Feels like the first time
this one goes out to the YA books that helped raise me
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the books of my early teen years. The ones I would smuggle into my closet, holing myself up in there until the wee hours of the morning to read, putting a towel under the crack of the door so the light wouldn’t spill out.
More than the final ring of the school bell, the annual mecca to Barnes & Noble was the true signifier that summer had begun. Choosing just three books out of the hundreds available became an exercise in not just autonomy but willpower — I had to find some way to make these selections stretch for weeks, rather than consume them all within the day.
More often than not, I would fail this test of willpower — I would finish these books within the first three days of summer break, unable to sleep until I found out what happened next. But then, with that initial read behind me and not much else to do, I had the rest of the summer to pore over every line, every sentence, every word. I was able to appreciate the finer details I’d missed on that initial, frantic read-through. That first read was pure fun — but it was in these second and third and fourth reads that I really fell in love with the art of storytelling.
So this one goes out to Meg Cabot and Sarah Dessen and E. Lockhart and Christopher Pike and Sarah Mlynowski and many more — your words left me tired and energized all at once.
Fiona had her first kiss when she was 15, in the men’s bathroom of a random hotel in Tucson. It was one of those big bathrooms that has multiple stalls in it, not the truly private kind. No, there was an audience of urinals looking on when their lips met.
She was at a conference with her parents. She doesn’t even remember what the conference was for — saving money or making money or some other thing adults care about. All she remember is that, while the grown ups were in some ballroom, listening to a tiny man on a big stage drone on about business or something, all of the kids had formed some kind of conference of their own: a little society with a three-day lifecycle, but a society all the same.
She was ridiculously uncomfortable in her body, which was, at that point, in a near-constant state of flux. She didn’t have boobs yet, but she also didn’t have acne yet. Rest assured: both would come in due time.
At this conference, though, Fiona set out to be… Different. Mysterious. As mysterious as a boob-less 15-year-old girl can be, in any case.
As she’d been packing for the trip, she was struck by the realization that no one at this conference would know her. They wouldn’t know her past, or what she was like back home. They didn’t even know where home was, for that matter.
No one here knew that the cool Abercrombie shirt she’d packed in her bag was the sole one in her possession, among piles of Old Navy (her mom: “Old Navy is practical! Plus, I feel like I’m going to cough up a lung every time I step into Amber-crombie and What’s-His-Face. And why is it always so dark in there? What do they have to hide?”). To them, there could’ve been hundreds more folded away in her closet somewhere, each with a matching pair of jeans, to boot.
They didn’t know that she was the “good girl” who wasn’t a pariah but who also wasn’t anywhere close to the top of the food chain. They didn’t know that in 7th grade, when a group of boys made a list of Hot or Nots that then circulated around the school, Fiona’s name hadn’t appeared in either column. Some may have seen that as a gift, but to her, it felt like she wasn’t even worth considering — like she didn’t exist.
But at this conference, things could be — they would be — different.
In this new society, Fiona could be whoever she wanted to be. She didn’t have to play the same comfortable roles she played at home. She didn’t have to be stuffed into the same box, suffering away claustrophobically inside.
Looking back now, Fiona can identify that conference as her first brush with getting high — high off the feeling of being someone else.
People don’t become addicted to things for no reason. If alcohol had no effect on us — if it didn’t do what it’s “supposed to,” at least for a little while, there wouldn’t be alcoholics.
All of that to say: That conference — her first stint as someone else, her first attempt at reinventing herself, her first unpaid acting gig — whatever you want to call it…
It wouldn’t have had a lasting impact on her if it hadn’t worked.
Cooper Bryant was the It Boy of the conference.
At 16-and-a-half, he was the oldest of the bunch of kids, and he only graced them with his presence occasionally. No one knew where he spent the rest of his time.
Most likely, he was up in his hotel room playing video games or something. But in Fiona’s mind, he was propped up against the back of the building, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from one hand and a beat-up, well-loved copy of On the Road in the other.
