Dirt. Heat. Tucson, dusk. A desert kegger. Stella doesn’t want to party. She wants to hang at home with Emily. She is here on a dare, some chick in math called her “square”. The boys in her ninth-grade algebra class had laughed when Stella’s face flamed red, and Emily laughed along with them—Emily. Slid her dark eyes away, pretending they hadn’t been friends since sixth grade, hadn’t jammed to REO Speedwagon on Stella’s 45 in her smoke-hazed room last week, practice kissing for when it was real.
What had happened that day, the last time they practiced, when they were lying on her twin bed and Stella’s tongue slid past what Emily called the “yellow zone” of her lips and into the “red zone” of her mouth, when Emily kept kissing her, and it didn’t feel like they were practicing any longer?
Stella’s diary overflowed with loopy hearts, and Stella plus X (X being the variable that was always changing, depending on the boy of the month). She’d imagined how it would feel to kiss one.
Now, kids guzzle beer and lighters flare, a fire exponentiating the Arizona heat, the bottle spinning like some kind of solution. Stella sits across the circle from Emily when it’s her turn to spin. She twists the empty bottle, inhales sharply, releases.
“It can’t be a girl.” Emily’s voice shakes. Stella spins. Spins. Spins.
Kelli Short Borges writes from her home in Phoenix, Arizona, where her family has lived for six generations. Her stories have won contests and been nominated for multiple awards. Recently, Kelli’s work was chosen for Best Microfiction 2024. She is currently working on her first novel. You can connect with her on X @KelliBorges2, or at Kellishortborges.com.
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