Celia needed some air. Her vision had begun to blur after twenty minutes of watching her peers bounce clumsily to the beat of Top 40 rap songs. She felt nauseous, as though her lungs were rejecting the signature houseparty scent of flat beer, mango Juuls, mildewy weed, and that unmistakable stench of sour vomit. Celia maneuvered her way out of the kitchen where half-conscious teens were pouring shots as though the bottles contained enough liquid to fill a lake and moved to the balcony where only one other person stood in the frosty air. 

Celia wished she had worn tights under her shimmery blue dress. She liked the dress, liked the way the fabric clung to her skin and outlined the soft curves of her hips; she had decided she looked like a woman in it when studying her appearance in the mirror before leaving. Now, as Celia pulled her cardigan tighter around her otherwise bare arms, she didn’t feel much like a woman. A woman would not have let Lucy persuade her to attend this dull party at Evan’s house, a party which was just another excuse for her classmates to get dangerously drunk. 

An hour earlier, as the two friends put the final touches on their makeup, glossing their lips and painting their lashes, Lucy had thanked Celia profusely for agreeing to accompany her. Because, as Lucy said, she was just too afraid to flirt with Evan alone. Ten minutes into the party, however, both Lucy and Evan were nowhere to be found. Lucy always underestimated her effect on guys, Celia thought bemusedly. Lucy looked like the woman Celia aspired to be, with thick, dark hair cascading past her breasts and soulful eyes that looked at you as if to say, I have seen so much, and I will see so much more. Celia’s own eyes instead looked wary, and she thought they probably sent messages of sleep deprivation rather than those of seduction. Now, Lucy was in Evan’s bedroom—Evan’s hands on her supple skin, Evan’s lips tinting wine-red with each kiss, Evan’s ears hearing the melodic sounds of Lucy’s lust—and Celia was out here, shivering on the second-floor balcony, with a glass panel separating her from all the normal kids her age. 

Celia leaned over the railing and gazed at the rows of houses and shops that stretched into the distance. She liked to look at the city and wonder what other people were doing at that very instant. Celia imagined women like Lucy, women who followed their desires and didn’t need to spend half an hour mentally preparing before touching a boy. 

Another body sidled over next to Celia. It was Oliver, who Celia recognized as a student of the all-boys private school at the end of her street. She usually walked past Oliver on her way home from school and she recalled that he often stood with one or two other boys, sharing cigarettes and muttering to each other. Sometimes, Celia slowed down in order to discreetly overhear what they  were saying. She liked to listen in on boys’ conversations, always hoping to catch discussions about the girls they liked. She didn’t care to gossip about these discoveries, but she hoped to notice a pattern in the types of girls that boys treated as fellow humans rather than those they saw as glory holes. Celia wanted to learn how to become a girl more like Lucy—someone who felt empowered by sex and not feebled by it. 

Oliver dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He tapped Celia on the shoulder and held it out. 

“You want one?” He asked. 

Celia nodded, accepting Oliver’s lighter too. She lit the cigarette, inhaling gratefully. She needed something to do that wasn’t just waiting for Lucy to show up. She imagined her as she had looked so many times before, cheeks flushed bright and smiling, telling Celia that they could leave now because she had orgasmed enough for one night. Celia inhaled again, and for a few moments, she felt weightless, a dried dandelion hovering pleasantly in the air.  

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked her. 

“Celia,” she replied, “and yours?” She wasn’t going to admit that she eavesdropped on his conversations and had heard his name several times before.

“Oliver,” he said. “I’ve seen you before, do you go to school near Trinity?”

“I live on the same street.” Celia replied. 

“That’s cool.” Oliver said, but they both knew it wasn’t really, so instead of forcing more small talk, the two smoked in silence. 

Celia listened to the faint rumble of cars on the nearby roads and to the muffled sounds of off-tune singing coming from inside the house. Her right leg felt warmer, she realized. She blushed as she noticed that the denim of Oliver’s jeans was so close to Celia’s skin that she could even feel the boy’s toned muscles underneath. 

Oliver broke the silence.

“Do you go to parties often?” He asked.

“Not really,” Celia admitted. “I go once in a while with Lucy. My best friend.”

“I don’t go out much either,” Oliver agreed. “Whenever I go, I tell myself that I’m going to enjoy it, but I never do.”

“Same here.” Celia laughed. 

“You have a pretty laugh.” Oliver said, glancing sideways at Celia. 

Celia willed herself not to look away, and met Oliver’s eyes.

“Thank you.” she said.

“Where is your friend Lucy now?”

“Inside. I think she’s having sex with Evan.”

Oliver laughed. 

“You have a pretty laugh too.” Celia grinned, surprised by her boldness. 

Oliver cocked his head slightly, exploring Celia’s facial features. He noticed her peony pink lips trembling slightly.

“You’re still cold. Here, take my jacket.”

Celia wasn’t going to admit that the reason for her chills was nerves. She let Oliver wrap the jacket around her and didn’t step away when he kept his arm around her shoulder. Celia leaned into his neck, smelling the distinctly boyish scent of amberwood and cyprus. She imagined that if she were Lucy, she would probably start getting aroused by now. She willed her body to respond to the closeness between her and Oliver. A breath caught in her throat when Oliver grabbed her, positioning her so her breasts grazed the cotton of his shirt. Oliver was taller than Celia, and he looked down to meet her eyes.

“It’s like we’re in a movie,” he said. “Perks of Being a Wallflower, or something. We’re the misfits who avoid the party, and I’m the loner who wants to kiss you now.”

Celia closed her eyes, anticipating a magnetic moment, a magnificent chemical reaction. The way Lucy described kissing men. It’s not that Celia hadn’t kissed men before -she had kissed quite a few. But she never felt fireworks go off in her gut the way Lucy promised she would feel, so Celia always hoped that the next boy she kissed would be the one. The next boy she kissed would be the one who made her feel like Lucy felt; the kaleidoscopic energy in Lucy’s soft stomach, the involuntary arch of Lucy’s back when she craved more intimacy, and the ticklish trace of Lucy’s fingers along the back of her lover. 

Celia felt like both a marionette doll and its puppeteer. In her head, she counted the seconds of each kiss, varying the length and pressure for each one. She made a mental map of the parts of his body she was touching, ensuring to give equal attention to all areas of flesh. She dutifully waited for the electricity to take over, for the kissing to feel like excitement and satisfaction rather than tedious work. Oliver and Celia continued like this for minutes, until Celia pulled back, her thoughts consumed in worry over why she couldn’t crave sex. 

But, that’s not true; she definitely could crave sex, as she did at other times. At night, when she nestled under her covers and settled her right hand between her thighs, she definitely craved sex. When she closed her eyes and opened her imagination, she thought of sex. She thought of kissing tender lips, lips the colour of wine-red lipstick. She thought of a soft body that moved in harmony with her own. When she imagined touching chests, her body definitely tingled, but the chests she touched in her fantasies were lithe and nimble—not firm like Oliver’s. Celia would touch herself to the thought of laying back while someone kissed her whole body, and in her fantasies, she would tug the person’s thick, dark, cascading hair. Tugging hair like Lucy’s. Kissing lips like Lucy’s. Gazing into eyes like Lucy’s.

A drop of water on her lip brought her back to reality, and upon licking it and tasting salt, Celia realized she was crying.

Oliver was looking at the mist in Celia’s eyes, his eyebrows knit with worry. 

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked tentatively.

Celia let out a shaky laugh, focused on preventing more tears from spilling over. 

“No.” She said, “No, I—I have to go—tell Lucy—leave. Tell Lucy I had to leave.”