I unwrap myself from Mom and lay my head on the desk. I’ve never felt so numb before, but I force my mouth to move. “I’m not going to take the scholarship.”
After a beat Dad says, “What? Why not? I thought you wanted to get out of state.”
“I do. I want to go to NYU.”
Dad thunders, “NYU? When the hell did you apply to NYU?”
My head is still on the desk. “Last minute. In January. I used my Stanford essay and changed a few words. I paid for the application fee with some of my bratsitting money.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say something, goddamn it?”
“Sweetheart, please,” Mom urges Dad.
“Because I didn’t think I’d get in. But I did.”
“What’s wrong with you, Dom?” Dad fumes. “Since when do you go around applying to colleges on the sly? Since we’re going to pay for it, don’t you think you should have had the crappin’ common courtesy to discuss it with us first?”
“Dominique,” Mom says reprovingly, “isn’t NYU one of the schools Wesley applied to?”
“What?” Dad shouts. “Don’t tell me you were dumb enough to apply somewhere because you want to be a groupie to a wishy-washy teenage track putz! You’re going to Florida or Tulane, and that’s the end of it!”
I lift my head and look at him. I have never seen Dad this angry at me before, and I hate that it has to do with Wes. I start talking softly but gradually intensify to a scream.
“No, Wes isn’t the reason behind any of this. New York City is the capital of the world, the school is very prestigious, it has a great premed program, and I’d be stupid to turn down this opportunity. And so what if it costs more? I got in. I got in! You should be happy for me, not yelling at me! And Dad, if you ever say anything bad about Wes from now on, I’ll never talk to you again!”
“Dom! Come back here!” Dad bellows behind me as I sprint out of the apartment.
Ipedal furiously for twenty minutes until I reach my favorite stretch of Fort Myers beach. I throw my bike down on the ground so hard I’m lucky it doesn’t break. I’m relieved no one’s around except for a few kids too far away to see clearly.
It’s chilly out, and there’s a light mist in the air. I walk to the edge of the surf and watch the muted sunset, jumping back whenever the waves threaten to lick at my loafers. Then I stretch out on the cool sand and look up overhead, hoping to calm my nerves by watching the clouds glide by, but my mind is spinning.
Just four months ago I never would have believed that a boy would play any part whatsoever in my college decision. I cared only about the academics, the size of the student body, the location, and the weather. I used to think of college acceptance letters as emancipation proclamations, but now they’re like divorce papers.
I wish I could turn back the clock so I wouldn’t have to deal with this mess, with all its variables and uncertainties. Every option seems so costly, and no matter what I choose I’m going to disappoint either my parents or myself. Even going to NYU is no guarantee things will remain as they are now. Maybe
Wes doesn’t want to have me as a college girlfriend. He never suggested I apply to NYU, and I never told him I did. What will he say? Maybe our relationship won’t even survive another day now that we’re being forced to consider the future.
The Stanford rejection? It used to be my biggest nightmare. But now I don’t care that much. Let’s say they did accept me; would I choose Stanford or would I choose NYU? I know what the answer is.
I stand up, run back to the water, and scream at the top of my lungs like a madwoman. I’m so furious at Wes. He single-handedly screwed up my direction and priorities. Because of him, I’m scared of change for the first time in my life. Now, I actually want high school to continue indefinitely. And this is what I’ve been reduced to. Yelling incoherencies at the Gulf of Mexico.
Soon I’m too out of breath to yell anymore, and I just buckle over and sob. The sand swallows my tears as soon as they hit, as if reassuring me my breakdown will stay secret. Suddenly my mom’s reaction to Tulane runs through my head: You were granted a merit scholarship? Do you know how rare and prestigious that is?
My cell phone rings. I lie back on the sand and pressTALK .
“Hey, Ames.” My voice breaks before I can even get out her name.
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong? Was Stanford stupid?”
A half hour later my bike’s on the roof of Amy’s Camry as she drives me home.
