Read Flatscreen for Free Online Page B

Jeremy complete with archived, estate-approved suicide recordings. We could listen, cry, put them on Myspace, make a posthumous documentary, hold candlelight acoustic vigils.
    “He couldn’t play it. But he wanted to. I think. He bought it.”
    Something I would do.
    “I’m teaching myself,” Alison said, picked up the guitar, strummed a chord, a riff, feigned smashing it, put it back in the case, took off her boots, her pants, her striped cotton panties.
    Her skin was thin like rice noodle. Didn’t know stuff like this happened in real life. She covered her breasts with her arms, said, “I’m shy,” called up a playlist.
    “Girls who take their pants off aren’t usually shy.”
    Sounded suave. Something I’d say in my head, not out loud.
    “Have sex with me?” she said, as if I needed convincing. “It’ll feel good.”
    Music was right, thus wrong. An anthem of our adolescence, slow-building, violin-accompanied, electro-accented. Singer’s mumble swelled into full-voice falsetto. It was the song from a movie about lost teenagers doing drugs in basements, fucking (Starfucked , Panther Socks Entertainment, 2000). From the scene in which the downward-spiraling heroine, after shooting heroin, asks a creepy random to violate her, to help her escape the pain of grief.
    Alison faced the wall on her knees. I was expected to make an entrance. Needn’t be a grand entrance. Licked her shoulders, kissed her back. Alison moaned, or fake-moaned, or maybe just coughed. Remembered the herpes rumor. Held her hips, moved in for a closer look. It was dark, and I didn’t have much to compare this with.
    “Are you sniffing my butt?”
    “Isn’t that why they call it doggy-style?” I said, though I didn’t feel like being funny anymore.
    Thinking about Jeremy: blue face, rotting corpse, wood of his coffin eaten by termites, small shards of wood falling into his eye sockets. Wanted something to remind me of life. Wanted to hold Alison’s face against my own, bodies musical, melding, warm breath on my neck, soft kisses against my stubbly chin. Something that wouldn’t be sad.
    Also, didn’t want herpes. Or to spend the next month worrying about possibly having herpes.
    “I was just wondering, um… I know it’s a weird thing to ask … but … um… Do you have…?”
    “I don’t have a condom,” she said.
    Forgot about herpes. Forgot about sadness. Forgot about pretty much everything, including Alison. Thought about Jennifer Estes. Forgot about her too. Alison kept turning her head to look at me. Unreadable eyes. Expression could have been bliss or boredom, compassion or contrition. She’d look at me then look away.
    Stroked her hair with my hand. Hairspray-stiff, smelled like girl. Felt fake, also intentional. Counted the notches on her spine, wondered about untreated scoliosis, measured her width on a single hand.
    Moments later I was thinking about baseball. Alison reached back, squeezed my balls, dug a press-on nail into my thigh. Etc.
    “Stay in me for a minute.”
    Her knees buckled. Fell flat on the bed. I lay on top, spread. Her arms were shorter than mine. Held my wrists with her hands.
    “It’s been a minute,” she said.

sixteen
    Sexual Experiences:
    • Sixth grade, Brandon Langley’s basement birthday (another basement!), spin the bottle. Raina Baum (no tongue), Abigail Anslem (tongue), Tova McCarthy (Irish Jew! My tongue, not hers).
    • Eighth grade, Matt Lappin’s house. First time I touched a vagina. Also first time I got stoned. I was radiating fierce love. Shelly Peters took my hand, guided me into Matt’s room, guided me under her cutoff denim skirt.
    • Ninth through eleventh grade, celibate (not by choice). J. Lo, AOL chat rooms, etc.
    • Between eleventh and twelfth grade, summer camp, boathouse. Hand job. I was a counselor in training. She was a counselor, well trained.
    • Twelfth grade, top level of Papa Gino’s/Filene’s Basement parking garage, Eva White, Sam Arnold’s