by Zary Fekete
1989, Budapest. Twilight on Friday. I’m fifteen. We just left McDonalds. Our first stop every Friday, guys and girls. Expat kids in Europe. Eating, throwing French fries…flirting.
Natalie. She’s the “it” girl. I’ve tried to catch her eye all week. I’m looking at her now as I walk. Watching how she walks.
I stop and glance down an alley and see it. The tiny East German car. A two-stroke engine running on gas and oil pumping out oily, blue exhaust from a body of fiberglass plastic. As common in Hungary as house flies.
My friends turn back toward me. I grin and look Natalie in her eyes and say, “I can jump over that car.” …like I’m inviting her for drinks.
Natalie gasps with a flutter of her hand over her mouth. Everyone else comes running back to set the stage with jeers and mocking hoots.
I size myself up, looking down the street. When I’m ready I glance over at Natalie and wink at her like from some 80s movie. Then I run.
It happens fast, flying down the alley in a mix of testosterone and libido. But smooth. Like gliding down a slide with no effort. Air and lungs interacting, each footprint fleet and firm as I pump myself forward.
I’m almost to the car, and it has filled my vision, locking out everything else. I can’t hear my friends anymore. My mind is on the car and on Natalie and her blue eyes. Timing my steps I stutter the last two, like my body needs a spot check before elevation. I leave the ground with no doubts. I see the street dwindle in my peripherals as I soar.
At the peak of my arc my toe catches the roof.
The planet stops spinning and the universe stops. In a single distilled moment of time my body revolves in the air above the car. Then I hit the street with my head.
It takes a moment and then I’m back. My eyes are open with stars and weird flashes of light. I’m alive, looking up at the night sky. First there’s just a ringing silence. Then I hear the merciless laughter of my friends.
I don’t look at Natalie for the rest of the night. But two days later I will kiss her for the first time.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addition) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete