Sixteen

A Story by Avery

There are faded X’s on the backs of my hands. Last night they meant that I couldn’t get in. Don’t let this one drink. She’s just sixteen. Sixteen, not old enough to be in a bar but old enough to love the boy who brought her there. The boy who laughed at his X’s and pulled up a chair. “Don’t worry, we’re with the band.” Don’t worry, we’re playing pretend. It felt like a game of dress up, a face with too much makeup, too much leg, not enough shirt. Is this what being an adult looks like? The X’s warn that we are not legal. Not legal to drink, barely legal to drive. Just hit the age of consent. Sixteen, not old enough to drive alone but old enough to understand the consequences when her parents didn’t come home. They were old enough to drink and old enough to drive but they forget that the two didn’t mix. They forgot to “arrive alive.” And then there’s that girl we always see at school. Sixteen years of living and she’s now in charge of another life. She isn’t old enough to drink but she can create a life. She can cry as her belly swells because he was just sixteen, not old enough to even try. Not old enough to commit. Left her, gone forever. That’s life. Last night, X’s on the backs of my hands meant I couldn’t get in. This morning, looking at them in their faded state, I can’t help but be amused to think that a simple marker stroke would define the line between an adult and a child. I am sixteen but I have seen more than you have in your entire life. Keep your sharpie to yourself and meet me later at the bar. I’ll buy you a drink and turn that X into a star.