Honeysuckle

How many calories are in the drop of nectar from a honeysuckle? 

In early summer we would wince as we walked barefoot across the gravel parking lot of the pool in search of honeysuckles. They weren’t prime until the early days of July, but we wanted to smell the blooms, a preview of the gems that would melt on our tongue as the days got longer and hotter. 

By the end of August, we ran to the honeysuckles, no longer grimacing, our feet leather from toughening them on tiny rocks and hot concrete. 

Sometimes, we snuck off after swim practice ended at 10 am and spent the long hours of the day walking the stretch of the miles-long road, lined with honeysuckle, looking for the sweetest drop of nectar. Grace’s mom didn’t pick us up until 3, but the hours passed like minutes. 

Something about the sun seemed to bake the scent of honeysuckle into Grace’s skin and hair. We laughed about nothing as we plucked the golden flowers from their stems, careful to keep the flower together. The petals were softer than our dewy sun-soaked cheeks, easy to feel where the stamen ended in a pool of the precious drink. We pulled the stamen gently, so as not to break them, until the end emerged with a fat drop of sweetness, hanging pregnant, threatening to fall. 

We’d hurry to bring them to our tongues to taste. The sugar dew dissolved instantly, and then we’d search for the next flower. 

We used to wonder aloud how many honeysuckles it would take to fill a cup so we could gulp down liquid summer all at once. We even talked about how long it would take to fill the entire swimming pool with nectar. How thick would it be? Would we swim or would we drown? 

We came to the conclusion that honeysuckles were likely so good because you could only enjoy them one drop at a time. 

“When you have too much of a good thing,” Grace said, “you ruin it.”

We were so young, we hadn’t learned the art of burnishing away our desires. Even so, I felt sure if I told her I thought about how her mouth would taste on mine after gorging ourselves on honeysuckles, she would never talk to me again. 

It would be impossible to measure the calories in a drop of honeysuckle nectar. Every single flower is different. Sometimes, you get a dud and there’s no nectar at all, a barren womb. Other times, the droplet is so big and heavy, it drops onto your tongue with a near audible plunk. The labor to get each drop probably outweighs the calories. An entire swimming pool of nectar might be a different story. 

If our friendship was a good thing, I guess Grace had too much of it. It wasn’t subtle, it wasn’t something that happened over weeks or months. One day, she stopped picking up her phone. She didn’t have caller ID; her mom always answered first and handed it to her. Now when I got her mom, Grace was busy with homework, playing outside with her sisters, sleeping, or any other myriad of excuses. Eventually, I grew embarrassed and stopped calling. 

She didn’t answer her instant messages. I even sent her an email. Radio silence. 

The next summer, when the swim team started up again at that pool down a long gravel road surrounded by honeysuckles, Grace looked right through me. 

That first day of practice, our friend Annie asked loudly, “Jesus Christ Allie, how did you grow tits overnight?” 

As I reminded her that it’s been over 8 months since I’d last seen her, I noticed Grace’s head turn in my direction from the corner of my eye. That was the most acknowledgment I got from her that day. 

Throughout the summer I wondered how the honeysuckles were faring without us sucking them dry. Maybe they would overgrow and take over the gritty driveway. Grace would have to talk to me so we could formulate a plan to swap the chlorine-coated contents of the pool with one million drops of honeysuckle nectar. 

By August, the honeysuckles remained unaffected. I thought about visiting them alone, but I was 14. I felt too old to be suckling honey from flowers alone. 

I quickly grew tired of my body that summer, after all my warm-weather friends took turns commenting on how my hips and breasts appeared like magic. This magic had left my skin scared with white jagged lines like something had tried to claw me to death. Some girls said they were jealous of my new boobs. I glared at them, trying to smile away the resentment. I was aware of how tight and revealing swimsuits were, aware of how boys looked at me differently than they did before.

I didn’t want anything to do with it. 

It was that summer I began to count calories. It was no longer Do I have a quarter to buy an Airhead from the snack bar? Now it was Did I earn the 50 calories in that airhead today? The answer became no more often until my sweet tooth was silent altogether. 

I learned how to quiet my hunger, drown it with gulps of water. I discovered the art of wanting less. When I started high school, the other girls never stopped talking about how cute this boy was, or how they talked to that boy on the bus. Starving out that desire was easy since it didn’t exist. I couldn’t see the appeal of these boys with their clammy hands and gawking eyes.

I fought tooth and nail with the body that was disrupting my life. I felt uncomfortable even in the baggiest clothing I could find. In those days I still thought a lot about Grace. I thought about calling her and asking her what I did wrong. I couldn’t drum up the courage. Every time she ignored me, it hurt worse. 

Swim team stopped being fun. The anxiety over my body in a bathing suit outweighed the fun of feeling weightless, suspended in water. The benefits were calories burned and muscles toned, and I could do that alone and fully clothed. Practices with long dryland sessions were best, with planks that hurt so badly, they stopped all the other feelings. I didn’t even throw glances at Grace anymore. Not that she cared.

Sometimes I walked to town with some of the other girls after practice, passing through that same road that was flooded with the smell of honeysuckle. It forced me to remember the warmth of Grace’s skin next to mine when we got close while watching a movie, or when she wanted to whisper a joke in my ear at the most inappropriate time. I hated it. 

