Fall 2023

The Mariana Trench

By Alaina Scarano

She’s too innocent for me, he tells his friends at school, before he comes over and spends entire afternoons in my bedroom. I can see the nerves in his eyes when he puts his hand up my shirt, one time, abruptly, with so much tenderness and care that it tickles and I laugh. He never tries it again. I know the truth: I’m not the one who isn’t ready. Every day I wait. 

Sometimes I run down the stairs in the morning and he’s already showed up at my house, sitting at the kitchen counter and my mother has poured cereal for him. We eat breakfast together, laugh together, and he clears my bowl into the sink. We leave separately. He won’t show up to school with me. When he sees me in the hall between classes he slings his arm over my shoulder, the weight of him and my backpack making my spine curl, and says hey sexy. His friends laugh and I stare at him with blank eyes. I know the truth. On the surface he’s cool, he’s calm, he doesn’t get flustered around other kids. His jeans don’t sag the way the other boys’ do. His shirts always fit, a black leather belt always at his waist. He’s not like the jocks that wear jerseys and baseball caps every day. He takes care of himself, has a reputation to uphold, is smooth with all the girls at school. He could never have just one girlfriend, he has all the girlfriends. That’s what it all looks like, anyway. He isn’t shallow, even if he looks it. I know his depths.

He calls me every day and I can tell by the way the phone rings that it’s him. Some days he calls to make sure no one else is over at my house before he shows up, and others he calls me so we can speak about nothing, but all this nothing is everything to me. We talk about what we think the darkest abysses of the ocean are like and he sings me Celine Dion; but I know he’s never seen the ocean and when he drives his friends home from school it’s Warren G and Eazy-E on his speakers. He drops them off and circles back towards our school, pretending to just notice me walking home. He does this every day. I know I don’t have to walk more than a few blocks before he will pick me up. I count on this. He drives me home and comes inside without me asking. He feeds me strawberry pop tarts for an after school snack and lets his fingers linger on my lips, just a little longer than he should. I pretend it’s an accident when I lick them. I taste earth and salt and we stare at each other longer than we should. Once I move to the house further away from school he even beats me to my house in the afternoons sometimes, and when I get there he’s already pulling snacks out of the pantry or flipping through the channels. More often than not he’s still sitting next to me on the couch when my mother gets home from work, close enough that I can feel more than our friendship, but not so close that she gets suspicious. She usually invites him to stay for dinner. He always helps set the table and clear the dishes.  

“A Findable & Unfindable Place” by Rebecca Pyle (Vol. 40.2)

He shows me how high school works. I beg him to take me to parties, he’s a year older than me and already in with the right people. He tells me to behave, as if he’s my older brother, but I know the truth. His friends won’t touch me, they know better. One night in a basement I drink too much cheap beer while he’s shooting pool and end up kissing someone, and when he sees this all he can say is let’s get you home, it’s late, as if he’s in charge of my curfew. My mother adores him for these reasons. We drive home in silence. The next night he calls me when everyone else in my house is asleep, and in a deep and breathy voice, says can you sneak out? I smile big enough he can hear it over the phone. Yes. Within fifteen minutes I’m in his car; he drives one block and then parks, shuts off the engine. The music is too loud and I want to talk to him, want to see if I can get him to admit what neither of us will say. I move my hand to the radio dial. He reaches out his hand to stop me, and softly and deliberately, he intertwines our fingers. His skin is darker than mine, though not by much; his hands are tender, warm, perfectly cared for. He brings his other hand to my chin, tilts it up slightly, then moves his fingers up the side of my cheek. I feel my heart pound, my lips part, certain he is finally going to kiss me. I’ve been kissed before but this is the one I want more than any other. I know he knows this. He moves his body towards mine, then reaches past me and between the passenger’s seat and the door, pushes the button for my seat to recline, then leans back into the driver’s seat. My body feels heavy, I roll on to my side to face him. Our fingers are still tangled together, just like us. He is my best friend and though he won’t tell anyone else, I am his. His friends all think he just wants to date me, to take my virginity, but I know the truth. If he asked me I would say yes, beg him even, but he will never ask. His car is dark and safe and Wyclef Jean sings softly in French over his speakers, and even though I am so young there are more things I haven’t done in life than things I have done, like the majority of the ocean floor that has gone unexplored, I feel as if I died right now I would be content. Would you take a submarine to the ocean floor? he asks. I give him a small smile and close my eyes and sleep comes easily while he whispers to me. Sometimes I get tired of waiting, but I know I’ll never reach out and touch him first. I know him well enough to know I have to wait. 

