HELLO, ALL.

It’s been a little over a year since our last stop on the Some New Trend Express. If you’re just now checking in, start clicking around on the left to find out more regarding our little novel in blog form. We tossed a lot of time and love into this project, and plan to keep the site up for your enjoyment.

Click here to start reading. And then make sure to tell a few friends! Otherwise, we’ll see you around!

- Carrie & Kevin

MIND’S EYE :: BY CARRIE ROLLWAGEN

JOSH AND BRYANNA, MAKING OUT on the roof.

The image is burned into my mind like a solar eclipse you can’t look away from—one moment, everything is bright, and then you’re left with total darkness.

I thought Josh really liked me. I’d felt a connection with him tons of times before, but after the fountain I was sure I wasn’t imagining things. His feelings were the same as mine, and they were as real as the penny I fished out of the fountain and put in the little jewelry box on my dresser.

That is, until last night. I stayed late at Hot Topic to do inventory, counting glitter eyeshadows and punk hair dyes. When we finally finished, I waited in the parking lot for my mom to pick me up and I heard voices above me, on the Macy’s rooftop. I thought I was imagining the voices, and I’d look up and find the roof empty, as usual. But I was wrong about the roof being empty. I was wrong about everything.

For the first time, I’m glad summer’s almost over. I’m glad Josh and I don’t go to the same school, and that I can go through my classes without seeing him, immersing myself in the French Revolution and forgetting all about fountains and Frappuccinos and Josh groping Bryanna on the roof of the mall.

For now, though, I still have to work. You know all those songs that say the world doesn’t stop when your heart does? Turns out, they’re right. I know there’s a God, at least, because Candy isn’t working and there’s no one to yell at me for staring into space instead of organizing hangers.

But I still have to listen to Mike’s monologue all day about his current obsession, which, just my luck, happens to be love. He’s already asked me if I think Charlie the Unicorn has a girlfriend, and I heard him asking Chad what Hello Kitty’s boyfriend’s name is (it’s Dear Daniel, but I’m not volunteering the information). I still have to stand behind the register and talk to customers, convince them to buy buffalo plaid shirts and fake Doc Martens.  I still have to sell World of Warcraft energy serum to Casper.

“You know why we call him Casper?” Mike says conspiratorially.

Casper’s real name, which I know from running his debit card, is Louis Baldwin. He’s freakishly pale and he dresses like a cross between a hipster and my Algebra teacher.

“It’s because he’s so pale he’s ghost-like,” Mike explains. “I mean, that kid is almost transparent. He should really lay off the Second Life.”

I almost correct Mike, letting him know that Louis is into WOW, not Second Life. Then I realize it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“So, I told her if I had to scan one more Twilight novelty pen I was going to walk out,” Mike is saying, moving the package of Edward-and-Bella-themed pens from one endcap to another. “I just had to put my foot down.”

“And then she let you go home?” Chad asks skeptically.

“Well, not exactly. But she let me go on break.”

“Score one for the working man,” Chad says.

“Damn straight,” Mike replies, not realizing Chad is mocking him.

Mike is examining the characters on the pens. “So, I don’t get it,” he says. “This Twilight chick is in love with the werewolf and the vampire?”

He’s talking to me. Since Chad and Mike discovered I’ve read the Twilight books, they’ve been quizzing me for details daily.

“No, she only likes the werewolf as a friend. Well, basically.”

Chad’s listening to our conversation, but his only contribution is a lot of eye rolling.

“But you like the werewolf. You’re Team Wolf.” To illustrate, he holds up a shirt reading “Team Jacob” over a series of claw marks.

“Not exactly,” I say, feeling stupid like I always do when discussing Twilight as if it’s real life. “The werewolf isn’t as protective as the vampire is. He takes her cliff diving and motorcycle riding and stuff.”

“But she still ends up with the vampire? That’s not fair. This wolf seems like he planned better dates.”

I’m finally feeling a little more comfortable, settling into a long day of hating myself and listening to Mike ramble, when in walk Josh and Bryanna.

At first, I don’t believe they’re really here. I’ve been thinking about seeing them together all day, their rooftop image lurking everywhere, torturing me. When I realize they’re real, tunnel vision kicks in and all the corsets and punk jackets and CDs around me fade to black. All I can see is Josh and Bryanna.

He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She’s wearing a skinny scarf and a Union Jack shirt that’s supposed to look like it came from the thrift store, but I happen to know is from Urban Outfitters. All I can think about is how stupid I think that scarf is, how stupid I’ve always thought it was, and how I’ve been pretending to like it all summer.

