by Cameron Lund
I’ve gone a little wild with the research. I want to make sure we’re extra careful—I’ve seen enough stupid reality shows about teen pregnancy to know it’s a bad idea. I’m curious about sex tips too. I know the internet is exploding with information, but I don’t know how to find any of those websites, and I’m terrified that if I look up porn on my phone, my parents will see it on the bill. Do they list websites you look at on the phone bill? I think about googling it to be sure, but what if they list that on the bill too?
I decide that books are safe. Books are full of useful information, and they can’t be too graphic if someone decided to print them and put them in a bookstore where even grandmas and kids can see them. I pick up three, paying cash just in case: a huge textbook called Sexual Bodies Explained, an illustrated guide called The Art of Love—which features a cartoon couple engaged in hundreds of different freaky positions—and Wings of Passion, a paperback romance novel I grab at the last second, hoping it might give me emotional insight.
I start reading The Art of Love late at night under the covers, trying to learn as much as I can. There are chapters on kissing I’m dying to try out with Dean, and heat floods through me as I look at the illustrations and imagine they’re the two of us instead of the cartoon people.
By the time the Plan is done, I’m going to be a bona fide sexpert, and James Dean won’t know what hit him. So I know I’m doing the right thing. I have to be.
NINETEEN
FRIDAY NIGHT IS here way too fast and I haven’t had enough time to research. I haven’t even started Wings of Passion, and suddenly I’m in Andrew’s kitchen and the Plan is about to actually happen. I might throw up.
There’s a plate of crackers and hummus in front of us on the counter, but I can barely touch it.
“Are you sure you guys don’t want to come?” his mom asks, fastening an earring. They’re about to leave for the symphony, which is about an hour away in Burlington, so they’ll be gone for most of the night. “We could probably get some extra tickets. Rob is friends with the first violinist.”
“No, you guys go.” Andrew pops a cracker into his mouth.
This is the least I’ve ever felt like eating in my life.
I’ve brought my backpack with me, and inside are the educational sex books and a bunch of condoms I grabbed from the nurse’s office in school when no one was looking. I had to fake a stomachache to get close enough to the counter. Now I can feel the weight of the books against my back.
“We’ll just stay here,” I say, my voice coming out squeaky. Andrew gives me a look. I know I’m acting suspicious, and we need our parents to leave. I clear my throat and eat a cracker to keep from speaking further. It tastes dry and salty in my mouth. “Probably just gonna watch a movie,” I say, forgetting I’m trying not to speak and choking a little on the cracker. “You know, just normal stuff. Man, this cracker is dry.”
He kicks me and narrows his eyes.
“Okay, well, we’ll be home late,” my mom says, coming over to us. She kisses the top of my head loudly, and then moves over to kiss the top of his.
“But don’t have anyone over,” his mom says, pulling on her coat. “We won’t be home that late.”
“Have fun. Be good,” my dad says, waving. Then finally they’re all out the door.
And we’re alone.
Andrew and I linger by the hummus and crackers for a few minutes, neither of us speaking. I can hear the tick . . . tick . . . tick of the clock in the living room and the quiet buzz of the refrigerator. I reach for another cracker, eager for something to do, and bite into it. The crunch echoes loudly in the room, practically ricocheting off the walls.
And then I begin to giggle, quietly at first because I’m trying to hold it in.
“Really?” Andrew asks. “I thought we were done with this.” But he begins to laugh too, and before I can help it, I snort, spraying bits of cracker out of my mouth and across the countertop. “Gross!” He’s laughing harder now.
I open my mouth and stick my tongue out, showing him the rest of the chewed cracker.
“You look like a baby bird,” he says.
“Oh, should I feed some to you?” I drop my head down so the mushy cracker in my mouth is dangerously close to falling out and onto him.
“No!” He jumps up and away from me, putting his arms up in a cross to ward me off, as if I’m a vampire.
“Fine,” I say, swallowing the cracker.
