by Cameron Lund
“Really?”
“Come on, Collins. You know you’re beautiful.”
Beautiful. The word catches me off guard. It’s not a casual word, something easy like hot or cute, words I’ve heard Andrew use a million times.
“Oh.” My face is so warm you could probably bake cookies on it. I don’t really believe him. I know he’s just trying to be nice.
“Thanks,” I say, not looking at him.
“It’s whatever,” he says. I glance over at him quickly and he’s not looking at me either. I wonder if he’s embarrassed he said anything. He parks the truck and reaches over to unlock my door, leaving the gas running.
“Be careful, okay?”
“It’s just work,” I say. “Not a big deal.”
He narrows his eyes at me and doesn’t need to say anything back, because I can hear him telepathically: I can see through all of your bullshit, Collins.
I turn toward the store, smiling when I see the chalkboard out front, recognizing Dean’s handwriting.
VIDEOS: GET ’EM WHILE THEY’RE HOT!
But the smile is bittersweet, because this means he hasn’t called out sick or mysteriously died, but is in fact right on the other side of the glass door in front of me. Andrew honks and I turn back around, raising an arm up to wave goodbye. He waves back and then drives away. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Then I push the door open and walk in.
And there is he, behind the register, resting his adorable head on his adorable hand. I only get a flash of him before I whip my head down to stare at the ground, because suddenly my eyes don’t know how to work properly. I barely notice Tim is behind the counter too—Star Trek Tim, who’s smiling and waving at me like he has no idea I’m in complete anxiety hell. It’s actually good that Tim is here, really. No alone time with James Dean means I won’t have to deal with the whole trying-to-go-in-for-a-kiss-but-ending-up-with-his-ear-in-my-mouth problem.
“Hey, Keely,” Tim calls out as I take off my jacket and walk over to the register.
“Hey, Tim,” I say, making eye contact with the floor. I can’t look up on the chance Dean might walk into my eyeline. I know I’m being awkward and probably ruining everything, but this is the first time I’ve ever dealt with seeing a cute guy after a hookup and it’s excruciating. I’m even more impressed now with how calm Danielle was when she saw Chase in school after the whole condom incident.
It’s getting weird now, so I force myself to look up at Dean. Our eyes lock. I feel a shot of electricity at the contact, almost as if it were a physical touch. He smiles and raises his hand to his forehead in a quick army salute. His hair is rumpled and I can’t help but flash back to when I was running my hands through it. All I want is to run my hands through it again and again.
“Hey,” I say, raising an arm up to army salute him back. My voice comes out scratchy and I have to clear my throat. Somehow I don’t sound like me.
“Long time no see.” He breaks out into a full smile, and his dimples melt me into a puddle on the floor. I wonder if Tim can see me down there, if he can tell I’m no longer solid but pure liquid.
“Store is closed today,” Dean says. “Roth wanted us all in to do some spring cleaning. Heavy overhaul. We’re supposed to have it all cleaned and ready to open back up tomorrow.”
I groan, heading back to the break room to dump my bag. The room is in disarray. The guys have pulled the couch away from the wall for better cleaning access, and the linoleum floor is covered in dust. There’s a mop and a broom leaning against the cutout of Legolas, placed in such a way that it looks like he’s holding them both.
“Is Legolas helping us?” I call out to the front of the store.
“Yeah. He’s got the break room covered,” Dean calls back.
“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” I say, placing my stuff down on the lumpy old couch. “This place is a disaster.”
“He’s thousands of years old.” Dean’s voice is suddenly right behind me and I jump. “I’m sure he’s cleaned the elf kingdom a time or two.”
“Mirkwood,” I say automatically, and then want to die.
“What?”
“Huh? Nothing.” I turn and see him leaning casually against the door frame. “Hey,” I say again, flustered, feeling like an idiot.
“Hey,” he says, full grin.
Then he walks toward me and wraps a hand gently around my lower back. The other slides through my hair, curling around the back of my neck, and suddenly he’s kissing me; kissing me like we aren’t at work, like Tim isn’t a few steps away in the other room, like he isn’t scared of being interrupted. No, he’s kissing me like we’re back in our galaxy, the only two people in a sea of stars. It doesn’t matter that we’re in the dirty break room, surrounded by dust bunnies. Nothing matters but James Dean.
He pulls back from me, smiling.
“Wow,” I whisper before I can help it. I don’t know why I was ever nervous.
He lets go of me. “I just needed to do that. Now let’s get back to work.” He winks and then turns around and walks back out of the break room like he hasn’t just kissed me into oblivion. I realize that I’m smiling. My face feels stuck that way.
FOURTEEN
IT BECOMES A regular thing, making out with Dean. We claim the old green couch as our own, turning Legolas around so he won’t witness our sins. We kiss sometimes out in the store too, when we’re feeling daring, when customers are scarce; me sitting up on the counter with my legs wrapped around him so we’re eye to eye. I dream about coming to work, wishing it were more than two days a week, wishing I could live here, could inject it into my veins, let it fill me up from the inside. My heartbeat has a rhythm, has a name: James Dean James Dean James Dean.
