“I don’t get it,” his sister muttered. “
You
went out with him.”
“I have an idea!” Charlotte gasped, giving Janie the brush-off she’d long perfected on panhandlers and Green Peace volunteers.
“
Evan
can take her!”
“Uh, excuse me.” Her brother planted his elbow on the back of his chair and twisted around. “Do I get a say in this?”
“Are you waterlogged?” she inquired, digging her fists into her dainty hips. “It’s a romantic night with a beautiful celebrity.”
He tuned her out, floating his eyes toward Janie. “Are you going?”
“Evan!” she groaned, barely giving Janie time to part her Carmex-slathered lips. “Are you honestly suggesting
Janie
should take the celebriteaser as her
date
? They’re both
girls
, hel-lo? The whole point is to
attract
attention to the Treater. Not
deflect
it with idle gossip and
queer
-say. And
besides
”—she turned to Janie, oozing concern—“she probably wants to go with her
boyfriend
. No?”
“Oh, um, I…,” she stammered, helplessly glancing at Evan. He had his back to her, hulking over his desk. No
way
would he let Janie see his face, which—assuming it reflected the state of his heart—looked like a little shriveled-up widow
woman’s.
Of course she has a boyfriend,
he thought, feeling his shoulders tense. How had he been so
blind
?
“Exactly,” Charlotte cut off Janie’s stammering and arced a reproving eyebrow at her brother. “So. Let’s be a little sensitive
and say you’ll do this?”
“Fine,” he agreed, inanely flipping through his take-home quiz. “I’ll do it. Whatever.”
“Vive le frère!”
she squealed, ruffling the top of his golden head. “Oh, Janie!” She whirled around with open arms, squeezing her into a girl
hug. “I take it back. You’re the brilliest brill in Brill-land.”
“No,” Janie modestly protested, attempting to nonchalantly pry herself out of Charlotte’s mosquito clutches. She had a
strangling
desire to explain things to Evan, to tell him she didn’t have a boyfriend after all; it had been a silly misunderstanding.
At the same time, what made her think Evan even cared? What if she assured him she was single only to have him look at her,
like,
Why are you telling me this?
She pretended to focus on Charlotte and Don John—the two of them grasping hands, excitedly jigging in place—and debated what
to do. But it was too late. Evan had pushed back his chair; he was getting to his feet; he was heading for the door.
It’s cool,
she assured herself.
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Does he? He doesn’t.
And then, the moment before he left, he resolved the issue, lifting his chin in bro-ish salute.
“Later, dude.”
Dude?
Janie paled in horror. It was the ultimate four-letter word. The
gangrene
to every girl’s
girlness
. He might as well have
eviscerated
her stomach, captured the butterflies, and pinned them, wings still fluttering, to the gargling, acid wall. And wasn’t this
precisely
why she’d sworn
never
to have a crush on Evan Beverwil?
Not
because it led to butterfly death on a massive scale, but because it led to
total and complete humiliation
? She knew that. She
knew
! So, if she knew so much,
why
was she standing here, staring after him… whipped beyond all redemption?
“Bye!” she chirped softly, raising her hand. But he’d already disappeared down the hall. She lowered her hand and squeezed
her arm—hard—and stared at the open door. Why not just say “bye” to her dignity?
Why not say “bye” to her heart?
The Girl: Petra Greene
The Getup: Black cotton hip-bikini by On Gossamer, black light-as-air bralette by Hanky Panky, sterling silver, marcasite,
and turquoise rings from Venice Beach, and… does pool water count?
“Come on,” he begged, wrapping his strong arms around her small, towel-draped waist. The veins tensed at his beautifully wrought
wrists, winding toward his elbows like vines. His firm torso, still slick with pool water, dissolved against her back, pulsing
warmth throughout her entire body. “Just tell me the code.”
She twisted free and pushed him away, escaping to the playhouse’s wraparound veranda. By day, the castle-like playhouse belonged
to her adopted sisters, six-year-old Isabel and four-year-old Sofia—
but by night
. Petra smiled, too high on anticipation to finish the thought. Paul Elliot Miller, the neighborhood badass with ethereal
good looks—like Zac Efron’s long-lost, wickedly sarcastic, eyebrow-and-lip-pierced punk-rock brother—was headed straight toward
her. They’d been meeting like this for more than a month—well, not
always
like this. In the beginning, the most they did was swim, floating on their backs, gazing up at the star-flecked sky, trading
each other’s lives like water from glass to glass. Then, after a week of midnights, in the long wavering shadow of the diving
board, they kissed—an explosive, primordial kiss that all but pushed them out of the pool and slopped them panting across
dry land. Just like that, they just…
evolved
.