Cooper’s younger brother Morris and Fiona had become friends — bonding over their shared belief that the 100 Grand Bar was the superior (and most wildly underrated) candy bar. They were splitting one from the hotel vending machine on their second afternoon at the conference when he broke some very important news.
“My brother asked about you,” he told her, wiping his chocolatey mouth with his hand.
Fiona inhaled the chewy bite she’d been taking and instantly began choking on what can only be described as the candy equivalent of a mozzarella stick. “He what?” she coughed.
“He asked about you,” Morris repeated, shuffling his feet against the hotel carpet and avoiding eye contact. “He wanted to know if you’re going to the dance thing or whatever tonight.”
There was a big dinner happening as part of the conference — one that attendees were encouraged to bring their entire families to. Apparently, there was supposed to be a huge dance party after. They’d heard rumors that, in previous years, the party had turned into a night of middle-aged debauchery, and the kids were all looking forward to seeing their parents get smashed — mostly because it meant they’d be able to get away with their own teenage brand of debauchery while the adults were all under the influence.
Cooper Bryant had literally never spoken to Fiona. They had made one brief moment of eye contact as she had been (rather firmly, she’ll admit) explaining the rules of Fishbowl to the rest of the crew, and he’d been headed out on one of his mysterious adventures. He’d smiled slightly when their eyes met, but he kept walking, leaving a trail of Axe body spray in his wake.
“Um,” Fiona replied to Morris, opting to play it cool until she had more information. “I haven’t decided yet. Could be super lame. I think I’ll just see how I feel later and, y’know, go with the flow.”
“Yeah,” Morris said, finally looking back up at her. “Totally.”
The rest of the day passed in a rush. Cooper made an appearance as they all ate lunch — snagging the leftovers of the conference buffet and setting up court in a grassy area under a tree on the resort property.
This is a new me, Fiona reminded herself. A confident Fiona. A Fiona who isn’t a goody-two-shoes, or a “sweet girl,” or anything else she could be described as back home.
So she flipped her hair over her shoulder and addressed the group:
“Who wants to do something crazy?” she asked, standing up and wiping the grass from the back of her jeans.
Looks were exchanged across the crowd.
“What kind of crazy?” a girl named Taylor with an unfortunately bulky set of mouthgear asked.
“Sneak-onto-the-roof crazy,” Fiona responded, with what she hoped was a mischievous grin. She couldn’t be sure, as she’d never really attempted to make such an expression before — it wasn’t really on brand for At-Home Fiona.
A few people ooohed. A few people shook their heads immediately — Morris was one of them.
“If you’re with me, meet me back here at exactly 8:32PM,” Fiona continued, sounding confident even to her own ears. “Our parents should be feeling pretty toasty by then, and I’m sure most of the staff will be working the event, so it’s our perfect chance.”
She scanned the group one final time, and her eyes locked with Cooper’s for a moment. He looked impressed. Mission accomplished.
With that, Fiona turned on her heel and did her best approximation of a saunter as she headed back toward the hotel.
By 8:28, she was back under the tree.
Her parents were inside the ballroom, each two glasses of Chardonnay deep. Last she’d seen them, they’d been dancing (with much gusto) to the Electric Slide — which was equal parts disturbing and adorable.
It was getting dark, but the final remnants of the day’s harsh sun were still streaking through the twilight — and that, combined with the cool fluorescent lighting coming from the hotel, made everything look like it was blanketed in a hazy glow. It made Fiona feel like she was in an old movie — which was fitting, because this was her Sandy showing up to the carnival in an all leather ensemble moment.
She pulled the sweater she’d been wearing up over her head and shoved it into one of the branches of the tree. Underneath it, she wore a black tank top with a contraband (i.e.: purchased without the knowledge of her mother) push-up bra that was doing quite literally everything in its power to create cleavage out of nothing. Paired with a pair of black jeans with a hole in one knee and her high-top black Converse, she was doing her very best to emulate “sexy spy” vibes. The untrained eye would simply see a bony teenager wearing black, but that wasn’t the point: Back home, she wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing this get-up. She would’ve been way too insecure to even try.
