I scroll my phone while the fresh air flips my hair over my face, bringing cut grass and laughing children to me. Isabella and Dad have a romantic dinner at an expensive restaurant, and Mom has not returned home yet, so I sit at the park, the sun heating the back of my neck, while I squint at my phone’s screen.

“You, again,” the boy from yesterday who likes his mom stands over me, sunlight sparkling in his eyes and white teeth beaming. His buddies stand twenty feet behind him, too scared to get closer.

I read the slight eye squinting, lip tightness, and hand twitch as his body leans forward, then back, shifting from right to left foot. “You didn’t masturbate today,” I tell him.

“Because I couldn’t find an actress that looks like you,” he lies. Many thin porn actresses exist on the internet, which he knows.

His friends want to leave, but he remains in front of me, sunlight shining in his eyes, causing him to squint and shade them with his hand. “How did you do that yesterday?” he asks. Interesting. He wants to know.

“You had dried sweat like you worked out, but not athletic, and you twitched when I mentioned masturbation to your friend.”

“How did you know that it was about Mom and Son porn?”

“You told me.”

“Yes, but how?”

“You moved your gaze to a mother while your skin heated up with guilt and pleasure before your fingers twitched and twisted your left side towards me.”

“Garth, let’s go,” yesterday’s leader calls.

“I’ll catch up later,” Garth calls back and sits beside me.

I face him while he stares at the children crawling over the multi-colored bars. He tilts his head to bring his right ear closer to me as his fingers spread on his 501 classic blue jeans, bulging the thin muscles on his forearms. His white t-shirt drapes off him, one size too big, and the Pinky and Brain cartoon declares he likes strange humor. Cookie designs on his socks under the Nike basketball shoes come across as immature instead of funny or friendly.

“I don’t care what you think,” the corners of his eyes turn down. The warm sun causes beads of sweat to form on the back of his neck.

“Yes, you do.”

“I like your catholic schoolgirl look,” he says while his eyes roam over my body and his fingers drum on his pant legs.

I wonder if he likes me.

“Why did you lie?” I ask.

I can not fully understand his signals. Only Lisa’s father gave me this much trouble. As with him, I wonder why.

“Lie? I will catch up with them later.”

“No. You will not if you like our conversation. But why do you think I want to talk with you?”

“Seriously, look at me. Everyone wants to talk with me.” He replies as he stands and spins to show his tight butt, which he thinks I will like best, but I like his long, well-combed, brown hair better.

I spend longer scrutinizing his appearance. Greenish blue eyes with a nose too large for his immature face, but it will look good one day. A weak jaw, but his ears align perfectly. He shaved last night and has nicks around the lower right jaw.

“No, not everyone. Some girls will find you attractive. Fewer boys will.”

“You do.”

“Yes. Why are you talking to me after I embarrassed you yesterday?”

“It’s good to be embarrassed sometimes.”

“You believe that.”

“That’s why I said it.”

“No, you said it to shock me.”

“True, but I have better ways of shocking people.”

“Pinching does not count.”

His face falls as he rubs his pant legs. I begin to read him better, but I still do not know how he feels about me. In some moments, it appears he likes me, while in other moments, he hates me, while in others, he has no opinion.

“Depends on where I pinch.”

“Yes.”

My fingers gently tap the blue-white jeans. The fresh air sends goosebumps up my arm while the warm sun increases its heat on my neck.

“So, what do you do for fun?” he asks.

“Cello in the morning, school during the day, spending time with my former friend.”

A cloud covers the sun, chilling the air and casting us into shade, but the sparkle in his deep-shadowed eyes remains.

“Former friend? Are they ok? Did they die, or something?” he chuckles, but he does not have a good sense of humor.

“I did not kill them.”

In confusion and trying to say something witty, he drums his fingers and bounces his feet. I push back my hair and drum my fingers in time with his.

“Right. Only killers say something like that, but you are too pretty to be a killer.”

“Killers can look like anything. Being pretty does not make a person less of a killer. Half the boys, but over three-quarters of girls, think I am pretty.”

“So, you’re a killer. Should I be afraid, or have you done your quota for today?”

I don’t understand him.

