Page 26 of Forgotten
“Darshi kissed me first,” I say. I can feel Ford holding his breath in anticipation.
His eyes get bigger as the football game runs in the background. “Man! You had your first kiss?” he asks excitedly.
“I guess? But wait. I’m not counting that. This is not about that.”
“Why not?”
Taking a big breath, I say the words I have been rehearsing for a month. “I don’t like Darshi that way.”
“Oh, that’s fine then. You can still find another girl and we’ll pretend that’s your first kiss.” Ford interrupts me with a conspiratorial wink.
“No, Ford. Not a girl.”
This time, he must understand. “Not a girl,” he repeats slowly.
“How did you know you liked girls?”
Ford shrugs, “I thought Emma was pretty and when I asked her to come over she had a nice dress. It was cute.”
Ford had told me about Emma, one of his classmates, in January. One day he was inviting her to his house and the next day he was telling me everything about how she was his first kiss. I hadn’t asked for details but Ford spoke non-stop. He told me how Emma had showed up with a cake that her mom baked—a cake with bananas inside. Ford hated bananas so he did not eat any cake but he said that when they had kissed, Emma tasted so much like bananas it almost made him vomit. He never wanted to invite Emma over again.
“I think Darsh is pretty but I definitely did not want to kiss her.”
“Do you want to kiss boys then?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“There must be someone you can kiss. To try it out, you know? One of your mates, maybe?”
“Urgh.”
“Okay. Hum…” Scratching his head, Ford purses his lips and for the longest time, he says nothing. “Why don’t you kiss me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well I’m a boy. And if you like boys, you must like kissing me more than kissing Darshi. At least I think it works like that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Ash. We need to get you some courage.” Standing up, Ford heads to the kitchen. The football match keeps playing in the background.
I follow him, my bare feet warm against the cold marble of his floors.
“Here.” He shoves a glass in my hand, filled to the brim with a yellowish-white liquid.
“What is this?” I smell the contents and a strong, sweet scent hits my nostrils almost painfully. It makes my eyes sting.
“White wine. Mom always drinks this when she needs to be brave. And when she’s sad. And on Thursdays.” Ford stares at me waiting.
“I never had alcohol before.”
“Me neither,” he replies simply.
I don’t want to do this alone, so I suggest, “Would you get a glass, too?”
With a grin, Ford turns to open the fridge again and finds the bottle of wine easily. Placing my drink on the kitchen counter, I reach above the sink on my tiptoes to get a clean one for him. The room is silent while Ford pours the liquid in, filling his glass as much as mine. In the living-room, England is losing to Germany and outside, someone is shouting animatedly.
“Okay. Here we go. You drink all of that, I drink all of this, and then we kiss.”
