by Dahlia Adler
Looking at him, you might think he’s completely chill about it from his enthusiastic high fives and “whatever, man” shrugs, but I see the way his shoulders tense with each call. How his smiles are forced. I know Chase. Getting mixed up with Jasmine may have made me forget for a minute, but he’s been here since well before I knew she existed. I know him, and—
The crowd goes absolutely nuts, and even though my eyes are on the field, my own head clearly made me miss something. It isn’t until Shannon grabs my wrists and screams “He did it!” that I realize Chase passed for another twenty yards, officially taking him over the 463 he needed to wipe the last guy from the record books. I scream right along with her, doing a little cheer from my seat I remember from my freshman year stint on the JV squad. Chase yanks off his helmet, looks up at me, and laughs. I blow him a kiss and he catches it and smashes it right against his mouth, and suddenly the cheers turn to whistling and laughter and I realize we have an audience. Heat rises into my cheeks but honestly, I’m way more overwhelmed with pride than shame.
Coach Robinson calls the team back to attention to finish out the game, and the rest of us fidget in our seats as they run out the clock with benchwarmers (though they keep Chase on to see how high he can go) until we can celebrate properly.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, and the stands explode. I hug Shannon and even the girls in front of me, all while keeping an eye on Chase accepting one-armed hugs and high fives from everyone on the field. It’s hard to be pissed about a loss when a guy literally set a record defeating you, I guess.
There’s never been a less shocking announcement than the one in which Chase is named MVP, and I clap with pride as he’s awarded the trophy that changes hands from game to game in Stratford tradition. He poses for a couple of pictures, then takes the mic for the usual speech about how everyone played a great game, blah blah blah.
“This was such an amazing night,” he says after the standard opener, “and there’s one person who made it all the more special by being here.” He gestures at the stands, and there’s a quick flash of envy in my brain before I realize his hand is extended toward me. “Look at my girl, up there with my number on her gorgeous face and my name on her arm. How can any guy not pass for four hundred ninety-six yards when he’s got her on his side?”
I can’t decide if I’m elated or mortified, but at least my head being in a fog makes it easy to ignore the pain of Shannon’s nails digging crescent-shaped valleys into each of my arms. I’m pretty sure they’re drawing blood.
“I was gonna wait until later to ask you, but I’m feeling so good, I can’t wait—Larissa Bogdan, will you go to Homecoming with me?”
Everyone’s eyes are on me as if they were stuck to my painted skin. But the truth is, I’m not shy, and I’ve known since I was twelve what the answer to this question is, even if it took him way too long to ask it.
I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it, I hear Jasmine’s voice rasp in my brain, and without hesitation I yell back “Hell yeah, I will!”
For the millionth time that night, the crowd goes wild.
* * *
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” he says as we walk to his car, his arm wrapped around my waist. It’s a short walk, since he has the spot closest to the school on game nights, but it’s long enough for me to take a good look at his smile and realize that’s only partly true. He likes the idea of making me blush. I wonder if he would’ve preferred if I’d responded shyly instead of in an outburst. But he doesn’t exactly look disappointed either.
He looks … like he is really, really into me.
“You didn’t,” I assure him, and I’m pretty sure it’s true. “I’m excited to go to Homecoming with you. I was hoping you’d ask tonight.”
“Even before I had the game of my life?”
I laugh. “Did you think you needed to in order to convince me to go with you?”
“No, but I figured it couldn’t hurt,” he says with a grin. We get to his car and he presses me against it and leans down to kiss me, his mouth sweet with the taste of Gatorade.
Whistles and catcalls sound around us as we make out against his car, exactly as I’ve always pictured, and it’s weird and amazing and confusing to have it all come to life. But even the handle pressed against my back has figured into my daydreams, and it’s prepped me for the discomfort.
I want to feel everything.
Chase does not quite share that desire. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away, “but this is killing my neck. You kinda take ‘shorty’ to a whole new level.”
