doing it and stabs me in the back and kills me, and you don’t even realize it because you’re so caught up in the moment?”
“Then I guess I’d be a necrophiliac,” Flip said, and then he started to sing a little song that Jamie had been hearing boys sing since around sixth grade. My name is Jack, Jack, Jack. I’m a necrophiliac, ac, ac. I love them dead, dead, dead. . . .
Jamie stood there, each of her hands holding the opposite arm. She looked around and studied the crumbling sides of the rocks and the bumpy sand, littered with leafy orange strands of kelp that reminded her of hair off a giant mermaid.
“What if there’s an earthquake? What if there’s an earthquake and the whole side of this cliff collapses on top of us and we’re smashed under these rocks, but we don’t die. We just lie there stranded and stuck, unable to wedge ourselves out while sand crabs creep into our butt cracks and we bleed to death from our dented, ravaged heads.”
“There won’t be an earthquake.” Flip grunted in a voice of impatience. “There hasn’t been an earthquake in, like, months.”
“All the more reason there’d be one now,” Jamie said, and she turned to run out from the rocks when Flip stood, grabbed her arms, and kissed her hard, like he was drilling for oil with his tongue.
They lay on the blanket and took off their clothes. Jamie gave herself a pep talk as she tried to think thoughts like, I’m on a beautiful beach on the bicentennial Fourth of July with a gorgeous, popular guy who loves me, and this is the most beautiful night of my life. She could barely complete a single thought, however, without her focus switching to her stomach, which suddenly felt like an overinflated tire. Jamie wished Flip would leave long enough for her to burp. Then she realized she would rather have left herself, as she still wasn’t convinced that there weren’t deadly shards of glass under the blanket or that the cliff wasn’t waiting to unglue itself in order to crush them.
Flip positioned himself on top of Jamie and said, “Okay, I’m totally going to do it now, I love you.”
Jamie said, “I love you too.”
Flip pushed, and he pushed, and he banged himself against her. It was like trying to pop a balloon with a spoon.
And then his penis was a little ways in, not halfway, maybe a third, or a quarter even. As he pushed Jamie could tell it wasn’t working; it felt as if his penis were bending back and forth while Flip went up and down.
Flip’s mouth was on Jamie’s, pretending to kiss, in what Jamie guessed was an obligatory way to let a girl know that you don’t like her just for the sex. Her gums became sore from the pressure; she felt like he was pinning her down with his mouth. Flip was grunting, sweating, and squinting as if he were trying to read an eye chart. Jamie worried about the burp in her stomach; she wondered if Flip’s penis hurt when it bent like that; she wondered how old her mother was the first time she had sex. She also wondered about the building discomfort in her stomach—was it from the weight of Flip, or was she truly getting nauseous?
And then she knew that it was nausea, so she wedged her head out from under Flip’s and said, “Flip, I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Huh?” Flip pumped at the barrier in Jamie’s vagina.
“I’m gonna be sick.” Jamie pushed him off and ran toward the water.
A wave rolled up and covered her feet; the chill was startling. Jamie lurched forward and vomited in one foaming stream the color of beer, the consistency of Chunky Soup, the smell of unaired garbage. Jamie coughed and sputtered a bit, then cleared her throat the way her father did during allergy season. At first she hoped that Flip couldn’t hear her, but then she felt so deflated and thin, like an empty sock hanging on a clotheline, that she just didn’t care.
Jamie wiped the vomit from her lips with the back of her hand and then quickly dipped her hand into the lapping
“Then I guess I’d be a necrophiliac,” Flip said, and then he started to sing a little song that Jamie had been hearing boys sing since around sixth grade. My name is Jack, Jack, Jack. I’m a necrophiliac, ac, ac. I love them dead, dead, dead. . . .
Jamie stood there, each of her hands holding the opposite arm. She looked around and studied the crumbling sides of the rocks and the bumpy sand, littered with leafy orange strands of kelp that reminded her of hair off a giant mermaid.
“What if there’s an earthquake? What if there’s an earthquake and the whole side of this cliff collapses on top of us and we’re smashed under these rocks, but we don’t die. We just lie there stranded and stuck, unable to wedge ourselves out while sand crabs creep into our butt cracks and we bleed to death from our dented, ravaged heads.”
“There won’t be an earthquake.” Flip grunted in a voice of impatience. “There hasn’t been an earthquake in, like, months.”
“All the more reason there’d be one now,” Jamie said, and she turned to run out from the rocks when Flip stood, grabbed her arms, and kissed her hard, like he was drilling for oil with his tongue.
They lay on the blanket and took off their clothes. Jamie gave herself a pep talk as she tried to think thoughts like, I’m on a beautiful beach on the bicentennial Fourth of July with a gorgeous, popular guy who loves me, and this is the most beautiful night of my life. She could barely complete a single thought, however, without her focus switching to her stomach, which suddenly felt like an overinflated tire. Jamie wished Flip would leave long enough for her to burp. Then she realized she would rather have left herself, as she still wasn’t convinced that there weren’t deadly shards of glass under the blanket or that the cliff wasn’t waiting to unglue itself in order to crush them.
Flip positioned himself on top of Jamie and said, “Okay, I’m totally going to do it now, I love you.”
Jamie said, “I love you too.”
Flip pushed, and he pushed, and he banged himself against her. It was like trying to pop a balloon with a spoon.
And then his penis was a little ways in, not halfway, maybe a third, or a quarter even. As he pushed Jamie could tell it wasn’t working; it felt as if his penis were bending back and forth while Flip went up and down.
Flip’s mouth was on Jamie’s, pretending to kiss, in what Jamie guessed was an obligatory way to let a girl know that you don’t like her just for the sex. Her gums became sore from the pressure; she felt like he was pinning her down with his mouth. Flip was grunting, sweating, and squinting as if he were trying to read an eye chart. Jamie worried about the burp in her stomach; she wondered if Flip’s penis hurt when it bent like that; she wondered how old her mother was the first time she had sex. She also wondered about the building discomfort in her stomach—was it from the weight of Flip, or was she truly getting nauseous?
And then she knew that it was nausea, so she wedged her head out from under Flip’s and said, “Flip, I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Huh?” Flip pumped at the barrier in Jamie’s vagina.
“I’m gonna be sick.” Jamie pushed him off and ran toward the water.
A wave rolled up and covered her feet; the chill was startling. Jamie lurched forward and vomited in one foaming stream the color of beer, the consistency of Chunky Soup, the smell of unaired garbage. Jamie coughed and sputtered a bit, then cleared her throat the way her father did during allergy season. At first she hoped that Flip couldn’t hear her, but then she felt so deflated and thin, like an empty sock hanging on a clotheline, that she just didn’t care.
Jamie wiped the vomit from her lips with the back of her hand and then quickly dipped her hand into the lapping
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