They stand at the counter, right in front of me, but my brain is in self-protection mode and won’t process their presence. I just keep thinking about how I don’t get the point of a summer scarf. It’s too hot to wear outside, and still leaves you cold in the air conditioning.

“June, we’ve been looking for you all over. Can you take a break, hang out for awhile?” Josh asks.

“I’m really busy with work,” I say, looking around on the counter for anything to give me an excuse not to talk to them. For once, there’s nothing to do.

“We’re headed to the movies,” Bryanna says. “Whatever that new Seth Rogan movie is. Josh thinks he’s funny.”

“Yeah, he’s hilarious,” I say. I’m shocked at how normally I can talk to them.

“Oh, you like him too? You and Josh have a lot in common.”

“No we don’t,” I say defensively, and my body decides to betray me, my eyes filling up with tears. I blink them away, and Josh doesn’t notice. Bryanna does.

“June, go ahead and take a break with your friends” Chad says, trying to be nice.

“Yeah, come get a coffee with us,” Josh says, and Bryanna looks at me apologetically.

“I shouldn’t take a break yet,” I say. “Mike hasn’t had one and he came in first. Sorry.”

Chad opens his mouth, probably to say that Mike already had his break, but I shoot him a “shut up” look.

“Oh, right,” he says.

“Look, you guys better get out of here, I’m going to get in trouble,” I tell them, and Josh finally concedes.

“Okay, I’ll text you later,” he says to me, putting his arm around Bryanna.

Fifteen minutes later, Josh makes good on his promise and texts:

Want to see the movie? We can wait for you.

I honestly can’t think of a response to this. Does he not realize I don’t want to see him anymore? That there’s pretty much no way I’d want to see a movie with him and Bryanna?

I realize Chad is looking over my shoulder at my fingers, which are frozen over the keypad while I try to think of response.

“Is that the goofball who’s always hanging around here?” he asks.

“Mmmhmm.” I nod.

Chad grabs the phone out of my hand and shuts it.

“No,” he says.

“But I have to respond,” I say. “They might wait for me if I don’t and …” Chad’s look says I should stop talking.

“That’s their problem. They aren’t your problem anymore.” Instead of giving my phone back, he walks it into the stock room and leaves it with my stuff. I have to admit, I feel freer without having it in my pocket. When did Chad get so insightful?

When my shift is over, Steph shows up to hang out for awhile. She’s acting kind of overly careful, so I think she probably knows about Josh, but we don’t talk about it. Like usual.

Stephanie is examining our new merchandise—she has her eye on some Mary Janes that have kitten faces on the toes—when Will comes in.

“How’s it hanging, Junebug?” he asks.

“Long day,” I say.  “I’m almost off, though.”

“Sweet,” he says. “Perfect. Let’s go see a movie.”

“Sorry, can’t,” I tell him, and nod in Stephanie’s direction.

“Works for me,” Will says, winking. “We’ll all just hang together.”

I’m torn between what Stephanie wants and what I want. She usually hates hanging out with Will, but, to my surprise, today she agrees.

“Okay, scumbag,” she says, but “scumbag” seems less like an insult and more like a term of endearment. “If you’re coming, let’s get out of here. I need some coffee.”

I punch out and Will puts his arms around both me and Stephanie.

“Come on, ladies,” he says. “I’ll treat you to Frappuccinos.”

Will and I sit down at Starbucks while Stephanie waits on our drinks, taking every opportunity to flirt with Dylan.

“So, Juniebug, why the long face? Why such a glum chum?” Will says.

“Josh and Bryanna came into today, and it kind of bummed me out,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says knowingly. “I get it.”

“What do you get?” Steph says, putting our drinks down and sliding into a chair.

“Your brother and his girlfriend, Chipmunk Face. You know, Bryanna,” Will says.

“She drives me nuts,” Steph laughs, finally bonding with Will over their mutual hatred of Bryanna.

“Let’s forget about the lovebirds,” Will says. “We don’t need ‘em. What do you two ladies want to do for fun? Shoplift? Set fires on the beach?”

“Maybe not shoplift,” I say. It could be my imagination, but I think Steph looks disappointed.

“Beach!” Will says, and jumps up, knocking over his Frappuccino in the process.

The beach does sound like fun, and even Stephanie admits hanging out with Will is worth it if we can get a ride.

***

It’s already getting dark when we get to the beach. We park in a secret spot of Will’s, deep in a residential neighborhood and away from the boardwalk. We splash around for awhile, then make a blanket of our hoodies and some old towels Will had in his trunk. When he starts to light the fireworks, he’s as giddy as a little kid.

For the first time all day, my tunnel vision is expanding, breaking apart with each explosion of red and yellow and white. The sparks fade into trails of smoke and the wind blows it into our faces, smelling like saltwater and gunpowder.

