It's Not Nerves

 

This is a short story about memories.

 

I close my eyes.

 

First light, then sounds.

 

Blinking sunlight. Yellow, warm, comforting. Then the outline of shapes. Familiar, but blurry. Then sounds. Fresh air rushing past my ears. Smells now. Sweet, clean summer mixed with the rain and the road. The quick steam rising - the warmth of the road under fresh puddles. I feel safe.

 

I'm going downhill. No hands on the handlebars. Eyes closed. Done this thousands of times before. It’s a beautiful summer, almost at an end. It’s Sunday. One last afternoon melting into evening. Still the sensation of moving. Moving fast. Downhill.

 

Tomorrow is school. A new term. But today – what’s left of today – there’s me. Soon I'll be at the bottom of the hill. I can feel the sun on my face, blinking between the houses and the trees that line the road. Close to the main road next to the school. My school. Time to slow down. It’s a main road. I need to brake.

 

Eyes open.

 

The glare of the sun on wet tarmac. The reflections from the road and the puddles. Too bright. Out of focus. I blink a few times. All around, the late sun touches the ground. The wet road with steam rising out of the puddles. Warm, late sun after rain. That wet smell again. Tarmac and soft rain.

 

Across the road. Down the next short hill. It’s left. Turn left.

 

A tickling in the stomach. Nerves? What if she says no? I can always turn round. But you always turn round. You know she likes you. I keep going. It’s not nerves.

 

 I’ll stop at No.35. No, stop sooner. Stop and catch your breath. It's a big deal. Massive. Don't want to spoil it. Has to be - perfect. Needs to be. Will be.

 

I stop three doors away. The sun is setting but everything is still glowing. An orange glow, forming a halo above her house. To the right I see clouds moving away, chased off by the last of the summer sun.

 

Now there’s twists in my stomach. Little shivers. Maybe jabs? They run up and down my legs. It's from the cycling, I tell myself. It’s not nerves.

 

I try to slow my breathing.

 

Ok. Ready.

 

Need to hurry up. It’s getting dark. Soon, it’ll be too dark. Too dark and too late. Have to go home. Early curfew. School starts tomorrow. School and study and exams and keeping out the way of all the bullies and the bams, and. And -

 

Stop.

 

Never mind tomorrow. I'm here now. It’s the last day of summer. One foot on the pedal, wheeling along, thinking about the summer holidays. All the afternoons and evenings with my friends. Hanging around with Angela. Telling jokes, acting up, waiting and hoping. Hoping Angela would give me the dead arm. That was the code. That's how I'd know she likes me. A short punch to the arm. Just above the elbow, just below the shoulder. Done just right, and it’s the little spike of pain. A little spike of pain and surprise. Then a smile. Getting a smile on its own was great. But a smile and a dead arm? It means she likes you. 

 

I’m at No. 35. Angela’s house. I ring the doorbell. Feel the rusty squeak of the button as it pushes in and clangs the bell. A jolt goes through my arm. Electricity? Maybe it’s broken? Nerves again. Ok, it’s nerves. More than I'm letting on.

 

The sun’s ever lower. Everything is bathed in the perfect amber of the sun. Deep breath. I smell the lavender from the plant pots outside her front door. A prickling feeling runs up from my neck to the back of my head. The door opens and Angela’s there. And the sweet, heavy scent of the dewberry perfume she always wears is there too. My whole head prickles all over again. That smell. Throughout the summer, dewberry meant she was there.

 

In a moment, I’m remembering everything Angela and I talk about over the summer. She likes Tori Amos and Suzanne Vega, and I like Megadeth. But we both like Prince. She likes Sunset Song, I like Hamlet. She says Hamlet’s a wimp. I say he’s misunderstood. A misunderstood wimp, she says.

 

Then she smiles. You smile, but you don’t give me the dead arm.

 

 

Angela’s standing in her doorway, in a long flowery skirt and white t-shirt and no shoes. I know I only have a few moments and I don't know what words to use. But Angela’s standing there and she's smiling and I'm smiling. And all around me I can smell dewberry and lavender and I look up and see the summer sun.

 

It’s fading fast on this last evening of the summer. But it’s still beautiful. And it’s perfect. And.

 

And the paramedic is telling me to open my eyes. 

