The hot night air made the hairs on my arms tingle as I crept out our front door. It wasn’t exactly like I was going out to go clubbing, or anything illicit, really. But I felt shaky and undeniably alive anyway, because I knew he’d be there.
And he was.
Sitting on the artificial-grass lawn across the street, just far enough away from the streetlight that he wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention if they peeked out the window or drove by. But nobody was doing that. Not at ten p.m., not in this neighborhood, and not at this time, when the world was on an extended time-out. Squirrel sat, obedient and perfect, by his side.
I sat down on our concrete driveway, right across from him, my heart surging like a criminal or a thief, and also like someone who was—maybe?—on the way to being in love.
How would I even know?
Griffin perched next to me, not quite as obedient and perfect, but good enough. He leaned into me.
I gave a little wave, and Daxton waved back. I could see his black mask just barely, his face even less. His body was just a hint of a shape, long and thin and lovely.
He very softly, very deliberately put his hand on his knee.
I put my hand on my knee, too.
He reached his hand out toward me, as if we could hold hands, if our arms were both fifty feet long. My whole body shook with joy.
I stuck my hand out too, and I caressed his through the air.
And in that way, we held each other.
Quarantine sucked. Especially when we were packed into urban apartments like a package of Oreos, and not even the interesting kind of Oreos, but the strange flavor that no one liked. There was no space, no quiet.
All day, my parents worked in the living room. All day, my little sister, Lilly, cohosted her summer school virtual classroom, that little teacher’s pet. She learned how to mute everyone in the first session and had gone dictator with power ever since.
“I decide who talks now,” she said in this weird, deranged voice, pressing a finger against the keyboard on my old laptop. She took up the entire dining table with her craft supplies. I mean, when had arts become so cutthroat? I could not with her.
Lilly was probably negotiating Clorox wipes and toilet paper on the elementary school black market in exchange for electronics. If she were the mastermind behind an entire underground network, no one would be surprised, and my parents would probably reward her with the rarely seen fresh donut.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed a piece of sourdough (because baking as a family was our thing now), and went to the bedroom I shared with Lilly. It was big enough for two twin beds, two nightstands, one dresser, and two desks. Every surface was covered with snacks. There were various bags of chips and cookie containers on the floor. Half-eaten bags of all four flavors of Teddy Grahams in empty popcorn bowls. Just looking at the soda bottles in the corner made my stomach hurt. Yet I still stuffed my face.
I plopped onto my bed, which I hadn’t made in who knows how long, and felt something hard slide beneath my hand as I eased back against the pillows.
“What the…” I snatched the controller headset. “So that’s where you went. Been looking for you since last week.” Now I could finally get back to playing video games with the girls and talk about…bread. Marly and Janice were also baking a lot these days. Marly had gotten into sewing super cute handmade masks, and Janice had added TikTok videos to her repertoire, which seemed more productive than whatever I was doing.
I was too bored to play. And I had a terrible stabby headache from all the screen time and noise. I just wanted to nap. Lilly’s voice carried through the hallway as she told someone named Matthew to raise his virtual hand if he wanted to talk or she’d mute him indefinitely. Then there was shuffling feet and movement and a closing door. Ma had walked into her room to her desk, which was directly behind my bed. Her muffled voice permeated the wall and went straight into my throbbing head. And Dad was on a lunch break by the sound of clanking pots and pans.
Ugh. I just wanted peace and quiet, no noise, no screens, no talking. There was always something happening from seven in the morning to ten at night. Meetings, classes, TV, cooking, cleaning, texting, talking, and even religious virtual gatherings.
I was losing. My. Mind. If it were possible to crawl out of my skin and escape into the clouds, I so would. Luckily there was a place I could escape to. My one refuge in this miserably confined, loud-as-crap world.
The balcony.
Ma was too worried about bioterrorism (aka some infected a-hole purposely coughing on us) to let us go on walks without her and Dad. But the balcony was safe.
Crawling out the window and onto the balcony, I sat outside on a folding chair four stories up. The balcony was small, partially filled with plants I’d desperately tried to grow.
“Just live,” I told them. But they didn’t seem very interested in cooperating in the muggy, summer heat. Poor roses wilted with sad, decrepit petals, and mint dried up into crispy strings.
I sighed and closed my eyes. The tall buildings kept the sunlight from directly searing my face and cast shade instead. A light breeze shifted through the air and caressed my skin. Thank goodness for shorts and thin shirts.
Beautiful, blissful quiet.
Brum. Brum. BRRRRRRUM.
What was that twangy, guttural pitch? Vibrations of something hit the air and pierced my precious silence. My stabby headache was getting agitated AF.
The sound got louder and louder until I pried open an eye