I don’t feel much like partying, but Will and Stephanie understand. For now, it’s nice just to sit in the sand. It’s only on the beach that Florida weather makes sense, the rhythm of the waves soothing the mania that hasn’t left me all day.

Will lights another fuse, and we can see his face light up as he anticipates the explosion, this simple thing that makes him so happy. I look over at Steph and, for once, she’s not trying to get someplace else. The cardboard paper burns red and white, lasting only just long enough to be a memory.

When I close my eyes, I can’t see the colors, but I can still see bright ghosts of the lights. Slowly, the light fades, and I let it go as it disappears. Between the wind and the fireworks and Stephanie laughing by my side, it finally starts to feel like a celebration.

The End.

Last night both Kevin and I had the pleasure of volunteering for and partying with Bici Coop, a local bicycle cooperative doing fantastic community work. The shop is led by our good friends (and Some New Trend contributors) Elisa Munoz, Anna Carrigan, and Alan Barton.

Some New Trend donated prizes for the event—our own American Apparel potato-printed t-shirts and bags, which you can purchase here if so inclined—and one of our t-shirts was modeled by race winner Edwin Marty, a Birmingham celebrity who does amazing work with Jones Valley Urban Farm, a community-based non-profit that grows organic produce and flowers. (BTW, wearing a skirt was a requirement of yesterday’s race—inspired by Bike Skirt—for both men and women. We like how Edwin’s skirt brings out the colors in his Some New Trend shirt!)

Thanks to these community organizations, both for their support of Some New Trend, and for their impact on our city. And thanks to the local media who’ve supported us along the way, especially Sam at freeThinkBham , Carla Jean of Birmingham Magazine, Glenny Brock of The Birmingham Weekly, and The Terminal.

This week’s giveaway is Breathe, by Cliff McNish. In this thriller, a boy with second sight discovers and evil Ghost Mother who is torturing her band of adopted ghost children. Creepy!

The winner of last week’s giveaway, Taken by Storm, is … Alexa! Send an email to info@somenewtrend with your mailing address, and we’ll get your book in the mail soon.

If you’ve won a book but haven’t received it yet, be sure to let us know. Resend your address and we’ll double check the outgoing mail.

FAMILY. My Mom, who would set aside time at work to read the latest chapter, and then always call to tell me she loved it. My Dad and Jo-z, who anticipated listening to all of our homespun podcasts. To Christy, Bill, Alyse, Adalin, Justin, Melissa, and everyone in my extended family – I’ll always appreciate your infinite support. I could’ve sought out doing something more lucrative with my life, but even after chasing wild and seemingly unattainable career ambitions, none of you have provided anything but encouragement and validation. I’m also glad that none of you seemed to worry whenever I threw in the occasional dirty joke or swear word.

SNT STAFF. Thanks for remaining dedicated and making our project ten times cooler. Drea Zacharenko — we met shortly before all of this and I couldn’t have been happier with the site, stickers, and press kits. John Yam — receiving your illustrations was like unwrapping a Christmas gift every week, except that you never gave us an ugly sweater or pair of ankle socks. I was thinking we could get matching Will Sharp tattoos. Move back to Alabama and we’ll talk about it. Jason Slatton – it was tough to get around to editing when subjects such as the new Ray Davies solo effort demanded serious attention and nerd-out time. Back when you compiled the “SMiLE” recording sessions for me at Jonathan Benton, I confess, one of the bigger platonic crushes in history from one heterosexual male to another began to develop. Thanks for your edits, advice, and much thanks for aiding me with writing and educational endeavors. And Cary Norton (or should I say Delores?) – you’ve done a great deal more than can be listed on a blog post, but to start, I’m glad we share a work space, and I wish I could be there to distract you more. You’re really good at board games, but you should practice lobstering more often if you plan on staying up-to-par with your competitors. Sean Kirby and Seth Newell – our first idea was to recruit some Red Bull girls, but you were cheaper. Just less hot. Truthfully though, you were a great promotional team. Plus you knew how to operate a video camera. And you did other stuff, only it’s all too illegal and unethical to mention.

