Sophomoric

by Rebecca Paine Lucas

  There were always moments when I wished I could talk to him about some girl or some rumor. The rumors had picked up again, emphasizing that he never stayed with a girl longer than a month. But I knew that he would just smooth my hair back and kiss me and tell me there was nothing to worry about. And no matter what he said, part of me would still worry, but not enough to make demands or walk away. It made me feel better to remember that all the rumors full of imaginary details about my imaginary sex life were just that.

  A freshman giggled behind me. It might have been at me, but I’m pretty sure it was at our drama teacher. Another dependable constant: he was still wearing too-short pants and a flannel shirt, although this one was an ugly faded salmon color.

  I unwound my scarf until it was just hanging off my neck, and started fidgeting with the ends. Dev took it out of my hand.

  “Be nice to my scarf.”

  We don’t get many status symbols in uniform, which I guess is the point. But it meant that little things like scarves spoke volumes. The classic cashmere plaid was all over campus in varying colors, under the collars of pea coats and over our sweaters, even if we weren’t supposed to wear scarves without coats. Which made that a statement in and of itself. Redhead had another popular choice: thin, soft fabric that cozied up to your chin and around your neck in a solid color. Brands, colors, materials spoke volumes in our tiny snow globe school.

  Then there were girls like me. It was a lie to say that I just wore Dev’s scarf because it was warm. I did actually own a scarf. But even if his was warmer, it was still the winter uniform equivalent of a varsity jacket, with KENNEDY stitched along one end.

  Besides, it smelled like his cologne.

  We get wrapped up in our little things. But faced with the decision to worry about what messages people were sending with their scarves or the rumors or the movie version of Dracula playing in front of us, I went for d) none of the above.

  Two days after we got back together (or just together, depending on who you asked), someone got caught selling Adderall, and his expulsion distracted campus from our relatively minor drama. Then the girlfriend of the hockey team captain found out that her friend who was dating the goalie had been putting the moves on her boyfriend who actually liked a different girl entirely…I couldn’t even keep track of it anymore.

  As one more week turned into two and two more weeks turned into three, my maybe started turning into something that maybe wasn’t just a precarious possibility.

  Sadly, there is no such thing as perfection. It’s really unfortunate how that always works out. I really didn’t have a right to be complaining. To most people, having to attend a dinner given to the recipients of a full-ride scholarship worth about $35,000 a year is an honor, even a privilege.

  I was dreading it. And I felt awful about that, believe me. But the truth was that I was sorely, sorely tempted to lie to Dev about the whole thing. Unfortunately, that was bad for two reasons, the more important of which was that everyone on campus knew the dinner for Ritter Scholars was that night. The other, mushier, holdup was that we had promised not to lie to each other anymore. It was a dumb promise, and I habitually broke it all the time, always about school and home and my vehement verdigris wherever he and freshmen were concerned. But really, those shouldn’t count. Trying to delay the inevitable, I didn’t tell him until the day of, four days before we all left for Thanksgiving break, when he asked me what my plans were for dinner.

  My gaze drifted from his face to just over his left ear. “There’s somewhere I need to be.” This was probably a surprise, since I’d been ditching all my other commitments. Swim didn’t officially start until after Thanksgiving. The newspaper thought I had other meetings, so they had me doing layout and editing from my laptop in my room. Peer tutoring I did during my Tuesday and Thursday free periods. Our Relay for Life wasn’t until the spring, and neither was the March of Dimes volunteering I was organizing. Amnesty International was probably the only thing I was going to these days, since Amie and Nicky went every week.

  “So you do have a life!” Dev grinned.

  I elbowed him. “Asshole.”

  He hugged me tighter and kissed the top of my head. “Where you going? Can you skip?”

  With a sigh, I leaned my head on his shoulder. “No.” Bending my fingers over, I studied the chipping navy polish on my fingernails. “I’ve got the Rit dinner.” And I waited, hoping this wouldn’t be the thing that melted all the wax off my maybe.