“Hey, I’m a full five feet, thank you very much.”
“And you are a very cute five feet,” he says, wrapping me in a hug and lifting me off my toes for another quick kiss. “But I am a much less cute six-three and I’ve spent my entire night getting completely wrecked. I think my body’s at its limit for stretching in unnatural directions.” He waggles his eyebrows. “At least for another ten minutes or so.”
“Subtle. Do you want me to drive?”
“Nah, by the time you adjust the seat to your height the party will probably be over.” I whack him on the arm, and he laughs. “Come on—faster we get there, faster we find a more comfortable place to get back to what we were doing.”
I open my mouth to point out we can always skip the party, but we really can’t. Chase is the star of the night, and at some point, Hunter Ferris’s makeup party for the one Jasmine snatched away has definitely turned into a party in his honor. No one would forgive me if he didn’t show. I’ll probably have to get used to this—all the stuff that comes with being a star player’s girlfriend—and while it used to seem cool in my head, now it makes me feel … impatient. Exhausted.
Inevitably, my mind wanders.
THEN
I’m quickly running out of outfits to wear to parties in the Outer Banks, hoping people won’t notice how frequently I’m wearing the same shorts or jeans with different tank tops from the sales rack at Urban Outfitters. Jasmine sports something I’ve never seen every single night—sequined dresses or brightly colored capris or pleather leggings she wears as comfortably as a second skin. Even after getting closer, or maybe because of it, I haven’t had the nerve to ask her to borrow anything.
There is a dress I haven’t worn yet—it’s a gorgeous turquoise with cool beaded embroidery winding down from the single strap—that I packed in case my mom made me go to something fancy as her date. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, though I have no idea what occasion that might be. Almost everything we go to is messy with sand and beer and ash, and we come away reeking of smoke and weed that I keep promising my mom is not the result of my own consumption.
Suddenly, the thought of doing it all over again tonight is exhausting. It’s just another house party at Carter’s, but it means straightening my hair, and doing my makeup, and making small talk with whatever tourists he’s picked up on the beach, and nursing a beer I don’t even like, and dodging smokers, and politely rejecting come-ons that I don’t want, and I just … don’t feel like it. I spend most of the parties only hanging out with Jasmine anyway, playing at mixing drinks, or talking about books, or prying for details of her life at home, where she takes pictures for the school paper and goes to rock shows after having Shabbat dinner with her mom most Friday nights, and I can do that here.
The image of a lazy night on the couch, watching movies, sharing a blanket, skin grazing skin … I shake my head to dislodge it. That’s not how this goes. That’s not what this is. She’ll want to go to Carter’s party, because in real life, she wants Carter. I don’t know how many times they might’ve hooked up since that first night, but I couldn’t forget Keisha’s “like bunnies” if I tried. They—
“Hey, any chance you wanna skip this thing tonight and stay here?”
I whirl around to see Jasmine standing in the doorway to my room, her hair in her usual party waves but her face makeup-free, her body clad in nothing but a tank top and
pajama shorts, her legs glittering lightly with sparkly lotion that I happen to know smells like peaches.
“Movie night?” I offer, hoping she can’t tell how excited I am that we’re on the same page.
“I’ll go make popcorn.”
Our parents are out at a dinner tonight, which they are so often that I would think it was a cover if I hadn’t heard my mother firmly confirm reservations while curling her hair and touching up her lipstick all at the same time. She can be an octopus of multitasking when she needs to. It’s what makes her so good at her job, and also a little frightening. We haven’t spent as much time together this summer as I’d imagined when she floated the change of plans by me, but we promised tomorrow we’d have a Saturday brunch, just the two of us, and I’m strangely looking forward to it.
I slide on some tinted lip balm and put my hair, still wet from the shower, in two simple braids. It’s a relief to slip into a T-shirt and shorts instead of a party outfit, but I have to shake the momentary urge to put on something nice to impress Jasmine.
“Your hair looks cute like that,” she says when I walk into the living room, where she’s splayed out on the couch, her tank top riding up an inch.
