FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Fifteen
by Sharon Bordas

PAGE THREE:
David's new home bore a shocking resemblance to our high school, down to the shade of brown stucco and flesh colored trim. The only visible difference was the electrified fence around the perimeter. Chris, a 200-pound football player famous for smashing beer cans on his head, took one look and fell quiet, deciding finally he would wait outside. I couldn't blame him. I was terrified. What was I going to see in there? Why hadn't I thought to bring a pack of smokes? And, most importantly, what if they didn't let me out?

"You don't have to wait," I told Chris.

"How are you going to get home, Bordas?"

"Right, good point. I'll make it quick."

Out front David's parents greeted me with the somber air of funeral directors. I'd forgotten that David's father was so strange looking with his greasy comb over and car salesman demeanor. Was that actually a brown polyester suit he was wearing? No wonder David never mentioned him. I shook his hand and told him I was sorry, giving him my best "everything will be OK" routine, to which he struck a playful pose, cocking his hand like a gun and pointing it right at me.

"Hey, if it weren't for you, maybe we wouldn't even be here right now," he said.

I laughed and wondered if there was any way I could throw up without anybody noticing.

That I might be responsible for David's suicide attempt had never once crossed my mind. Although I had spent much time and energy trying to understand how he might have tried to kill himself, the why hadn't seemed all that relevant. There were plenty of reasons just lying around in plain sight -- his parents, living in Orange County, a secret, shameful desire to wear pumps. I'd just never considered the possibility that I might be one of those reasons. What had I done to contribute to David's pain? Had I ever come out and told him we were never going to have sex? I tried to remember if I had implied this or actually stated it as fact. Neither possibility seemed all that appealing from the perspective of a 15-year-old boy. The homosexual scenario offered other treacherous missteps. Had I gone too far with my Ioannis jokes? Had David seen the mean streak I inherited from my parents and feared it would turn in his direction? Standing in that sterile hallway, ideas ricocheted around in my head and didn't stop as, in my efforts to reach the inner sanctum, I stumbled through dozens of bolted doors and retina-screening devices. With each new security measure, I grew exponentially less secure. What kind of monster had David become to require all these locks and procedures? What was he going to do to me once I got in there?

My heart was racing, but it was too late to turn back now. The best plan I could come up with just to smile, accept blame and get out as soon as possible. Why hadn't anyone told me not to wear a skirt? Shouldn't I have been better prepared for this?

The last doors finally slid aside and there, looking sad and pale, stood David.

I struggled to catch my breath, he looked so small and so familiar, this boy who I had made out with on his twin bed when his parents weren't home.

"I've missed you," I said, realizing with a shock that I had.

"I've missed you, too."

No matter what happens, I told myself, do not cry. I managed a dry-mouthed smile. I was afraid that if I did try to speak, he'd hear my voice shake.

"It's OK," he said. "It's not your fault."

"Oh." I said. "Thanks."

David was my first real boyfriend. He had surprised me on a recent "anniversary" by decorating my front yard with an elaborate web of notes and presents strung together with shoelaces. Children create secret languages to avoid detection by adults, and David and I had done just that, designating "shoelaces" our code word for making out. David knew my mother hated him and that I secretly believed she hated me. Covering the front yard in shoelaces was an act of breathtaking defiance, symbolizing the entanglements of future relationships that would pull me out of that lonely house and into the sunshine. I remember how delighted I was as I followed those red and blue stitched laces all over the yard in what became an Easter egg hunt of affirmation. I found goofy stuffed animals and homemade cards hidden among the impatiens the gardeners were always replanting. I couldn't believe anyone had taken the time to construct something so elaborate and generous just for me. I stood there on the wet grass in my fuzzy slippers and felt an unfamiliar thrill run through me. This, I thought, is what it must be like to feel loved.

We made small talk that day in the hospital, David and I, carefully emulating the adults who hovered over us wearing plastered-on smiles and offering soft cups filled with orange punch. We never spoke of our relationship directly, but it was clear our romance had come to an end. We were only 15 and neither of us really knew what to say. The roles had been reversed. David had never been the suicidal one in our relationship. That had always been me.

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