  He laughed and my heart sank, waiting for the jibe that I would have to pretend didn’t hurt. “You’re a Rit?”

  I nodded into his shoulder. Kind of a useless gesture, since he couldn’t see it.

  “I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

  I slowly moved my face away from his shoulder. “Why not?” I tried not to make my tone guarded.

  He just laughed again, this time kissing my temple. “You’re really smart.”

  As I processed his words, my heart sank. He knew and he’d known this whole time, even though I lied about the AP Euro essays and the test scores and the newspaper.

  And then I was mostly just confused. Denial was automatic. “No I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.” He kissed my nose this time. “It’s hot.”

  I was stunned. Smart? Hot? Dev thought… Smart… Hot… What?

  By that point, I think I was just staring stupidly at him, which, if you think about it, was kind of ironic. This was absolutely, totally and completely not what I had expected. In my head, it had always been the metaphorical brick or straw or something that would send this all tumbling down. And I had fully expected, once the dust settled, to find myself back at the bottom of the social structure with the unbrushed hair and thick glasses and muffin tops, looking out at everyone else. I had expected, if I was really lucky, to go back to my Sunday morning phone calls.

  In an attempt to hide my deer-in-headlights-of-semi expression, I tilted my head up and met his lips for a real kiss. Plus I needed the reassurance.

  There was barely enough time to get into formal uniform by the time he dropped me off at my dorm. When I flung open the door of my room, breathing hard after running up the stairs, Josie was studying at her desk, her chemistry book and an Excel spreadsheet open in front of her. The look she gave me was probably supposed to be scathing, probably in disgust that I had somehow stolen a Rit. Either she was getting worse at them or I was so relieved just didn’t care. I even said good-bye when I ran back out the door, still pulling up a knee sock.

  The best thing about these dinners was that the presence of donors ensured really good food. After a few months of institutional sustenance, the thought of salmon that you didn’t have to cut with a knife and vegetables that weren’t greasy gained significant appeal. That part I had been looking forward to, even when I dreaded telling Dev.

  Name cards strategically interspersed students and donors and I ended up between the female CEO of a major corporation and a quiet balding man who ran his family business, but mostly talked about fly-fishing. The other two students at the table were strangers. One of them was eating his French fries with a spoon.

  The CEO and the fly-fisherman asked the right questions and I tried to give the right answers, about extracurricular involvement and academic achievement. It was easier than I expected.

  I had never had a problem with anyone over the age of twenty-five acknowledging how smart I was. Their reaction was complimentary and, as my attendance this dinner proved, sometimes rewarding. It was everyone my age who I avoided, people that might find themselves or their friends or their friends’ friends on that curve I always managed to screw up. There were other kids who perched at the top of the curve, but they weren’t usually the most welcoming bunch. Fly-fisherman had a puzzled expression on his face as the junior sitting next to him started talking about ACT and SAT scores and the prep classes he was taking over the summer to improve his.

  “Bizza” might have been an awkward nickname, but it was definitely be
tter than being known by your ACT score. This junior was “thirty-four.” Hopefully the kids who got twenty-sevens had skipped this particular trend: it would be difficult to fit on a nametag.

  “What are you doing this summer, Elizabeth?” The CEO was good at small talk, which was a relief since everyone else at the table, including myself, was terrible at it.

  I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Probably pouring coffee. I don’t think my parents would pay for me to fulfill my community service requirement in Fiji or something.”

  Actually I knew. Erin had asked.

  CEO laughed. “A paycheck is always good. I blew my entire first one on a pair of these.” She moved her foot from underneath the table to show off the trademark red sole of a very expensive pair of shoes.

  “Wow.” They were beautiful shoes. Plus, it made me feel a little better that somewhere in the world were smart, capable women who brushed their hair, wore heels and still kicked ass.

  She looked at me for a second, with a twisted smile. Out of the blue, she lowered her voice. “You know, it gets a lot better.”

  I started to pretend I didn’t know what she was talking about, because I was pretty sure she wasn’t just talking about wardrobe options or my sexuality. She cut me off before I could.

