With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
On Loss
What I remember: Tyrone is a pretty boy. Long lashes, slim, hair cut in a fade that was always Philly-sharp. We met at the beginning of my freshman year at a back-to-school turn-up in someone’s basement. Although Tyrone went to school on the other side of the city, up by Mount Airy, where he lives, some of his middle school friends had ended up at Schomburg and it was a mix of kids at the party. Knowing what I know now, I’m surprised I was even invited, since there were barely any ninth graders there, but I think it was because some boy from Tyrone’s school had been trying to get at Angelica. Tyrone was a year older and had a way with words. Pretty boys aren’t usually my thing, especially one who expects you to worship the concrete he stomps on. I ignored him the whole party. This must have been a surprise to him because the next party, at the beginning of October, he was tripping over himself trying to get my attention.
Pretty Boy Tyrone of the pretty words took me downtown for our first date. We saw a romantic comedy that I thought was funny, but Tyrone kept huffing and puffing about how it was corny. We walked the streets of Love Park surrounded by trees and other couples. I remember I lied to ’Buela that night, told her I was hanging out at Gelly’s house.
To this day I couldn’t tell someone why Tyrone. Maybe because I didn’t expect him to pick me. Maybe because most boys looked past my stick-board skinny body, more interested in the bubble-butt girls. Maybe because when I made him a cupcake he said it was too pretty to eat and waited a week, when the cupcake had gone stale, before taking a bite and still said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted; said it reminded him of a favorite birthday memory. Said he wanted to make me his girl.
“It” just seemed like what people were doing, and why not Tyrone? He was fine, older, and mostly nice to me. At least, I convinced myself he was nice. And most important, he wanted me. He could have sex with any girl, but I was the one he was after. Even thinking about it now I get a little twisted up inside. So much of my decision to have sex had more to do with being chosen than it did with any actual sexual attraction.
The day I lost my virginity, I had a half day at school and Tyrone skipped the rest of his classes to meet up with me. I was so nervous about a busybody neighbor seeing me bring a boy home that we went all the way to his house in Mount Airy while his parents were at work.
My first impression of sex? It was a lot more technical than I expected. He kept struggling with the condom and I laughed because I was nervous and he was fumbling so much. Apparently laughing is not the move at such a crucial moment, because his face got real tight around the mouth, and the fumbling got worse. And he was supposed to be the experienced one!
When he finally shoved into me, it stung. For a second I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push him away or pull him closer, and then he was panting and sweating on my chest and apologizing. And I kept telling him it was okay, thinking he was apologizing for hurting me until I realized he was apologizing because it was over. I never even took off my bra. It didn’t even last the entire Weeknd song playing in the background. A bubble of disappointment swelled in my chest and I didn’t know if I was holding back laughter, tears, or a feeling I didn’t know then how to name. All I could keep thinking was that he definitely didn’t have any sweet words or niceness in the moment that I needed it most. I cleaned my own self up, put on my pants, and left. He didn’t even say goodbye.
When I got home that afternoon, I peeled a ripe plantain. Its skin, dark as night, letting me know how sweet it would be. I sliced the plantain up into a dozen ovals, tossed them into a pan on the highest heat, and cooked them until they almost burned; the sugar turned bitter. I plated them with no accompaniment and I ate and ate until there was nothing left on my plate but a smear of oil.
It made me sick to my stomach.
To this day, whenever I’ve served someone maduros they end up crying, teardrops falling onto their plates for reasons they can’t explain; and I can’t eat them myself without weeping, without a phantom ghost pain twingeing between my legs.
Ever since Tyrone, I don’t really talk to boys like that anymore. Boys at this age will say whatever they need to say to get what they want, and I’ve learned to trust pretty words even less than a pretty face.