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You're fourteen and she turns you down, and that's that.
It's weird; it's awkward; you're fourteen, it's supposed to be. The back of your neck prickles with embarrassment and summer sun. Hours later you apply ice to your sunburned nape and try not to replay the image of her bucktooth grin vanishing from her face as she says, I'm sorry, I just don't think of you that way.
The experience leads to you staying inside for most of the summer, working on new tracks. When you see her again in September, she gives you a shy glance, you give her a cool nod, and the two of you go back to friendship as usual. Net reward: one patched-up heart, five new songs, and a distinct lack of melanoma.
Years later, it makes for a good story. You don't take offense when John buries his face in your pillow, trying to stifle his snorting laughter. “You wrote her a rap?” he says.
“You don't understand," you say. "It was so deep it would have taken miners twenty years to plumb all the nuggets of meaning from its depths. Black lung would be the least of their problems. It was a masterpiece. The skies opened, angels wept, the whole nine yards."
"Uh-huh," John says. He sounds unconvinced. You sit down hard on your bed, making him bounce. He chuckles and rolls away from you, his back pressed to the wall, his eyes sparkling as he looks up at you. “Dave, that is the most uncool story I have ever heard,” he says, "and I'm friends with you, so I've heard a lot of uncool stories."
"Are you sure you're in the right house?" you say. "I think you must be confusing me for someone else."
He frowns at you. You stare back. Then neither of you blink for forty-eight seconds, according to the timer in your head.
"You're going to lose, man," you tell him, "I'm the unconquered king of staring matches."
He doesn't say anything, only staring at you with an expression of increasingly ridiculous intensity. You can see his eyes watering, and start to grin.
"Damnit!" he finally bursts out, jerking his head away and rubbing at his eyes with his sweater sleeve. You laugh, and graciously let him pick where to order takeout from as a consolation prize. (He always picks the same pizza place. Sometimes when he's out of town too long you'll go there and grab a slice, but you'll take that secret with you to your grave.)
--
Let no one say that you haven't learned from your past mistakes, at least. You write raps about him—you can't help it—but you keep them under your bed and out of sight. You eventually stop complaining when he drags you to Starbucks; you fix his computer when he breaks it, and spend the entire time making fun of him for downloading a porn virus without it ever once turning weird; you stay over to watch horror movies and don't flinch when he burrows against your side.
"Best bros!" he tells you.
"Don't you fucking know it," you say.
You watch the spring in his step as you trail a few steps behind him, hands in your pockets, dreaming.
--
It's your fifth staring match this month, and one minute and thirty-four seconds in he gives a huff of annoyance and snatches your glasses from your face. You flinch but force your eyes open wide, refusing to blink.
"Who's cheating now, Egbert. Trying to startle me? That's a low blow," you say.
He sticks his tongue out at you, never breaking eye contact as his hands fumble for a safe place to tuck your shades. They end up hooked on his shirt collar, creating a black spot in your peripheral vision.
You've never told him, but your sunglasses are prescription, and his face is now fuzzy at the edges. His eyes are searching yours with a weirdly fascinated determination, and you remind yourself not to hold your breath. Lalonde would know how to describe this, you think—azure orbs, baby blues, holy shit he is really fucking close. Let's be real: Lalonde would skip the purple prose and go straight to gay chicken.
But it doesn't matter how many dirty tricks he pulls—no one beats a Strider at a staring match, it's a law of the natural universe. It's harder to hold a poker face without half of your face in obscurity, though. You swallow and try to find your center, fighting to keep your eyes focused.
John licks his lips, an expression of nervousness flicking across his face, and suddenly you realize that he blinked a few seconds ago and you both missed it—that you're both still here, inches apart.
"Dave?" he whispers.
Fuck it, you think, you're not fourteen anymore and you're sick of playing it safe.
It's more of a face bump than a kiss, but John's gasp is deeply satisfying, anyway. You pull back and the two of you blink at each other.
"What?" he says.
"Dude," you reply, "Don't make me spell it out."
John's smile is crafty. "Rap it out, you mean?" he says. "I'm surprised you didn't show up under my window with a portable turn table set, looping a sick beat and—"
You lean forward again, just to shut him up, and feel his laughter bubble against your lips.