He told me to choose Honeycrisp or Fuji, the firm kind that could handle some wounding. Use whatever is sharp and nearby — a screwdriver or ballpoint pen — and pierce carefully, first through the stem and then the side, until both are tunnels that meet at the core. 

I watched his fingers carve a shallow bowl where the stem used to be, moonlight turning his suntanned arms the pale of polished marble. The moon was our one-eyed witness, two boys hunkered like thieves below the window of his parents’ kitchen on a warm summer evening, our forbidden enterprise stifled by the percussion of crickets. 

His fingers disappeared into a yellow pill bottle and pinched a tuft of what he described as the best weed in this shithole town. Flakes fell like dried hay into the bowl, which he tamped before wielding a long lighter, the kind my dad used on the grill. It was a summer of firsts — getting my driver’s license, skinny dipping in the river, nursing a longing that could be soothed only by sad songs and speeding down county roads. For all of it, he had been there, turning the music louder, screaming into the wind about what a great summer this was, the best he’d ever had. Now it was nearly over, and the world expected us to return to the same high school with the same acoustic tile ceiling and cafeteria smell like these months hadn’t already taught us everything we needed to know. 

Only one secret remained unspoken between us. One day remained of summer. It had to happen tonight, or else it never would. Of course, I hoped it would have happened sooner, but without a way to reveal the secret without risking our friendship, I understood that we were resorting to a kind of code. Boys didn’t speak their feelings, that’s not how it works. The driving fast, the swimming, the sad songs. In them I had deciphered carefully wrought messages from him to me. When he asked if I wanted to get high on the last day of summer, even though I’d never done it before, I understood that it was invitation to the moment we’d both been waiting for. 

Yes, I had said. I’d love to, even though inside I was scared at first and excused myself to the bathroom where I googled the side effects of marijuana and the probability of death. Google said the chances were low. I decided to take mine.

The flame’s shadow stenciled the fine curve of his lips as they pressed against the fashioned mouthpiece. Never had I wanted so badly to be an apple, or understood why Eve would risk it all for one.

Shit, he hissed. 

What? 

The holes don’t line up, he said, performing a strange surgery until he was satisfied. It’s not my best work, he said, shrugging, but it should still do the trick.

He passed me the apple. The smell of dried sweat and Old Spice as he leaned in to light the bowl was the same scent I’d been chasing all summer like one of those hound dogs baying in the distance. I put the apple to my lips, took a deep breath, looked to him for approval. 

His face shone with pride. Hold it in, he said. Hold it in, or it won’t work. It hurts, but it’s supposed to hurt, he said. 

When I coughed it felt like a fire was flaring through my throat. I coughed and coughed until I expected to hack up a demon or some other kind of evil.

That’s good, he said, keep coughing. The cough gets you off, he said, which was a phrase I imagined he’d heard his first time, and the person who told him had heard their first time, and so on. Those words had traveled generations to arrive here, bestowed as fate. Everything was happening as it should be. Now we waited.

For a while we stood in silence, listening to cars in the distance and the crickets yammering from their imperceptible towers.

Are you feeling it? he asked.

I looked up. The night was clear. The stars multiplied before my eyes like cells under a microscope. I wonder what the crickets are saying, I said, my voice distorted in an underwater sort of way.

Oh yeah, you’re feeling it.

His eyebrows did this thing when he got serious like they were working overtime. That’s what they were doing when he said, I’ve been meaning to tell you something. 

His smile, the crickets, the moonlight. Fate approached at overwhelming speed. My heart thumped in my throat. I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and uncomfortable.

Tell me, I croaked. I’m ready. 

He shifted closer, the smell of sweat mixed with strange smoke. 

I think I’m in love, he said.

Really? 

He cleared his throat. Now it was my turn to shift closer.

There’s this girl, he said. We’ve seen each other a couple of times, I don’t know. I guess I haven’t made an ass of myself yet. 

Even my tongue was dry. It lay swollen as a beached fish. 

Oh, I said finally, and because his face expected more, added, Well, that’s not like you.

Good one, he said, leaning back. But seriously, I might ask her out. What do you think, should I go for it? 

Who is she? I asked.

Jasmine.

He lingered on the syllables as if uttering them released the fragrance of the flower for which she was named. Jasmine, Jasmine, Jasmine swirled in my head until the sound devolved to nonsense. With a name like that, what good was trying to resent her?

I listened to the crickets. They sounded so much louder when I paid attention. They screamed into the night, Love me! Love me! Love me! It’s simple and it works and they’re not ashamed. The noise surrounded us, had been there all summer. Couldn’t he hear it? The driving, the swimming, the songs. Didn’t he understand? I felt the sudden urge to shake him and say Listen! Look at me and listen. Please. 

But I was ashamed, and he was beautiful, so beautiful, even as he talked about Jasmine. Perhaps especially then. 

I took another inhale, just air this time and said, Are you kidding? You should totally go for it, thinking to myself, Just hold it in. 

A little longer. Yeah, like that. It hurts, but that’s how you know it’s working.

You’re doing great.