Harvestland

NINE

Charlee McCool was in love.

Noah was everywhere in everything. He was in the stars, the sun, the clear blue sky. He was in a passing breeze, the colors of fall, every love song on the radio. When winter settled in he was in the Christmas lights, in each snowfall, in a single beautiful snowflake.

She didn't have to walk the school hallways alone and lonely anymore, watching undeserving skanky bitches and macho assholes all happy and pretty and holding hands.

Now she had Noah—though it was hard getting used to calling him her boyfriend. Applied to her the term seemed so ridiculous. Other girls had boyfriends. She had never been one of those girls.

And the kissing. God, she could kiss Noah forever. She was an ardent supporter of public displays of affection, not shy at all to blatantly make out with him in school, much to the chagrin of hall monitors and teachers. Noah, so cute and old-fashioned, would try to stop her at first but then not put up much of a fight at all, just letting it all flow, the magic, the fire.

She had also finally gotten back to work on her graphic novel. Though after rereading some recent passages that centered around the love story subplot, she realized that the old Charlee would have gagged at some of the sappy shit she was writing now.

But it seemed all she could write these days. Writing and art had been an outlet for her for so many years because she was a tortured and miserable person. And now—in love and happy—she had nothing to suffer over anymore. Life's problems—family, school, homework, other people—paled in comparison to loving Noah. Her writing and her drawing suddenly seemed more like a chore. Though at least now she could finally describe what a kiss really felt like, could put into words the sensation of a lover's hand on your cheek, your eyes reflected in his, his fingers in your hair or on the back of your neck.

She had even fashioned her female superhero's love interest in the likeness of Noah. When her lovestruck writer's block stifled her typically anguished prose, she could still sketch frame after frame of scenes with Noah's face, those sensual almond eyes and that chestnut skin.

Sex was the one thing she could still not write about, not from experience at least.

She wanted to make love to Noah and she knew he wanted it too. But she knew he planned to be true blue Catholic about it and wait until marriage, the way it was supposed to be. She felt the same way but knew she would break if he asked. He would never be the one to ask though—if anyone, it would definitely be her. She masturbated to him at least once a day, and the mere thought of connecting with him that way, in body and mind and spirit and soul, took her to incredible physical heights.

She met him after school one winter day as students poured out, snow falling from a slate-gray sky. She surprised him from behind, jumping up on him for a piggy-back, covering her gloved hands over his eyes and laughing.

"Agh!" he cried, mock grunting and struggling.

"What's wrong?" she said. "My one-hundred and ten pounds too much for you?"

"Half of that is your winter coat and your backpack," he said.

"You shut up."

He dipped suddenly and almost plopped her into the foot of snow they had been walking through to the buses.

"Don't you dare drop me, Noah. I'll be so angry with you. I'm serious! Noah! Aaahh!"

He dropped her into the powdery snow. She made a snowball and threw it dead in his face. He fell playfully on top of her and they kissed and giggled and rolled around.