FRIENDS. There’s more of you than the people listed below, so I’ll try to cover the friends that told me they were reading, along with a handful that were around as the project developed. Here we go: Matt Binnie, Renee Boucher, Jarrod and Stacy Allen, Kipp and Jesse Williams, David and Anna Carrigan, Van and Sarah Newell (a lot of thanks here for education assistance), Matt and Jessica Parsons, Aaron and Amanda Lane, Helen Harris, Garret Simpson, Andrea Northen, Alan Barton, Dallas and Allison Taylor, Elisa Munoz, Jenna Lyle, Stephanie Masters, Stefanie Tubbs, Brandon and Brooke Ballard, Jessica Jones, Amy LaRue, Jeanette Brabston, Olivia Keaggy, Sarah Moorad, Firekid and Meg McClung, Steven Lambert, David Smith, Evan and Chrissy Labit, Brooke Yeah, Elise and Mark LaGory, Daniel Kirby, Jenn Edgar, Sarah Schmidt, Claire Cormany, Jamie and Tammy Harper, Tiffany Fuller, Taylor Gonzales, Meghan Ellie Smith, Krista Montelpare, Watermark, Shades Valley Community Church, Crestline Starbucks & Urban Standard coffeemakers, BiciCoop, Underoath, April Cover, REAX, former bandmates, old and new coworkers (Amy Miranda, Tatanka, Matt Allen, AJ Roach, others from Daily Cup/JBB, Fly Bar & Restaurant, Urban Outfitters, etc.). And to any other readers that’ve found their way to the site – you’ll forever be our friends too.

CARRIE ROLLWAGEN. You’ve been my neighbor, boss, coworker, barista, reading peer, nurse, personal chef, therapist, scooter advisor, and writing partner. We’ve written a couple other novels (and screenplays!) in close proximity over the years. In the spirit of tight deadlines and taking on more than you can handle, you came up with the concept of writing a book together to share with others for free. The night before April 6th I couldn’t sleep. While Josh was nervous about establshing contact with Bryanna, I was nervous about establishing contact with our audience. Would anyone read the thing? Would they like it? Surely they’d think we had serious issues. And didn’t we, though? You calmed my nerves and helped me go through with it, and made it easier even when it was hard. You’re a hard worker, talented writer, but more than any of the roles I’ve listed you’re a great friend.

Now that I most certainly sound like a big ol’ weepy-eyed pantywaist…

SOMEONE. Anyone. Please give us money.

Thanks, of course, to all of our readers and listeners. You’ll never really know how much your encouragement means. Thanks to friends who’ve listened to me talk endlessly about this project, especially those of you who have become regular readers and even contributors. Jennifer Edgar has always been the first to offer a compliment, and has helped with advice and editing. John White has continually reminded me to be true to our characters, and has offered great plot and dialogue assistance whenever I asked. Elisa Munoz has been available to listen to my rants day and—probably too often—night. Cary Norton has saved us from technical disaster on more than one occasion, and Stephanie Masters has always come through with comments and fan support.

I’d like to thank my family—my parents, Mike and Susan, my sister Courtenay, and Blaine Lautner, specifically—for supporting this project from the first chapter. Thanks to Jennifer Gorman, Jennifer Crabb, and Wendy Hiers for making my own high school years bearable and providing the inspiration for Stephanie, June, and Bryanna.

I really can’t say enough about the collaborative team that helped make Some New Trend a reality. Seth Newell, your video was brilliant, a lot of fun, and got the project off to a great start, and your organization of our launch party—with a lot of help from Sean Kirby—made the event fun and successful. Drea Zacharenko, I couldn’t ask for a better designer. Your commitment to incorporating our ideas and the heart of our story into a lovely and easy to navigate design provided the structure we needed to support us over the next several months. Jason Slatton, I miss our editing sessions already, and not just because of the Al’s. You taught us so much about writing and about story, and I know your influence on our writing will live long past this blog. John Yam—your illustrations complemented our chapters better than I ever could have imagined, and were like a gift each and every week. They added so much to our project, and I can’t thank you enough.

Finally, to Kevin. You’ve been professional, flexible, and supportive. From your very first line, I’ve been amazed at the quality of writing you’ve produced every week. Thank you for always being available when I needed advice, always meeting your deadlines, always being willing to pitch in when I was busy or sick. Thank you for your excellent edits and ideas for character development. I couldn’t have asked for a better writing partner. I’m so glad we made this crazy idea a reality.

KISS AND NO MAKEUP :: BY KEVIN WILDER

YOU HATE THIS, DON’T YOU.

Five words. One-syllable each. A single oversimplified sentence whispered to June over coffee before leaving the Food Court fountains.

If my life were a popular television series, a deep voiceover speaker could announce “Previously, on ‘Josh Bates’ Existence’…” Some important clips could then play from my recent past and prepare the patient audience for some closure the present day would reward. But life is rarely this straightforward. It’s one big difficult decision after another. People can only turn into themselves once, and the whole time secretly wonder if it’s the person they were meant to be.