He glances around. His buddies sit in a circle at the farthest end of the park from us, chatting under a large spruce tree. My feet tap in time with his feet. Kids laugh as they climb and urge others to follow. Moms talk about their kids, desperate to connect with someone who can form complete sentences and thoughts.

“I am not a killer.”

The sun reappears, highlighting his freckles across his nose.

“Never said you were. Just implied it.”

His smile confuses me. His top lip pulls back from his canine teeth while the lower lip covers his lower teeth. Fear and lust fill him. Most people like me until I talk to them, then they fear me. Why do I have so much trouble reading him?

“So, Cello.”

“Yes. You play video games and masturbate for fun.”

“Well, masturbation feels good, and video games are a challenge.”

He glances at his friends. They punch each other and laugh. Most people leave at this moment. Isabella never left. Dad never left. Mom did.

“You’re an interesting woman. How do you know all this?”

“You told me.”

A drop of sweat moves down the side of his neck. His long hair hides more sweat on his neck.

“Shit, was I sleepwalking and talking again? Did I end up in your bedroom? Cause that would be awesome.”

“No.”

“So...”

“I am good at reading people.”

“You said that earlier, and not good, fucking great.”

“I do not know if I fuck great. I am still a virgin.”

“Oh, did you want me to help you with that?”

“Yes.”

His face changes to something I do not understand. He both wants to fuck me but also to run away. Why do I have so much trouble reading and understanding him?

“Don’t I need to buy you dinner and a drink first?”

“No, but you can if you want.”

He shows all his teeth. He loves food but hates alcohol. Something about his father, but I do not know what. Yet.

The giggling, yelling, talking, and shuffling of children on the playground enhances our silence. I turn from him to read the mother’s talking. The ‘overweight from pregnancy but starting to lose it again’ mom likes the thin, neurotic mother who starves herself to stay thin and keep her husband interested in her. Yet, she has a boyfriend that she had sex with this morning. Two other mothers, old friends, talk about vacation plans while skirting the idea that they like, and want, to have sex with each other’s husband.

I return to study Garth’s posture - leaning back with his hands on his legs. He didn’t have a proper breakfast, or lunch, but instead, had chips and pop after borrowing money from his friend, the leader. His blood sugar has dropped too low and only his lust and fear sustain his energy. I can not tell if he lusts for me, his mother, or the other mothers. He likes the bulimic one, who reminds him of his mother, but also possibly me.

“So, did you want to do the sex here on this bench?” he asks and leans forward, purposely invading my space to make me more uncomfortable. My heart flutters with his movement, and I want him to invade my space more, but I do not know what he wants.

“No. Too small. Uncomfortable unless I lean over it, and the parents of the children would not like it.”

“No shit.”

His buddies walk over to us. The two, behind the chronic masturbater, move in sync. They love each other but do not feel ready to admit to that truth yet.

“Dude, let’s go! Stop wasting time with the skinny, catholic slut.”

“Fuck off,” Garth, a cute snarl accented by his long-haired boy, growls at the leader, which does not make sense because he agrees with the assessment.

“Seriously, unless you’re planning to fuck her, let’s go already,” the leader’s fists grow red while his face turns white, in fear of me and a desire to fuck me.

“I do not want him to join us,” I say to the cute one, who agrees with me by leaning toward his buddy.

“Fuck, do I care what you want,” the leader steps forward, held back by his two friends.

He fears losing his friend to a girl because they have known each other for a long time. The other two only tolerate the leader because of the cute one beside me. The leader hates me but would join us if allowed. He steps closer, ready to hit me. He does not want to hit me, but he wants to hide his fear from his friends because their opinion of him matters a lot to him.

I gaze up into his brown, squinting eyes, “You need to call your girlfriend.”

In shock, the leader steps back while the cute one chuckles and the closet lovers cover their mouths. They do not believe he has a girlfriend and have bugged him about it for a long time.

“Yeah, your long-distance girlfriend,” Garth taunts his friend.

“Yes. They met in the summer, and he misses her, and your taunting hurts him,” I inform the group.

The leader steps back and sprints away. The other two watch him leave, eyes wide in shock and uncertainty, while they shift away from each other to hide their attraction. They need to come out and tell everyone. The leader and Garth know and don’t care. The taller says, “You mean it’s true? He met a girl!”

“Yes. I told you,” I say.

