by Cameron Lund
“Whoa, honey, slow down!” She’s still in her pajamas, a silk robe she picked up on a trip to Japan, with bright butterflies and flowers etched around the collar. She holds out an arm to stop me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to get past. She reaches up to smooth my hair back from my face and looks at me for a moment, her hand on my cheek.
“You would tell me if you weren’t okay. Right?”
“Yes,” I pull away. “I’m late for breakfast.”
She hands me the mug. It feels warm and comforting in my hands.
“Here, take this with you.”
I take a sip, expecting coffee, and choke when a hot leafy sludge hits my lips.
“Mom! What is this?”
“It’s coca-kale-a,” she says. “It’s a wonderful, cleansing drink. Apparently Beyoncé drinks one before every show.”
* * *
• • • • • •
I grab my backpack at the door, mug still in my hands, and run down the front steps to Andrew’s truck. The morning is cold and foggy, typical for April. Warm, muggy mornings won’t start for another few weeks, when one day, without warning, summer will arrive in a sweltering haze.
Climbing into the truck, I grunt hello, handing him the mug and watching as he takes a sip, waiting for the inevitable expression of disgust. Instead, he raises his eyebrows.
“This is interesting. What is this?” And then he throws back the mug, slurping down the rest in a few gulps. “Very salad-y. Not sure I would recommend it for breakfast, but thanks.” I should have learned by now that Andrew’s like a human garbage disposal. He hands me back the empty mug, and I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. I slump down on the seat, reaching to fiddle with the radio, anything to distract myself from the mess I’ve gotten into. I’m mad at myself for being aware of his fingers at all.
He’s rumpled, his hair sticking up in a way that makes it clear he only recently lifted his head from his pillow. His glasses are on, and they’re bent slightly, like he probably just sat on them for the hundredth time. I feel hollow in my stomach as I look at him, and before I can help it, a brief flash pops into my head of what it would be like to kiss him. I begin giggling uncomfortably, feeling my face grow clammy and hot.
Hannah has ruined me.
“So what’s up?” he asks, and then stops when he sees my expression. I haven’t thought of a cover-up lie, a simple innocuous question to ask him instead, and now it’s too late. He fiddles with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them right back on. “Do you want to talk about it now or wait for bacon?”
“Bacon,” I say, still caught in a wave of giggles. He turns the keys in the ignition and the truck rumbles as the engine starts.
“Should I be worried?” he asks, checking behind him before pulling out of the driveway. “You said it was important.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, letting the giggles subside. “It was nothing.” I clear my throat, trying to remain serious. “Just pretend I never texted you.” And then, before I can help it, I burst out into another fit of giggles, this time worse than before.
Andrew drives us to Jan’s, mercifully letting my odd behavior slide. He pulls into a spot out front and we climb out of the truck.
The diner is empty except for another group of Prescott students huddled together in a corner booth. It’s not uncommon for kids to smoke weed before school and come to Jan’s for their early-morning munchies. I’ve never been an early riser and have always marveled that anyone could love smoking enough to set their alarm for it. These guys are a group of sophomores whose names I don’t know, and they’re sitting silently, shoveling pancakes into their mouths with glassy eyes.
I steer Andrew toward the booth in the opposite corner, wanting to sit as far away as possible, for privacy. It’s unlikely they’d be able to listen to our conversation at all in their state, but I’m feeling paranoid and jumpy.
The waitress comes over to take our order: two small stacks of pancakes with strawberries, two coffees, and two sides of bacon. When she walks away, things fall quiet and I remember why we’re here.
“So I’m guessing you have something embarrassing to ask me,” he says, “because you sent me that cryptic text and now you’re acting like a weirdo.” He takes a sip of his water. “Thank God we’re already friends, because I probably would have dropped you by now if I didn’t know you so well. You’ve been a complete disaster all morning.” He smiles to show me he isn’t serious.
“I told you to forget that text.”
The waitress comes back with our coffees and sets them down on the table in front of us. Andrew pulls his coffee toward him and grabs three packets of sugar, tearing them open and pouring them in one by one.
I wrinkle my nose at him, taking a sip of my own coffee. “I didn’t mean to send it.”
He frowns. “You can trust me, Collins. Remember what you told me before? You’re here for my weird shit? Well, I’m here for your weird shit too. You’re my little weirdo.”
“I know.” I pick up one of the empty sugar packets in front of him and begin tearing the paper into little pieces—something to keep me distracted.
“We all need someone to talk to about embarrassing things.” He takes the sugar packet out of my hands and pushes the little pile of paper away from me. “Remember that time you slept over in first grade and when we woke up in the morning, you had wet the bed?” He grins.
“That was you,” I say, laughing despite myself. “You were the one who wet the bed.”
“But we can’t prove that, can we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Anyway, this can’t be worse than that.”
“It’s worse,” I say glumly.
He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his eyes light up. “Okay, what about the time in seventh grade when you got your”—he pauses, tripping over the word—“um, period at school and you had to borrow my sweatshirt for the rest of the day?”