We swapped diet tips, these girls and I. Eat celery and cucumber, they’re mostly water. If you’re hungry, try and fall asleep. Time hop your way to thinness. We’d try on clothes at the local TJ Maxx, compare our girl bodies in the funhouse mirrors. We cut the sensors out of clothes we liked and stuffed them in our bags. That place was always too much of a mess to get caught. 

That was the last summer I joined the swim team. I quickly realized that Grace is what made it fun every summer since we were 6. I half-hoped she’d call me that first day of my 16th summer once she noticed my absence. She didn’t. She probably didn’t even remember my number. I still knew hers by heart. It was annoyingly impossible to erase from my memory. 

Later that summer, those girls I shoplifted clearance-rack clothing with invited me to a party. One girl's parents were gone for the week, but we still held the party in her dilapidated old barn in her backyard to avoid getting caught by neighbors. We all likely inhaled black mold, but there were cheap bottles of candy-flavored vodka being passed around, so no one cared. I was surprised when Grace showed up. 

Her long dark hair was glossy and straight, and I just knew she had put a burning hot iron to it for hours to get it like that. She was taller, skin browned from the sun, and stretched taut with her new height. I was happy to see the freckles I loved still spattered over her nose and cheeks. We made eye contact and I smiled, the alcohol making me bold. 

As the night went on, my fingertips tingled with warmth. I felt lighter, more confident, mentally bookmarking how great booze made me feel. I walked up to Grace and was immediately enveloped with sun-warmed flower petals. Honey. I tasted sweetness. 

“Do you remember the honeysuckles?” I asked before my rational brain could stop my drunken one. What a stupid question. 

Grace didn’t skip a beat. 

“I could use a cup of honeysuckle nectar to wash down this nasty shit,” she shook the bottle she was clutching, a quarter full of what was likely backwash from 10 different teenagers, “do you have 7 hours to gather it? it might take longer in the dark.” 

We both broke into nervous laughter. She was as funny and smart as ever. 

She told me the pool went to different owners, and that there were fewer people on the swim team than ever. The cerulean paint was chipping up in big chunks from the bottom of the pool, and sometimes it’d float to the surface as you swam. We remembered the time a spider exploded with a million tiny baby spiders when we were practicing our backstroke. 

“I still get paranoid when I’m on my back in that pool,” Grace laughed. 

Eventually, the conversation came to a lull. 

“Why did you stop talking to me?” This booze must really be doing something. It took me a few minutes to get up the nerve to ask a question I’ve been holding back for two years. 

Grace’s face changed. What a shame, her smile was gone. 

“I don’t know Al…” She avoided eye contact. 

“I’m sorry if I asked a weird question. I just always wondered.” 

We were both quiet for a long moment. 

Finally, I broke the silence by making it more awkward. 

“What did I do wrong?” 

Her eyes snapped into mine. 

“Nothing,” she said, “Absolutely nothing.” 

I stared back and I was suddenly aware of the drunk teenagers listening to crappy music all around us, causing us to yell. 

Seeming to read my mind, Grace said, “I think Annie has honeysuckles in her backyard, wanna go out here and look?” 

Yes. I was never so sure of anything. 

We sat on the grass in the dark. There was enough light from the barn to see Grace's face and the honeysuckle petals, in pastel yellow hues. 

As we tasted the nectar, Grace told me about her life and I told her about mine. I told her I missed her. We both agreed that the honeysuckles by the pool tasted way better than these. 

Finally, she got quiet, her fingers ripping apart petals and her head facing down. 

“Allie?” 

“Yeah?”

“I... I got weird and stopped talking to you for a reason,” she said. 

I was quiet. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she added. 

“Oh,” was all I could say. 

“I was starting to feel weird, about you, and about the way I felt about you.” 

My heart made a beeline for my throat, pounding, threatening to burst. I tried to gulp it back. The cheap, sickly sweet vodka was easier to swallow than this. Finally, she looked up. 

“I thought about kissing you, like not as a friend,” she went on, “I wanted to say something but I was scared. I didn’t know if I could handle you hating me, and if you didn’t, I didn’t know if I could handle, you know, being that way…” 

She trailed off. 

I stammered to find the correct words but failed. 

“I don’t know what to say…” 

“Please, say something,” she replied. 

“I felt the same way,” I replied, “but I thought somehow you knew, and that you hated me for it.” 

My voice caught in my throat, making my fear known. 

Grace was no longer looking in my eyes, she was turned to the honeysuckles, running her fingers through their drooping flowers. 

She found the one she wanted and plucked it from its stem. 

“Look at this one!” she said. 

“It’s perfect,” I replied. 

And it was. She pulled the stamen through the petals gently, the fattest bead of nectar I’ve ever seen hanging from it, threatening to fall. Quickly, Grace brought it to her tongue. Even in the dim light, I could see the dewdrop land perfectly. 

Before I had a chance to second guess myself, I made the space between us disappear. My lips hovered above hers for a second, and I finally was close to her freckles, the warmth of her skin, the eternal smell of sun-warmed honeysuckle. 

She pressed her lips to mine and gently opened my lips with her tongue. I tasted sweetness, I tasted summer. I didn’t think once about the calories.