“Thanks for getting me. I don’t think I could have pedaled anymore, the way I’m shaking.”
“Dom, I don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t tell anyone. If I didn’t get in, then no one would’ve had to know.”
“But why—?”
“Because I wanted to have the option open of being in New York next year, in case something happened between us.” My eyes well up again at the thought of being separated.
“When are you going to tell Gersh?”
“I guess I’ll have to tonight. He’s at stupid track practice for another hour, and I don’t know how I’m going to keep it together when he picks me up.”
Amy hugs me at the next red light. “Look, I don’t want to push you one way or another. The selfish part of me wants you at NYU since it’s just a train ride from Amherst. But if you go to Tulane, the money you’ll be saving on tuition can buy a lot of plane tickets.”
“Yeah. But still.”
As Amy pulls up in front of my apartment building, I get another text message, this time from my mom, which makes me choke up again.
We love you and will support whatever decision you make. Just come home. Mom and Dad.
“You’re going to NYU?” Wes asks quietly. We’re on our way to Captiva, and he tightens his grip on the wheel as he responds to my announcement. I can’t tell whether he’s pleasantly surprised or silently horrified.
“Well, yeah, probably. I can’t just end up thirteen hundred miles away from you without putting up a fight.” I venture a smile, but Wes is grimacing.
“Did they give you a scholarship too?”
“No, but my parents have already saved enough for tuition, so why not spend it?…Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little confused. A half ride—well, I’m surprised you’d give that up. I wish I had a scholarship. As it is, I’m going to have to get part-time work to pay room and board.”
I try to ignore his lack of enthusiasm and keep arguing my side. “If I go to Tulane, I’ll need to maintain a B-minus to keep my scholarship anyway, and I don’t need that added stressor in my life.”
“Um, Dom, you’ll be able to maintain a B-minus blindfolded, at Tulane or NYU.”
“Jesus, Wes!” I glare at him angrily, but all I’m feeling is fear. “Wouldn’t you be happy if I went to NYU?”
“Well, yeah. But, Dom, you need to be realistic.”
“Oh God,” I moan as the tears come and I fall back into my seat. He must think I’m completely obsessed. How could I think it was okay to be this clingy? I turn toward the passenger side window, too hurt and humiliated to face him. “Wes, I can’t deal with this now. I don’t want…I don’t think I can handle breaking up tonight. I can’t tonight, please?”
“Who said anything about breaking up?” His voice just jumped about two octaves.
“Well, you just said…” I look back at him.
“What did I just say? Do you want to break up?”
“God, no!” I shout. “Of course I don’t want to. Not ever…” My words dissolve into more bawling.
Wes veers over to the side of the road, stops the car, and reaches over to hold me. I choke through my tears. “I don’t know what’s right or what to think.”
“Dom…this is what I want to say. Whether you go to NYU or Tulane is beside the point because I know you’d do great at either. But I’ll feel really guilty if I’m why you turn down this great deal at Tulane.
And…it just seems that you never would have considered NY
U if I weren’t in your life.”
But you are in my life! Why do you want me to act like you’re not?
“Wes, I’m not saying that I’m going to, but if I do go to Tulane…do you want to, like, try to keep things the way they are now? I mean, if you find someone you could be potentially interested in, then sure, we’ll break things off and still be best friends. We’ll always be friends no matter what.”
“Dom.” Wes laughs while stroking my head. “No one at NYU will compare to you.”
I hug him tightly. “You really wouldn’t mind doing the distance thing if I went to Tulane?”
“Yeah I’d mind, but I’d deal with it.”
“And if I go to NYU, will I, you know, cramp your style? I don’t want you to feel like I’m stifling you.”
“In a city of eight million people? Don’t be ridiculous.”
I sit back up in my seat, wipe away the remnants of my tears, and give Wes my best sexy look. “I think we need to relieve some of this tension. How quickly can we get to Captiva?”
