First Contact

 We were both 12, but she was a lot more mature than I was. For some reason, though, she chose me for first contact. Which meant that one warm fall evening, with her parents off visiting friends, we wound up in her bedroom, looking at each other and wondering how to begin.

"Maybe we'll just show each other. You know, at the same time."

I don't know who said it, but both of us seemed to have the same level of curiosity, which is to say a lot. We were nervous, but curiosity—especially that curiosity—won out over nervousness. So a few hesitant revelations later, we both stood there, doing a lot of staring. It was tricky trying to read her reaction while avoiding eye contact, but I managed.

Don't know how long that part lasted, but I was quite content to let it play out forever. I was almost woozy with the sheer wonder of it all. But then… other possibilities presented themselves.

"Maybe - we can, you know, touch." Almost a question, but not quite.

Again, I don't know who said it, but since we were both working from the same manual, it didn't really matter. We agreed that a single touch would be okay, because we had to put it all into context, didn't we?

So we touched, about as chaste a touch as you can imagine. For me, it was a touch like no other, because it was first contact with a different culture: girls. Sure, I had a couple of sisters, but they didn’t count. So both of us, standing there, actually touching (while avoiding eye contact), was a new world to explore-

Then we heard the car in the driveway.

I'd never seen such wide-eyed panic in anyone, and I knew I had the same expression. Clothes yanked back into place, blouses buttoned, zippers zipped, and the two of us almost fell down the stairs as her parents walked up the front steps. Thank God for back doors that couldn't be seen from the front; thank God for a quick-thinking partner (I said she was mature), who jerked open the back door and said—in a voice loud enough to be heard over our panicked breathing—"Okay Sparky (or Fido or Rover, I don't remember), time to go outside." Sparky or Fido or Rover was confused, but I wasn't; I was gone in a flash. Just as the front door swung open.

Straight out into the dark field behind her house, running until my legs gave out. I crouched in the darkness, wondering if the police would show up, wondering if there would be a bulletin on the radio. I took a couple of deep breaths, then looked back. No floodlights, no yelling. Maybe I was safe, for the time being. At least until they brought out the tracking dogs.

Ok, if I could just make it back to my house, I might have a chance.

I stumbled around the dark field for a while, listening for sirens. Eventually, I crossed the street a bit further down, a fugitive on the lam. Headed home, trying to keep to the shadows while acting nonchalant, a neat trick if you can pull it off.

When I was close enough to my house, I peeked inside. My parents were in the living room, talking. Had someone already called? Were they planning my incarceration, which lawyer to call, which reformatory would take me? They didn't look upset, so maybe they hadn't heard the news yet. I still had to avoid them, because I could never keep anything off my face, be it wide-eyed panic, first-contact guilt, or both.

I timed it as best I could; just as they walked back toward the kitchen, still talking, I hit the front door. Threw off a casual "I'm back. Nothing happened," and headed upstairs to listen for police cars converging. Thankfully, my barely functional kid brother and know-nothing sisters were off doing whatever siblings did. The only thing that mattered was that I had the room to myself. To sort things out

 Maybe I could hitchhike out of town, maybe I could hop on a freight train. How do you hop on a freight train? How do you hitchhike, for that matter? I was a man now; I should be able to figure it out.

Still no sirens. I started to breathe again.

Then the door opened and my father looked at me, frowning. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened’?”

Tom New