Eloise

 “Why do you have a snake?” Laura asked, stepping over the mess of bramble branches. 

“I don’t,” Carl said. 

“Yes you do. I know you do. My mom told me. It’s one of those big ones. It’s a python. You keep it under your bed. My mom said not to go in there without her.” 

Carl stopped for a moment and looked about the woods, trying to recall where he was. The last time he’d been out there he had made marks in the trees, putting together a path for himself so he could come back. But that had been weeks ago and the long scars he’d left had darkened. He took a step toward a tree and placed his hand on it, sensing its familiarity. He searched and searched until he found his mark, then continued on his way. “It’s not a python,” he said. “It’s a boa.” 

Laura jogged a few steps forward to catch up. “It’s a what?” 

“It’s a boa constrictor. Not a python. There’s a difference. The head looks different. They’re from different parts of the world.” 

“I thought you said you didn’t have a snake.” 

“I did.” 

“Then why’d you lie?” 

Carl began to respond but could not think of anything to say. He spit onto the ground and wiped his lips with the back of his arm and could taste the bug spray he’d put on earlier. 

“Did you lie because you thought I’d call you weird?” 

“I don’t know why I lied.” 

“Yes you do.” 

“Maybe I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I just wanted to walk without talking.” 

“What’s your snake's name?” She smiled, some private pleasure crossing her mind. “What’s your boa constrictor’s name?”

“Eloise.” 

Laura said nothing to that, the name, or perhaps how it was uttered, satisfying whatever need she was searching for with her questions. They walked on in silence for a bit, shuffling through the dead leaves and dry pine needles. It was October and the woods were all dry, dead, and dusty. Carl liked it when it was like this. Things had a still and frozen feeling. It made you feel like something was about to happen. In the summer, when everything was lush and green, it felt confusing to be out in the woods. There was too much of everything. But in the fall it made sense to be out there. You could understand things better. 

They came to a dried creek and took turns sliding down into the bed. Carl took his cousin’s hand and helped her down. Her hand felt good in his and he did some thinking on what about it made it feel like a girl’s hand rather than a boy’s. The skin was certainly softer. 

They walked along the creek bed for a short while and then came upon a downed oak, slumped down into the embankment. Carl pointed at the massive, mossy thing. “We just gotta crawl up this, and then we’re there.” 

“Is it slippery?” 

“Kinda.” 

“Do you think they’ll be there again today?” 

Carl thought about it for a moment. “Probably. They’re always there on Sundays. Last three weeks at least.”

“You do this every week?” 

Carl shrugged his shoulders. “You go first.” 

He followed closely behind as they worked their way up the oak. He watched her closely and found enjoyment in her uncomfortability. He liked his cousin because she was from Texas and not North Carolina and so she didn’t know that she was supposed to treat him a certain way; she didn’t know how everyone at his school or in his neighborhood had decided he should be treated. She didn’t know that he was supposed to be called faggot, dicksucker, pussy boy, and that he was supposed to be left alone. Or that they had invented games about him at the bus stop––who could unpack his backpack and turn it inside out without him noticing, or who could startle him the best by throwing a rock closest to his head. She didn’t know about any of that. The small scar above left eyebrow could be explained to her as anything; something interesting or heroic––a branch got him while hopping a creek, he’d bumped into a cabinet one night grabbing a glass. Whatever. And he liked her for that. He wondered how people acted toward her at her school or in her neighborhood, but never asked. He assumed, because she was pretty and spoke loudly, she was probably treated pretty well though. 

When they reached the other side of the embankment, the two crouched behind a dried cedar bush. “Told you,” Carl said, moving a branch out of the way so he could see better.

“This is gross, Carl,” she said, but she didn’t look away. “This is gross.” 

Across the way, laying out on a quilted blanket, two pale teenagers thrusted and turned about each other naked. The girl moaned and said things like Yes!  and Oh my god! The boy did not say anything; he just continued to thrust himself in and out, a focused look on his face. He turned the girl over and placed her on all fours and then entered her from behind and began thrusting again. “Oh my god!” she said. The boy awkwardly slouched over her and tried to kiss her but she did not notice it and he could not reach her so he returned upright and continued to thrust. “Yes!” she said. 

“Every Sunday,” Carl whispered. “They’re here every Sunday.” 

—

Harold Beck is a fiction writer from Lumberton, North Carolina. He currently lives in Brooklyn with his cat, Bill.