I would have remembered her first kiss even without the brittle strip of home movie film. That I was six and she was eight doesn’t blunt its truth. I loved Becca from the start, and in that brief, grainy moment, her kiss proved she loved me too.
Our parents joked we were inseparable. I never laughed. They didn’t see how easily something perfect could be taken away.
Weekend mornings, I gulped my cereal and watched for her signal across the split-rail fence that divided our backyards. She’d already be dressed and waiting, our imaginations snapping into place the moment we crossed the fence—a harmless barrier then, before the real ones began to rise around us.
“Boys on that side, girls on this side,” Mrs. Carter warned, as if the recess blacktop might split open if we crossed.
The stricter borders were the unspoken ones. No one had to say that fifth grade girls didn’t mix with third grade boys.
When someone on the school bus mocked, “You two again,” drawing giggles and sing-song taunts from the others, we learned to take separate seats. And though we shared the same stop, we kept silent until the bus pulled away. Then we’d laugh, as if we’d been holding our breath all day.
“Can two people have the same thought, even when they’re not together?” Becca once asked me.
“I knew you were going to say that,” I told her, and she gave me the smile she saved only for me.
Nowhere were our souls more attuned than in her basement. Half the room was for kids—games, a crafts table, a compact record player. Just the two of us for hours, with no one hinting we should be apart. I don’t think I’d ever been happier.
“Just be careful down there,” her mother said. “Stay out of your father’s carpentry shop.” I was fascinated by the way Becca’s father worked the table saws, routers, and planers on his side of the basement. Once, he even let me help cut the arched top of a basketball backboard on his bandsaw.
The last day of summer vacation, just before Becca started high school, was the second time Becca kissed me.
We were in the basement listening to her 45s when she pulled me into a dance. Her breath brushed my face, then her lips touched my cheek. In that moment, I promised myself we’d be together always.
What she said next, however, made my gut twist.
“You know, high school will be the first time we’re in different schools. I’ll be meeting all kinds of new people.”
She didn’t have to explain; I already knew. The real separation started tomorrow, and something in me clenched at the thought.
We kept up our friendship over the next two years, but the distance between us grew. I’d seen her with her high school friends, both boys and girls. She’d spot me and flash that smile—our smile—then turn back to her friends and give them the same one, as if what we had could belong to anyone else.
I told myself we’d be in the same school again soon. I’d have Becca back—just for me. I dreamed of asking her to go steady, giving her a ring: best friends, soulmates, lovers.
On Becca’s sixteenth birthday, my dream became a nightmare.
New high school friends were at her party. I was the only freshman, but I didn’t feel out of place—none of them knew Becca the way I did. My gift to her was a bottle of rose-scented perfume. She hugged me and misted it behind her ears.
After presents and cake, we got up to go to the basement to listen to record albums she’d gotten as gifts. I noticed Kenny Jones’s hand slip from Becca’s—he’d been holding it under the table. I recognized him from the school musical. He’d been the male lead. I only went because Becca was in it too.
Kenny said, “Anyone ever play Caught in the Dark? It’s soooo cooool.”
Kenny stretched his words when he talked, especially when he wanted to sound smooth— “maaaan,” “cooool,” “sweeeet.” Becca laughed at it, so I hated it.
She asked, “How do you play?”
Kenny said, “It’s like adult hide and seek with the lights out.”
Everyone tittered but me—the dark always felt worse when you were waiting for someone you couldn’t bear to lose.
“Whoever’s IT has to search in the dark until he finds someone. Then you graaaab them and screeeeam ‘Bloody Murder!’”
We had to rely on sound. Standing near Becca, I caught the scent of roses. I’d follow it. When we were alone, I’d kiss her—the moment I’d rehearsed for years. I believed she’d been waiting for that moment too.
Because I knew the basement so well, I realized we were heading toward the carpentry shop. Off-limits. Perfect.
I held out my hands to make sure I didn’t trip. I touched the planer, the drill press, the bandsaw.
That’s when I heard Becca’s whisper.
“Kenny, are you here?”
“It’s me, baaaabe.” It was his hungry voice.
Shoes scraped concrete. A giggle. Fabric brushing fabric. Their breathing changed. A startled gasp. Then a sigh—soft, familiar, meant for someone else.
I’d waited long enough. Something inside me split—clean and final, like fresh wood under a sharp blade.
The rose scent hit me—hers, on him. I grabbed Kenny’s collar, slammed his head against the bandsaw table, and hit the switch.
Someone screamed, “Bloody murder!”
Warm blood slicked my hands. The bandsaw hummed on.
Seconds later, the lights flickered.
Before my eyes could adjust, I heard that voice.
“Beccaaaa…”
Gregory Meece has worked across the full spectrum of education, from kindergarten through college. He earned degrees in English, communications, and education. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and in more than thirty magazines, including Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Bristol Noir, Thriller Magazine, House of Long Shadows, Blood Moon Rising, New Flash Fiction Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Cleaver Magazine, Fabula Argentia, and Scaffold. He lives in Southeastern Pennsylvania, where he works with the Amish farming community, carves wood, and writes stories. Visit him at MeeceTales.com.
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