 

Suddenly cold. Angela isn't at her door. I’m not on her street. I’m not sure where I am. The paramedic. She wants me to stay here. Here?

 

It’s cold and I feel pain. Pain coming from, well, somewhere. And I’m on my own. No. If I close my eyes again, I can go back. 

 

It's late. I know it’s late. Sun is fading. I can hear my breathing. It's shallow, fading too. I’m shivering. Nerves?

 

It’s not nerves.

 

The warm amber sun is now red. It’s a thick red. Blood? I think blood. The paramedic is telling me to open my eyes. Ok then. Once more. My eyes open. And it is painful and it is cold and it is blood in my eyes. The paramedic’s voice is a woman's voice. She's calm. She wants me to look at her. Not look down. Don't look down. 

 

So, I look down.

 

My leg is wrong. In the wrong place. When was this?

 

I’m going downhill, no hands on the handlebars. Done it thousands of times before. My right leg is wrong. I can see my knee but I can’t see my foot. And my other leg – where’s my other leg? My left leg is under me. It’s under my body somewhere.

 

I can't tell where my other leg is.

 

Colder. More pain. Nerves?

 

It’s not nerves.

 

Electricity running all over my legs and up into my chest and behind my eyes and it hurts.

 

It hurts.

 

I don't remember this. I was going downhill. No hands on the handlebars. Eyes closed. Sunlight fading and everything warm. Now there's a light in my eyes. A bright, hard light. Not sunlight. I feel much colder now.

 

I want to close my eyes again. Feel warmth. Feel the last of the summer sun. Smell the road after the rain and lavender and Angela’s dewberry perfume. The paramedic doesn't want me to. I must be talking to her. She's nice. Her voice is nice, she says it wasn’t my fault. Somewhere far off, a voice says it wasn’t their fault. Says I wasn’t paying attention.

 

I want to go back.

 

 

Feel the sunlight on my face. Smell the air after the rain. See the steam rising from the puddles. I want to see Angela’s face and feel the twists in my stomach. I hear what the paramedic is saying but I want to go back. See Angela in her doorway. On the last day of summer. Before school. Before exams. In the last of the summer sun. Ask her to be my girlfriend.

 

I close my eyes.

 

The thick red blood sticks to my eyes. There’s blood in my throat too. It’s ok, I won’t open my eyes again.

 

I start to feel warm. Warm, but numb.

 

I’m outside Angela’s house. At her door step. And she's there and she's smiling. I'm smiling. And it’s perfect again. Tomorrow doesn't need to come. Who needs tomorrow? I've got this. One last evening on the last day of summer. No school. This memory is nearly complete. Almost whole. Almost perfect. And the sun is still holding on, waiting for me. It’s waiting for us Angela.

 

She and I are standing together in the glow of the last summer evening of the holidays. And I tell Angela – she’s amazing. She’s beautiful. We both like Prince.

 

She laughs.

 

She reaches out.

 

She punches my arm. Right above the elbow and right below the shoulder. I feel it all over my body. Nerves?

 

It’s not nerves.

 

Angela says yes. And it's perfect and I'm the happiest I've ever been. I want to stay here forever. This perfect moment, right at the end of the summer.

 

Right at the end.

 

Away somewhere, faintly, I hear someone say, "He didn't make it".

 

Rubbish.

 

I made it just fine. All the way down from my house. Downhill all the way, no hands on the handlebars. Done it thousands of times before. Eyes closed. All the way with the setting sun flickering through the trees. All the way with the smell of rain on the road. And then eyes open. The glare at first. The smell of lavender. And then, when Angela’s door opens, dewberry. Dewberry means you’re there.

 

She's standing in her doorway. She's smiling and I am too. She likes Suzanne Vega and I like Megadeth. We're both smiling. Angela laughs. She punches my arm and she says yes.

 

The dead arm means she likes you.

 

It's the last day of summer and she says yes.

 

Tomorrow is far away. That’s fine.

 

It can wait. I’m not in a hurry anymore.

 

I watch Angela as she smiles at me. Standing, with bare feet, in her doorway in her long flowery skirt and white t-shirt.

 

There’s nothing else I want but watch her smile.

 

I take one last breath.

 

Just one.

 

I smile too.

 

I close my eyes.