She captured my interest in a way boys never did. For the first few weeks of our friendship, when my feelings first bloomed, I found comfort in the ignorance I surrounded myself with. With her, there was no need to think. All I had to do was feel. I only spent two months with her, at that lousy sleep-away camp my parents forced me to attend. While uneventful, they were the most exciting eight weeks of my life thus far. Here was a girl who lived in my mystery, and she did not seem to mind. She lived in rosemary skirts and lilac spaghetti strap tank tops. She wore glasses, but only on some days. There was an iciness to her grin and a scheme to her step, and her two front teeth were chipped, birthed from her humoring clumsiness and unhealthy eating habits. She had hair a fiery red, a warning to those who circled around her. She longed to be the epitome of danger. I let her get away with it. With only one look, without thought or consent, you would fall for her. Fluidity radiated off of her, spiking your interest. You could know her story with just one look; she wore everything bare to the world, unashamed and unassuming, and you would give her your heart with just one conversation, the smile lines tattooed on her face making her inexplicably trusting. The sun was setting as we stared up at the clouds, tickled by the grass underneath our skin. Her hand, freckled and sun-kissed, brushed against the scar on my forehead by accident. She had no idea the effects she had on me, and at the time even I was unaware—too naive to make sense of the feelings that had begun budding inside me—the butterflies that threatened to nibble on my insides at just the sight of her. She laughed a golden-girl laugh, eyes glued to the photo we had taken on her expensive camera. I remember she had brought it from home, had spent her birthday money on it. She liked art, photography… creating. I often wanted to tell her she was an artist without trying; she had so easily managed to plaster the inside of my head with rainbow-printed thoughts. “Ready?” she said to me, hand turning the camera back around to capture another photo of our innocence. I paused, shifted, grinned, and said, “Yes.” The camera’s flash went off, her peach lips revealing that sweet smile that would be glued to the back of my mind for years to come. “Oh, that’s a good one,” she said with a giggle, looking back through the camera roll at the newest shot. I watched her inspect the photograph, pleased enough with it. My face was strewn with strands of hair, my skin oily and eyes in love. “Look at your face!” Embarrassed but smiling, I was facing the camera with all the courage I could collect. Having my photo taken was my least favorite thing, but if it made her happy, I was willing to deal. “Look at your face,” I shot back, laughing quietly. “No… you look pretty. I look like a mess.” She turned her head to me, chipped teeth on full display as she showed off that wondrous toothy smile. I found myself pondering whether or not her kiss would taste like the cherry lollipops we ate earlier. “Let’s do a serious one now,” I suggested, wanting to get my mind off of her mouth. She hummed, fiddling with the metal of the camera. “I’ll take it this time.” The words left my mouth breathlessly. Our fingers brushed as she handed me the camera, and we posed silently, both well aware but confused by the tender discomfort that had blossomed between us. I took the photo, our teenage faces mockingly stoic and jokingly arrogant. Her hand on my shoulder, my heart in my throat.
Stella Platero, a young queer woman attempting to find herself in New York city, often spends her time eating too many plantain chips and writing over the given word limit. In Fall of 2019, she will be studying at Marymount Manhattan College where she will earn her BA in Creative Writing.