He grins at me. “Really admirable seduction technique though. I can hardly resist you.”
My smile drops as I remember why we’re here. We stare at each other for a minute and I don’t know what to do. I clear my throat. “Should we . . . get started?”
“Oh,” he says, suddenly jumpy. He runs a hand through his hair, and it calms me down a bit. It makes me feel better that he’s nervous too, even though he’s the one who’s done this a million times.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got it all set up.”
“What did you set up?” I ask, surprised. I follow him up the stairs, and when we get to his room, I’m comforted by its familiarity. There’s his old navy blue carpet, frayed at the edges. There’s the pillow I sewed for him in home economics back in sixth grade, misshapen and bright pink because I knew it would embarrass him. The smell of his room is just the same as always, like cut grass and pine and something earthier, the musky smell of boy, and it calms my nerves. He’s just Andrew.
The only thing that’s different now is his bed. The usually rumpled sheets have been straightened—maybe even washed—and the blankets that always form a messy pile on the floor have been folded neatly and put away. And on top of the bed he’s sprinkled a bunch of flowers.
“They’re just from one of the vases downstairs,” he says, scratching his nose. “No big deal.”
“No, it’s really nice,” I say, feeling warm and cozy inside.
He claps his hands together and turns toward the dresser by his bedside. “First things first.” He opens the top drawer and pulls out two bottles of watermelon Breezer, handing me one. “Sorry it’s not cold, but I had to keep them hidden up here. Mom’s been snooping a lot since the party.”
“Thanks,” I say, twisting off the top. “I thought you hated my stupid watermelon drinks.”
“They’re not so bad. I just like giving you a hard time.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and I join him. We clink our bottles together. I feel slightly light-headed. I’ve been on his bed so many times, but this doesn’t feel like sitting on Andrew’s bed. This feels like sitting on the bed of a boy, and it’s terrifying. I take a long sip of my drink and swallow it too quickly, sputtering a bit. Andrew pats me on the back.
“So, um. How should we do this?” I take another sip. “Do we need to take off our clothes? I guess our pants at least, but maybe not our shirts.” I feel jittery, like I’ve had twenty cups of coffee. “I brought some . . . condoms from the nurse’s office, but I don’t know if they’re the right size. Does that matter? Or is it more of a ‘one size fits all’ thing? Do you have a condom that you want to use instead?” I realize I’m rambling, but I can’t stop.
“We can use the ones you brought,” he says. “Or, I mean—one of the ones you brought.” He clears his throat. “It’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so we should put it on,” I say, taking a deep uncomfortable breath. “You should probably do it, because I don’t know how.” I finish the rest of my drink in one go and put the bottle down on the floor. He sets his beside it.
“Hey,” he says. “Slow down. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m sure,” I say, smiling weakly. “Oh!” I jump up and grab my backpack. “I forgot. I brought some books. For reference.” I unzip the bag and pull out The Art of Love and Wings of Passion, setting them both down on the mattress. Andrew picks up Wings of Passion, smirking at the illustration on
the cover. He leafs through it and begins reading aloud from one of the pages.
“‘Maryanne had made love in the sky before, but never with a pilot quite like Captain Reynolds. Their lovemaking was fast and intense, full of a passion she had never known. He was hard and throb—’”
“Hey!” I scramble to grab the book back from him, feeling my ears go hot. “I thought it might be helpful to read. This one’s better though.” I crack open The Art of Love, flipping through the pictures inside. “It’s got a bunch of positions and tips, like a how-to guide.” I find the table of contents and run my thumb down the page until I get to the chapter I want. Then I show it to Andrew.
“I think we should try this one,” I say, pointing to the first drawing. “It seems like the easiest. We can work our way up to numbers two and four maybe, but I don’t know. They look kind of . . . scary.”
He takes the book from my hands and folds it closed, setting it aside on the bedside table. “We don’t need a book. Okay?”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess it’s all intuitive. I mean, animals learn to do it, right?” I think for a second. “Do you think animals watch other animals first so they know what to do? Or do you think they just know?”