I swear the tires leave skid marks, and once we get to the condo, college is the last thing on our minds.
Unfortunately, though, neither of us is in the best shape. My nose is stuffed from all the crying I’ve done today, which makes breathing while kissing tricky. And Wes, just off a transatlantic flight and fresh from track practice, reeks of BO, and his breath is awful. I don’t complain, because the only thing that matters is we’re together again.
He reaches to pull down my undies, and I lie back next to him. His left arm is around my shoulders, and his right hand is between my legs. He’s much gentler and slower than last time. But as he bobs in and out of me, I don’t really feel anything. Soon he thumbs my clitoris simultaneously, which feels…okay. I fake some moaning noises every few seconds so he’ll keep going, but I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it. If an orgasm doesn’t feel much better than this, I don’t know what all the hoopla is about. I can tell Wes is getting discouraged.
After ten minutes of nothing, I say, “You can stop now. I absolutely love this, Wes, but I just need to relax more.”
“I want to make you come.”
“You will. Let’s just rest awhile. I’m sure I’m just too emotional right now to get into it.”
“All right,” he sighs, resting his head on my chest. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. My mom made an appointment at Charles’s Formal Wear next week. Prom will be the first time I ever wear a tux.”
“Well, prom will be the first time I ever wear an evening gown. I bought mine at the mall last week.”
“Cool. Can’t wait to see you in it…and not in it.”
I playfully pinch his arm. “Mom thought it was so pretty that she made me bring it to Grandma’s to try it on for her. I was expecting her to shoot me down like she always does, but she actually liked it. It was great seeing her satisfied for once. Then she started reminiscing about going to her prom with Grandpa
and wearing her white lace prom dress. And she was showing me old pictures, and, um, I couldn’t help but think of all the…traditions that go with prom.”
“Yeah. Like slow-dancing. I hate slow-dancing.”
“Me too. But what I meant was prom night, you know?”
“I think so.” He gulps through his grin.
“I mean, only if we’re both ready. Prom’s still a whole month away.”
“Oh, I’m ready. You’re sure you are?” He lifts his head up and looks at me hopefully.
I smile at his enthusiasm. Then I shut my eyes as I hear my grandma’s grating voice warning me to abstain until marriage. I don’t think that’s bad advice. But I want to have sex when the time is right for me, and how could it feel more right than with Wes, at his prom? The only thing making me hesitate is we haven’t said “I love you” yet. But really, what’s the point of declaring it when we imply it every day?
I open my eyes and nod at him. “I just want to be as physically close to you as I possibly can, you know? I want nothing separating us.”
“I guess I should go buy some condoms.”
“Way ahead of you,” I giggle as I reach into my purse. “I took a trip to CVS this week. I thought maybe we could practice putting it on.”
Wes looks at me in awe, and he gets hard again just by studying the box and reading the instructions.
After tearing off the wrapper, Wes holds the condom about a half inch away from the head of his penis.
Then he pinches the tip of the condom to get the excess air out, and with the other hand he rolls it all the way down.
“Wow, Wes, you really seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I had a lot of practice in Paris.”
“What did you say?”
“April Fools’!”
I’m laughing and wheezing at the same time. “You know…” I peel off the condom and slap him on his arm with it. “So not funny!”
He laughs. “In health class they made us practice putting these on dildos. I just never knew it’d come in handy so soon.”
I shake my head as I search my purse for a tissue to put the condom in. It looks like Saran Wrap. It feels like it too, except a little thicker. And slimier. It’s mind-boggling to think this flimsy-looking apparatus is going to be inside me, that it’s the only thing between me and pregnancy.
Meanwhile, Wes is rubbing his forehead with his fingers. He looks exhausted.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “It’s just been a crazy day.”
“Yeah, I know, right? Intercontinental travel, college acceptances, a little third base, and now condom dry runs.”
