Sugar Kisses

Vinny Marshall was my best friend. Then he screwed everything up.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. Except it really isn’t. Hang on.

Let me start from the beginning.

We own an apple orchard.

We first came up with the idea in seventh grade when our teacher was making everyone in class write an essay about what they wanted to be when they grew up. On our walk home, we stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few odds and ends for our parents. We started horsing around and I ended up throwing an apple at Vinny’s head. He caught it, smirked at me, took a bite, and then remarked how poor the quality of fruit was around here. So I said why don’t you just grow your own then, O Lord of the Land, and he said I don’t know anything about running a business, smartass, and I said well I could do that part. We stared at each other for a minute, and then the same grin erupted across both of our faces. Sure. Why not an apple orchard? We could either take a chance on a dream or end up being a corporate stooge like every other adult we knew.

Our vision was made more tangible by the fact that Vinny came from a farming family who possessed strong faith in the abilities of individuals and a deep suspicion of self-proclaimed “experts.” Mr. Marshall built their cabin-style home with his bare hands (refusing to stop even when the calluses on his hands ruptured pus for a week, because he might be a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them). He also didn’t trust most grocery stores (the local establishment being the sole exception), and thus took it upon himself to raise his own animals and plant his own vegetables. He even dug a well in their backyard, and as far as I know, the water never gave anyone typhoid.

Did he have the permits to do any of these things? I have no idea. All I know is that if anybody had ever tried to tell him he wasn’t allowed, I never heard about it. They probably ended up at the bottom of that well.

I, meanwhile---equipped with nothing but a mind for numbers and zero practical skills---decided to get a business degree so I could make sure we didn’t go under in the first year. My education, coupled with Vinny’s farming know-how, made us unstoppable. People were particularly fond of our “sugar kiss” apples---which were Vinny’s creation, made from just the right combination of soil, sun, and farm boy magic. I wish I could say I helped cultivate our bestseller, but the most I did was eat a bunch of them to make sure they were fit for human consumption. They had a special tartness that made them great for jams. Yeah, we did nicely for ourselves.

’Till Vinny ruined it.

My mother was a Mexican nurse who worked with Doctors Without Borders and my father was an American executive who sold his soul to a big-wig publishing company. Unlike Vinny’s dad, mine’s talent was in his intellect rather than his hands; he wrote more philosophical treatises than should ever be allowed by law. My mom liked that about him, but as she always said, brains don’t pay the bills. So off to the corporate wastelands he went.

It was actually rather fortunate for me that I was born into a family that didn’t expect me to do any manual labor. My lousy health is what eventually led my mother to quit her job and homeschool me for the first several years of my life. Whenever we did go out in public, I had to wear a face mask and gloves like some kind of burn ward survivor. It was embarrassing at the time, but looking back, her fears weren’t exactly misplaced. I caught a cold once and almost died. I was hospitalized for over a month, and my lungs were never the same afterwards. From then on, I suffered chronic fits of dizziness that the doctors could never explain or alleviate.

I met Vinny when I was eight years old and at the height of my weird illness.

I was sitting on the front porch and doing my best to choke down a cup of herbal tea that tasted like dirt. Being outside that morning was a rare privilege, granted only because it was unseasonably warm. Mom still insisted I take a blanket, and I huddled on the front steps, sweating beneath a wool afghan as I struggled through my English assignment. I’d only been at it for a few minutes when I looked up and saw a boy strolling around the corner. He was dragging a stick along the ground and talking to himself. I put down my textbook. The tedium of sentence diagramming was promptly forgotten.

Seeing another person was an exciting event. I lived in the small and decidedly boring town of Tesserton, Ohio---a post-industrial wasteland with fewer residents than the average walk-in closet. My house in particular was definitely off the beaten path. To get to it, you had to veer off from the main town square (a generous term for a collection of shanty houses and a hardware store). Then you had to walk over a little stone bridge that crossed a creek and stroll down a dirt road half-concealed by grass and weeds. My house was at the end of that path, nestled among an enclosure of oak trees.

I watched breathlessly as the boy took a few more steps down our grassy lane, still dragging his stick. Then he looked up. He stopped in his tracks.

“Hi,” he said after a long silence.

“Hi,” I answered.

We stared at each other for a moment longer. His unbrushed hair fell into eyes as brown as chocolate cake; he was chubby, sunburned, and so healthy-looking that I felt a momentary surge of hatred.

“I’m Vinny Marshall,” he said.

“Lucas Carlisle,” I said, defaulting to the way my mother had always taught me to introduce myself: full name, shoulders back, politely making eye contact.

“You always live here?’’

“Yup.”

“Huh.” He sucked thoughtfully on his bottom lip, frowning as he sliced off the heads of a few dandelions with his stick. “You go to St. John’s? I don’t ’member seeing you.”

I shook my head. “I do school at home.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I’m sick.”

“Huh.”

I expected follow-up questions regarding the exact details of my illness---at that point most of my social interactions had been with doctors---but to my surprise, the boy said nothing. He murdered a few more dandelions, then waddled down the rest of the path and sat down on the bottom porch step.

“Watcha readin’?” he asked.

“Nothing. How come you’re not in school?” I couldn’t keep the resentment out of my voice.

“We got the day off.”

“Lucky.”

He shrugged, tossed his stick into the woods, and then inserted one finger into his ear. He squinted up at me as he rotated it. “Do you like chocolate?”

“Yeah,” I said, taken aback. He reached into his pockets and produced a fistful of brightly wrapped candies.

“I got a bunch for my birthday. Want one?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Red.” I paused, then said politely: “What’s yours?”

