“Actually,” I said, bothered by her comment on Joan’s religion, or lack thereof. “I don’t think I’m going. I forgot some homework.”
Erin could be pretty judgmental, and I’d had enough drama for the night. I just wanted to go home, not stick around for a lecture on evangelism or whatever spiritual issue was eating at Erin.
“Oh. Well. See you at school, then.” She closed her car door and started the engine.
I left for home, determined to steer clear of drama from now on. No more kissing experiment. No more eavesdropping on family fights. No more awkward time with Erin. It was time to focus on just one girl, and if she ever texted back, that girl would be Pilar.
Chapter Eight
Here’s the thing about the moment that might’ve led to a kiss with Joan in the projector room: as much as I insisted to myself I’d imagined the whole thing, and as often as I remembered her riding away in Wade’s car, my stupid heart was snagged on a smudge of black mascara and those damn deep brown eyes.
While I pulled a shot of espresso in the youth room, Joan made herself comfortable inside my brain, her hand moving toward my shoulder again and again. The kid would walk off with his overdone latte and I’d stand there, staring into space, until Matt nudged me to get back to work. The rest of August passed this way.
Mrs. Pearson kept attending The Exchange, but Joan didn’t show again. I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t want to be there in the first place, and there was no reason for her to go back, no matter how hard I tried to come up with one.
I smiled at Mrs. Pearson when I passed her in the hall at church, but seeing her after hearing about Joan’s dad made me thankful she wasn’t my English teacher. It was awkward knowing personal things about your teachers. Not that I knew anything personal, just that there was something personal to know, something to do with Mr. Pearson. It was enough to make my eyes cling to Joan in a crowd at school, and to lead me in a new route to some of my classes, avoiding the hall where Mrs. Pearson stood outside her door, directing traffic.
The third week of September, with the tips of the leaves painted yellow and the demolition of our back wall beginning, I finally got a text message from Pilar.
I was riding my bike on Lost Bridge Trail, mentally analyzing the small amount of data from my short-lived kissing experiment. I was almost to the gazebo, exactly where I’d been the last time Pilar texted me. I could’ve taken it as some sort of confirmative sign, but I didn’t usually see omens in random occurrences.
Anyway, thinking about that party led me to a party Ballard was throwing. It would be a couple of weeks before Halloween and would involve various levels of costuming. The girls would inevitably choose to be sexy-something. Sexy witch, sexy cat, or else they’d be their favorite movie character. Half of the guys would make sad attempts at being funny. Last year, Ballard pinned Smarties candies all over his jeans and went as a “Smartie-pants.” The other half of the guys wouldn’t bother.
I was in the other half. After years of attempting to be invisible, I didn’t have an urge to dress up and draw attention to myself.
My phone buzzed and I pulled off the trail to check the message.
I’m so sorry, Stephen. Mom took my phone when she found out about me going to that party with Isabel.
For over a month? I asked.
My parents are intense. Please don’t be mad.
I stared at the screen. On the one hand, there hadn’t been much room in my brain for Pilar since the never-really-happened-but-felt-like-maybe-something thing with Joan in the projection room. But, on the other hand, I’d spent the last few weeks trying to get up the guts to talk to Joan, to ask if she was doing okay, since I’d witnessed that nasty scene with her mom.
Talking to Joan was impossible. For being his ex-girlfriend, she sure was with Wade a lot. She went to all the football parties, and Ballard told me about how drunk she got, how she practically attacked some freshman girl who spilled a drink in her lap. Joan’s behavior was more and more erratic, including a three-day suspension over a fight in the cafeteria.
Since I was still not willing to return to Ballard’s ridiculous kissing experiment, my choice was to keep obsessing over an out-of-reach girl or test the waters with Pilar. The decision seemed obvious.
It wasn’t, though. It wasn’t obvious at all, and that should’ve been my sign, flashing lights and screaming sirens.
Stephen? Are you mad?