“It’s enough to wear a guy out.” He closes his eyes and settles into the pillow. Then he says drowsily, as if he were reading my mind, “I want our first time to be incredible, Dom.”
I turn on my side to hold him as he falls asleep. I lie awake admiring his perfect face and body until it’s time to go home.
Seven different guys ask Amy to prom this year, but she ends up asking Wes’s friend Paul so she can throw “the most kick-ass after-party EFM’s ever seen” at his beach house. I tell my parents I’m helping her with the cleanup and will probably spend the night at her place since it will be late by the time we’re done. They say that’s fine and that they just want me to have a good time. They even offer to treat me to a spa day beforehand. I hate how parents whip out their best, most generous qualities right before you have to lie to them.
Prom morning, I ask Mom if I can borrow the station wagon so I can go to the mall to buy panty hose and makeup. Instead, I drive all the way out to the Sanibel Regal Resort, where I have already reserved a small room with a view of the beach. Wes’s grandparents are in Captiva now for a two-week vacation, but I’m actually glad we can’t use their condo tonight. I don’t want our first time to be in a place where we have to worry about leaving it without a trace, even though the hotel room is costing Wes a month’s allowance money and me most of my bratsitting earnings.
After checking in, I go up to the room and stash my toiletries and a change of clothes so I’ll have something casual to wear tomorrow morning. In the nightstand drawer I drop in a package of extra-strength condoms and a lubricant Amy read about that’s supposed to make sex less painful the first time. Finally I drive to the spa where I get a full-body massage, trying not to think how I have to make my final college decision by next week.
Wes and I actually haven’t seen each other in six days since he’s been away in Tallahassee for the state track championship. So even though I’m dying to hug him when the doorbell rings at five sharp, I have my parents stall for a few minutes so I can make a fashionably late grand entrance into the living room.
We both bust up laughing when we lay eyes on each other. Wes looks so distinguished in a tux and bow tie, and he has never seen me look this glamorous. My form-fitting gown is dark green silk strewn with tiny rhinestones, and spaghetti straps cross the low-cut back. Topping off the ensemble is Grandma’s emerald ring, which Grand
pa had given her on their first wedding anniversary and which she’s lending me for the night. It was strange taking off Wes’s mood ring today since I’ve been wearing it almost nonstop for the last two months, but admittedly it’s not prom material.
When we stop giggling, all Wes manages to say is, “Wow!”
I pin a red rose boutonniere on his lapel, and the roses in the corsage he slips on my wrist are yellow except for the tips of the petals, which are red. It’s perfect since yellow signifies friendship and red means romance, and we have both.
Dad breaks out his digicam and takes almost a hundred photographs of us striking poses in the living room and on our terrace. Normally, Wes’s smile rarely exceeds a tight-lipped grin, but tonight it’s ear to ear. On the elevator ride down to the parking lot he says his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
Unfortunately, prom is anticlimactic after our romantic four-course candlelit dinner at The Kings Crown.
The dance is supposed to have an outer space theme, but the EFM gymnasium looks less like the Moon and more like where black and silver crepe paper goes to die. When I use the restroom I notice a Marvin the Martian poster next to the tampon dispenser, which reminds me of Wes’s bedsheets. For a second I wonder if the prom committee knows tonight’s the night and did that to tease me. I also feel a little lost since Amy’s the only other EFM-er I know well, and she and Paul leave early to prepare for the after-party.
After we get professional pictures taken against a kitschy backdrop of a little green man and a tinfoil rocket-ship, Wes says to me, “So, uh, I think this is the part where I ask you to dance?”
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” I tease. “It’s okay, I know you don’t like dancing.”
“So what?” He offers me his arm. “It’s prom.”
I’ve actually been dreading this moment because I hate the way people slow-dance today. I wish we were still taught real dances, like the waltz or swing, so we could look coordinated and graceful. Instead, couples just sway back and forth and lurch in an awkward circle as we girls stiffly grip the guys’
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