Megan, I’ve
never kissed a girl before.”
“And I’ve never kissed a boy before.” At that moment, I wanted
nothing more on this earth than to be kissed. I turned to him, circled my arms
around his neck.
Our eyes locked. I felt the click of a connection in my stomach.
I closed my eyes...then...then felt his mouth, soft and warm upon mine. I
tasted wine; I tasted him. It was the best kiss ever.
Slowly, our lips drew apart. I opened my eyes. He was smiling. I
smiled back.
“Wanna dance?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
Inside the house, I heard the familiar beat of Bruce
Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark,” my mom’s favorite song. Mathew crossed his
arms over my back while mine stayed locked around his neck. We danced. And we
danced. For a long time. Slow. Our bodies tight together.
And over his shoulder, I watched night turn into day. A bright,
hot day that held no sun.
I closed my eyes, turned my face into the crook of his neck. And
we danced.
©2020 Kate Clark