I remember the horror of that day clearly. I stood up at the end of math class and noticed a small red stain on the chair. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I wasn’t friends with the girls yet and didn’t have anyone to ask but Andrew. I held my backpack awkwardly over my butt and pulled him to the side of the room, my face burning as I coughed out the words. He let me tie his sweatshirt around my waist for the rest of the day, and we never once brought it up again. It was one of the first times I felt a strange kind of distance from him—when I began to realize I was a girl and he was a boy, and our experiences were going to branch off into different directions.
“I can’t believe you’re bringing that up,” I say, feeling my face heat.
“I’m just saying, this can’t be more embarrassing than that.” He takes another sip of his coffee and then sets the mug down on the table and leans back in the booth, waiting for me to speak. I don’t.
“Okay, I’ll ask you questions then,” he says, leaning forward again and clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Is this similar to the great period incident of seventh grade?”
I shake my head no.
“Okay, what else is embarrassing? Hmmm. Does this have to do with . . . bodily functions? Bathrooms? Toilets?”
I laugh, shaking my head again. “No toilets.”
“Thank God.” He thinks for a moment. “Does this have to do with Hannah? Is that why you can’t ask her?”
I sigh, shaking my head again. “I can’t ask her because she’s a girl. I mean, I could I guess, but I’m . . . um, straight.”
“Hmm. Does it have to do with James Dean?”
I nod, tapping my nose like in charades.
“Did he do something?” He leans forward, frowning. “Do I need to kill him?”
“No. Nothing like that,” I say, and he
relaxes.
“Is this a sex question?” He leans forward in the booth. “That’s why you can’t stop giggling. It’s because you’re five years old.”
“Hey!” I say, but tap my nose anyway. He’s getting too close and I’m not sure I want to keep playing the game. If I ask him, there’s no turning back. There’s no guarantee things won’t be ruined between us forever. This is worse than the great period incident of seventh grade. Much worse.
“I just want some advice,” I say finally. “And you seem to know what you’re doing. I mean, I’ve seen you hooking up with a lot of girls, obviously, and so you must be able to help me out a little.”
The waitress comes back with our food and I jump as she interrupts. She sets our pancakes down and I force a smile.
“Careful. The plates are hot,” she says in a cheery voice as she walks away. “Enjoy!”
I pick up my fork and begin to tap it against the table, not touching my breakfast. Andrew takes a big bite of his pancakes. Apparently nothing is awkward enough to dampen his hunger. I take a deep breath and the words tumble out of me.
“I want to have sex with James Dean at prom but I don’t know what I’m doing. He’s clearly pretty experienced, like, he’s in college, right? So he doesn’t know I’m a virgin. But I don’t know if I really want him to know I’m a virgin because that might scare him away. I want him to like me, you know? And I’m just nervous, because I have absolutely no clue how to . . . um . . .” I trail off. “And you could probably help me. It was Hannah’s idea, so it’s totally fine if you’re not into it. Don’t feel pressured.”
He swallows his pancakes. “Um, okay. I can give you some tips, I guess.” He runs a hand over his forehead, scrunching his eyebrows with his thumb and pointer finger, then looks back at me, taking another bite of pancakes. “Why would I feel pressured?”
“Oh,” I say, realizing I haven’t actually gotten to the crux of it, haven’t actually said the part that’s the most important. “Oh. That’s not what I meant.” I clear my throat again and take a sip of coffee, but it’s tepid and bitter. I force myself to swallow and then push my mug aside. I lower my voice to a whisper, glancing behind me at the table of stoner sophomores. They’re not paying attention to us.
“Collins?” he asks. “Keely?”
I choke out a whisper. “I’m just sick of being a virgin. And I trust you. You would never spread rumors about me or anything like that. I just thought, maybe, we could”—I cough a little—“maybe we could have sex. Like, you could teach me. We could practice.”
He makes a choking sound and knocks over his mug of coffee with his elbow. It rushes across the table toward me, liquid spilling into my lap. I jump up, grabbing for a pile of napkins.
“Sorry.” He jumps up too, out of the booth, before realizing the coffee isn’t rushing in his direction. He sits back down, then stands up again, reaching for some napkins to help.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Forget I said it, okay?”
It’s so humiliating. I can’t believe I worked myself up, convinced myself to ask him. How could I have possibly thought it was a good idea? I turn to leave, gathering up my backpack.
“No, hey,” he says softly. “Sit back down.”
I feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes and I try to hold them back, already embarrassed enough as it is.
“Keely,” he says, and I sit back down in the booth, my eyes fixed on the pile of soiled napkins on the table. He’s silent for a moment, thinking, and then his voice comes out low and strained. “I haven’t . . . we haven’t . . .” He pauses. “You’re so important to me, and this isn’t how I—”
“You’re important to me too,” I say. “That’s the whole point.”
He pushes his pancakes away, putting his napkins down on top of his plate.