I stand instead of sit, at a folding table rather than a drafting desk. I tack hard-tags on returned items to activate alarms, in case a potential shoplifter decides to run off with skinny jeans or a fedora hat. And until I’m able to map out blueprints for the next Falling Water, preventing financial loss at R.H. Macy and Co. is a must.

Perhaps I should be grateful. After all, I still have a job. As of yesterday six have been let go, including one of my kind old lady cohorts from Intimates. She’s probably been with the company since the mall parking lot accommodated for horse and buggy, yet no one is fazed by her dismissal. Why couldn’t it have been me instead of her? It isn’t like I’ve got great-grandchildren to feed.

You hate this, don’t you.

It was more of a statement than a question. If I could go back, I’d change the words that were said. I’ve always liked questions more. Questions require answers, whereas statements can only express the condition of a certain predicament. Protractors and t-squares can go to work in your mind all they want and sketch outlines for a perfect future, but since they can’t resurrect what’s already built, who’s to say what the edifice will look like when it’s finished? It never turns out how you think it will.

***

Early this morning, over more coffee, I had to deal with Stephanie’s public confrontations: “I can’t believe the way you’re leading June on,” she said. “You’re gonna destroy her!”

I just stood there, waiting for Dylan to back me up, her accusations pelting me like tiny bullets. Finally I said, “Wait. I thought you didn’t even like Bryanna.”

“I don’t. You’re missing the point.” My sister raised her voice. “Why would you be with someone who’s totally selfish and only hanging out with you because there’s no other option? Everybody knows this but you.”

I looked at my sister, on the verge of falling apart. Was this a result of the decisions I’d made? “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even know her. Try having a conversation with the girl sometime. You wanna know what she thinks about you? She told me your outfits are ‘cute.’ And that was after you were rude to her.” I realized I should probably stop, and left my retaliations at: “If you weren’t so jealous over June having a new best friend you might see she’s a lot nicer than you.”

It was only after I said this last part that I realized it might be true. It felt weird to stand up for Bry. We obviously would never speak again, but this still didn’t give Steph any reason to keep spitting out childish remarks. After almost pulling some chunks of hair from her head, she left the shop.

“You know,” Dylan warned me, “if the manager sees another one of these little episodes, he’s gonna ban you kids from here forever.”

“Not my fault,” I said, even though it was. I turned to see Rose McPheerson, sitting in the corner of the room with her boyfriend Freddie. They both smiled. I walked over, and said sheepishly, “Uh, how much of that did you hear?”

“Oh, all of it.” Rose’s voice sounded less like a police siren. Maybe she’d lost it at the party while yelling at Danny Quidmelle? Apparently, he vomited all over James’s supermodel girlfriend’s dress after we left, and Rose punched him for ruining yet another priceless commodity. This anger, in fact, might be the sole factor that kept me alive that night.

“Your sister looks pretty pissed,” Freddie added. Had this fact not made itself clear already?

“Yeah,” I said, scratching my head. “I’ve been having that effect on a lotta people lately. Both related to me and not. D’you guys have any idea what I should do?”

***

I’m brought back to consciousness by the halogen lamps glaring above me, and the echoes of Todd’s approaching footsteps. When my boss arrives at Formal Wear, his befitting suit has been replaced with non-befitting workout gear. He’s never looked more like a cartoon character before now, wearing striped tube socks and Umbros. His head is wrapped in a matching doo-rag.

I ask, “Have you been tanning?” and “Is that new a tattoo?”

Todd tucks some chest hairs into his mesh tank top,” and says, “Time to shake off some of this pressure I’ve been under.” He says it while nibbling on the last of a protein bar. “On the treadmill, of course.”

I nod. The movement of my head directly coincides with the flexing of Todd’s left bicep. My boss is completely unaware that this new fitness lifestyle contradicts the three cups of coffee he’s guzzled in the past hour. “Hey,” I say, “don’t most gyms have locker rooms where you can change?”

“Of course,” Todd says. “But I was born with gymnophobia. Also known as the fear of naked bodies. Anyway, I’m sorry Dave and Ray asked off for the same night. Hopefully they ain’t plannin’ any more double dates before Back to School begins. Did I tell you I found out my cousin’s gonna be serving in prison for life?”

“Don’t think so,” I say. “Must suck. What’d he do?” I’m continually surprised by the topics that never seem out of line for Todd to discuss.

“He hijacked a private jet to Costa Rica, and kidnapped an ex-girlfriend on the way. They found him selling drugs at a fuel stop in El Paraíso. Yep. Cousin Ryland always had it coming.”

“Wow!” I say, getting a sudden adrenaline kick from the story. “I’ve got a friend that would find that fascinating.” I realize how insensitive my comment sounds and add, “Every family’s got problems, though, right?”