I had no right to be mad. She wasn’t required to communicate with me.
No, I answered. I’m not mad.
I want to see you again, the next message read.
I wanted to see her again too. Whatever was not going on with Joan aside, Pilar was easy to talk to, super hot, and she’d even remembered me from when we were kids. It was nice to be memorable, to matter.
Me too.
Isabel is going to the mall Saturday, to meet her boyfriend. I can go with her if I want, so long as all of my homework is done.
I can meet you there, probably. I’ll ask to borrow the car.
I called Mom. As much as I love Gwinn the Schwinn, she and I would not make it to Eastdale Mall in Montgomery. Not if I wanted to be un-sweaty and not covered in road grime when I arrived.
“The mall?” Mom asked. Her tone was hesitant. To her credit, I wasn’t the hang-out-at-the-mall type, and when I did go it was with Ballard, so he drove.
“I want to see the new Marvel movie.” I didn’t want to explain about Pilar and her cousin.
“By yourself?” Mom asked. In the background, I could hear her printer running, loud motor whirring away on flyers for The Exchange’s annual Trunk or Treat event.
“Yeah, Ballard doesn’t want to go, and I really want to see it.”
“Maybe I can go with you.”
“Mom,” I said. “I’m not going to a movie with my mother on a Saturday when half of my school will be there. They will see me.”
I was exaggerating. A lot of kids might be there. It was the nearest mall to Moorhen. But it wasn’t likely anyone would notice me. Still, she bought it, and that’s what mattered.
“You used to like mother-son date night.” Her voice was pouty, almost drowned out by the ancient printer.
“Yeah, and I used to be twelve. Things change.” There was a minor twist of guilt in my gut over lying.
I texted Pilar, I got the car. What time do I meet you?
At 2, in the food court.
Ok. See you Saturday.
She replied with a happy face and a heart emoji.
I smiled at my phone.
* * *
Saturday morning, while I sleepily spooned Cheerios into my mouth and wiped milk off my chin, Mom sat at the kitchen table and made a dozen lists on long narrow paper. I didn’t pay close attention, but one list was a menu and one included a lot of names.
“I’m planning a cookout for some families from The Exchange,” she told me, even though I hadn’t asked.
“Cool.” I took another bite of cereal and slurped the milk from my spoon.
“Don’t do that,” Mom said, glancing up from her vast array of papers.
I slurped again. She glared, and I smiled innocently.
“I want to form a new small group.” Mom chewed the end of her pen. Gross. “I’ll ask the Harpers and the Greggs. Maybe the Islingtons as well. I’m going to do the cookout here at the house and see how they all get along.”
Great, she wanted to host people at our house while it was under construction. Sounds like a grand idea.
I was about to burst Mom’s happy hospitable bubble when suddenly the cookout did sound like a grand idea. If we’d been inside a cartoon, a bright yellow lightbulb would’ve popped on over my head.
“You should invite Mrs. Pearson and her daughter,” I blurted so fast milk flew off my lips. White droplets dotted the table, and I blushed.
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm … You mean the daughter I caught you alone with in the projection room?”
My cheeks got darker
. “It wasn’t what it looked like. Joan is … We hardly even know each other. She was upset and wanted to get away from people.”
“Uh-huh.” Mom watched me with hawk eyes, and I noticed wrinkles between her brows.
“I’m being serious.” I used a napkin to wipe milk spittle off the tabletop. “I overheard Joan and her mom arguing. I bet Mrs. Pearson could use some friends, like in this small group thing you’re talking about.”
Mom put her pen between her teeth and nodded. She always nods when she’s deep in thought. Dad calls her Bobblehead Renee, as if my mother will become so famous one day, people will buy action figures of Reverend Renee Luckie, super pastor.
“Good call, Stephen.” She scribbled “Yong Pearson” on the piece of paper. I’d never known Mrs. Pearson’s first name.