“So what are you guys?” Hannah asks, the inevitable question, the question no high school girl can ever resist because we crave labels, need to keep organized when we feel like pieces of ourselves are flying apart.
“Who says we have to be anything?”
We’re in study hall and we’re supposed to be doing French homework, but I have work after school today, so obviously the topic has turned to Dean.
“Well, do you want it to be something?” she asks.
“He hasn’t asked me to hang out again.” I lower my voice to a whisper, like it’s embarrassing to admit to her. “We only ever make out in the store.”
“If he asked you on a date, would you go?”
Truthfully, I’m not sure. A date feels too real. What if he asks me about past relationships? I can’t admit to him I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I obviously can’t tell him I’ve never had sex. Making out in the break room is perfect because we can never go all the way, not at work—it’s wonderful and easy and safe.
Until one day it’s not. We’re on the green couch, my back pressed into the cushions, his body over mine. His hand is tangled in my hair and he nips at my ear, at my neck, at my lips, and then pulls back to look at me.
“I can get used to working like this,” he says, his voice husky.
“Me too,” I say.
There hasn’t been a customer for about fifteen minutes, so we’ve been taking advantage of the extra time in the best way we know how. Thank God for the bell above the door.
He leans in to kiss me again and I melt into it, feeling his body sink into mine on the couch as he settles all of his weight on me. He runs a hand through my hair and then trails it down the side of my face, down my neck, and rests it on my chest. Then he moves it lower, running his fingertips lightly over the skin at my waist, and then his hands are undoing his belt and snapping open the button of his pants. I hear the sound of a zipper and am shocked out of my stupor. I push him away, looking around frantically. He jumps off me and raises his arms up as if in surrender. I notice his unzipped pants, half hanging off his hips.
“We can’t do that here.” My voice sound
s shrill.
“What difference does it make?” he asks. “We’re already breaking the rules.”
“Someone could come in!”
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We won’t get caught.”
It doesn’t sound fun to me, having sex here where someone might walk in. He’s probably used to adventurous girls, girls who get off on having sex in public, who do it in their cars, on the beach, in bathrooms at the back of a bar. I’ve never even been in a bar.
I’m such a kid.
“I don’t want to lose my job,” I say, which is true, but is actually about number 5 on my list of worries behind (1) I can’t have sex for the first time on the gross green couch in the break room, (2) I hope Dean likes me, (3) If he wants to have sex on the gross green couch though, he probably doesn’t like me—just wants to have sex with me, (4) I wish I knew what the hell I was doing.
“Just touch me.” His voice is achingly low. I can feel its vibration in my stomach, can feel excitement and anxiety pooling there and spreading across my chest. He’s still standing in front of me with his pants unzipped, and he pulls them down so he’s just in his boxers. “You’ve never even touched me.”
I can’t help thinking about taco night, when the guys at school were so casually complaining about handjobs. Mouth or nothing, Simon had said, like he had any right to insist on anything. Is that what Dean wants? If I use my hands, will he be disappointed? Will he complain about it to his friends later the way Ryder did?
But I push those worries aside. James Dean is standing in front of me in his boxers and I want to touch him, want to see the expression on his face when I do.
“Okay.” My voice is barely a whisper. I reach my hand out toward his boxers, my fingers shaking. I’ve never touched a penis before and I don’t know what to expect. What does it feel like? How tight do you hold it?
And then I hear the jingle of the little bell. I scream, which is probably the worst thing to do, and jump away from Dean, scrambling to the other side of the room. He rushes to find his pants, tripping as he pulls them back up and over his hips. He’s smoothing out his shirt and fixing his hair, and he nods to me. “Your hair, Keely.”
There’s no mirror back here, but I run and check my reflection in the microwave and I can sort of see that my hair is sticking up everywhere. I run my hands through it to smooth it down as Dean leaves the break room and walks back out into the store, like nothing ever happened.
“Sorry,” I hear him say. “We were dealing with something in the back.”
“Was anyone watching the register?” It’s a deep gravelly voice I recognize—Mr. Roth! I feel a swirling in my stomach like I might throw up. I brush my hair to the side with my fingers, hoping I look presentable—that my lips aren’t too puffy or my clothes too rumpled so Mr. Roth won’t know what we were up to. What if he had walked into the break room? What if I had actually reached out my hand all the way, put it into Dean’s boxers, and Mr. Roth had seen? The thought is horrible and humiliating. I can’t believe I was so reckless.
“I was just gone for a second,” Dean says. “Nobody came in the store.”
“Someone should always be up front by the register,” says Mr. Roth. “I’m tired of this.”
I take a deep breath and walk out of the break room into the main room of the store, rolling my shoulders back and trying to stand up tall.
“Hey, Mr. Roth,” I say, my voice breaking and giving me away. “I was just taking a bathroom break. What’s up?”
Mr. Roth launches into a speech about a shipment of new books we’ll be getting later in the week, but I can barely listen to him. All I can imagine over and over again is the look he’d have on his face if he had walked in on us. Dean and I have to stop messing around in the store.
