FIRST KISS

Fifth grade. Florida panhandle. Halloween 1997. Ninja (him), Jan Brady (me), behind the backyard shed of my friend’s golf-course neighborhood house. Stars and porch light shine pink stucco and scrub oaks, palm fronds and cut wet grass. I think it’s romantic. My friend says we do the moves just right.

Weeks pass, we nighttime kiss again but this time my friend’s mom finds out. She’s furious. She points her finger, says, “You. You don’t need to be kissing boys. Watch out or you’ll wind up pregnant.” I don’t cry. I can’t feel my body. I can only vow to never kiss a boy again for years, years, years.

Now thirty-six, childless, single. Do I want to freeze my eggs, the doctor wants to know, it’s all downhill from here. I hear voices outside my exam room, a couple passing by. I think the answer is yes and the answer is no and no and yes. Then I think the answer is I sure showed her and for a moment it doesn’t all feel so heavy.

Hallie Johnston is a writer from the South. She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Miami. Her work has appeared in the Southern Humanities Review, The Louisville Review, and The Citron Review.