“I don’t like you like I like Dean, so there’s no pressure,” I continue.
“If you like Dean, why don’t you just sleep with him?”
“Everyone says the first time hurts when you’re a girl,” I say, my voice wavering. “I’d rather just get that over with. It’s different for guys. Your first time is . . . well, you don’t have to worry about pain, or bleeding, or getting called a slut. You saw what happened to Danielle. At least she can handle it. I’d die if someone started writing things about me.” I tap the fork against the table.
“And you think Dean would do that?”
“No.” I sigh. “I don’t know, not really. But being a virgin makes things complicated. I just want to be able to sleep with him without the added significance. I don’t want it to have to mean everything.” I set the fork down. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I ruined everything.”
I dig through my backpack and find my wallet, setting a twenty-dollar bill down on the table. “Breakfast is on me today, okay? I’ll see you at school.”
“No, wait,” he says, holding out an arm to stop me. The expression on his face is unreadable. His eyes are crinkled at the corners under his glasses, and his mouth is pressed into a firm line. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, sure.”
My eyes widen and my breath catches in my throat. “Really?” I don’t know how to feel, whether to be relieved or excited or horrified. “Okay,” I say, sitting back down in the booth.
“Okay,” he says back, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Um, when do you want to?”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I think for a moment. “Well, your house is probably better. We’ve slept in your bed more, so it might not be as weird.”
“I think my parents are going out with yours on Friday,” he says. “The symphony or something boring.”
“That could work,” I answer. “The symphony is like three hours, isn’t it? Will that be enough time?”
He laughs softly. “That’ll be enough time.” A devilish grin crosses his face. “Should we do it in my parents’ bed and leave the condom wrapper behind?”
I smack his arm, relieved he can joke at a time like this. Maybe I haven’t ruined things after all.
EIGHTEEN
THE RIDE WITH Andrew from Jan’s to school is jumpy and strange. We’re both trying to act normal, but there’s a weird current under all of our interactions, a buzzing secret buried beneath everything we say. If I was acting weird before about touching him, it’s even worse now. We both reach for the radio at the same time, our hands brush, and I immediately burst out into uncomfortable laughter, pulling my hand back as if I’ve been burned.
“Are you going to be like this forever?” he asks. “Because then I take it back.”
“No, not forever,” I say. “Just let me freak out for the rest of this car ride and then I’ll be back to normal. I promise. I’m just . . . I’m still processing.”
He smiles at me. “You’ve had lots of time to process. I should be the one freaking out here.”
“Yeah, but I have lots of emotions,” I say, my voice stuck in a higher pitch than usual. He reaches over and grabs my hand. I try to pull away, but he holds on, linking his fingers with mine.
“See?” he says, lifting up our joined hands. “We’re touching and the world hasn’t ended.”
“Right,” I say, calming down a bit. It’s true—his touch feels comfortable and familiar and normal. I’ve been holding his hand for years. He has a scar on his palm from when he fell off his skateboard in fifth grade, and his right thumb is calloused from playing the guitar.
He rests our hands on my knee and bounces them along to the beat of the song on the radio. It’s an old song from the Arctic Monkeys, one of my favorites. I smile, feeling myself relax.
When we get to school, we part ways, going to our separate classes. I text him from Greek mythology, feeling light and goofy.
Plan set in motion. T-minus 3 days till completion. Over & out
He te
xts back, and I discreetly check the message, trying to hide my phone from Ms. Galloway, who has a reputation of throwing kids’ phones out the window onto the lawn, even though her classroom is on the third floor.
I’ve heard the Virgin Islands are nice this time of year
I smile, typing back under the desk. Soon we’re going back and forth fast enough I forget I’m in class.
ME
They are very nice indeed. Lots of fun activities
ANDREW
I’ve heard the spelunking is excellent
ME
spelunking?
ANDREW
cave exploration
I snort, and then look up at Ms. Galloway guiltily, trying to keep my phone hidden. Ava looks over at me curiously.
“James Dean?” she mouths, pointing toward the screen.
“Ladies, phones away or they will be confiscated.” Ms. Galloway stops writing on the board and crosses her arms. “And the sprinklers are on right now in the field, so you really don’t want your property out there.”
I throw the phone into my backpack, looking back at her with perfect innocence.
It turns out it’s fun sharing a secret with Andrew. It feels like it did when we were kids and used to organize secret missions against our parents. Mission: Steal a piece of cake out of the fridge without getting caught. Mission: Crawl under Mom’s desk while she’s on the phone and steal one of her shoes. Mission: Take Keely’s virginity.
I haven’t told Hannah yet about the Plan—which has become such a monumental deal in my panicking brain I’ve started thinking of it with a capital letter—and I’m not sure I will. A part of me likes the fact it’s just between Andrew and me. It’s our secret. And even though it was Hannah’s idea to begin with, I’m a little embarrassed to tell her that I’ve decided to go through with it. That I’m too scared to tell Dean the truth.
