Free World Gone Water by Jaime Clarke

Jane has been crying. I sit down next to her, blocking the view, and she pulls her feet up so that her heels are in her crotch.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I ask.
    â€œNothing.” She looks over my shoulder at the TV.
    â€œTell me what’s wrong.” I rub her knees tenderly. “What is it?”
    â€œNothing.” She sniffs quietly, dramatically.
    â€œSomething must be wrong, Jane,” I sigh.
    â€œI can’t decide what to do,” she blurts out.
    â€œAbout what?” I’m massaging her thigh now.
    â€œAbout anything.” She starts to cry.
    â€œLike what?” I’m beginning to be agitated.
    â€œI just can’t decide about … California or here … or you or …” Her voice trails off.
    â€œWhat do you think you should do?” I ask, genuinely trying to help.
    â€œIt’s just that I know [
sniff
] that I’ll [
sniff
] meet someone like you in California and [
sniff
]—”
    â€œWhat does
that
mean?” I pull away from her.
    â€œThat my life [
sniff
] will be the same … wherever I go.”
    â€œThat’s probably true,” I say coldly.
    â€œI’m fucked up.” She really starts to sob, but it’s just a ploy because she knows she has upset me, and I go for it, putting my arms around her.
    â€œIt’s okay.” I try to calm her. “You’re not fucked up. You’re going to be fine.”
    â€œYou really think so?” she asks, pressing a wet cheek against my neck.
    â€œSure.” I pat the back of her head and right then I hate her more than I’ve hated anyone in a long time. The way she smells makes me crazy and I jump up off the couch.
    She looks up. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œNo, really, Charlie.” She stands up, fully naked in front of me.
    â€œI just wish you’d make up your mind about us.” I try not to look at her.
    â€œI know. I’m sorry,” Jane says. “I just don’t know what I want.”
    â€œWell, you better decide.”
    I make myself cry, and this moves Jane to put her arms around me. I struggle out of her grip and stand there with my head down. When I look up at her, fake tears sliding down my face, she’s looking away, at the TV.

Essay #6: My First Time
    I like hair. All kinds: brown, black, red, blond, long, short, curly, wavy, straight—whatever. And skin. I can’t get the feel of skin out of my dreams.
    When other guys were showing their prowess at basketball on the playground at recess, Steven Howfield and I were starting clubs and trying to get girls to join: Saturday Afternoon Club (weekly picnics designed to be romantic, like on TV); Very Secret Society (initiation included kissing both Steven and me on the lips for ten seconds—we promised not to tell anyone, hence the name); Daisy-Chain Gang (the main function of this club was to play out a bizarre game Steven and I had concocted, the rules of which I have forgotten); and the Millionaires’ Club (we tried to convince cute girls that we were going to be lawyers and that we’d make a lot of money). Once Erica Ryan and I stayed out on the playground after the bell, hiding in the corner where the gymnasium joined the administration building, and we kissed until Ms. Fisher, our fifth-grade teacher, realized we were missing and came looking for us. Erica and I had to stay after school with our heads down on our desks until her parents and my grandparents came for us. I peeked over my hairless arm several times, but Erica would not look back at me.
    And at Erica Ryan’s birthday party I was the only boy (Steven Howfield was particularly pissed at being snubbed, but losing out to guys who are better than you is something you can never learn too early in life) and my grandmother was hesitant about letting me go. Imagine what it was like to be the only boy at Erica Ryan’s eleventh birthday party. Imagine being