“I think they just know,” he says. “And we will too.” He takes my hand.
“Okay,” I say. “So what do you usually do with girls? Show me the first step.”
“C’mere.” He uses our clasped hands to pull me closer to him, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His fingers thread through mine, rough and familiar. “We can be natural about this.” His voice is a whisper. “No steps. No planning. No books.”
I nod, unable to speak or breathe.
“Just tell me if you want me to stop, and I will.” He lifts his other hand to my face, resting it lightly against my cheek, and then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I lean in to his palm, getting used to the feel of him in this new way. He leans closer to me and I close my eyes, my lips parting slightly. My heart is thudding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
And then his lips touch mine, soft and tentative, and I inhale in surprise. I press back, leaning into him, and his hand on my cheek moves back into my hair, behind my head, pulling me even closer. He tastes familiar in a way I didn’t expect, and I open my mouth to taste more, feeling his tongue glide against mine, deepening the kiss. I feel unexpectedly at ease, my nerves draining out of me as I melt and swirl, dizzy and light-headed. His fingers untangle from mine and he brings his hand up my arm, brushing his fingertips up and down my skin in soft patterns. I place my hand on his chest, realizing fleetingly I’ve never touched him there. This is new uncharted territory. He feels strong and sturdy, a contrast to the soft knit of his sweater.
He leans into me and I feel myself fall back, lying slowly down onto the bedspread, on top of the flowers. He settles his body onto mine, sinking me into the mattress, and I shift so we line up perfectly, touching everywhere. He gasps, pulling his lips from mine for a moment, and begins planting soft kisses on my cheek and over my neck. I giggle as I feel his tongue lick a sensitive spot below my ear, and he pulls away. I open my eyes for the first time, really looking at him, feeling dazed as he comes into focus, his green eyes soft and slightly glazed.
“Ticklish?” he whispers, and I nod. He smiles. “I never knew you were ticklish there.”
“Me neither,” I whisper back, and he leans down to capture my lips with his once more. I move my hands tentatively down to the bottom hem of his sweater and then reach inside, touching the soft skin of his stomach. There’s a trail of hair leading from his belly button down below his belt, something I’ve noticed briefly over the last few years but have tried not to look at. Now I take my time, running my fingers through it, feeling the hard muscle of his stomach underneath. He leans away from me and pulls off his sweater and then his shirt, throwing them somewhere onto the floor, and I study the muscles of his arms, taking my hand from his stomach to touch the triangle of freckles on his shoulder.
He raises himself up onto his arms so he can study my face. I bite my lip, self-conscious that he’s looking at me so closely, studying me as if I’m a girl, a real girl, one that he wants to be with. He moves his hand to the hem of my shirt, holding tentatively on to the fabric there.
“Can I?” He pulls it up slightly to reveal a strip of my stomach.
“Oh, right,” I say, flustered. I pull the T-shirt over my head, tossing it onto the floor to join his discarded clothes, and lie back down. I’m wearing my own bra this time—not one of Danielle’s—so it fits much better, although there’s definitely less cleavage.
“So what next?” I ask, my voice hoarse, as if I’ve just woken up from a nap. “I’ve never . . . no one’s ever seen . . .” I stumble over the words. “I’ve never taken my bra off with Dean.”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, his voice low and strained. He reaches a tentative hand up to the fabric of my strap, running it between his fingers. He pulls the strap down, letting it fall past my shoulder. “Tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper, and he reaches underneath me for the clasp. He fiddles with it for a minute, unable to get it open, and I reach back and do it for him, pulling the bra away before I have a chance to talk myself out of it. He smiles and leans down to kiss me again, covering my body with his. The feeling of skin against skin is electrifying.