Warmth tinges my cheeks at her compliment. “Thanks. I didn’t know what else to do with it. Didn’t feel like blow-drying it.” I fiddle with the wet ends. “Don’t you dare give me an ‘I told you so,’ but I’ve been thinking about what you said in the gardens. About making a change. Maybe.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing, and I stick out my tongue. “It was only a suggestion!” she calls over her shoulder as the microwave beeps and she hops up to get the puffed-up bag of popcorn. “But I would be totally pro a curly bob. Not super short or anything, but like, curls down to here.” She indicates her throat just past her chin. “Your hair’s naturally wavy anyway, right? It’d be so much less work.”
“That sounds … kind of cute, actually,” I say, but what I’m thinking is whether Shannon would think I could pull it off, and if Chase prefers long hair. His dating history would suggest he does. “I was also thinking of maybe going lighter. Like, actual blond—not my something-in-between-blond-and-brown color.”
She tips her head, examining me in a way that makes me feel warm all over, and nods. “You would look so good blond, I bet.” She puts the popcorn on the counter, walks over, and delicately lifts a braid. “Yeah, I totally see it.”
I forget how to breathe until the braid once again grazes my shoulder. “You think?”
“I definitely think. There’s a cool wig shop I’ve been wanting to check out, for fun and maybe a few pictures. We could try it, see what you think. If you like it, I know a great place only a few miles away with a stylist named Valentina who’s a genius. She used to style my mom’s hair when we came here before my parents’ divorce, and trust me, my mother would not let anyone who couldn’t medal in the hair Olympics touch her precious locks.”
It sounds scary and fun, and I’m not sure which emotion is winning. I haven’t changed my look in … ever, really. The one I have now has always worked well enough—it’s friend-approved, mom-adored, and even if I haven’t gotten the Boy, it certainly looks good enough to get other boys for some fun here and there.
What would they all think if I came back with such a drastic change?
No, wait, screw that—what would I think?
“Let’s try it,” I say before I can let anyone else’s voice make me second-guess myself. “It’s just temporary, right? No commitment until I see if I like it.”
“Exactly. No cutting or dyeing until you get to see it on you. But I bet you’re gonna look amazing. I have an eye for these things.”
Considering how good Jasmine looks on a daily basis, I don’t doubt it. Not that I say that. “What do you want to watch?” I ask instead.
“Something fun and glamorous.” She grabs some peanut M&Ms from their constant spot in the kitchen cabinet and shakes them into the popcorn, then brings the bowl to the couch and pats the seat next to her. “I can always watch Ocean’s 8 or Crazy Rich Asians or whatever for the zillionth time, or we can try something else if you’re in the mood.”
Those words aren’t meant to be suggestive, but my skin prickles anyway. Her tank top is hanging low and her hair looks soft to the touch and we haven’t established any sorts of rules, but it feels like I would be breaking one if I told her I was, in fact, very in the mood.
“Whatever you want,” I croak as I join her, careful not to let my skin brush hers. She shrugs and puts on Crazy Rich Asians, which she’s already watched at least twice this summer. It is a fun movie, but it’s not a particularly sexy one, and I hope that watching it like a hawk will get these ridiculous thoughts out of my brain. But then she stretches the gold chenille throw blanket over my lap and I get the scent of her peach lotion and even Henry Golding can’t bring me back from the brink of madness.
Jasmine, of course, doesn’t notice a thing. She’s glued to the screen, commenting on how much she loves every single character’s wardrobe and jewelry, oblivious to how badly I want to lean over and kiss her bare shoulder that’s inches away. I’m too foggy-brained to even think about how weird it is that I want to. The couple of times we’ve made out have somehow felt like the simplest, most obvious moves, but in reality, they’re so much more complicated.
But what I want right now isn’t complicated. What I want is very, very simple.
I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m resting my chin on her shoulder. Leaving the lightest of kisses behind on her skin. Glancing at her for a reaction.
