Pinch Me by Jessica Klimesh

Ellee and I are fighting over Newton, about whether he’s dead or not. Isaac Newton.

“Pinch me,” I say to Ellee, “I can’t tell if I’m really alive.” The smell of burning leaves penetrates the neighborhood.

“No,” Ellee says.

“I met Newton once,” I say. “He’s not really dead.”

“What, back when you were negative three hundred years old?” she says.

“I’m older than I look.”

“You’re lying.”

“Well, if he’s dead, then so am I. Pinch me.”

We’ve just learned in school that Isaac Newton invented gravity and that before he came along, people floated, like they do in space. We also just learned that you’re supposed to refer to famous people by their last names.

“Pinch me,” I say again. “If I can feel the pinch, it means I’m alive. But if I can’t, then you’ll know it’s true, that I really did meet Newton and either he’s alive or I’m dead.”

Our friend Newton, who’s not dead, lazes next to us on the tire swing, pushing himself with his feet. Newton’s our age, and we like him because he’s a boy and because he’s always annoyed with us.

“Are you named after Isaac Newton?” Ellee asks him.

“Shut up,” Newton says.

“He’s not named after Isaac,” I say. “He’s named after Fig Newtons. He’s named after a cookie!”

“Fig Newtons are not cookies,” Ellee says.

Newton rolls his eyes. He’s not dead now, but he will be in twenty years, after he marries and just after his son is born. A car accident.

“Pinch me, Ellee,” I say, “as hard as you can.”

“No,” Ellee says. “Newton is dead. Everyone knows it.”

Ellee and I aren’t really fighting. It’s mostly for Newton’s benefit. He prefers golfing around the yard with Ellee’s older brother and only hangs out with us if no one else is available. Annoying him is one of our favorite games, so we make up disagreements whenever he’s around.

“Pinch me,” I say, more insistent.

“No!”

The charade is stupid, but we keep it going, adding in name-calling, glaring, and raised voices for show.

“Pinch me!” I yell, and Ellee finally does. My skin turns white, then red, then returns to normal, as though she never even touched me.

“I didn’t feel it,” I say. “Look, you can’t even see it. I must be dead.”

“I can see it,” Ellee says.

“Newton, will you pinch me?” I ask. “Ellee didn’t pinch hard enough.”

But Newton is tired of us. He slides off the tire swing and says he’s leaving.

“Please stay,” Ellee and I say. But Newton leaves anyway.

We know he’ll come back, though, maybe in a couple hours, because he loves us as much as he hates us, which is okay when you’re young.

As soon as Newton’s out of earshot, Ellee and I laugh.

“Do you think he believed we were really fighting?” Ellee asks.

“Pinch me,” I say.

“He’s gone, Celia. We don’t need to fight anymore.”

But I want her to pinch me anyway. At home, I sometimes dig my nails into my skin until there’s a half-moon, until my arm becomes a universe of half-moons.

“Should we tell Newton we were just kidding around?” Ellee asks. She asks this every time. “So he knows we weren’t really fighting?”

When Ellee and I were even younger,  she threw a rock at me. Maybe it hit me, maybe it didn’t. I ran to get away and fell down on the sidewalk, skinning my knee.

“Do you remember throwing a rock at me?” I ask.

Ellee shakes her head. It’s my memory, not hers.

“Pinch me, again,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I’m hungry.” She starts walking toward the house.

Both her mom and my mom were upset about that rock, but Ellee and I thought it was funny.

“Come on,” Ellee yells over her shoulder. Her voice carries like burning leaves. Autumn stings my eyes.

My mom took me into the bathroom, the one original to the house, with its musky scent, a mix of my dad’s aftershave and humidity. If I cried, it was probably because I was expected to and not because of pain. I remember a cool dab of antiseptic cream, a Band-Aid, and wanting to go back to playing with Ellee. But our moms thought we needed a break from each other. Just for a little while.

“Pinch me,” I say, again, but my voice sounds hollow now, the air stiff, silent. Ellee is miles away, doesn’t hear me. There are just leaves. 

---

JESSICA KLIMESH — Jessica (she/her) is a US-based writer and editor whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cleaver, trampset, Ghost Parachute, Atticus Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bending Genres, and Whale Road Review, among others. She is currently working on a collection of linked flash stories. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.

Art by SYLVAIN DAUDIER — After studying comics in Brussels, Sylvain started working in communications and advertising. He worked as an artistic director, graphic designer, and illustrator at agencies in France and Belgium. At the same time, he always tried to keep his personal creative space free to experiment and create while having fun. Sylvain’s influences range from literature to cinema, with such artists as Lovecraft, Poe, Burns, Vernes, Lynch…