He wipes his eyes and nose with his terry cloth no-sweat towel, and tosses me a set of keys. “These are yours. Assuming you’ll feel safe locking up when nine o’clock rolls around.”

I jump, trying to catch the keys, but they land in a rolling rack of Nautica jackets. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, boss-man. By the way, those are some kickin’ Umbros. Um…bro.”

“Thanks playa-hata. Time to get sexy. The alarm code’s on the keychain. Call me if ya run into any trouble.” Little does he know the mess I’ve found myself in already. He pounds my fist with his free hand, and then lifts his oversized duffel bag with much complication.

“Ouch.”

Todd says, “Peace brother,” and heads toward the exit, stopping to refold a pair of khakis on the way.

I gather all the trash, sweep, mop, dust the counters, and afterwards decide to kill the final hour by tagging blazers. Before long this task becomes robotic. When I’m the only worker left in the shop, I go into the office to play a copy of …And Out Come the Wolves through the sound system. It’s refreshing.

I’m glad Dave and Ray picked a slow night to convince girls to go on dates with them. I hope their experiences turn out better than mine. To use their words, if they “seal the deal,” I’ll be curious to find out how strong these females’ collective visions are. Maybe Will was right when he suggested they must have reptilian skin and missing appendages. This line of thinking is cut short by a vibration in my jacket pocket:

Can u let me in? 

i don’t wana go home but securitys about 2 kik me out

When I can’t wait any longer, I respond to this peculiar text message with:

Ok. Upstairs or down?

The normally automatic doors leading to the mall are solid and impenetrable. After knocking them around a while, I fail to comprehend their construction. Eventually, they slide open and in walks Bryanna, looking unsettled. “How much trouble am I gonna get you in?”

I yawn and try to project the aura of someone who feels laid-back, even though inside my heart and stomach are tied together like a monkey’s fist. “They turned off the cameras after our security guy got laid off. I know. Real intelligent.”

I notice that she’s wearing a tomato-colored t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, and that she doesn’t have any makeup on. The pedi- color on her toes has worn-off, and the sandals on her feet are the ones I helped her purchase, so long ago. “This is a first,” I say. “Did you raid my sister’s closet?”

She laughs. And then she wraps me in a tight embrace. And then, after several more seconds, she starts crying.

“Easy now,” I say, patting her back, like a baby I’m trying to burp.

“I didn’t really like Danny Quidmelle,” she says, in between sobs. “He’s a drunk moron. The whole thing felt terrible. I was trying to make you jealous.”

“Well it worked,” I say. “I mean…I did get jealous. Did I seem jealous to you? Because I was.”

“Yeah,” she says. “What a crappy party. You were right. Most parties are.”

I say, “It wasn’t so bad until the end,” then realize this doesn’t sound very encouraging. “It was…educating. Plus, it gave me an opportunity to find out the differences between ‘tipsy’ and ‘obliterated’. And ya know, that type of thing might come in handy for dorm life.”

She snickers, and dries her tears with my shirttail. “You always make me laugh,” she says, patting my cheek.

Bryanna lowers her head. “Rose told me you stuck up for me today. Even though you shouldn’t have.” She turns away. “I should let you get back to work.” Before she makes it to the door I say, “That’s not necessary,” and jiggle my new keys before her. “Wanna see somethin’ cool?”

“Sure.”

Together, we walk past familiar landmarks: Intimates, Women’s Shoes, and then up the escalator to Stuntin’ & Hustlin’ and Men’s Formal Wear. “We’re almost there,” I whisper, slightly worried that someone has found a way to listen in.

We pass Panini presses and coffee grinders, fake flower pots and candles, then come to a halt behind Bedding.

The fact that my keys grant access to the roof, and the fact that I’m completely aware of this, are two miracles nothing short of phenomenal…

Several months back, Todd came down with mononucleosis, and was forced to spend an entire week in a state of near-death. He couldn’t leave the office (or so he claimed). One morning, clenching a framed photo of his mother, he handed me another set of keys. He instructed me, “Now if I fall asleep…and understand I will most likely be falling asleep several times today…don’t forget to show the roof guys where the hatch is.”

“Ay-ay, Cap’n,” I said, saluting him. “What hatch?”

“This ain’t a joke, Josh, so quit yer shilly-shallyin’.” He sneezed on the unfinished employee schedule. “I’m putting you in charge to let ‘em up through the hatch door.” Eventually, he found the energy to stand up and lead me to it. “They’ll need to change out the screens and foam inserts on the gutters so no more shit can clog up the pipes.” Back then, he’d converse with me as if I were an unlikable second grader, except for the swear words he’d add in to sound cool. I told him I was wholly aware of how rain spouts worked, and that I’d even drawn a few in my Honor’s English notebook. I looked forward to seeing the city from atop a large retail building, and hoped another day might come to do it again…

One of Bryanna’s sandals slips off. Her foot struggles to grip on the next ladder step. “I’m scared,” she says.