Her eyelids flutter shut.
Okay then.
I kiss her smooth shoulder very deliberately this time. Again, a trace of my tongue. Again, a nip of my teeth. She inhales sharply, stops reaching for popcorn, stops saying a word about jeweled rings and couture dresses. I push her hair to the side and kiss my way to the top of her spine, bracing myself on her bare thigh. And then her hand covers mine, helps it slide over her skin, no doubt leaving peach-scented traces on my palm. It’s so much. Everything smells and tastes and feels so good and it’s making me dizzy.
I move in closer, my breasts brushing her back, and we fall on our sides on the couch, me still kissing her shoulder, her throat while she slides my hand higher, over her cotton shorts, up to her smooth, flat belly. My fingers have the easiest access to her waistband, but her grip isn’t as strong, her desires less pointed and clear, and I’m not sure how far to go or how far I want to go. I settle for grazing my fingertips over the front of her shorts. She must be as wired as I am because it seems like enough.
It’s growing unbearably hot under the blanket, but one rule neither of us says aloud is that it can’t come off. As long as there’s a blanket, as long as there isn’t anything out in the open, it’s easy to imagine there’s nothing at all. And we need to imagine there’s nothing at all, because if this is something—if the fact that I desperately want to slide my hand down her shorts is real—then what are we?
What am I?
It’s one summer.
You can’t change into a different person over a summer.
Chapter Thirteen
THEN
Maybe you can’t become a different person in one summer, but you can definitely look like one. I can’t stop checking myself out in the mirror with this wig on. “Holy cow.”
“I knew that was the one.” Jasmine comes up behind me, momentarily pulling my gaze away from myself with her flame-blue blunt-cut bangs. “That color is perfect.”
It is. It’s strange because it isn’t mine, but it feels like me. Even in this short, curly wig, this is a look I could get used to, a look I’d love to keep seeing in the mirror. But it’s a big change, and my palms keep itching to send a selfie to my friends for their approval.
Instead, I change the subject. “Have you ever colored your hair?”
“Nah, not for real.” She ta
kes off her wig and replaces it with a shaggy lavender one. “My friend Laila—the only other Syrian at my school—used to love putting chalk in our hair before shows, but our moms would’ve killed us if we did more than that.” She affects a melodious, lightly accented tone that’s even lower than hers. “Y’haram, Jasmine! What did you do to your beautiful hair?! Steta would be rolling in her grave!”
“I thought your mom was super into fashion.”
“She is, but pastel hair isn’t exactly her idea of it. My mom is Gucci and Chanel, not Manic Panic. Her idea of letting loose is wearing sunglasses with blue-tinted lenses. She’s very classic. All earth tones and whatnot.”
“Hmm, I can see that with your dad.”
Jasmine snorts. “She dresses classy, but she’s the loudest human you will ever meet. My dad used to wear literal earplugs when her family was visiting. Honestly, I can’t believe they lasted six years.”
“You weren’t exactly shocked by the divorce, huh?” I tug on the wig’s curls a little to see how it’d look a tiny bit longer, but it ruins the effect.
“Not at all. They fought about evvvverything. And my mom’s parents hated that she married a gentile while my dad’s parents hated that he married a Jew, and it was not great. My mom kept the house, my dad moved his business up to the city and got that huge-ass house in Stratford while keeping this one for the summer, and by the time my bat mitzvah hit I had nothing left to ask for because I was already spoiled to death.”
“That explains so much.”
She grins. “Doesn’t it? How about you? What’s your single mom story?”
“Not much of a story,” I say with a shrug. “My mom was waiting tables to put herself through college. My dad picked her up. A few dates later, I happened. My mom wanted to keep me, my dad didn’t, and they compromised on him paying child support and otherwise disappearing. Ta-da! You have the beautiful, well-adjusted teenager you see before you today.”
“You are pretty well-adjusted for someone who knows her dad didn’t want her to exist.”