In the three years I have known him he has lost his brother, his cousin, and his father, all of whom died in different accidents. A keg that fell out of the back of a truck and on to his brother’s car. Another car accident for his cousin. I don’t even know how his father died because he won’t speak about it, just comes over and holds my hand and watches television in the dark and asks me about the deepest parts of the sea. Do you think anything can live down there? He asks me questions about the ocean when he touches me, his hand on the button of my jeans, and I know he’s scared. I see it in his eyes, he’s scared in a way that I am not. I’m nervous, excited, a high school girl on the precipice of love. He’s scared like someone who knows what it means to lose someone. He pops his knuckles, moves his hand away. I don’t think I could ever go that far. To the bottom of the ocean. 

He sneaks over to my house on Christmas Eve, and when I tell him the back door is open he insists on climbing my balcony anyway. We lay on my bed together and stare at the twinkle lights my mother let me hang around my room after she had enough on the tree.  We don’t exchange gifts, but talk about our favorite Christmases. He tells me this one is his favorite, and rolls over on his side to face me. It’s enough to make my teenage heart swell, but I know the truth. He reaches for my hand, the one part of my body that is not a stranger to him. I sigh softly as his hands move up to my hair, delicately running them through my ponytail, pausing at my shoulders. His eyes are a deep, rich brown, the color of dark chocolate chips. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t shy away this time. I wait, hold my breath, as if going under water. Merry Christmas, he whispers, before scouting out the best way to climb down my balcony.

He stops by to see me at the bank where I work after school sometimes, comes through the drive up when he knows I’m working the window and slips me notes. I work until the sun sits heavy in the sky, orange sherbert over the mountains, and leave out the back door. One day when I leave work I see him next to my car, perched on a racing motorcycle he borrowed from a friend. Want to go for a ride? I know my mother will be furious but I kick off my heels, throw them in my car, and take out my ponytail. I stare at him as I shake out my hair and hike up my skirt enough to move my legs. I want to show him I’m not innocent, not fragile, can withstand the depths of the ocean. He straddles the bike, waits for me to throw my leg over it. I don’t wait for his instruction but slide as close to him as I can, my body leaning on his upper back. My hands find their way around his waist, just under his rib cage. Hold on, he says, before taking off out of the parking lot so quickly I can feel my ears ringing. Our bodies have been close, but not like this. I close my eyes tightly and burrow my head against his back, breathing him in. He smells of Cool Water cologne and his mother’s cigarettes. I have never known his body in this way. My thighs push against the backs of his, moving with the lurch of the bike he’s now turned onto a dirt road. He’s opening it up, trying to see how fast he can go, and it gets to be too much for me. I give him a desperate squeeze and he slows down, turns onto another road and pulls over. The bike leans to one side and he puts his foot down to catch it. I’m so sorry, he says. I trust you, I half whisper in his ear. I see the corner of his eye tick upward and his cheeks crinkle in a smile. He starts the bike again and we ride on the dirt roads carelessly until we’re no longer warmed by the sun, and he pulls up in front of my house. I jump off the bike, barefoot, and tell him to come inside. He rides away instead, and when he gets to his house he calls me. How dark do you think it is in the Mariana Trench? 


Alaina Scarano is a writer from Denver, Colorado. She received her B.A. from the University of Colorado. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in Pidgeonholes, Gastropoda, Watershed Review, Allium, Litro, and elsewhere.https://www.alainascarano.com/

Fall 2023