“Keely,” he whispers, pulling me tighter against him. He reaches a hand up to touch my chest, slow and gentle, and I find that I don’t mind it, find myself actually enjoying it. I reach for the clasp of his belt buckle with tentative fingers and slowly pull out the leather strap. He moves his hands off me and reaches down to help, unzipping his jeans. He has to sit up away from me to pull them off, and they get stuck around his feet.
Once they’re off, he drops them onto the floor and comes back over to me in just his boxers. They’re dark green and covered with little four-leaf clovers, and I notice with a thrill of—what, fear? Anxiety? Excitement?—that there’s a tent in the front.
He reaches for the button of my jeans, and I gasp in surprise as I feel the pressure of his fingers through the fabric.
“Still okay?” he whispers, holding his fingers there on the button, not moving. I nod, kissing him softly on the side of the mouth. I lay my hand over his and help him move the button aside, sucking in a nervous breath as he pulls down the zipper. I feel strangely as if I’m in a dream, as if we’re two people outside of ourselves. He pulls my pants slowly down my legs. When he sees my underwear, he grins.
“Polar bears?”
I flush, biting my lip to keep from laughing. He tosses my pants onto the floor and kisses me again, lying back on top of me and settling in. I’m acutely aware that all that separates us are two thin layers of cotton, and my mind is reeling. I can feel the hardness of him pressed against me, and I press into it, making him gasp. He pulls his face away from mine and gazes at me, bringing a hand up to cradle the side of my face.
“Keely,” he whispers again, his voice so soft I can barely make it out. “You drive me crazy.” He moves his hand from my cheek and trails his fingertips down my neck, and then to the delicate skin of my collarbone. I shiver, my eyes fluttering closed of their own volition. We’re on the brink, standing on the edge of the cliff, about to jump. And once we’ve jumped, there’s no turning back. I know what we’ve done has already changed everything, but maybe the strings could still be untangled. But not if we keep going—not after this.
“Do you have the condom?” I whisper, my voice catching.
“It’s in your bag, right?”
I pull away from him and scramble for the backpack, which is on the floor on the other side of the bed. My hands are shaking so much I have trouble with the zipper, but finally I get the little square package out and hand it to him. I feel slightly dizzy, the room sliding in and out of focus as I try to get
my bearings.
“Okay, so,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering, considering we’re all alone in the house, but it seems like speaking in a normal voice would interrupt something. “I guess you should open it. Or no, actually maybe I should try to put it on you. Good teaching moment, right? Do you think Dean would be into that? That would look—”
“I don’t think it matters.” His voice is strained.
“He might be impressed if I knew how to—”
Andrew kisses me again, lying over me, and I kiss him back, forgetting about the condom for a moment at the feel of his lips and tongue. “Keely,” he says, and I feel the word against my lips. “Let’s just . . .” He doesn’t finish, instead brushing fluttering kisses over my jaw. He pulls away and looks at me, his face barely an inch from mine. “I’ll put it on,” he says.
I nod, unable to speak.
“Are you sure about this?” His voice is scratchy and low. “I need you to tell me that you’re sure.”
I nod again, surprised how much I want him to continue. I ache in a way I didn’t expect. Now we’ve come this far, it’s hard to stop. I want to go through with things—feel suddenly there’s a small piece of me missing.
It’s so different from how I felt when I was in this same position with Dean. I remember the anxiety that flooded me then, how my brain was moving in a million different directions and I couldn’t get it to slow down. It feels slowed down now—calm and sure. It’s probably because I’m comfortable with Andrew; he’s not someone I’m trying to impress.
“I think with Dean, I felt—” I start to say, but Andrew pulls away from me, his forehead wrinkled.
“What about Dean now?” He runs a hand over his face and sits up, leaning away from me on the bed.
“I was just going to say,” I feel my voice waver with emotion, “I’m not as nervous as I was with Dean. I mean, I’m still nervous obviously, but Dean was like . . . another level. You’re different.” I laugh awkwardly, expecting him to laugh too, but he doesn’t.