“Yes,” I said, my fingernails carving into his back.
I could have forced him. I had the leverage. But I wanted him to do it, and so I let him take his sweet, torturous time, teasing my n**ples with his teeth, sliding the whole length of himself between my thighs, pushing lightly, agonizingly, right against the focal point of that horrible ache in me. At first it was an insane test of willpower. I hit my limit again and again, somehow always starting over, finding a new reserve of patience. Then I realized that he was going to test my patience until it stopped being patience. Until I stopped waiting to be f**ked and just experienced this. I made myself let go, made my muscles unravel. Draped my arms languidly around his neck. Looked at his face without thinking anything but how light it made my heart feel, as if pumped full of helium. And when I started to zone out and he slipped inside of me, I made myself stay relaxed. I let him penetrate me so gradually there was never a moment when it felt like he was finally f**king me. It all sort of blended together, fluidly, dreamily. His arms circled my back, holding me against the soft rocking of his body. This was different. This wasn’t being f**ked. This was something happening to my entire self, not just the useful parts. There was so little tension in me I didn’t think I could come, until a warmth spreading from my h*ps and belly became hotter and hotter, and I looked up at the ceiling, gasping like I was surfacing for air, saying, “Come inside me, please, come inside me.” That was it. No holding back. The heat in me detonated in a gentle nuclear burst, annihilating all sensation with soft light. It came on slowly and faded slowly, leaving me tingling, buzzed. Evan kept going a little longer, and then he slowed, and stopped, and held me. He grimaced when he pulled out. He was still hard.
“You didn’t,” I said drowsily.
He kissed me.
I let it go on for a moment and then leaned back, clear-eyed. “Why?”
“I wanted it to be just for you.”
It was like he’d spoken in Greek. I stared at him.
And something very strange happened in my brain.
I rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed, curling my arms around myself. My hand clamped instinctively over my mouth. The room was dark now, its shadows tinted the color of rust and old blood by the parking lot lights.
“Maise?”
The shadows swam in my eyes. I squeezed them shut.
Evan laid a hand on my back. “Why are you crying?” he said in a frightened whisper.
“I’m not,” I said, and sniffed. Perfect.
His hand stroked me tentatively. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I laughed at myself, bitter. “I’m just a f**king headcase.”
“Why are you crying?” he said again.
“Because no one’s ever done that before.”
He swept my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Done what?”
I don’t think I was really crying about this. I think it was a cumulative effect, all the tension and anxiety of the past few weeks culminating in this perfect day, this perfect happiness. It was relief, not sadness. But he’d been the trigger, and I guess I owed him an answer.
“Done it for me,” I said. “Just for me.”
His arms were around me then, drawing me to his chest. He said something soothing, but it was merely sound. All I really heard was the deep submarine thump of his heart.
When I finally stepped outside it felt like walking into a different world. A million new roads stretched before me that I’d never seen before. We put our sunglasses back on in the car, grinning at each other. He took his off when he almost hit a streetlight. I laughed, and said maybe he should let me drive, and surprisingly, he did. It felt both wrong and amazing to be driving my teacher’s car. I stopped at a McDonald’s and ordered fries and vanilla shakes, parking in an empty lot under the stars. Evan said he’d make a special syllabus to prep me for film school.
“Private tutoring?” I said, dipping a fry in my shake. “How scandalous.”
He smiled, but after a moment his eyes went distant.
“How is it going to be on Thursday?” I said.
“I don’t know. I was hoping I’d figure out some way to freeze time.”
I gestured with my fry. “I’ll be discreet. No one will know. I won’t risk your job.”
He looked at me. “It’s not just about me. In fact, it’s less about me than it is about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I won’t risk your future, or your happiness, or your sanity.”
“Good thing I only have one of those.”
“I’m serious.” He frowned. “Which one do you have?”
“Happiness,” I said, and leaned over and kissed him. Vanilla and salt.
He looked at me a long time when I pulled away. It wasn’t until later that I realized he’d hoped I’d say future. That’s how you know someone loves you. When they want you to be happy even in the part of your life they’ll never see. But right then I was too stuck in the moment, in the visceral pleasure of it all.
“Let’s figure out our battle plan, comrade,” I said.
I didn’t get home till midnight, and getting out of that car was harder than it had ever been. He made me hug the stuffed pony until it smelled like me again. I sat there until I’d finished every last fry. I was ravenous, insatiable. I’d done nothing but f**k him all day and wanted to do nothing else for the rest of this week. Month. Life. When he drove away I took a picture of the receding tail lights, and after his car was gone I stood there holding the photo up to the street, pretending. What is this feeling? I wondered. What is this hunger that grows worse the more I feed it?
