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Birdie Crenshaw
The second hand of my penis clock—a gift from Sadie—ticks past the twelve for the hundredth time since I climbed into bed. It’s now two a.m. on another sleepless night. I could continue to lie here and pretend I’d eventually pass out, but I’ve lived with my demons long enough to know that won’t happen. Not once in the last thirteen years.
Resigned to another wasted night, I kick out of my covers like a toddler throwing a tantrum and sit up to reach for my glasses. My feet shove into my Grogu slippers, and I push off the bed.
The night is far from peaceful. Outside, the wind whips through the old oak trees lining the street, a sign of an approaching storm. If not for the howling wind, tonight would be another quiet one on the idyllic street in the historic district outside Norfolk.
The light from the gas street lamps flickers across the hardwood floor as I shuffle toward my office in the dark. A nice touch but a total waste of energy and resources if you ask me. I’m sure the dying polar bears would enjoy the ambiance, though.
I flip on the light in the high-tech room and collapse into my chair, ready to relive my nightmare all over again.
14 years ago
“So, what’s this big secret, Meals?”
My best friend, Amelia Quarles, dances at her desk, causing her computer to shake. The image on my screen wobbles, and I join in with moves of my own, though I don’t know what we’re celebrating. Amelia eventually settles down and leans forward to whisper into the microphone. The move makes her face appear huge on my Skype screen. “I have a boyfriend.”
“No way!” I squeal. “Who is it?”
“His name is Milo. He’s 17.”
Meals wiggles in her chair again as I rack my brain to place the name. “We don’t have a Milo.”
Amelia rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t go to Morgan Park. He’s a junior at Hinsdale. He plays football.”
She’s squealing now, and I join her because everyone knows what that means. Muscles. Morgan Park has baseball, basketball, and swimming like many other prep schools, but our guys are all brains. Any football team we had would get killed in the season’s first game. “Tell me everything! And I want pictures.”
“We met through the art shop’s event forum and have been messaging for the last couple of weeks. He sent me his football picture, and I sent him the one of us at the dance last month. I told him he could guess which one I was.”
“You’re so bad. I know which one he’ll hope you are. That dress you wore was fire! I still looked like a twelve-year-old, but whatever. You still haven’t told me what he looks like.”
“Ohhh. Milo is hot, Birdie, and he asked me out yesterday. He wants to meet.”
Now, it’s my computer screen that’s shaking. My dancing ends when I realize one small problem. “Your parents aren’t going to let you go on a date with a seventeen-year-old. What if he thinks that’s lame?”
“He says it’s cool. We’ll just meet and hang out in a group. He does want our first meeting to be private, though. I just sent you Milo’s picture.”
The message comes through with a ding, and I open the attachment. Uh. Drool. “You’re so lucky, Meals.”
“I know,” she shrieks. “Holy crap! I just got a message. He’s asking to meet tonight!”
“Tonight? But it’s already after eight on a school night. And last time I checked, you can’t fly.”
“Ha ha,” she replies.
Meals goes quiet, the only sound coming from her keyboard as she messages her new boyfriend back. A few seconds pass, and her system dings with a new message. “He says he’ll come to me.”
“Oh, your parents will love that,” I say sarcastically.
Amelia rolls her eyes. “I’ve got an idea.”
She’s now pecking furiously at her keyboard, wearing a smug grin. Trying to sound stern, I ask, “What are you doing, Meals?”
With a flourish, she taps enter to send her message and leans back in her chair. “I told Milo to meet me at the park by my house in thirty minutes. I can sneak out and back without anyone knowing.”
“Um…” Her plan leaves a bad feeling in my stomach, but I don’t want to sound like a wuss. “Are you sure this is such a good idea?”
“Oh, come on, Birdie. I can see my house from there.”