THOUGHT OF CHRISTINA.

A SCHOOL BOY AND HIS THOUGHTS ON A SCHOOL GIRL HE HAD FEELINGS FOR BUT DIDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY.

 

Benedict rode the bike through the woods behind the house. It was a clapped out bike without brakes or tyres but it was ok for riding the narrow rides through the wood. The riding helped him think, cleared his mind of other things. He rode as fast as the bike allowed keeping to narrow path swerving to avoid trees and bushes, riding over fallen twigs and branches. But as he rode he thought of Christina. He’d waved her off from the school bus and she had waved to him until she was out of sight. Out of sight, but not out of mind. On the ride home in the bus he thought of her. He’d not thought much about girls before, they’d seemed a different species before, things you saw about you but didn’t pay much attention to. Now this, he thought. He put his feet onto the ground to stop the bike. He was a foot away from the foul smelling pond.  He turned the bike around and rode back along the path into the woods again. If she lived nearby he could bring her here and show her around the woods, show her the clapped out bike. But she lived in the town where the school was miles away. He saw only at school, only then if he spotted her in the corridors or on the sports field on a sunny day. Most days she was in the girl’s playground waiting for him to go by and he smiled or nodded or she waved and he waved back. Once she called him over to the wire fence and said she dreamed of him that night. He’d been in her dream, but not been aware. He wanted to dream of her but he hadn’t; he dreamed of the skinny girl in his class with the buck teeth and glasses, but not Christina. He raced along then path as fast as he could, skidded on a branch and fell into bramble with a dull crash. He lay there for a moment picking of the thorns that held him. He climbed out and dragged out the bike. He had scratches on her arms and hands. He pushed the bike along the path cursing loudly. If she’d seen him fall she’d had thought him a right fool. But she hadn’t. He thought of her that first time they had kissed on the sports field in early summer. He hadn’t planned it, it just happened. He was there sitting beside her and she leaned towards him and kissed. He had kissed girls before but it was usually a dare or party game thing, but this was different. He tried to bring it to mind. The sensation, the feelings it woke in him. He remembered the dampness, the soft skin on his. He had closed his eyes. He didn’t know why, he just did. When he opened them again she still had her eyes closed. She looked different with her eyes closed. For some reason he wondered if she would greet him one morning with her eyes closed if they had been man and wife and the idea shocked him. He sat back and she opened her eyes. Was it a bad kiss? She asked. No it was really good, he replied, holding his hand back from trying to wipe his lips. Yes, it had been good, he mused, looking at her, taking in her hair and eyes and the way she was looking at him. He liked her eyes. He liked the colour of them. It sort of came over me, she said. To kiss you, I mean, she added. He sat and stared at her. Words failed him. She spoke about how she had wanted to kiss him for quite some time. Now she had, she said, smiling. He smiled too. It seemed the best thing to do. He wondered if others had seen them kiss. He looked around, none seemed to have done so, at least none were staring at them. She spoke about seeing him in the passageway the other day on the  way to her biology class but he had not seen her and how she had felt funny afterwards, as if she was going to faint. He had not seen her. He often looked for her now, but he must have missed her that time.  He shoved the bike into the old metal shed on the corner of the woods and went in the back gate and into the house. His mother was cooking dinner in the kitchen. He went upstairs to his bedroom and took up the book he had won at prize giving at his old school. In between page she took out the photo she had given him a few days ago. It was black and white and showed her in a poor light. But it was her. She said it was the best she could get of herself without her parents noticing it missing. He stared at her. She was smiling, her eyes were semi closed. He had given her one of himself a day or so ago. It was black and white and showed him a few years younger. He told her he had to select one that would not be missed. She kissed it as soon as he had given it too her. She had held it close to her small breasts afterwards, rubbing it back and forth. He held the photo of her nearer to his eyes. She looked younger in the photo. Nonetheless, it was her. He put it to his lips and kissed it. Skin to celluloid. It didn’t compare to her lips. But what did he know of girls? What did he know of how they felt or thought?  There was something mysterious about them. Something that stirred him. She stirred him. Her lips had stirred something in him. Her body sitting there on the grass had stirred him.  The way she sat, her legs, the way her hands had touched his. He put the photo back between pages of the book. She was shut away in the pages of the book, but he’d take her out at bedtime for one more look.