By 8:30, Fiona could spot a group of six of the others heading toward her. She searched for Cooper’s taller frame, but she couldn’t spot him. Her heart sank a bit, and as a slight breeze rustled the branches of the tree and sent goosebumps prickling up her arms, she was tempted to pull her discarded sweater back on and pull out of the mission entirely.
But she still had something to prove — whether it was to the few who had actually shown up, or to all the people who wrote her off back home, or simply to herself, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she knew that she had to go through with this.
“Okay,” she said emphatically, smacking her hands together as the group closed in. “Let’s do this.”
The climb — if you could even call it that — up to the roof was entirely anticlimactic.
There were no security guards waiting to catch them in the act.
There was a ladder that made access extremely easy.
There was even a pair of old lawn chairs up there, implying that this was some kind of popular hangout spot.
So, Fiona’s attempt #1 at personal badassery: relatively unsuccessful. But they did still get a pretty sweet view of the entire resort property.
After a few moments, the rest of the group started heading down, but Fiona decided to hang back for a second. They still had another day here, but she was already mourning the loss of this New Fiona — even if she hadn’t really done all that much. She was dreading going home, where she would inevitably continue to be typecast as the barely-existent Girl Next Door in someone else’s movie.
Moment of self-deprecating reflection behind her, she began her (very short) descent. When she made it to the bottom of the ladder, she hopped down and immediately set off toward the ballroom to rejoin the rest of the group. But then she remembered her sweater, dangling from an oak tree’s branches. She turned on her heel to retrieve it.
But as she did, she ran smack-dab into someone.
Not just someone: Cooper.
“Hey,” he said, grabbing her by both arms to steady her as she bounced back from the impact.
“Um, hi,” Fiona replied, breathlessly.
“You’re crazy.” He smiled at her, shaking his head.
She could’ve exploded with joy. No one had ever called her crazy before. It was, without a doubt, the greatest compliment she’d ever received.
“No, I’m Fiona,” she responded — instantly regretting it and wanting to crawl back up onto the roof and plop down in one of those folding chairs, with only the birds to talk to, for the rest of her life.
“Woooowwwww,” he said, drawing out the word so that it sounded like each letter was its own syllable.
She smacked herself in the head, a warm blush spreading up her ears and down to her neck. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Me either,” he grinned. “It was super lame.”
She covered her face with her hand, shaking her head in shame.
“Plus,” he continued. “I already knew your name, crazy.”
“You did?” Fiona slowly removed her hand from her face.
“Yup,” he said, and her head started spinning. One of his hands was still gripping her arm. She looked down at it, at the place where their skin met, and then back up at him.
This is my moment, she realized. Her chance to really prove that she could be different.
“Do you, um,” she stuttered, frantically pushing her bangs away from her face with her free hand. “Want to go somewhere? To um, talk?”
A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. “Okay,” he said. And for some reason, the fact that he was only giving her one word responses didn’t bother Fiona in the slightest.
He pulled her arm, leading her back into the hotel.
Three minutes later, they were in the men’s bathroom furthest from the ballroom, his tongue poking around her open mouth and his hands poking around her push-up bra, searching for nonexistent gold.
And thirty seconds after that, it was over.
“That was amazing,” Cooper said, pulling away from her.
“Totally,” Fiona lied, adjusting her shirt and smoothing her hair.
And with that, they went their separate ways. She never saw him again.
Laying in her bed that night, wide awake as her parents snored in the bed beside her, Fiona couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off her face.
It wasn’t the kiss. The kiss, in and of itself, was by no means earth-shattering. In fact, it was barely even pleasant.
But it had happened.
And that fact alone was enough to change her life — to change her — forever.