The two boys’ faces turn white, step back, pause, and then slink away. The cute one leans towards me, “I never said anything.”

“Your friend did.”

“Are you a witch? Or psychic?”

Why does he not run away? His pupils dilate, eyes wide, canine’s accented, and fingers white against his jeans. I grow more impressed that he shows this much fear and does not run away. Not even Isabella has this level of bravery.

The clouds block the sun over me, casting me into a shadow while he remains in the light. He stares at a child as the little one laughs in fear and climbs the bars to the top. The child’s mother continues to talk with her best friend but sits taller in pride and fear.

“So, what’s your favorite position for doing the sex?” Garth leans forward, supporting himself with his arms and hands.

The other children call up in excitement, some climbing halfway. The top child basks in the other children’s adoration, afraid to climb down. Her mother overlaughs.

“I do not know. Virgin. And you are a virgin also.”

“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. I hear there are teenage girls at this place trying to steal my innocence.”

I study the park because I have never seen a teenage girl here searching for virgins. Isabella has come with me looking for husbands. Ironically, she could have stayed at my house because she found her future husband there.

With great care, the brave child climbs down the bars before climbing back up. The three other children attempt to copy, but only the youngest conquers his fear and climbs to the top. The thin mother yells for him to get down and rushes to the bars to save him. As her arms scoop him up, he beams at her in pride and comfort. He plans to re-climb to get his mother’s attention again.

Garth fidgets, feet bouncing, repeatably pushing back his hair. I wonder about his name. It means ‘Keeper of the Garden’, but he hates plants. Garth can also mean a parent’s strong connection to their child, but only hIs mother, not his father.

“I guess. If you are going to steal my virginity, I should know your name so I can write into my diary that I will start now.”

“Jennifer.”

“Jenny-fur.”

“Jennifer.”

“Right. Jenny, where did you want to go?”

“Jennifer. Someplace soft.”

“Soft. Jen, my parents are home.”

“Jennifer. My parents are not.”

“So, your place, not mine. Jennister.”

“Jennifer.”

He stands and offers his hand. A sun ray highlights the deep creases on his fingers and the moisture on his wrist and palm. My heart rate increases for some reason and my hand trembles as he helps me.

We walk hand in hand towards the green tree archway over the park entrance. His hands feel softer than Dad’s but not as soft as Father Leon’s. The first boy to hold my hand and I do not know if he likes it. The fragrance of the trees reminds me of Isabella when she fell out of our tree in the backyard. She cried while Dad bandaged her knee and I stared, not knowing what to do. He took us for ice cream, where Isabella and I had a food fight in the shop while Dad laughed until he had to hurry us out because the teenage cashier yelled. The tree smell reminds me of vanilla, which Garth’s shirt smells like, however, he also smells of old spice.

The gravel crunches under us as the children’s laughter fades away. The cool shade of the trees chills me while his hand pumps warmth around my body. My heart rate increases much faster than normal for such a slow walk and saliva fills my mouth with anticipation of ice cream.

“Did you spill something on your shirt?” I ask, concerned that I do not know why his shirt smells of vanilla.

“It was my cum rag until Mom washed it by mistake,” he lies. Why does he like to lie so much?

“Why does your shirt smell like vanilla?” I ask directly.

“It does? My sister borrowed it, maybe she masturbated in it.”

He has not learned that he can not shock me.

“Her body wash,” I inform him.

Our footsteps barely make a sound as we move to the sidewalk, but my heart rate still overpowers the sounds. He wants to do this but also fears doing this. Desire and fear increase equally as we approach our large two-story house. Mom’s red Civic still sits in the driveway while birds call from the trees brushing against the white siding. A black crow calls from the top of the black roof, destroying the lovely music of the birds.

His fingers fidget as he walks on the yellow and green grass while I walk down the middle of the cobbled path to our blue, brass-fixtured door.

The creak of the door announces our entrance. The click of its closures separates us from the larger world.

I turn and gaze up at him, still holding his hand. He stares at me, studying my forehead, nose, cheeks, eyes, and mouth. His lips part and the fresh mint scent draws me in.

On tiptoes, I push my lips towards him. Bent, he pushes his toward me.

We miss but quickly adjust and kiss. The moistness of his lips, the electricity of his touch, I lose my thoughts, and the world blackens and pauses.