16
Poems, Prayers, & Promises
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"I never really got into comic books. They were too hard to understand," I had said, much to Danny's disappointment.
We talked as we lay down on a makeshift bed of sleeping bags and blankets that Danny had guaranteed me were all his. When I challenged him on as to why he had a Baby-Making Kit awaiting in the attic, he backtracked and said they were his and Max's. Then I further harassed him as to why he and Max were planning a romantic rendezvous in an old abandoned beach house.
"Okay, wait, so tell me. How were they too hard to understand?" Danny asked me, resuming the comic book bamboozlement.
"Like! I dunno! There were just too many bubbles, and I didn't know who was talking when, and yeah, it just got really stressful."
"I was really into the Japanese comics."
"Manga?" I asked, making circles around my eyes. "Big eyes?"
"Yes." He smiled. His face bright and blue in the moonlight that shone through the porthole. "Big eyes. I always thought it was pronounced manga, and then one day I heard monga and, I dunno, it actually put me in a funk."
"Don't they read them backwards too?"
"Yeah! I used to make comic books," he gestured with his hands to demonstrate the way the pages read. "Backwards, like that."
"Really?" I snorted. "You used to make comic books?"
"Yeah, when I was, like, twelve. I made the best monga—manga?" He quipped full of confidence for his former, and current, geeky pride.
Biting the corner of the sleeping bag, I said, "I bet you were a cool kid."
"Oh, I really was. Well, what was super cool Mary like at twelve? All badass with a paper route?"
"I did have a paper route."
"Wait, really? You were actually a paper girl?"
"Yes... What else were you doing at twelve, Danny? Other than discovering jerking off."
"Hey, hey, that was at eleven. And well, when I wasn't drawing monga—manga on the sides of my math notes, I was trying to bring my guitar to school as often as possible."
Danny's hair scrunched against the rolled sleeping bag substituting for a pillow when he turned to face me.
"Who taught you how to play guitar?"
"I taught myself."
"That's so cool."
The open porthole jerked with a stiff creak in the cool breeze that blew over us. Danny leaned up to stretch the short sleeping bag over my exposed feet.
"You know," I said as he tugged at the corners, trying to equally portion out the sleeping bag. "I think I'm over your lyrics. Next time I'm over, I want to read one of these comics instead."
"You know what?" Danny evened out his side of the cover. "They're probably a lot better anyway," he said, turning to face me as he leaned back; the sleeping bag completely slipping off my feet. He smiled and shook his head at his short-lived effort.
"We're not going to hate each other some day, are we?"
"Um, I hope not," he said, resting his arms on his knees. "Where did that come from?"
I shrugged and sat up, covering myself. "Even if we stop doing this, we'll be friends, right?"
"This?" Danny asked.
"Whatever this is. I dunno, just, just promise me that we'll be friends. Okay? Even if you're far away in California."
His eyes took on an inward, dispirited expression.
"So, no matter what," I held up my pinky, "Friends?"
Then laughing, huffing out of his nose, Danny laid back down beside me and said, "Yeah, for sure. No matter what I'll always be there for you. Forever friends."
"Promise?"
"Promise," he echoed, extending his pinky.
I pulled my hand back. "I don't believe you."
"Oh my gosh. Yes, Mary. I promise."
Holding my hand out beside my head, I slowly squinted, staring at him. Danny mimicked me. His face looked so goofy. And then after slowly lowering my hand back down, with Danny imitating my every motion, I whipped my hand back beside my head. To my amusement, and his frustration, I taunted him, pulling my hand back in and out, until eventually, Danny swung his left arm out, grabbing my wrist, and firmly wrapped his pinky around mine. Swearing forever friends.