  “Everyone I know who wasn’t a fan of high school? They’ve had the most fun since.” She smiled, lips that matched the soles of her shoes (I was impressed) pulling back in a smile that made her look much younger, despite the fine wrinkles that appeared around her eyes. Then she turned to the boy seated across the table from her, who had fortunately switched to his fork by now. I didn’t really know what to say. But I smiled, too.

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to come up with anything witty: Fly-fisherman talked my ear off about a month-long trip to Montana and Wyoming through the cheesecake and the coffee. Despite learning more than I ever wanted to know about the lifecycle of the Callibaetis Sparkle Dun, we shook hands long enough before Lights Out for me to meet Dev outside. And despite fears that he would change his mind or come to the senses everyone else seemed to share, he kissed me back.

  He kissed me until he found out that I’d spent the entire dinner sitting next to Roger Harrison, aka Fly-fisherman. Then he wanted to hear all about Wyoming and Montana and the Callibaetis Sparkle Dun. Apparently he had spent last summer fly-fishing in Alaska with his dad where, sadly, there were no Sparkle Duns.

  Back in my dorm, I had to wonder for a second why I worried about him thinking that I was the geek.

  23.

  Fortunately for all of us, the school wasn’t the only one that set the social calendar. The Saturday before break, Charlie Hunter was having a party at his parents’ house. Parties here were different: clandestine overnights with keys to the mahogany liquor cabinet, or at least a friendly twenty-one-year-old townie, protected by everything but code words. They still had all the necessary components of your average illicit high school party.

  I didn’t know Charlie at all, except that he was the skinny ginger Dev and Alec ended up with in the showers every night and that he had, as a junior, dated and reportedly devirginized two freshmen so far this year. Since he probably didn’t know my name, I had already made plans to order dinner and watch a movie with Amie. I was surprised when Dev asked me behind my dorm Wednesday night if I had plans Saturday.

  “I thought you were going to Charlie’s.”

  He grinned. “Charlie sad you could come. No adults, empty rooms...”

  I had to laugh. You would think I was used to Dev’s relatively one-track mind by now. “I’m free.”

  He kissed me hard and I pulled him closer to me. Bushes and weather below freezing weren’t an ideal place to start stripping so we had been reduced to middle school right fielding for almost my entire maybe. Very cold fingers laced through mine, he pulled away slowly. “His mom will sign you out. I’ll take you back before curfew.”

  “Okay.” This couldn’t count as being too easy. Why in the world would I say no? I kissed him again, eyes going the other way toward my dorm. “I gotta go...”

  “One sec.” His eyes found mine in the dark and all I wanted to say was screw it all, screw curfew and quite possibly screw Dev.

  “Dev...” When he looked at me like that it was a guaranteed failure from the start. Some people never outgrew puppy eyes. Of course, it didn’t help that I didn’t actually want to go.

  “Bizza, I don’t want you to feel like you have to ’cause you don’t, but...” He smiled sheepishly at me, running a hand down the back of my head, pressing my hair to the curve of my neck and his lips to my forehead. When he started talking again, he was speaking really quickly. “I’m an asshole, but I’m bringing condoms to Charlie’s. It’s up to you completely, I just want there to be the option. If you want. If we want.”

  Words had failed me many times in our relationship, even this three-week round, but this time I surprised me. I expected to be singing the Hallelujah chorus. Instead, I just bit my lip. Sex. He was talking about sex, and even though I expected to be cool about that, I wasn’t. All of a sudden, it wasn’t just sex anymore. It was Sex.

  “Yeah. Okay.” I smiled up at him, hoping to convey that even though I was having issues with my synapses, Saturday night had gained a new halo of importance. Not that I was going to say that. He had lost his V-card outside during his freshman year. Evidently romance wasn’t exactly a factor. Not that it was for me, it was just that this had a certain feel of good and right and affirmative decision. I wanted this. I think.

