Halcyon Daze

The end of the school year smells like extra recess and pungent bleaches and other oxides for cleaning pencil lead scribbles off the surfaces of desks. In the eighth grade you could catch the faint whiff of boy sweat, from the excitement and the nerves that overpowered even the sticks of Mitchum they stuffed in their lockers behind their hubris. 

Unlike other seasons where the end of things was more murky, you knew this was the last time you would scrub off the school year with these people in this space. The following fall you would begin all-girls high school where the stink of false friendship and tampons nearly knocked you out when you rounded the corner on the first floor. 

Eighth grade was a brief halcyon daze, an A.A. Milne kind of story but more saccharine, a group hug of all 100 of your sweaty friends. You were supreme in knowing how to navigate social spheres--how could you not? You ruled the school, unbothered and unbossed by lunch aides and teachers and principals who seemed more like colleagues or collaborators in this journey that had reached its final destination. 

You were straddling the liminal space of childhood and Whatever Came Next, a red mountain bike your trusty steed to take you everywhere you wanted to be. What was the slow roll of cars into which your girlfriends were beginning to blithely approach, leaning their arms against the open windows? They peered into the spaces that could take them places, cast glances at the backseats where seatbelts would be abandoned.

You were busy hoisting up the pin the tail on the donkey at the park when you realized some had already stalked into the Hundred Acre Woods. They had discovered other trails and secret spots for making out with just enough cover--but not enough so that there were no witnesses. How did you become the silly old bear, and when did Christopher Robin find a girlfriend? All you could hold onto was this raggedy tail of a moment for yourself, and no one else.

On the ceremonious last day of eighth grade, the finale of your elementary years, you boarded the bus for an amusement park. When you arrived to the park, romanced by the scent of cotton candy and early June humidity, groups scattered and cliques fortified. You hoped through some star-crossed alignment you would find yourself sitting next to Kyle B. as the newer coaster mounted the first hill. Before the lead car of the coaster crested over, you would have an excuse to grip his hand in a mock panic of the uncertain dip ahead. 

At your 20th reunion, you will tell him this story, and it will appear that you are blushing, but really you are just hot and very pregnant with your second child. He and his betrothed will humor you, and ask if anyone needs a drink, maybe a ginger ale for you, they laugh.

Casey K. won’t come to any more reunions. You’ve read his obituary and hope to meet his sons one day to tell them what a legend their father was: suspended with just a month left of eighth grade! In some classroom hijinks, he had knocked over a desk that actually fell onto your leg. You had looked to have been trapped, but were merely toppled by the energy that overflowed your young bodies, so teaming with hormones and love for one another. You all were pushing against the gravity that threatened to keep you there, pulled by the promises that you weren’t made to stay.