And there was no turning back.
Petra smiled as Paul hesitantly ducked to avoid the low-hanging, ornately trimmed Victorian roof, his palm flat against the
pale pink ceiling. “You know I ain’t
never
gonna give it to you…,” she teased, and began to walk backward. By “it,” of course, she meant Isabel’s “top secret” security
code, but “it” had a second meaning too—and as far as never giving
that
up, well… she was far less confident. “So why do you keep asking?”
“I don’t know.” Planting his thumb-ringed hands on either side of her naked shoulders, he backed her up against the child-size
red door. The veranda’s floorboards creaked beneath their damp, bare feet, and he grinned, watching her mouth. “Why do you
keep not telling me the code?”
“I told you,”
she attempted a scolding tone, but his mismatched hazel brown and green-blue eyes conspired against her. “I promised Isabel…”
“Oh,
Isabel
,” he murmured into her ear, causing her to nearly swoon against the door. The heart-shaped brass knocker dug into her spine.
“What’s she going to do?” His warm breath caressed her neck. “Put you in the
mush
pot?”
“Sick.” She shrugged him off, cupped her hand to the glowing number pad, and hid her pleased grin behind a dripping curtain
of butterscotch blond hair.
Ah well,
she thought.
So much for associating mush pots with duck-duck-goose.
“I saw the first letter,” her partner in breaking and entering cackled triumphantly as she punched in the code, disabling
the alarm. With mock annoyance, she sighed, pushing open the door. The achingly beautiful boy stooped, following her inside.
“P…,” he pondered, reaching under a ruffled pink floral lampshade. “Wait a sec.” A gentle click. A gloating grin. “It’s not
Paul
, is it?”
Petra rolled her wide-set tea-green eyes. “Your ego is…” Taking in the sight of his now-illuminated naked chest, the damp
navy-blue boxers clinging to his narrow hips, she breathed, “Out of control.”
He kicked the door shut, and the delicate porcelain teacups on the table rattled brightly in their saucers. Sofia and Isabel
always left the tea set arranged and ready in case their dolls, who they believed came alive at night, might be interested
in pretend-drinking tea, pretend-eating cake, and pretend-complaining about their busy days. (That’s what
they
did, anyway; why should their dolls be any different?) Little did they know it was their big
sister
, not the dolls’ own two legs, who relocated their soft, floppy bodies from their respective wooden chairs to the dusty rose
cushioned seat by the bay window. And their big sister who used their porcelain cups—leaving them to be discovered in the
morning, washed and gleaming in the dish rack. And not
only
their big sister either. Who would have believed it? Gigantic, grown-up Petra, in
their
house, with an even more gigantic
boy
?
“Would you like some
tea
?” he inquired with mock seriousness once she returned to the table, scooted aside the miniature chair, and settled into her
seat on the hardwood floor. A half-empty bottle of amber liquid sloshed in his firm grip. His hands—all frayed cuticles, bass-calloused
fingers, and chipped metallic-navy nail polish—weren’t the type you’d expect to offer tea.
Then again, it wasn’t tea he was offering.
“So,” Petra paused, watching him fill her tiny teacup to the very brim. They’d spent ninety-nine percent of the time in the
pool making out, and, as admittedly blissful as that had been, she was determined to have
some
kind of conversation, you know—just to prove they could. Hooking the teacup’s handle with a crooked pinky, she dragged the
cup across the table, dipped her flushed face, and boldly lapped a sip. “So,” she coughed, tossed her chlorine-saturated hair
back, and sniffed. “How was your first day as a vegan? You fall off the wagon yet?”
“Are you kidding?” he exclaimed, plunking the diminished whiskey bottle to the floor. “Turning vegan has only been, like,
the best move of my life. Do you even know how annoyed my friends are?” Petra laughed, lifting her teacup to her bee-stung
lips. “Seriously,” he smirked, shaking his head. “I thought nothing could outdo the time I told them I was a feminist.”
