Tadpoles in My Jar

9 years later

Betty

I hear the rumble of James' truck, the one with the rusty tailgate and the engine that sputters no matter how many times he tries to fix it. He honks three times—our little tradition. I skip out of the house to find him leaning against the passenger door, the sunlight catching his tousled hair.

He opens the door with a grin. "You ready?" 

As the engine rumbles to life, I glance over at James, noticing the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel. He veers off the main road onto a narrow path, tires crunching over gravel and kicking up dust clouds behind us. He looks over at me, our eyes meet—just for a second—but it feels longer, like neither of us wants to look away.

We reach the edge of the trees, the truck coasting onto the grass as the engine falters to a stop.  Jumping out of the truck, I follow James down the winding trail, listening to the crunch of leaves beneath my sneakers. 

James and I aren't kids anymore. He's no longer a whole head taller than me; rather, just a mere 3-inches now. We've both grown, but as we reach the creek, where the sun-dappled water welcomes us like an old friend, it feels like nothing has really changed.

Without hesitation, we kick off our shoes and plunge our feet into the icy water. I tilt my head up to the bubblegum-pink sky, the clouds reminding me of the cotton candy we devoured at the Gallia County Fair. Goosebumps prickle my arms as I inch closer to him, my eyes catching a small scar on the bridge of his nose. For a moment, I wonder how he got it.

Twilight begins to settle in, the sun gradually descending behind the tree line. That's when James asks, "Wanna go for a drive?"

We take off again, faster this time. As the truck races down the empty streets, I crank the window down, letting the wind whip my copper braids around like wild ribbons. 

It's nearly midnight when James stops his truck in the middle of our street, parked between my house and his. The street is dark, lit only by a feeble pool of light from James' porch. I hear the rhythmic hum of crickets in the distance along with the sound of my own beating heart. Seated side by side, I inch my hand towards his, begging myself to let our fingers touch. I hesitate, and instead, reach for the door handle.

But before my fingers graze the plastic, James' voice breaks the silence.

"Betty," he whispers, lightly tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

His fingers lift my chin, drawing our faces close, and our lips meet in a kiss. It's soft, quick, and over before I can really process it.

I pull away first, breathless. "You kissed me."

"Was that okay?" he stammers, cheeks flushed.

I can't help myself. I grab his shirt and pull him in for another kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck and getting lost in the warmth of his lips. This time it's deeper, longer, and just as I'm getting lost in it, we hear a sharp knock on the window. As we jolt apart, I look up, my heart sinking as I see Dad's silhouette standing outside the truck.

James cranks the window down, his face pale. "Hi, Mr. Thompson." 

Dad's expression is unreadable in the harsh glare of the headlights, but the tone in his voice tells me everything. "Betty, what are you doing out so late?"

"We were just talking," I mutter, my cheeks burning as I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

Dad steps closer, glaring at James. "Sneaking around in the middle of the night is not acceptable."

I roll my eyes. "We weren't—"

"It won't happen again," James quickly cuts in. "I promise."

With a nod, Dad steps away from the window and opens the door, the hinges creaking slightly. I slide out, Dad's firm hand resting on my shoulder as he guides me toward the porch. I steal one last glance back at James who meets my gaze with that crooked smile of his.

After that night, everything felt different between us. Neither of us talked about it — not at first, but we didn't have to. The way his hand lingered on mine, the way our laughter felt a little different, the way he looked at me — it was there, in the quiet moments, unfolding between us. 

James kept his promise and never risked getting me home late again. "Your dad scares the shit outta me," he admitted one evening with a nervous laugh. But I knew it had more to do with wanting to win my father's approval than actual fear—especially since our friendship started to shift into something else—something more.

That summer, our days seemed to blend into one another. Life in Gallipolis is about as small-town as it gets, tucked away in the southern tip of Ohio, just a stone's throw from West Virginia. It may not be making headlines, but it has its own charm. The biggest thrill around here is being right across the river from Point Pleasant, where the legend of Mothman still creeps into conversation from time to time. And don't even get me started on Point Pleasant—our basketball rivalry with them feels more intense than any supposed Mothman sighting.

Quaint? Sure. But to me, Gallipolis will always be home.