We sit on his hood, covered in a blanket, watching the stars, sipping on beer. At first, I felt like everything was mine. But then the little girl came and I can’t shake the chill, this feeling of emptiness. Mrs. Mendez and Luis Sanchez are still dead. Caleb Masterson still needs a kidney transplant. He lost his football scholarship to some college in Texas. I almost hurt a little girl. I can still smell that eucalyptus scent she had in her hair, on her cheeks. I almost hurt her.And Josh still hasn’t kissed me. There’s got to be some kind of posttraumatic bad kiss disorder. I’ve ruined him for life.“The little girl,” I say.“She’s okay.”“I could’ve hurt her.”“You didn’t.”“What if she hadn’t stopped screaming?”“She did.”Silence. Then I say what both of us probably have wondered but never have had the nerve to say, afraid to say. Because who will I be when this is over? Who will we be? “How many more?” The cold just won’t leave. What if I never get that high again?