“Don’t be. If you fall, I’ll catch you.” I boost her up toward the hatch, and unintentionally grab her butt in the process.

She says my name with provocative bewilderment—“Josh!”—and tries the lock with a few of my keys. This takes longer than expected. When the door opens, a breeze slams it against the shingles.

Together we find a place to sit, side by side, overlooking the streetlamps and skyline. “It’s so beautiful,” Bryanna says.

When I was a child, I always pictured heaven resembling a cloudy place where hot waffles loaded with butter and syrup were served, accompanied by Mason jars filled to the brim with chocolate milk. But I’ve grown up a lot since then, and now I think it might be like sitting on a roof with a girl. Especially one who wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

The fact that we live in the country’s flattest state makes it both easier and harder to see the land around us. Beneath tonight’s sky the view is spectacular. There’s an Art Deco theater a few blocks over. To the right of us is my old middle school. There’s a park with swings and monkey bars that the thugs have taken over, and next to it, the city’s most iconic building. The SunTrust Bank Tower ascends twelve stories. It’s ultra-modern, antagonistic to the territory, and was developed by some French guy that currently lives in Ocala. Running parallel beside it is a Domino’s Pizza,next to a looping sidewalk. It’s where Will spent the bulk of his time before Driver’s Ed. Here, he fractured his collarbone and broke his skateboard in half, left only with a cool hitchhiking story he could overembellish for weeks. It’s impossible to see the water up here, but there’s still a little summer left for that. From our spot, even the strip malls (which there are more than enough of—some renovated, some not) look lovely tonight.

And then there’s Bryanna.

She rests her head on my arm. Her face feels smoother than ever. Bryanna’s hair, brushed by what I once imagined to be at least 100 strokes per night, reflects in the subdued light, radiating to create a warm, halo-like glow. To me she resembles someone in one of those old child-of-God paintings, except blonder.

If I were a different type of guy, I might look for ways that this scenario could lead to sex. But three summers ago I signed a True Love Waits oath, and promised to abstain from intercourse until marriage or death. Besides, I’ve come to realize there are substitutions for sex. Like playing with a girl’s hair, for instance, while she tickles your arm. Even holding hands feels more exciting now than all the other times we’ve done it. And plus, who needs sex? I hear it can really complicate things.

Bryanna looks at my face. I look back at hers. We gaze at each other for a while, and somehow this doesn’t become awkward. Then finally, without using words, we come to a simultaneous agreement. It’s time to kiss.

And so we do.

What’s the experience like? It’d be difficult to illustrate. I mean, how would one start in describing a thing like how Bryanna Summerson’s lips taste?

Less like cherries, and more like a normal person’s breath, except far less pervasive. Bryanna seems quite experienced at the exercise. She starts with tiny pecks, which strangely reminds me of Pete Townshend’s ability to construct the perfect chord: the mathematical interval of time between osculations is nearly as important as the osculations themselves.

It doesn’t compare to my previous kissing experiences—much sweeter than my participation in Sissy Jackson’s immoral contest, and more celestial than hiding beneath the bleachers with Maureen McClearly before she went Goth. The pecks lead to more slippery activity (something I can only describe as “lip-calisthenics”). Our mouths open, and my tongue carefully advances past the portal of her own. I want it all to seem graceful and easy. Instead, it feels like two baby seals struggling to slither up the beach while avoiding a deadly-fanged walrus.

What else can this equate with? Not a damn thing! Except maybe how it would feel to see one of my favorite buildings—bold and uncompromising, with the slightest of imperfections. But even this must feel more perfect than standing face-to-face with the Los Angeles Airport Theme Building (architect: Paul Williams) or the Vitra Design Museum (architect: Frank Gehry).

If I compared a rock and roll album to kissing Bryanna, it wouldn’t sound so much like anything from the band KISS, but maybe Side A of A Night at the Opera, which might be ironic since the singer of Queen didn’t like girls at all.

Bryanna pulls her mouth away from mine and asks, “Wait a sec. What about June?”

I return to her mouth, scared that the next smooch will be our last. It’s tough to keep your lips working while talking, but I say, “What about her? (kiss) My friend’s in love with her. (kiss) June’s practically the only (kiss) person he doesn’t imagine to be a walking corpse.”

