More Happy Than Not

“I got back in one piece.”

Her eyes fall on my scar and then back at me.

“He knows,” I say.

Thomas cuts in, “If it helps, Ms. Elsie, I can give you my address, my phone number, and my mother’s phone number. But I feel like Aaron hasn’t lived until he’s seen Jaws. You’re more than welcome to join us if you haven’t seen it yourself.”

This gets my mom smiling again. “I saw it in the theaters when I was a young girl. Thank you.”

Thomas almost looks jealous that she was alive when the movie came out. Maybe he thinks Back Then was a better time to be born. I personally think Much Later would’ve been a better time instead of Right Now.

“I’ll be at the supermarket late tonight anyway, so you can go,” Mom tells me.

I’m smiling like a dumb-idiot. I haven’t gotten this excited about a sleepover since Fat-Dave’s mother took us all to buy the newest Throne Wars game at midnight, and everyone stayed up all night playing at his house.

“Thomas, please make sure he’s asleep before two, remind him to use the bathroom first, and don’t let him spend more than a dollar on candy.”

I would make a you-know-what joke for how embarrassing she’s being, but it would prolong the agony. Mom hugs him, and then me. She thanks him for letting me sleep over, takes down all of his information—address, his number, his mother’s number—and we start walking away.

“Your mother’s cool,” he says.

“Yeah, when she’s not treating me like a little kid. I should probably go grab some clothes to sleep in.”

“Don’t worry about it, I have stuff.”

We’re only going a couple blocks down, but as someone who will likely never have enough money to go see the pyramids in Egypt or boat down a canal in Venice, this day away from home already feels like I’m headed to another country.

The orange cord follows us to the rooftop and snakes across the pebbled ground, where all evidence of my night with Genevieve is gone. Thomas props the projector up, but it’s still light out so we can’t watch the movie yet. I lie down with my arms spread out like I’m going to try and make a snow angel.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks.

“Drying off.” I shut my eyes, but can still see spears of orange and feel the sun cooking my face. I can’t tell how much of my drenched shirt is water and how much is sweat. Summer sucks that way, but winter can go die twice because I always refuse to leave the house—even whenever Genevieve wants to go out and build snowmen and take silly couple photos.

“No homo, but you should take your shirt off,” Thomas says.

I look up and his shirt is already off and he’s draping it over the ledge to dry. I sit up, take my shirt off too, throw it at him, and sprawl out. The baked pebbles burn, but it’s not any worse than the sand at Jones Beach. Speaking of which, two shirtless guys on a rooftop isn’t all that different from two shirtless guys at the beach, so we really shouldn’t have to No Homo this.

Thomas plops down next to me. “I used to watch movies with Sara up here. Well, we would start watching something and then start messing around.”

“You had sex with your ex up here?”

He laughs. “Nah, never sex. Just other stuff.”

“Was she your first?” I ask.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, Sara was my first too,” I say. Thomas smacks my shoulder so hard it leaves his handprint. I punch him above his heart but his chest is firmer than mine. “Your breasts are hard.”

“They’re called pecs, and I paid a lot of money for them.”

For some reason I feel uncomfortable talking about his body, probably because it’s better than mine. “Do you miss Sara? Be real.”

“No and yes,” he answers. “I had to break things off with her because we really weren’t right for each other anymore. I just miss having someone to call and go out and have fun with. But it never had to be Sara.”

“I get that.”

We drop it and talk about random things as the sun falls out of sight behind the city’s buildings: video games and favorite comics; how much we hate school and the hot teachers and girls who make it easier; his birthday coming up—on the same day Genevieve gets back—and how he’s never smoked before, not even a cigarette. He looks disappointed when I admit to blazing up with Brendan and the others a few times. To keep it light, I admit something incredibly shameful: “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”