By Jamie Holland

It’s eighth grade and everyone’s talking about Melissa King’s boy-girl party tomorrow night, which you haven’t been invited to yet. It’s winter in the Midwest and the heat in your room has stopped working. At night the phone rings and rings. Everyone says, “Hello, is Debbie there?” Debbie’s your older sister who now hates you. 

~

In Geometry, Melissa and her friends sit in front of you, rolling strawberry gloss over their lips.

“Let’s go to the mall after school,” she says to them before turning to you with a folded-up piece of paper. Come to my party! it will scream. 

“Pass that to Kyle,” she says, blonde lashes blinking. 

You hand it to him and he glances at it before shoving it in his backpack.

~

After scouring the mall in your down jacket, you end up staring at lava lamps at Spencer’s Gifts, watching the globular bubbles rise and fall. Next you peruse the posters. Olivia Newton-John. Kiss. Farrah Fawcett in her see-through red one-piece. 

Then you see it. The perfect poster. With that rock star, Cory Night, the one you’ve had a crush on since you were eight. The one who’s druggy and heavy-lidded on one of Debbie’s albums, but here he’s younger, tan, and shirtless with a beaded choker around his neck and melty brown eyes that lock into yours. 

Heat rises to your face, pink blossoms settling in your cheeks. 

~

At home, Debbie’s at her mirror in a bra and underwear, lining her eyes with her signature blue pencil. Her white gauze shirt, aka her “lucky shirt,” is tossed on the bed. You’ve asked her why she calls it this and she says, “You wouldn’t understand.” Not long ago you two were close. You used to wear matching necklaces. 

“What’s that smell?” you say, sniffing the air.

“It’s called perfume. Don’t even think about touching it.” 

Back in your room, “freezing” does not describe the bitter cold. Your mom tells you to wear extra layers until the radiator gets fixed. You tape Cory to the wall above your bed so that he watches over you morning and night, his radiant glow keeping you warm. 

~

The next day, Melissa complains that her older sister’s friends are planning on crashing her party, so now it’s ruined. Melissa’s posse promises that it won’t be ruined, and you’re thinking, Oh, it’ll be ruined alright because that’s what older sisters do—they set fire to your plans. They torch your heart and walk away without ever feeling the flames. 

~

Back at your house, the phone cord is stretched underneath Debbie’s door. If Melissa tries to call, she’ll never get through. 

You bang on the door. You yell, “I’m expecting a call!” Bang again.

Debbie smacks the door from the other side, and you punch it back, then close yourself behind your door. A second later, Debbie storms in, hands on hips. “What’s your problem?” 

“Oh, gee, I don’t know, Debbie. Maybe you’re not the only person who needs the phone?” 

These are words she’ll never understand. To think that at one point you coveted her upturned nose, her blue eyeliner.

The phone rings. As you both race to it, you picture Melissa and her friends rushing toward you, folding you into their tight, strawberry-smelling circle. 

Debbie’s hand reaches the phone first. “Tonight?” she says. 

After hanging up, she screams. “Scott Jenson asked me to a party!” 

You follow her like a rabid dog into her room. “Whose party?” 

“Lucky shirt or sweater?” she asks, holding up both.

“Whose party?” 

“God, calm down. It’s just some stupid kids’ party we’re crashing.” 

You stifle your sob until you’re back in your room with the door shut, scribbling I HATE EVERYTHING in your journal. You hurl yourself onto your bed and gaze up at Cory for advice. Notice that his brown eyes have turned cold and hard like brittle raisins.  

From the bathroom, the shower turns on, and then Debbie’s going-out sounds follow: hair dryer, a honk from the driveway, a firm “Don’t go in my room,” the front door shutting.

You go straight for her prized perfume and fling the liquid in arcs across her room like it’s gasoline, screaming, “Oh, my God! Scott Jenson! Blah blah blah!” You remember the summer days when you and Debbie played in the sprinkler. Observe the sinking silence, your fading heartbeat, the faraway tick of a radiator kicking on. 

You climb onto your bed like a cheetah and tear Cory off the wall, ripping through his shoulders and stomping on the eyes that you thought could see you. Yank up your window and chuck all the shreds into the frigid air. Watch his bare chest meet the ground. Wonder if the ice will ever thaw this year, if the hard earth will ever soften to mud or if the brutal cold in your bones will stay forever. You gaze into the night sky and notice how the smaller torn bits of him still flutter in the dark, quiet and hopeful, like the first snow, dropping, dropping, and finally landing, then disappearing altogether.