When Mr. Roth finally leaves, after what feels like an eternity, Dean pulls me close to his side, whispering into my ear.
“Come over after work tonight.” I can feel his lips against my skin. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”
“I can’t tonight.” The words cause a physical ache in my chest. “I have a history test tomorrow.” I’m torn, because a part of me wants to be close to him, wants to spend every possible second with him that I can, but another part of me is scared to be alone with him. The test is just a convenient way to stall.
“If not tonight, when?” he asks, pulling back to look me in the eyes.
“I promise,” I say, which isn’t a real answer.
“Didn’t realize you were so into playing games,” he says with a laugh.
“I’m not playing games.” I feel a prickling sensation in the bridge of my nose like I might be about to cry. He tilts his head to the side, studying me.
“Are you a virgin?”
My breath catches in my throat. His voice is low and I can’t read his tone, can’t tell how seriously he’s taking the question, which way he wants me to answer.
“I’m not,” I say, the words rushing out of me before I can stop them. “I swear. I really have a history test tomorrow.”
He smiles. “Good.”
Then he kisses me again and pulls away.
All I can think about is the stupid lie I just told. Now I’m stuck with it. There’s no backtracking from this. I’ll just have to pretend I know what I’m doing, and hopefully I’ll have enough natural talent that Dean won’t suspect me. I’m such an idiot.
“I lied to Dean about being a virgin,” I say to Hannah the next day, pulling her into the bathroom at school the moment I see her, the handicapped single stall on the first floor so I know we’re alone.
“What?” she asks, her eyes bulging.
“I didn’t mean to. It just came out before I had a chance to think about it, and then I’d already said it so I couldn’t take it back.”
“Slow down,” she says, putting her hands on my shoulders as if the weight of them will hold me down to earth. “What did you say?”
“He asked me if I was a virgin. I was put on the spot.”
“You should have told him the truth,” she says. “If you’re contemplating having sex with someone, you should be able to be honest. If you can’t be honest, then you’re not ready.”
Easy for her to say. She can look at the problem from a distance and act rationally. But when I’m around Dean, nothing feels easy or rational—my head is a mess.
“I know,” I snap at her, and then I feel bad. She’s just trying to help.
“Not everything Danielle says is right.” Her voice is soft. “I get that she told you Dean wouldn’t like you anymore if he found out, but that’s not necessarily true. If he likes you, he’ll wait.”
“When I lied to him, he seemed so relieved,” I say, looking up at her and then covering my face with my hands.
“He’ll understand if you tell him you lied,” she says. “And if he doesn’t understand, is that really someone you want to be with?”
“Yes!” I say, pulling my hands away. “I like him so much. He’s smart, and interesting, and way too cool for me, and I just don’t want to mess this up. You don’t get it, because it’s always been easy for you. You’ve always had guys who liked you. If you stop being interested in someone, it doesn’t matter, because you have a million other guys who can step up and take their place. That doesn’t happen with me. This is my only chance.”
Hannah’s chewing on her bottom lip as she studies me. “Do you really think that?”
“I don’t know why Dean likes me in the first place,” I say. “It’s like this crazy fluke and that’s why I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Do you really think it’s been so easy for me?” Hannah brings her hand up to fiddle with the skin on her collarbone, the place where her necklace used to lie. “Do you think Charlie was easy?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I realize I’m kind of going off the rails—this whole situation has made me
a bit crazy. “Of course Charlie wasn’t easy.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, her eyes softening.
I can’t give her an answer. I don’t have one.
FIFTEEN
ANDREW AND CECILIA are slowly making me want to gouge my eyes out with my fork. We’re sitting in study hall together and she’s feeding him—actually feeding him—making airplane noises with her spoon as she brings it to his mouth. I’m pretty sure Andrew knows how to feed himself. He’s been doing it pretty successfully for like eighteen years.
“He’s not a baby,” I say, looking away as Cecilia takes the spoon out of his mouth and drops it back into the container of strawberry yogurt. She ignores me.
“Do you like Tootsie Pops?” she asks him, reaching into her backpack. “Mr. Savoy was giving them out in Spanish earlier.”
“Hell yeah,” he says, and she pulls out two.
“Grape or watermelon?”
“Watermelon,” he says, and she hands it to him.
“I like Tootsie Pops too,” I say, just for fun, because I know she’s not going to give one to me.
“You want some?” Andrew asks, pulling it out of his mouth and offering it in my direction.
I make a face. “Gross, no, put that back in your mouth.”
“I want some,” Cecilia says, and she leans forward and wraps her lips gently around the top of the lollipop, sucking it in a way that makes me wish I were blind.
Luckily, they’re interrupted as Ava barrels over and crashes down into a seat at the table, her eyes wild, purple Easter hair flying in all directions. “They put up the posters for prom!” she squeals, like this is the greatest news she’s ever heard in her entire life.
At the word prom, Cecilia sits up straighter in her chair.
Ava turns to her, pressing her hands down flat on the table, like she’s trying not to float away. “The theme is Under the Sea, which is not very creative, but I bet they’ll have a bubble machine, which is all I’ve ever really wanted out of life.”