“You mean…” She lowered her teacup, frowning with concern. “You’re not?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I mean…” He knocked back his teacup of whiskey without a wince, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm.
“
You
know.”
“Well, good.” She reached to twist her long damp hair into a bun, but her arms were so heavy all of a sudden; she dropped
them, falling back on her hands. “I have to admit,” she sighed, offering Paul a sloppy grin. “As a smere… as a
mere
vegetarian, I’m impressed. I mean,
I
couldn’t do it.”
“Oh yeah?” he cocked a silver-hoop-pierced eyebrow, allowing the words “do it” to echo between them like a playground taunt.
Petra blushed, averting her wide-set tea green eyes. She had a feeling Paul thought she was more experienced than she was,
and didn’t know how to correct him exactly; that is—not without ruining the moment. And with Paul—with whom every moment was
a perfect, encapsulated eternity—“ruining the moment” was fairly high risk. It meant ruining a lifetime. It meant ruining
everything.
But she couldn’t think about that now. Willing away her worries, she looked up and met his gaze. He crept toward her, blocking
the lamplight, his shadow casting over her like a net, and she trembled—caught—waiting to be dragged in.
“Wait…,” she exhaled as he traced her collarbone toward her shoulder, a thrill of goose bumps trailing in the wake of his
finger. The pattern of freckles across his finely chiseled nose seemed to shift, floating off his face, and she closed her
eyes. They were kissing. Hungry, sighing, delicious kisses. Behind her the floor tilted, rose up, and yielded under her weight.
She fell into a fog of chlorine, lust, and whiskey-tainted breath.
“Wait,”
she gasped, wriggling out from under him, and wrested herself into a seated position. From under his mop of lusciously dyed
blue-black hair, Paul watched her, confused, but also concerned.
Okay, mostly confused.
“What’s wrong?” he ventured, his already husky voice catching in the back of his throat.
Tucking her bare feet under her black cotton underwear–clad butt, she placed her hands on her knees and brooded at the floor.
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked that question, and every time she chose a new answer, a fresh confession. Tuesday night:
My father’s cheating on my mother.
Thursday:
My pill-popping mother’s back in rehab
. Friday:
My little sisters are being raised by their nanny
. Night after night, as she bemoaned her sad existence, Paul held and consoled her. “So what?” he’d say. “
You
were raised by your nanny, and you’re the sickest girl I know.” Or, “It’s not your fault your mom’s psycho.” Or, “Just give
me the word, I’ll fu—ing curb your old man’s face.” Maybe it wasn’t every girl’s idea of romance.
But it was Petra’s.
Still, family—problematic though they were—didn’t answer his question.
What was wrong
was something else—something she didn’t have the courage to tell him.
What was wrong…
was Paul.
It had only recently felt that way. For the last couple weeks, she’d seriously thought she’d found nirvana or something. It
wasn’t that she’d
never
made out with guys before, just with the others—Joaquin, Jamal, that one bakery dude, Rocco, in Italy—making out seemed like
something she was
supposed
to do, which was to say, she always felt a little removed, as if she was hovering from ten feet above or crouching behind
a tree taking notes like Jane Goodall. Not to imply
they’d
pressured
her
. Like a do-it-yourself frat boy, she pressured
herself
, sexually harassing her own mind: Come on! You’re
sixteen.
Christina’s already had
sex
, and you’re getting uptight about a grade-school-level
hookup
? You’re cool, and it’s a party, and you’re stoned, so get over it. Just do it! Yeah, baby! DO IT!!!
Then, one early December night, as a driving rain rattled the real-glass playhouse windows, she peeled off her pool-soaked
underwear, shimmying them down to her ankles until they plastered her foot like a damp leaf. Just as Paul leaned in to assist
her, she kicked them free—almost kicking his face in the process—and he flinched. She gasped, but then he cracked his eyes
open and laughed. And she laughed too. For the first time ever, she was completely naked with a boy, and he was completely
naked with her, and they were laughing, and she was just…
there
. She didn’t have to push herself; she didn’t have to hover from a height. Instead, she was
inside
herself, watching
him
—and everything was easy. So easy, in fact, they’d come
this
close to…