My intentions weren’t entirely pure though. Yes, Mrs. Pearson could benefit from a night out and Mom’s new small group, but if she brought Joan, maybe I could finally get up the guts to talk to her. We wouldn’t be around Wade or any of the popular football boys. We wouldn’t be on her turf at all. Like in the projection room at The Exchange, we’d be on my turf—inside my comfort zone.
What I wanted to ask her in the projection room was about Wade, about how she could punch him in my defense and then make him her boyfriend. I had no reason to care. But I did. I cared.
I didn’t need to leave for Montgomery until around one, but I had the car all day. I stood beside it with the keys and considered my options. In the end, I took Gwinn from the garage and rode to the river. I sat there a long time in the shadow of the bridge over the Tallapoosa, watching the water.
How would this date go with Pilar? Was it a date? I wanted it to be. I wanted to be doing a normal Saturday thing, like going on a cheesy mall date with a pretty girl, and Pilar was more than pretty. She was beautiful, with her river of hair and steel-spine confidence.
Joan was pretty in a different way. There wasn’t a lot of softness to her, but those dark eyes pierced like needles with a good kind of pain—a know-that-you’re-alive kind of pain. She was smart too, always on the honor roll list and taking AP classes. Joan was also unpredictable and sometimes downright mean.
Whatever reasons I had to care about her, she didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. We hadn’t spoken two words since that night in the projection room. I shouldn’t have suggested Mom invite her to the cookout.
I reminded myself she never went to church with her mother. She wasn’t going to show up at my house for a barbecue.
By the time I started Mom’s car and headed out of Moorhen, I’d promised myself to stop obsessing over Joan. It wasn’t fair to go on a date with Pilar if my heart was stuck on someone else.
I didn’t know what might happen with Pilar, but I couldn’t find out without taking a few risks. Hanging out with her would be its own kind of experiment, way better than the kind Ballard had come up with, testing the waters of a possible future relationship.
Chapter Nine
The mall was crowded with families, and crowds make me nervous. Distracted by my pounding pulse, I tripped over a stroller on my way through the double doors. An angry toddler darted into my path not ten feet later. He reached his chocolate ice cream–covered hands out to keep from falling and smacked right into me.
I stumbled backward, felt my temper rumble in my gut, and took a deep breath. His mother scooped him up, apologized profusely, and disappeared back into the sea of people. My jeans were embellished by two brown handprints, but I was mostly still calm. Working with the preschool journey group at church taught me a lot of patience with kids.
I planned to duck into the bathroom and clean myself up, but as soon as I came into sight of the food court, Pilar spotted me.
“Stephen!” She waved excitedly and I waved back. The bathroom would have to wait.
Weaving between tables, she made her way to my side, grinning. She was just as gorgeous as I remembered. Her long hair was arranged in a complicated-looking braid to one side of her head. It hung over her shoulder and bounced when she walked. Once she was close enough, she threw her arms around me.
Surprised, I sort of stood there for a second before lifting my arms to return the hug. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stretched on tiptoe and kissed me. Right there in front of all those people. A beautiful girl kissed me.
My whole body went still.
So much for taking things slow. Maybe I didn’t have to say anything. Maybe I could hang out with her and see where it went. We were in public after all, not alone in a dark bedroom.
“Let’s walk,” she said when we broke apart.
I wanted to ask how we’d gone from texting a few times to strolling the mall holding hands and kissing where everyone could see, but I didn’t. I mean, we kissed at the party, so kissing wasn’t new, right? Her fingers were thin and slightly cold. I worried about my hand sweating as she swung our arms between us.
“What happened there?” Pilar examined the chocolate handprints on my jeans.
My shoulder jerked as I answered. “Some little kid branded me as soon as I got here. It’s not going to come out.”
“Maybe if we wash them right now.” She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth.
“Right.” I laughed. “How’re we supposed to do that?”
“We need a sink. And a hand dryer. Come on.” She tugged my arm so I’d follow her.