  But what if I was terrible and it was embarrassing—or worse, I became forever the “the girl who sucks at sex”? What if this was what killed my maybe?

  If I didn’t do it, it could kill my maybe.

  And he wanted to have Sex.

  “You should go in.” He kissed me softly on the lips. “Think about it.”

  “Night.” The words crossed the millimeters between our lips before I put meters and a door between our bodies.

  “Hey, Bizza.” Cleo was only on the stairs, cheeks stained red with the cold outside. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t want to talk about this with Cleo yet. “I’m great.” By midnight I had given up keeping it a secret.

  “Dev’s bringing condoms to Charlie’s.”

  Cleo raised one eyebrow from her sprawl on her bed playing Tetris on her computer. “Saturday?”

  “Yeah.” My eyes were fixed on a problem in my math book, reading the same equation over and over again. “You going?”

  “Nope. But have fun.” I could hear the click of her keyboard behind me. “The first time is awkward.” She could have been talking about the weather from the inflection in her voice, newscaster smooth. “Not painful. Just awkward.”

  I lifted my eyes from the textbook to a crack in the white paint on her wall. “Really?”

  She laughed and patted the bed next to her and I gave up pretending to do math.

  * * *

  Cleo had told me it was dumb to plan this and standing in the middle of the most awkward, tense, weird kiss ever, I realized that maybe, as usual, she was right. Of course, I couldn’t have had this epiphany before Charlie’s mom, her dyed blond hair, her black SUV and her gravity-defying boobs, had picked me up, or even just before Dev had met me and led me up the stairs, past a bunch of guys who snickered and toasted us.

  Cue awkward kiss. There was no heat of passion or haze of lust. I was left thinking way too hard about how to best curve my lips around his. You know it’s bad when you’re kissing with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out if everyone is listening at the door.

  I pulled away, hooking the tip of each of my index fingers through his belt loops and tilting my head back. “Hey, Dev?”

  His hands were cold but good and familiar at the small of my back under my uniform button-down. Something told me he was not having the problems I was. “Yeah?”

  I bit my lip again, feeling like a fifth grader learning where babies re
ally came from for the first time. Naming It had gone from terrifying to all the rage to no big deal to impossible again. You’d think I’d be more mature than this. Then again, Erin and I had started giggling when anyone said “Wacker Drive” or “Big Willie” on a trip to Chicago. Suddenly, I was seriously losing faith in my alleged maturity and seriously determined to restore that faith.

  Where words failed, actions prevailed. With some fumbling because the stupid button was on the wrong side (who came up with that stupid idea and why did I care?), even my shaky fingers could unbutton his jeans as I kissed him again. Either way, he got the point and I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified. But this was a given from the second the door shut and the minute I entered this house and everyone knew it. Worst kept not-secret ever.

  He was wearing the same plaid boxers I had been seeing poking above guys’ shorts since the days of middle school sex ed but somehow, this time, as he pulled his jeans off his hips, they looked different. Maybe it was the words “straining erection” crossing my mind which made me feel like I was writing one of Cleo’s mom’s bodice rippers with the synonyms and clichés and awkward descriptions, and his fingers were smoothly sliding up along my skin as he lifted my shirt up and I pulled it off. And then I was kicking my jeans off and suddenly I was just standing there in a bra and a thong and feeling really, really naked. Maybe I was a lights-off person.

  Too late.

  My eyes traced the sharp line of his hipbones, the smudges of shadow along his ribs, the thin patches of hair under his arms. And then I should have been thinking in fireworks and metaphors and gasping moaning heat, but all I could think was naked. Maybe Kama Sutra or porn or Cosmo but somehow I’d forgotten all of that and all I could think of was touch me here and oh my wow and clichés I thought I was above. It felt so much the same and so totally different and I was sweating and I didn’t care. Instead of wet there was slick, hot became nervous sweat, gasping became shaking hands and shaking nerves. His hands at least were steady as the wrapper ripped and he rolled the condom on. I hadn’t expected it to be so slippery, so sticky, so awkward. So dumb looking. So complicated.