Sugar

The red small pickup truck smells of cologne and rust. The navy blue plastic interior has been rubbed white in places, like by the radio buttons and the knob for the heat. The long three-person seat is flat felt, lumpy all over with seat belts stuffed into its sides.  At the height of our driveway, inches from the garage door, he stops the truck and cranks the stick into park. “How about a sugar?” He asks, turning toward me with a smile. What phrasing from a sixteen year old.

I am fifteen years old and have never kissed a boy before this moment. I had prepped for it, knew it was inevitable, but now in the center of it, I realize how extremely nervous I am. When he asks for a sugar, I dive at his face like a seagull descending for a dropped potato chip: land, peck, and fly away. Before he can straighten from his slow lean-in position and ask me for milk, honey, or eggs, I have my backpack strap in my hand and I’m nearly yelling, “Thanks for the ride!” I push open the passenger side door and slam it closed.

Inside, I drop my pack and breathe. Outside, there is a pause before the truck is shifted from park to reverse.