Never Have I Ever
By Salena Casha
Whenever we play Never Have I Ever in Lindsey’s parents’ basement in Reading, I say I’ve never eaten Taco Bell. I know it’s a cop out, but it works every time.
“Not this again,” Lindsey says.
Alex groans and rolls her eyes. It doesn’t matter though because both their thumbs tuck into their palms. Just four to go until it’s over, even though we know everything about each other already, we play in case something has come up that someone never talked about.
The Christmas lights are still up and even though it’s 10PM, we’re drinking Pepsi and dipping Oreos into Pillsbury icing. I’ve got a party bag of Cool Ranch Doritos to myself, the laminated wrapping sticking to my thighs like a second skin. Alex chews with her mouth open and black crumbs pepper her navy sweatshirt. It reminds me of ants and a chill shivers across my back like the aftermath of a bad burn.
Even though I’ve never been to Taco Bell, I know what my order’d be: Cool Ranch Crunchy Taco Shell filled with marinated ground beef, guac, and salsa. Hold the cheese, for no other reason than the texture. It’s called Crunch Taco Supreme or something like that, but because I’ve never been there, I might be wrong. Like going to Lindsey’s parents’ basement, I’d only go to Taco Bell for the Cool Ranch.
Which, speaking of, the chip flakes on the couch are denting the backs of my thighs. I stand and brush them off and sit back down again. The pinch is still there. When I leave to grab water from the upstairs sink and come back, the room smells like beans and sour milk. I hate that I’ve noticed this, but it’s too late now.
When I’m back it’s Alex’s turn and she says, “Never have I ever kissed a girl.”
I know this is a lie because two weeks ago, she told me about Kylie Garisson’s soft tongue and how it felt like her mom’s velvet blouse. I sneak a look over at Lindsey, but her face is smooth, front teeth biting her lip. Alex’s blue-gripped gaze slips over mine. I don’t want to ruin it, be a tattle tale, even though Alex ruined it first.
We’re too old for that.
There's a beat where I think Alex will admit it, but suddenly, it's Lindsey's turn and she brings up fingering and Alex is the only one who has. She spills about Mikey at a TGI Fridays before going to watch Spider Man. She says it’s because she wears mini-skirts and we should wear mini-skirts if we want to get fingered.
I won’t say it to Lindsey or Alex, but I won’t wear miniskirts again after this conversation.
Lindsey rolls her eyes and says, “Shut up, Alex. That’s not true.” Though I’m not sure which part she means.
Mikey’s ugly face and pug nose surface behind my eyes, his hand brushing the bottom of white cotton and something cracks in my chest like bubbles up a nose, and I can’t believe Mikey and other people think wearing mini-skirts means just one thing. I want one of them to say we can’t mean just one thing even though at this point in the evening, I’m at the bottom of the party bag and have become the party bag.
I won’t say it and instead, I lick the milk powder mixed with red and green ranch crystals from my skin. Sour. The fingertips wrinkle like they’ve been in a bath. Briefly, I begin to hate myself as I have a tendency to do on these nights at Lindsey’s.
“This place smells. Can we go for a drive?” Alex this time.
The Doritos press through the skin on my stomach and when I stand, they sync into my pelvis cradle. In a few years, I’ll do push ups and situps after I eat to rid myself of calories but right now, I’m innocent in the same way Alex is innocent and everything outside of Lindsey’s parents’ basement is not. I will never stop loving flavored chips.
“Fine,” I say and Lindsey calls shotgun and somehow, we manage to make it up the stairs and outside.
The night wind smells like banana peels and prickles across my skin as we get into my Mom’s Honda; Alex beats Lindsey to the front seat and I put P!nk on. Pouting and arms crossed, Lindsey sticks her head between us on the console. Her seatbelt doesn’t click.
“Let’s go to Taco Bell and pop Jess’s cherry,” Alex says, tapping the dash. Her shoes are already off and tucked under the front seat.
The Doritos turn over in my stomach and I spin the wheel West instead.
“Then we won’t have to hear that never have I ever ever again,” Lindsey says. Her eyes roll and Alex cackles.
“Nope, we’re going to Sonic,” I say. Lindsey sighs. Alex shrugs. The moon hovers just over the telephone lines as we turn onto route 28.
Luckily, Sonic’s still open - it’s always there for us when we need it - and we slide into one of the ordering slots. I ask the red box for fries and a cherry slushy and Alex gets a burger. Lindsey gets nothing and jumps out of the car to pee.
“She always does that and eats my fries,” I say once she leaves.
“You’ve got to stop being so nice,” Alex says. “That or eat fast.”
Lindsey is still in the bathroom when the food arrives and, as I’m sucking down cherry-flavored sugar on ice, Alex does a sort of half-chuckle to herself and says,
“You know, Mikey wasn’t the first time I got fingered.”
“Oh?” Something feels off in the way she says it and how she’s not looking at me.
She picks the cheese off her burger and hands it to me. I put it on the side of my fries and don’t touch it. Maybe Lindsey’ll eat that instead of the fries. Wishful thinking.
“You remember that swim coach who left right when you joined the team?”
“Carl or something like that?” I say. I don’t remember his face, just that he had a belly and always wore white shirts that were sort of see-through. That he was probably as old as our dads.
After she tells me about what he did to her, I find a pocket of red syrup at the bottom of the plastic cup and take a long pull. My teeth click and stick to one another. I try to push words through the film.
“I didn’t -” I start but then the door flies open and Lindsey’s back in the car and Alex turns from me and shouts
Never have I ever flashed someone and suddenly, the Alex who kissed Kylie and lied about it is back and she’s giggling and pulling her shirt above her head. I throw my fries at Lindsey before I shove us in reverse, so fast, as fast as I can, and we peel out of the parking lot.
“Oh my god, ohmygod, ohmygod,” Lindsey is scream-laughing in the back and I look out the rearview at Sonic, half-panicking someone saw us, half-high from how cool we are, how crazy we are, but maybe, no one cared. Just a bunch of white girls doing stupid white girl things and everyone letting us get away with it.
Alex sits there in her black bra from Aerie and I want to join her but I can’t move my hands from the wheel. A traffic light swings ahead, glowing orange in warning. I hit the gas and run the light. Red slurry spills across the dash and onto the car floor.
Alex is laughing. There’s red on her legs and on my arm and I start laughing too, so hard I have to pull over. Double over and rest my forehead on the wheel. The leather is cold.
“Never have I ever run a red light,” Lindsey says. She’s snorting.
“I’m out,” Alex says, waving her hands over her head.
I haven't kept track, but maybe the joke is on me that we never stopped playing. Maybe we won’t ever stop. It makes it hard to understand what’s a game and what isn’t.
I think briefly that I should tell someone, but instead I open the car door and step into the intersection. Smell burnt rubber and plastic cherry. The melting asphalt and melting sugar crystallize in my nose and behind my eyes. Alex gets out too and suddenly she’s next to me, arm around my shoulders, still laughing.
I hold onto her. She smells like her mom’s Dior and Cool Ranch or maybe that’s me. I squeeze tighter.
For once, she lets me. I think I hear a sniffle, but maybe it’s just that she’s laughing so hard she’s crying and when I let her go from where we’re standing, from what I see on the car floor and the leather seats, I know I’ll never be able to get it out.
THE END
Author Bio: Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her words can be found in Metaphorosis Magazine, HAD, and Flash Frog. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. You can subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com.