Free Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin Page A

it is far enough for me to realize I am falling from Ramie’s porch with my pants unbuttoned. I do manage to right myself midfall and land feetfirst, but it’s hardly a gymnast’s dismount. The momentum of the fall sends me over onto my left hip and shoulder. I hear Ramie’s window hiss open. Scrambling to my feet, I press my body against the porch screen and button my trousers. She moves above me, but the vague creaking is indecipherable.
    If I sneak to the base of the maple tree, I should be able to see her. But then she’d see me too. Do I risk it?
    The creaking stops. Either she’s gone back to bed or she’s waiting for me to reveal myself. I have to move eventually. I can’t hide under the eaves of her porch roof all night. I guess this is what backup plans and abort protocols are all about.
    As I press against the porch screen, trying to make myself as flat as possible, I recall an old Kick-the-Can strategy of Jill’s. I decide to adopt it. Dropping to my belly, I snake as quietly as possible from Ramie’s porch right onto the lawn, shielded only by darkness. When I get to the maple tree, I slither to the far side, then slowly get to my knees and peer around the trunk.
    Ramie stands at her open window, hands pressed to the sill. The wind blows her tangle of hair and she shakes it out of her eyes. The odd thing is, she’s not looking down. She’s looking up. I look up to see what she’s looking at, but all I see are the branches of the maple tree. In another moment, she’s gone.
    Desperate for another look at her, I haul ass up the maple tree and straddle the branch leading to the porch roof. I’m about to start inching outward when Ramie returns to the window, wrapped in her thick white comforter. I freeze. Ramie opens her window wide, then perches on the sill with her knees tucked up against her and the comforter as shelter. Leaning her head against the window frame, she looks upward again.
    Looking upward myself, I can just make out an incredible sight between two branches of the maple tree. The wispy clouds are gone, and against the ink black of the night sky are a billion pinpricks of light. Among them, in a definite band, is the arc of the Milky Way. Turning to Ramie’s window, I triangulate her gaze. She’s looking right at it. She’s wondering what it’s like out there at the edge of the galaxy, wondering if anyone’s sitting there among those stars looking earthward. I know Ramie, even if it’s through the veil of Jill’s perception. She’s thinking all of these things, plus some things I couldn’t imagine. She’ll sit there until the night air seeps in through that comforter, thinking beautiful Ramie thoughts until it’s too cold to bear. And I’ll remain here straddling this branch with a bruised hip, frozen ankles and a persistent hard-on. I’ll sit here and stare at Ramie Boulieaux until she returns to bed.
    And that is exactly what we do.

April 13

    Jill
    When I wake up, my whole body aches. I sit up, look at my all-girl face in the mirror, then do my Plan B rituals. After that, I check the date on my clock. Friday, April 6. Seventy-eight days until prom night. Apple green marker in hand, I cross off the four previous days. Jack came early this cycle, so I have to rework my prom projections. Flipping through the months, I realize that my previously reliable 28.76-day cycle has drifted into a disconcerting irregularity. I do a quick calculation. The new average cycle length, based on the last six months, clocks in at 27.67 days. That whittles the window between prom night and Jack’s expected arrival from five days to a hair-raising two! A further increase in cycle irregularity, and I could miss the prom altogether!
    Prom.
    Tommy.
    The Bump.
    The J-bar!
    My life is a disaster on so many levels, I can hardly keep track of it all.
    Dragging myself to the dresser, I peel off Jack’s stinky white T-shirt and notice a hideous bruise on my left shoulder. Pulling his boxer briefs down,