We would levitate when the teachers were out of the classroom or late, when the overhead florescent lights were dimmed and our breaths reeked of fresh onions and Snapple and girls wore sweaty bras that stuck to their t-shirts like an ethereal mosaic, and everything smelled of tanned flesh in the springtime, fresh cut grass, raging hormones, breathless pubescent seventh graders just wanting to lift one of us off the purple polyester carpet, touch the face of god.
Something happened, and I felt it, feel it, lifted that body weightless with pinkies and nothing more, six or seven of us around this levitating ghost of tomorrow, a corpse for a moment, while we follow dreams and nipples. I know it seems impossible, but we fucking lifted that shit and held it, everything so perfect and tight and seeing as the teacher was God knows where and the chorus room was empty and darkened and we were bewitched by Darwinism--no need for Darrin, recess, or Samantha--but give me some tits and ass and a silent erection and a Snickers bar around two o´clock and the afternoon is coming. Walking on water wasn´t built in a day.
The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald