texaswildfire

The dance was lame.
I got all dressed up for, basically, nothing.
At least I got to wear Chanel.
I'll have to thank grandma for that later.

I got on the dance floor three times.
Once was with grandpa.
We danced to "My Girl".
Seth and I danced to "Singin' In the Rain".
And, well, there is the dance I will remember forever.
Marc and I moved to "At Last".
Etta James never sounded so wonderful.

Saying goodbye to Seth and grandpa was hard.
So was sleeping in my own small bed the night I got home.
I miss the big, super nice one at grandpa's.
It was firm and perfectly held space for two bodies.
Comfortable. Sweet. Nice.
The pillows at home don't smell like Marc.
The ones I left did.

Morning comes too roughly.
Sunlight coupled with instant heat blows.
I will it to snow.
The temperature climbs to 107.
In the shade.
By noon.

Mom made lunch before she left to shop with Marc's mom.
I eat it in the livingroom while watching some lame show on VH1.
My mind is blank.
In a good way.
But mom coming home ruins it.

"Rose, come with me, I bought you some new things for school," she almost sings as she walks through the door. "It's all new. Consider it an upgrade."

Rose 2.0.
I don't want that yet.
Mom's ideas are much different than my own.
The clothes she bought are pretty but not my style.
Trousers. Tunics. Very basic t-shirts. A long chocolate brown duster.

"What do you think of them," she asks happily as I sort through each item sprawled out on her bed. "I know it all looks strange now but, really, Rose, I want you to start dressing your age."

"What age do you think I am, mom? I am 16. Not 21," I remind her.

"Rose, I am very well aware of how old you are. You are going to be a Senior this year in school and you need to look more grown up. T-shirts and jeans are fine when you are home but, you need to start being more serious about your studies," she counters. "Just try them out. If you don't like them, you can wear all the t-shirts you want."

"Mom, I know you mean well, but I don't want to change the way I dress," I tell her outright. "These clothes are nice. I will keep them. Just in case but, I won't wear them every day."

"Fine, have it your way," she exhales sharply, all the while keeping calm. "One day, you will have to grow up, Rose. You can't be a kid forever. You have a boyfriend that you sleep with yet you can't find it within yourself to wear a dress. I just...I don't understand you sometimes."

"I don't like dresses all that much. I have some. I wear them. You have seen me wear them," I counter. "And what does it matter if I sleep with him? Not every girl that has sex wears a dress, mom. I mean, if we're going to be honest about it, it would give us easier access but..."

"That is just crude, Rose," mom sighs.

"But honest," I emphasize. "Just let me wear my jeans."

She lets me walk out of the room.
She doesn't seem to mind that I lock myself in my room.
At least I don't have to deal with Seth.
Or Jonah.
Or even Marc.

Why do I have to wear stuff with flowers on it to be considered a girl?
I wear pink.
I like kitties. And rainbows.
Not to mention, I have boobs.
I can wear what I always do and still make Marc want to rip it off.
That's enough for me.

He sent me a text an hour into my self-inflicted lock down.
The park at ten?
I told him I would be there.
Dad is gone.
Mom will be asleep by then.
Getting out of the house will be easy.

Well, it was easy.
I swept my hair back, put on a white t-shirt and left via bike.
No one will come looking for me.
I can enjoy the heat of the night in the grass at the park.
Doesn't hurt that Marc's already there.
I see him from the sidewalk.

Long jean shorts.
Black muscle shirt.
Converse with no socks.
His telescope is set up, pointed at the moon.

"Hey, Rose, I was just about to call you," Marc tells me as I toss my bike onto the grass. "I am almost done with this chart. Do you want to just lay with me here for a while? You know, just to do it."

"Anything is better than sitting alone in my room," I tell him. "When do you have to be home?"

"Whenever I want," he laughs. "You know how my parents are. I'm 18 and, according to them, I am capable of making good, rational decisions. Can't think of anything better than laying out in an open field with your head on my shoulder."

Neither can I.
So, when he finishes his chart and packs up his telescope, we lie together.
Side by side.
My left hand clasped in his right.
Our eyes pointed upward to the stars.

"What do you want for your birthday," Marc asks from nowhere. "It's coming up. The 17th of next month, right?"

"Yeah," I push out. "Anything you get will be nice though, you don't have to get anything. I probably won't even have a party or anything like that. Just cake with mom and dad."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I don't have to but I want to," he says, looking over to me. "Tell me what you want."

"To leave," I tell him, meaning it whole heartedly. "You know, I have it a whole lot better than a lot of kids do but, and I have never told anyone this, I just want to run away from everything. Just go somewhere where I can't be found."

"Where would you want to go? I have a passport and $5,000 saved from all the graduation money I got," he informs me. "If you want to run, I will run with you."

"Be serious," I shrug him off, sitting up. "You'd never run away from home. Ever. Why would you want to? You have it so good at home. You don't have to deal with absent parents and brothers that treat you like crap."

"I couldn't be more serious, Rose. I am tired of being responsible and rational and reliable. Maybe running away would do us both good," he shocks me by saying. "Let's do something completely spotaneous and stupid. For once, while we can. Tell your mom tomorrow that you want to visit your grandparents in Paris. I will tell mine the same. They'll have to let us go. Once we're there, slipping out of view would be only too easy."

"Thought about this much," I half-sarcastically ask.

"More than you can even imagine," he says. "We can go."

"It's a nice notion but, Marc, we can't actually do that. Our parents would track us down and kill us at some point," I tell him.

"Who cares? We said just a while ago that summer was meant to do whatever we wanted and we both want to go away," he points out. "Let's go."

He's crazy.
We can't leave.
Can we?
My parents would let me go to Paris.
So would his.
But, where would we go from there?

This is a stupid plan.
I am more stupid for agreeing to it.
We only live once.
Might as well do as many stupid things as possible.
I'd rather never wonder 'what if'.

If that means I go to Paris and run away with Marc, so be it.
I will gladly do it just to see the end result.
Happy or miserable, it's better than wondering.

So, I ride my bike home at 1 a.m.
Next to Marc.
The idea stays too fresh in my head.
I crawl into Marc's bed.
He whispers plans in my ear.

Go to Germany.
There is a nice little town there, where his uncle lives.
He runs a newspaper.
He could help us escape suburbia.
We could live there until we get ready to come back.
Stay forever if we want.

Forever.
The word has never had a bigger meaning until it stares me in the face.
Am I willing to give up comfort and money for freedom and happiness?

Yes.
I think I am.
Strike that.
I know I am.

"Do you think you will be happy so far away from home," I ask him, being careful to keep it a whisper. "What will this mean for us? Just leaving, Marc?"

"It means we can be happy. We don't have to worry about anything our parents want us to. No school, no more having to do anything we don't want," he says. "Things at first might not be easy but, as long as you are at my side, I don't care."

"Me either."

I wonder instantly if that is a lie.
I would care.
Just not that much.
And, really, I guess, that is what counts most.