Between Seasons by Aida Brassington

a million theories but nothing brilliant. Nothing that unlocked the secret of making it to Heaven . Maybe being dead was just a joke. One big, long practical joke.
    He tried again a few days later with the same memory on a day that reminded him of that moment – it was gray outside and pissing down rain . It was the wrong season, but it didn’t matter. He had the sound of Brenda’s voice firmly fixed in his mind, along with other details he’d been thinking about: the way she’d scuffed her sneaker in the grass as she waited for him to kiss her, the way their teeth had clinked together, and the surprising warmth of her mouth.
    Sara sat at her desk this time, back straight against the blue chair and fingers drumming against the dark wood of the desk. She’d dragged Patrick’s record player into her office the day prior and, much to his delight, had been listening to his Neil Young album for the last twenty minutes, and they both sang along to “Cinnamon Girl.”
    He stood behind her, hips not quite touching the chair. This was going to work; he could feel it. Today was different. He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced outside, remembering the coat he’d been wearing that day, when he suddenly heard Sara’s fingers tapping away at the keys. He refused to look at what she wrote , instead thinking about how the shed behind which he’d kissed the girl that had been rusted.
    It certainly hadn’t been the best kiss he’d ever had, but it was certainly the most memorable. It blew the doors off most of the other firsts in his life. Well, except the first time he died. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get a second chance at that.
    Sara laughed, the sound of it carrying over another song, and he caved, leaning over to sneak a peek at the words she’d written.
    “Oh, I love this,” she said, her voice hardly more than a breathy murmur. “Where did this come from?”
    She read it over again, and Patrick grinned, eyes skimming over the words too.
     
I grabbed her hand after the first bell, walking her down the sidewalk. She was pretty, always turning pink when someone embarrassed her , and it made me want to kiss her. My heart raced, but kissing was something I’d never done with a girl. Well, I ’d kissed my mother, of course, but this wasn’t the same. Not at all.
Puddles dotted the sidewalk, and our arms stretched but stayed connected at the fingers as we walked around them. Where could I go? It seemed wrong to kiss her in the middle of the neighborhood , particula rly if I stank at it. She might laugh at me, and then I’d be humiliated where everyone could see.
My friend Chris had told me he’d made out with Karen Lisken behind the shed next to his house last week, and that was on the next block. Maybe that would be a good spot. Private. No one would see me deliver the worst kiss in the world… you know, if I did, and I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t.
“Where are we going?” Brenda asked, toying with one long braid. Was some sort of signal, a sig n she wanted me to kiss her too?
“I don’t know,” I answered, trying to pretend I wasn’t nervous about it inside. “Do you want to go hang out somewhere?”
“Uh, okay. But I need to get home.”
“Well, can I, um, walk you?” She only lived a couple blocks away. If I could get her alone and kiss her, I could have her back to her house pretty quick.
The shed was just off the alley that ran to the rear of Chris’ house, situated in a section of long, yellowing grass. My sneakers stuck in the mud, the sound of my soles getting sucked down squeaking with each step. Brenda leaned against the thin, rusted metal, hair shockingly bright against the dull, white shed behind her head.
“So, uh…” she said, twisting the toe of her sneaker against the grass and sliding the pull of her coat zipper up and down.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my pants and glanced down, trying to ignore the churning in my guts. Before I could chicken out, I leaned forward and