BOUNCE
Lars Rosenberg’s problems began with his name – but they didn’t stop there. He was Lars. Lars, Lars, Lars. Lars with the Beaky Nose. Lars the Nerd. But – and this was an important point – he was also Lars the Slightly Older than the Rest of His Classmates. Which meant that he turned sixteen before the rest of his classmates did. Which meant he had his driver’s license.
…Which is how Lars found himself driving towards Markie Taylor’s house, one night in August. In the front seat was Brandon Jennings – soccer star and coolest kid in class. In the back was Josh Hamilton – of the ripped muscles and surly sneer.
Something was happening at Markie Taylor’s house, and Lars had been drafted into driving Josh and Brandon. He sensed – no, knew – that under normal circumstances he never would have been invited at all, and as soon as his two new “friends” got into the car, Lars instantly lost control of the situation. Brandon blasted hardcore rap on the radio. Josh lit a cigarette. No one wanted to talk to him.
“…So, where are we going?” Lars said. “…A party?”
Josh flicked some ashes out the window. “Dude, it’s not a party.”
“Relax,” said Brandon.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“…We’re going over there to hang.”
“Relax.”
“Chill.”
Chill? Chill how? How did one do that? But Lars knew that discretion was the better part of valor, and so he didn’t say another word, and soon, they were rolling up the long driveway to Markie’s house.
Markie Taylor was one of the coolest and richest kids in school, and Lars had found himself nursing a boner-rific crush on her for the past year or so. She was the kind of girl who knew how to blow smoke-rings. And she had a guy’s name. A guy’s name. Hot!
They exited the car. Lars and his new untalking best friends circled around the enormous house and emerged into the backyard, where – Oh, fuck no! God no! – Markie Taylor, Jess Brown, and Meghan Oliver were all lounging: in bikinis, in a hot tub, with glasses and bottles of white wine.
Lars was tempted to turn on his heels and run away. Instead, he manned up. He stopped his knees from shaking. “Jesus,” he said. “It’s like entering some secret world. Like a knock-off of a knock-off of a Cinemax movie.”
Josh scowled. “...Dude, relax.”
Brandon said, “Try not to talk so much.”
“Maybe don’t talk at all.”
A female voice said: “Hey, guys!” Lars couldn’t tell who had spoken. And then – in a flash – Brandon and Josh whipped off their jeans. The motherfuckers! They were wearing bathing suits. They were prepared. And Lars wasn’t. Lars had never been brave, but now, he had no choice. And so, with much good-natured (and non-good-natured) ribbing, he stripped to his boxers, which were at least of a sensible, neutral design – no rocket ships or happy bunnies on his underwear, thank you very much. Then he climbed into the tub.
Markie said, “Hey Lars,” and this time, he recognized her voice. From nowhere, a lumpy joint emerged, and was passed around. This was a first for Lars. The pot made him feel dry-mouthed, then confident, then paranoid, and then weirdly above it all. Time passed quickly. “…All of this,” he said to Markie, “has happened before, and will happen again.”
Then he realized, with a jolt of horror, that he was quoting goddamn Battlestar Galactica. A second jolt: Markie was only inches away from him, and she was touching his arm… how had that happened? A third jolt: the other boys and girls were making out. Jesus motherfucking no!
“Just relax, Lars,” said Markie. “Look at the night. Look at the stars.”
He did. He stared up at the sky: pinpricks and negative space. Beautiful. He could have wept. …And then – suddenly everyone else was gone, and it was just him and Markie in the tub.
“Markie,” he said, and moved forward.
And that was when Markie laughed.
“Lars! You’re floating.”
It was true! He was! Every time he moved toward Markie, to press his lips to those pearly lips, his body acquired a surprising buoyancy, and he lost control. …He slipped; he splashed; he couldn’t stand upright or swim properly. Was it the pot, making him clumsy? Lars laughed, and tried to grab the side of the tub. But he just kept on thrashing and sinking and floating… and his moment was lost.
Markie frowned. This was serious. Why were things so instantly serious? “Lars,” she said. “I can’t. …Not if you’re floating.” Somehow, this was a remark that made perfect sense.
…And then she was gone. Jesus no! Markie rose from the pool, dripping water, and started stumbling towards the house.
And that’s when Lars saw the trampoline, lying a few feet behind the tub.
And this was the part where Lars realized that pot made you smarter, because he too climbed from the pool. The trampoline – would it fit perfectly? Yes! It would fit perfectly!
The beautiful Markie was far away now – almost at the house – but that was okay, because that meant she missed him struggling to drop the thing into the tub. Finally, he slid the circular trampoline into the pool. It landed an inch above the water; still useable, but invisible from a distance.
“Markie!”
She turned.
“Markie, there was a problem, but I think I figured it out! It wasn’t that I wanted to float. It was that I was trying to fly. Check it!”
And with that, he raced toward the hot tub, jumped in, and bounced out and upward.
She ran back.
Lars bounced. He jumped. He was bouncing on water, jumping higher and higher. And there were the stars – not just little pinpricks anymore.
“Markie!” he yelled. “I’m flying. Clap your hands! Laugh!”
And she did. She tilted back her head, clapped her hands, and laughed.
And he bounced higher and higher, tasting – for the first time in his life – victory.