Bryanna moves away and stretches her body out again. “I guess that’s what true love must feel like. Imagining a person to be something other than a corpse.”

“Funny,” I say, unable to steal another one from her. “And probably accurate.”

A million questions pop into my mind. The first being, what if this very moment was supposed to be shared with June? What if she happened to be “the one?” June Marley could’ve been the twisty straw in my Banana Chocolate Vanilla Werewolf Sunrise. I could’ve been the Peter to her Paul and Mary.

Or, what if Bryanna and June were both meant for me? And seriously, should anyone at seventeen be deciding who should hold that position? Furthermore, if there’s an unwritten monogamous law that states only one girl can hold that title, does it mean forever, or just until the end of summer? It’s tough to be bothered with complications like these while you’re trying to extend the duration of making out.

“Hey Josh,” Bryanna asks. The fact that she’s wearing no makeup and no fancy dress doesn’t make her look like a corpse at all. It actually does quite the opposite.

“Yep?”

Could this lack of corpse-ness mean I’m falling in love? Who knows. Perhaps when Cupid’s arrow hits, it’ll be obvious. Maybe like Will says, it will also be painful. And until the love flu’s symptoms leave me diseased and helpless, this will be the Bryanna I like best: a real person, in a real t-shirt and jeans, with real feelings. Someone who’s able to maintain real-life under-the-surface friendships with real people. Really.

All of us at one time or another have believed some particular thing will help us rise above bum-status. Whether this object be a job, money, or a girl, we all have notions of what holds the key (no pun intended) to help our existence transcend into something far greater. At times Will thinks this is June. And me? Well, I used to be convinced that Bryanna would solve all my problems. I heard a recording once where one of my dad’s favorite pastors talked about this, and I’ve always believed this homebro might have been on to something. I can only keep doing what I do, and hope that things will pan out in this life or the next. This is the gospel truth. What else is there to do?

Bryanna hops up. The wind is blowing her hair in every direction. She asks, “Wanna go steal some ingredients at Kujo’s? We can invent a new smoothie.”

I signal for her to duck, to hide from the security cop making laps on his Segway, and then stand up along with her. “I got a better idea. If we can find a flashlight, wanna try to sneak into the arcade?”

She laughs. “Sounds enticing. But before we continue breaking rules, don’t you need to close up shop?”

“Maybe so,” I say. But then I decide not to. There will be plenty of time for that later.

This week’s giveaway is Taken By Storm by Angela Morrison. Forbidden romance! Deep sea diving! Mormons! Need we say more?

The winner of last week’s giveaway, TMI, is … Krista! Send an email to info@somenewtrend with your mailing address, and we’ll get your book in the mail soon.

If you’ve won a book but haven’t received it yet, be sure to let us know. Resend your address and we’ll double check the outgoing mail.

SERIES REVIEW :: BY CARRIE ROLLWAGEN

As you already know if you’ve listened to this week’s podcast, or if you’re one of the friends I’ve called on for errands (thanks for the Sprite, Kevin!), I’ve been in bed for the past week with the flu.

Is it swine flu? I’ve been asked that, say, 40 or 50 times since coming back to work yesterday. The answer: I don’t know. I like to think not. But it was bad.

I’m not sure how people survived the flu before they had Netflix Instant Queue. Oh, what’s that, historians? They didn’t? Well, I’m not surprised. I’d have been bored out of my mind without it.

I survived this week on lots of fluids, rest, Theraflu, and a quite a few movies. After exhausting my library rentals (all the Harry Potters, Robin Hood, Princess Bride) and my Netflix discs (Season 4.5 of Battlestar Galactica, Mad Men), it was time to explore new territory from my Instant Queue.

I’ve had Dead Like Me in my queue for awhile, but I just wasn’t in the mood. I figured it’d be dark and gloomy, derivative of Six Feet Under. In fact, it’s brilliantly original and completely entertaining.

George, Dead Like Me’s heroine, is a college drop-out with an attitude problem. (This “problem” is just a general sense of “why bother” that many of us go through, very often as teenagers.)

In the first episode, George is killed by getting hit on the head with wreckage falling from space, and that’s when things get interesting. Turns out she’s chosen to be a Grim Reaper. As such, she gets to keep her body and all the benefits (eating waffles, kissing boys) that come with it. But she has to deal with death daily.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen storytelling that explores the meaninglessness of life so well without getting depressing. The characters are interesting and the plots and dialogue are really funny. I love that Dead Like Me lets George have her melancholy without trying to weed it out.

For George and her fellow reapers, death is literally a part of everyday life, as routine as having coffee or going to work. For many of them, including George, death is also a license to really start living. I’m looking forward to Season Two.