I remember the big, plastic frames of his gold tinted sunglasses on my nose and cheek. How his lips and tongue were warm and sticky from the cherry Blow Pop he still has clutched between his fingers. The smell of him, the scent that he’d gotten into his father’s medicine cabinet. Like Old Spice and all those pills he pops. The fingers of his free hand, they fondled the fabric of my shirt, right around my elbow. And the noise in the room was entirely too overwhelming.

If a shitty local band is going to cover anything in a garage, they really shouldn’t try and cover Journey.

My ears were ringing with intensity so bad, my head was throbbing right where his hair touched. A pulse of bad vocals and the stale scent of paint against the walls, growing old in dusty cans that used to look something like shining silver. I remember how my stomach was empty and my mouth was nearly watering at the taste of candy by proxy on my tongue.

How, every eye in the cramped garage was probably on us. How I didn’t care. The way the bones in my wrist rattled against the beads on his bracelet. Felt the wrapper from his sucker still stuck on the stick, wrinkled and wet from his spit. And how he smiled into the kiss, and leaned in on me, pushing us into the clump of people, the middle of the room where we would absolutely be seen. I was so sure I was smearing up the pretty lenses on his shades. I just clamped my eyes shut as hard as I could and felt us trip a little bit when he stepped on my shoelace.

And he laughed right into my mouth. Me, salivating over the taste buds on his tongue and how every single one of them was a bitter version of what his Blow Pop still tasted like. Fresh with flavor. Still, I wonder what he thought I tasted like. It was an accident that we went so far as to hit the wall. Rumbling aged paint cans on the rusting shelf built by. . . whoever’s dad.

And then the fingers on his free hand fumbled to the button of my collar. And around my neck. His red, red, red lips said something against my ear. It went something like, “I need a smoke. Come on.”

And then I was pulled to the sidewalk. This is where I heard police sirens, and thought that somebody must have called the police on the person’s band. And I shrugged as we sat on the curb. He handed me his sucker and said that I could finish it if I wanted. He wouldn’t want it anymore after his cigarette. And he lit up, just as I bit into the sucker for the gum in the middle. As the hard candy exploded on the inside of my mouth and stuck to my teeth, his smoke trailed up my nose.

And the police siren got louder.

Between his middle and trigger finger, right where the skin webs, he held his cigarette. I couldn’t tell the brand or what kind it was, but he looked like he was sincerely enjoying it.

By the way, in case anybody’s confused, the smoking, cherry flavored kid next to me, watching the police climb out of their patrol car with a smirk on his face, his name is Ryan.

He swipes his hand on the back of my neck. “Let’s get outta here. I’m starving.”

I remember how he ate everything he could afford at some little diner I’d never heard of. And then ice cream. How he closed his eyes with every bite of it he took. How his lips still looked really, really, really red. I remember that he sat us in the smoking section and I inhaled my very first cigarette.

And nearly choked to death on it.

How, when he leaned across the table, he mumbled “Thank you for smoking,” and then when he sat back down, he said, “was an awesome movie. Have you ever seen it?”

I remember this being only the third or fourth time I’d ever seen Ryan. And I said no, I’d never seen a movie called Thank You For Smoking. Or Moulin Rouge. Or Velvet Goldmine. I remember his eyes finally lit up when I told him I’d seen Fight Club.

How we talked about music, I remember that. How my piano lessons fucking fascinated him. And that the only cool thing Brent had ever done was introduced us.

And then at his doorstep, I said, “You know, even after everything you ate, you still, like. Taste like artificially cherry flavored candy.”

Ryan shrugged. He said, “Well, Brendon. You kind of taste like angel food cake, so I think we’re even. Either that or you really have never sinned in your life. Fucking parents.”

Just in case you were wondering, that’s when Ryan pushed his door open and let go of my hand. After that, he kissed the window on the door and told me to go home and lie to my parents or something.