He stared at me for so long I felt my face grow warm with embarrassment.

“Blue, I guess,” he said, extending a chubby hand and dropping a chocolate into my upturned palm.

I cupped the candy reverently in my hands, mesmerized by the way the sun flashed on the red foil wrapping. It was so beautiful it made my heart hurt. I didn’t even want to eat it. Vinny, meanwhile, unwrapped three and threw them into his mouth, chewing noisily for a few seconds before swallowing and then opening up three more. I watched him, fascinated. I wasn’t allowed to have sweets that often because they made my stomach ache. I envied someone who would pack away half a dozen in less than thirty seconds.

We hadn’t said much to each other, but I already felt like I had reached my conversation quota for the day. (My mother playfully called it “the introvert witching hour.”) I wondered anxiously if the boy would get bored and leave. But apparently he wasn’t much of a talker either. He leaned comfortably back on his elbows, and we sat in easy silence for several minutes while he finished the rest of the candy in his pocket. After he left---whistling off-key and kicking a few more dandelions in his path---I went upstairs and put my chocolate on the windowsill in my bedroom so that every morning, it would be the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.

Vinny came to see me every week after that. I was never sure what he got from my company. When I asked him once, he grinned and said, “You make funny faces.” I wasn’t sure if I was being insulted, but I had been so lonely for so long that I didn’t really care. I was starved for friendship, and I probably would’ve put up with a wide range of abuse just to have someone to talk to. Lucky for me, I won the friendship lottery the first time I played.

My mother didn’t share my optimism.

“What kind of parent would let their kid wander around in the woods like some kind of feral wolf?” she said when I told them about our initial meeting over breakfast the next day. “We could be serial killers.”

“Are we?” I asked anxiously. I wasn’t sure what a serial killer was but judging by her expression, I could tell it wasn’t anything good.

“That remains to be seen,” Dad said, snickering as he shoved a spoonful of chilaquiles into his mouth. He winced. “Elena, why do you have to make these so hot?”

“Want me to whip you up a bowl of white rice instead, King Bland?”

“My tongue is on fire. Jesus. Call 911.”

“Here, wash it down with some milk.”

“Milk? Am I a toddler?”

“You’re sure whining like one,” Mom said with a grin, reaching across the table with a large fried tortilla in her hand. She waved it at him. “Here. This one has less salsa on it.” She pushed it against his stubborn lips. After a moment my father sighed and obediently opened his mouth. Mom turned to me, wiping her fingers on the front of her apron. “You want some more too, honey?”

“I’m okay. So can I talk to Vinny again if he comes back?”

She paused, then exchanged raised eyebrows with my father.

“Yeah, okay,” Dad said. “Just don’t wander off with him, alright? Stay on the porch.”

“Okay,” I said eagerly.

It turned out Vinny wasn’t interested in wandering off anywhere. He was content with just sitting next to me on the porch and telling me about St. John’s, the people in his class, the projects he was helping his dad with around the farm, what he was going to name their new cow, and so forth. Sometimes he would bring his homework around and we would study together. If he had candy, he would share it with me. Most of the time it was those red-wrapped chocolates, and unlike the first piece he gave me, I ate these subsequent ones. They were delicious, even though they made my tongue feel thick and my stomach heavy. I wondered why his parents let him eat so much candy. I didn’t know parents like that existed.

When I turned ten, I begged Mom to let me attend St. John’s. We spent weeks arguing about it. She said I was too sick, that I would miss too many days and get behind, she was worried the kids wouldn’t get me, I’d be bullied, etc. I told her I wanted to be around people my own age and play sports. Besides, I wasn’t as sick as I used to be. I could walk up the stairs now without getting too winded.

“You just want to see Vinny every day,” she said accusingly. “You’re too attached to him.”

“Even more of a reason why I should go to school. I should di-diversify my social portfolio.”

“What the hell kind of fifth grader talks like that?” she demanded.

“Homeschoolers,” Dad called from his armchair in the living room.

“This kid isn’t a good influence on you,” she grunted.

But in the end---after much begging on my end and even more coaxing by my father---she relented. I got a new backpack and started going to St John’s like a real boy.

It wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, nor was it quite as life-changing as I had hoped. Vinny was still the only real friend I had, although the other boys were perfectly friendly. Only one guy tried to mess with me: a squinty-eyed student named Jack who called me “wallflower” on my first day. But once Vinny shoved him against a wall and threatened to weld his mouth to his ass, the kid never even looked at me again.

“So how do you like going to school?” Dad asked after I’d been attending St. John’s for a few weeks. I’d just strolled into the living room and dumped my backpack unceremoniously onto the floor. Mom was reading in her armchair and she glanced up with a frown. I ignored her as I turned towards Dad and said cheerfully:

“We played dodgeball today. Vinny hit Charlie in the face and he had to go to the nurse’s office. He was bleeding everywhere. It was super gross.”

“Ah, to be young again,” Dad said grimly.

“Who’s Charlie?” Mom demanded.

“A stupid seventh grader. He looks like Porky Pig.”

“Lucas, be nice.”

“Why? He isn’t,” I said peevishly. “He called me a retard because I got a problem wrong on the board yesterday.”

“Does that have anything to do with Vinny chucking a ball at his face?” Dad asked, snickering.

“One of us had to do it and my arms are too scrawny. I throw like a girl.”

“I got my ass handed to me in third grade by a little blonde named Linda. She wasn’t strong, but man, she was quick. Don’t sell yourself short, is what I’m saying,” Dad said, grinning.

“You’d be better off at home,” Mom groused.

But she made no efforts to pull me out of St. John’s, and from then on she never had another negative word to say about Vinny.