Michaelle

The summer of '90 seemed to go on forever. The sun beat down on the pavement, and you walked along, your plaid skirt flapping in the wind. Beside you was Michael, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his cap backward, chewing gum. —Hurry up, brat. he said with a crooked smile. —If we get to the arcade late, Tommy's probably already stolen my Street Fighter machine.

Rolled your eyes. —How about we play Pac-Man for once? —Pac-Man is boring. He looked at you sideways —Besides, I like it when you cheat in fights. They both ran the last few blocks to the store. The neon sign flickered and the sound of the machines filled the air. Michael tapped the pocket of his baggy jeans. —I have enough coins, ready?

He didn't give you time to respond before he dragged you toward his favorite game. While he mashed buttons, you sat beside him, watching his long hair fall over his shoulders. When he lost, he always let out an exaggerated grunt, and you couldn't help but laugh. Later, when the heat was getting intense, they went to the river. You took off your shoes and dipped your feet in the water while Michael dove in without a second thought. —Come on, chicken! she shouted from the water, waving her arms.

—I'm not a chicken. I just don't want to ruin my skirt. You replied, crossing your arms.

—Then wear one of your brother's pants. No one will notice. He smiled, splashing water at you.

You threw a rock into the water to silence him, but ended up jumping in after him instead. Michael's laughter echoed through the trees, contagious, as he tried to pull you under. As the sun began to set, they sat on the shore, soaked, sharing a bag of chips. Michael adjusted his cap and looked at you seriously for the first time that day. “You know something? I don’t care if everyone else says I’m a problem. With you… I always feel at home.”