They’d come up with a name for it a long time ago. But you already know what it’s called, don’t you?
—4—
Wesley had texted me about eight zillion times.
“Where were you yesterday?” he said at lunch. “I texted you about eight zillion times.”
I looked at him philosophically, brandishing a mozzarella stick. “Where is anyone, really? In a quantum sense, I was everywhere and nowhere.”
“Are you high?”
I smiled.
“You’re obligated to share with me, you know.”
“I’m high on life. Take all you want. It’s free.”
His eyes narrowed. “You got laid.”
I bit the tip of my cheese stick suggestively.
“Was it an old guy?”
“What is age, really?” I said, and Wesley groaned.
Before we went to our fifth period classes, I grabbed his arm.
“I want to start working seriously on our movie.”
“Okay.”
“So I’m coming to your house after school.”
“Okay.”
“So hide your socks and titty posters.”
“That’s a sexist stereotype,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Okay,” he sighed.
I saw Mr. Wilke completely by accident. I didn’t know he was here today—maybe they’d called him in as a sub—and I was walking between classes on the first floor when we spotted each other in the hall. We both stopped. It was as if the lights dimmed on the river of bodies streaming around us, and we were the only two people left in full color. Fiery, radiant color, singeing the screen. All noise and motion blurred away. It felt like a camera circled us, capturing this movie-perfect moment. I started forward again and so did he. We passed each other slowly. We didn’t stop or speak. But our arms brushed, and for half a second our fingers curled together, then slipped free, like a secret handshake.
Leaves shook out of the trees and fluttered around me in gold and green flakes of summer. I rode slowly so Wesley could keep up, pushing my bike with my feet. The soft clack of the spokes, the groggy drone of bees and locusts, the honey-thick sunlight drizzling over us—I was in love with the world today. A big dumb smile climbed onto my face every time my mind drifted. The air tasted like sherry, sweet and light, a pleasant sting on my tongue.
Wesley gave me a weird look, but didn’t deflate my good mood.
At his house, I leaned my bike in the rose bushes and leapt up the stairs to the porch. There was a snap in my limbs like the lazy twang of a guitar, like when I’m drunk. Their place was huge and all painted wood, white and tomato red, with a wraparound veranda. As soon as I stepped foot inside I could tell what kind of mom he had: the kind who gave a shit. Braided rugs on polished oak floors. Couches more comfy-looking than chic. Family photos parading across the mantel, end tables, hallway shelves. I imagined opening a closet and getting swept away in an avalanche of cheesy frames: seashells for beach pics, little baby blocks spelling out WESLEY and NATALIE.
“Who’s Natalie?” I said. Same dark, floppy hair as him, same deep-set eyes. She looked coolly knowing, sly.
“My sister. She’s in college.”
I had no idea he had a big sister.
“Stop looking at those.”
“Hold on, I’ve almost seen every year of your life.”
He dragged me into the kitchen. A pitcher of lemonade sat on the counter, sweating.
“What, no fresh-baked cookies?” I said.
A woman stood up in the garden and waved at us with a spade.
“That is not your mother,” I said.
She brushed herself off and came inside. She was crazy tall, nearly six feet, and willowy, her skin pale as bone, her eyes a startling magnetic blue in a long, handsome face. Her nose was bold and hawkish, but it fit her. She smiled at me like she knew everything about me and was proud. She was beautiful.
“You must be Maise,” she said in a low, mellifluous voice. “Thank you for not filing a restraining order against my son.”
“Mom,” Wesley said.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brown,” I said.
“Call me Siobhan.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you Irish?”
She sighed, good-natured. “Before this one’s father ruined me, I was Ms. Callahan.”
“Seriously, Mom,” Wesley said.
“My only consolation is embarrassing my children in front of their friends. That’s why the oldest went to college on the other side of the country.”
“Nat’s at UC Berkeley,” Wesley said, “learning how to make cyborgs.”
“Biotechnology,” Siobhan said.
“The Terminator,” Wesley said.
“It probably involves a certain amount of nak*d men,” Siobhan conceded.
I laughed, and sat at the counter, watching them, fascinated.
Wesley poured us all lemonade. “Mom, we’re gonna work on that film project.”
“What is your film about?”
“Yes,” I said. “What is our film about, Monsieur Auteur?”
Wesley raised his hands defensively. “I’ve just been shooting B-roll. We haven’t decided on a subject yet.”
Siobhan leaned against the counter beside me. She smelled like warm soil and crushed flowers. “What sort of film is it?”
It was totally weird having a parent actually interested in my schoolwork. Even someone else’s parent.