Peaches

like the Garden of Eden.
    Murphy, who wasn’t much into nature, didn’t know why she liked it. In lots of ways it was a mess. The white fence that ran along the property line was chipped and rotting. An old tractor had been abandoned by the train tracks and was grown over with weeds. The farm itself was obscured by layers of overgrowth along this edge so thick that even now, when there were no leaves, Murphy could see only tiny glimpses of the peach trees themselves and the white farmhouse through the brush.
    The cold metal of the tracks dug into her butt as she took a sip of warm Mello Yello. She kicked off her sticky old Dr. Scholl’s sandals from Village Thrift, letting her bare soles bask in the warmest night they’d had since the fall. Across the grass behind them, Gavin’s car was choking out staticky Coldplay, a band Gavin said was brilliant, though Murphy claimed all their songs sounded exactly the same.
    Murphy watched lazily as Gavin, whose last name she didn’tremember, ran his fingers lightly up and down the back of her calves like they were made of gold. His eyes trailed up and down her legs.
    “What do you wanna do?” she asked, pushing her toes into the grass. She mentally urged Gavin to say something original. Impress me, she thought. Already she was wishing she’d come alone. Gavin was oblivious to their surroundings, which was depressing.
    The truth was, there was nothing she wanted to do. She wanted to float out of her body, out of Bridgewater, up to the moon. Coming to the orchard always made her restless. Energized with nowhere to put it. Stuffed up.
    When her mom had used to take her here on picnics, before the onslaught of boyfriends paraded into their lives, Jodee had said, “It makes me feel young, baby.” And maybe that was it. Sneaking onto the orchard grounds made Murphy feel the way she figured a girl her age was supposed to feel—awake. Though Gavin was making a valiant effort at bringing that down a notch.
    He squeezed her calf and then moved onto his knees like he was praying to her, putting his hands on her tight coil of a waist. Murphy held her can of soda aside to accept the touch of his lips. He was ridiculously cute, she had to admit. But a lot of guys were. Somewhere along the line that had stopped being exciting. While he moved his mouth to the soft skin on the side of her neck, she watched the moon above them, which was three-quarters full and surrounded by a white haze. It made her think about how she couldn’t believe how big the universe was, but how small it was for her. Maybe she’d be sitting in Bridgewaterwhen she was eighty, making out with somebody with just gums.
    “I’m bored.” It came out matter-of-factly. She extracted herself from him.
    Gavin pulled back and frowned at her from under his eyebrows, hurt. “Thanks.” He ran a hand through his messy brown hair and then scratched at his stomach through his thin White Stripes T-shirt. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held one to his lips, lighting it. He looked irritated.
    Murphy wasn’t surprised. It was typical. Boys came in one flavor. The flavor that couldn’t stand it when you didn’t let them play with your toys.
    “Anyway, your tongue’s all slimy,” she said, bouncing up onto her feet. “Don’t you swallow, ever?”
    “You’re rough, Murph.”
    “Murphy. I hate it when people try to give me nicknames.”
    “Right, Murphy. Well, nobody else I’ve dated has complained.”
    “We’re not dating,” she said evenly.
    Gavin shook his head at her the way boys sometimes did, like he’d touched a hot plate and had to put it down. “Well, if you’re bored, what do you want to do?” His eyes squinted as he took a puff of his cigarette.
    Murphy jumped from one side of the track to the other, then back, then gazed into the trees that, she knew, led to the real heart of the orchard and up to the house. She knew this because she’d seen the house down the long dirt driveway on Orchard Drive, although she’d never explored beyond this area around the tracks.
    “Who cares? I just want to go somewhere.”
    “Done. We’ll hit Bob’s Big Boy. I’m starving,” Gavin said, substituting love of sex for love of food in the grand tradition of all guys everywhere. He sat up.
    “I’m not allowed in there.”
    Last year Murphy and a couple of friends had dismantled Bob’s Big Boy and left his giant punctured body parts scattered across downtown. When she’d finally