I expected her to send me into the men’s room by myself to handle my stain situation in private. Instead, she took me to one of the department stores. As I trailed behind, people watched us, or watched her. A guy from school looked her over and waved at me. He was one of Wade’s buddies. Football players didn’t acknowledge my existence for any reason other than mocking me.
Inside the store, Pilar made turn after turn. She knew her way around the merchandise. A rack of half-price bathing suits, out of season, blocked her path, but she tugged me left, and we kept walking.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I told you, to wash your jeans. We need a bathroom.”
She stopped, and I practically ran into her. We were standing in an alcove near the service desk, a phone ringing shrilly and a couple of salesgirls arguing about who was putting away returns. In front of us was a bathroom with a blue sign on the door and a little stick man in a wheelchair.
She opened the bathroom door and motioned me inside.
I stepped in.
And Pilar stepped in behind me.
I turned as she closed and locked the door, my heart speeding toward what her presence meant.
“You don’t have to come with me.” My voice cracked mid-sentence. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I mean, I’m going to rub a paper towel over the stain. It won’t be entertaining.”
“That’s not good enough. Chocolate will set in fast. Trust me. I know about hand washing jeans. Our machine broke last month and I did my laundry and my little brother’s in the bathtub for two weeks.”
“Yeah, sure, but…” I looked at my pants and at Pilar, her hands planted firm on her hips.
“Are you being modest?” She dropped her hands and the defensive posture. “That’s sweet, but don’t worry about it. Boxers are exactly like shorts. It’s not a big deal.”
My face burned.
“What?” she asked.
I closed my eyes and didn’t answer.
“Oh,” she said, a tiny giggle escaping her throat. “You don’t wear boxers, do you?”
“No.” I sighed. “I don’t like how they feel. Under my pants I mean. They get bunched up, and…”
Too much information, Stephen. Shut your mouth.
“Okay, no worries. Look, I won’t tell anyone I saw you in your tighty-whities, okay?”
“It’s not about people knowing you saw me in my tighty-whities,” I told her, blushing furiously just saying “tighty-whities” to a girl. I didn’t know how to explain the five billion insecurities warring for their chance to take me down a notch on what should be a fun
afternoon at the mall with a pretty girl.
For starters, there would be no hiding the size and shape of things standing there in my briefs. I know a lot of guys measured against each other when they were kids, but I’d never done that. So I had no idea how I compared, or how many other boys she had seen nearly naked.
“Okay, how about this? If we both take off our pants, we’ll be even. An ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ kind of thing. Will that make you more comfortable?” She stood there, the bone of her hip peeking from the low rise of her jeans, threatening to undo every bit of willpower I possessed.
“No,” I said. “It’s fine. Please keep your pants on.”
Pilar burst into a wild sort of laughter, tossing her head, so her thick braid swung.
“What is so damn funny?” I asked, not sure if I was being mocked. Usually when people laughed, it wasn’t with me, but at me. I was shrugging my shoulder hard and ready to make a run for it.
“It’s just…” She paused to catch her breath. “No boy has ever asked me to keep my pants on.”
The part of me that reacted to being cornered responded before rational decision-making took over. “Do you take your pants off for a lot of boys?”
It was the wrong question. The laughter rushed from her face, instantly replaced by hurt and anger.
“I’m sorry.” I groaned. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I wasn’t calling you—”
“A slut?” She arched an eyebrow while rebuttoning her pants.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” She shook her head at me. “I did make it sound that way. So, to answer your question, no, not a lot of boys. Just two. Your turn. How many girls have you been with?”
My mind flashed on the girls I kissed after Pilar left the party. But still I didn’t tell her about them. We were talking about activities that involved the removal of pants, and my stupid kissing experiment didn’t count.
“None.” I hated saying the word. It’s not like I wanted to be some kind of man-whore and tell her I’d had sex with every girl at Moorhen. But admitting I was a virgin to a girl who wasn’t … Well, it’s not the way I wanted to spend a date, if a date was what it was.
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