“Ohhhh my God yes,” Layla replied, all singsongy.
“No. Stop. No more smiling . . . ,” Zoe said. “My point is that—”
“Your point is that you want to have sex,” Alex piled on.
“No—”
“Don’t you mean yes?” Emma joined in. “I’m positive I already heard you say yes.”
“No, still no. My point is that I don’t exactly have a lot of options.”
“That is false,” Emma said.
“If you want to have sex, you can find a way to have sex,” Layla insisted.
“The last thing I wanna do is just ‘find a way.’ I’m not gonna sleep with a random or lower my standards because Layla had a stupid idea—”
“It’s not a stupid idea. In fact, I think the sex pact might be the single greatest idea I’ve ever had.”
“Sex pact? Since when is there a sex pact?” Zoe was now officially freaking out.
“Well, now that we’ve established we all want to have sex—”
“Good sex,” Alex interjected.
“Duh, yes. Now that we’ve established we all want to have good sex, I think we all should.”
“I’m down.” Emma laughed.
“Totally,” Alex agreed.
“Ohmigod . . .” Zoe blushed.
“Is that a yes?” Layla asked.
Zoe couldn’t quite believe it, but the truth was “yes” it was.
“It’s hap-pen-ing,” Layla declared triumphantly. “I think step one is to put the positive intention out into the universe.” Layla loved step-by-step instructions almost as much as she loved her lists and due dates. “Before high school ends, we are going to do this together.”
“But not together together,” Alex teased.
“Right. We’ll do it . . . concurrently. With the right person in the right place at the right time . . .” Alex and Emma nodded firmly in agreement. Zoe managed to tip her head forward slightly, which was more than good enough for Layla. “We’re having sex!” she exclaimed.
And that was it.
One serving of frozen yogurt later, sex was no longer simply a daydream or a wet dream or a piece of juicy gossip that happened to somebody else.
All of a sudden, it was something the girls actually did, something they all wanted to do—and were going to do, together—before high school graduation.
169 days until graduation . . .
LAYLA almost couldn’t believe it.
The Crew had a sex pact.
And the sex pact had a due date.
And the whole thing was happening.
In Layla’s head, plans and dreams were basically the same thing, but suddenly this one felt like it was actually gonna come true. Obviously, there were still variables to consider and the need for contingencies and everything, but Layla loved that sort of thing: the planning and the overplanning. She realized it might even be thematically appropriate to say she got off on it, which made her grin, equally embarrassed and excited.
ALL THE FEELS, Layla texted Alex, Emma, and Zoe in The Chat, which is what The Crew called their ongoing text message conversation. I am having all of the feelings at the very same time.
RELAX, Alex texted back. “Relax” was a pretty standard Alex response, but Layla could not simply relax. She tried not to get too far ahead of herself, she really, truly did, but her mind was always racing away from her. Like even right now it was racing into the future—past the pact and the due date—all the way into the next year and then into the next decade, until all of a sudden all she could think about was the fire pit where The Crew would spend all of their future nights together. Of course this fire pit would be located in the backyard of the property that the girls would communally purchase, where they would build four separate, but architecturally cohesive, houses, one for each girl, and they’d all live happily ever after with their husbands and their children—and each other, obviously. The compound, as Layla called it in her dreams slash plans, would materialize sometime shortly after the girls wore the same blush-colored bridesmaid dresses to each other’s weddings, but not before they all took a coordinated sabbatical from their successful and well established careers to travel through Europe.
Layla took a deep breath and managed to reel her thoughts of the future back into the present where she was lying on her bed, holding her cell phone up in the air, and watching a string of texts pour into The Chat from her best friends, who—thankfully—seemed to be full of just as many feelings as she was. Layla already knew that she was ready to have sex with Logan, but the fact that her best friends had just piled onto the plan with her was the icing on the cake.
Or no, not the icing . . . it was the cherry on top.
IT’S ALL HAPPENING and I couldn’t be happier, she texted.
It was Sunday, January 4. High school graduation was Monday, June 22. Therefore, according to Layla’s precise calculations, there were exactly 169 days until graduation and the official “doing it” due date. How thematically appropriate, Layla thought. The “sixty-nine” of it all felt like a giant wink from the universe, like a sexy, numerological “all systems go!”
As Layla double-checked her math, recounting the days from January to June, she could feel that same splendid smile, the one Zoe had caught on to at the yogurt place, creeping back across her face. She realized the smile had most likely been stuck there ever since she got home from froyo. It had probably been there all the way through dinner, too. Thankfully, no one else in the Baxter family seemed to notice. Layla’s younger sister, Maxine, had spent the whole meal lobbying their mom for permission to go on the upcoming middle school ski trip, while her dad and little brother, Avery, were engaged in a heated discussion about their fantasy basketball league. Luckily, all of this mundane commotion let Layla off the hook. She didn’t have to explain why she was unusually quiet. Or why her toe wouldn’t stop tapping under the table. Or account for the fact that she had somehow eaten all the lima beans off her plate even though she absolutely hated lima beans.
The only real explanation for all of Layla’s strange behavior was that she was too busy thinking. She was always thinking, but if her parents or siblings had asked her what she was busy thinking about tonight, she would’ve turned as bright and red as Zoe’s hair. Behind Layla’s calm face and that plastered smile there were approximately a million thoughts running through her head: almost all of them were X-rated, and every single one was moving at a mile a minute.
After dinner Layla re-recounted the days a third time just so she could be entirely, 100 percent sure that she was planning accordingly. As expected, she was right the first two times: 169 days until the doing it due date. Then, she glanced at the clock on her phone. It was almost 9:00 p.m. She had one more winter break homework assignment to finish. There was a big basket of laundry to fold. Her nails desperately needed a fresh coat of paint. But all she’d managed to accomplish since she came home from The Bigg Chill almost four hours ago (besides sending about two hundred text messages to The Chat, of course) was to count the days on her calendar three times and survive dinner.
Finally, the doorbell rang.
“Lay-la!” her mom called from downstairs. “Guess who’s here?!”
Layla didn’t have to guess.
She fixed her bun and reached for her lip gloss, semi-stalling. She couldn’t just go barreling down the stairs, even though she wanted to. It took every ounce of self-control she had to hold back her response until after her mom yelled for her a second time.
“Coming!” she finally yelled back, trying to make it seem like she’d been in the middle of something super important. She waited one more moment and then walked slowly to the top of the staircase. The second she saw Logan, a knot in her stomach loosened. She hadn’t even realized the knot had been there in the first place. Logan had only been on vacation for a week and a half, but it felt like forever. He grinned at her with his entire face as she made her way down the stairs, his one perfect dimple on full display. The dimple was so smal
l, and seemingly insignificant, and yet it made Layla melt every single time.
“Layla, you never told me that Logan’s grandparents live in Miami,” her mom scolded, as if that were a very important detail about her boyfriend that she absolutely needed to know. (It wasn’t.) Or as if their family had some sort of close connection to Miami. (They didn’t.)
“Sorry,” Layla said, as much to Logan as to her mom. She must’ve been grilling him. What did you do for the holidays? Is Florida nice this time of year? Are you glad to be home?
“We’re gonna go outside,” Layla said, grabbing Logan’s hand and pulling him gently but quickly toward the back door.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Baxter! And happy New Year!” Logan called back over his shoulder as they made their way outside. He was the kind of teenage boy who knew how to talk to parents: He looked them in the eye. He answered their questions. He remembered to wish them a happy New Year. Layla’s mom and dad bragged about Logan as if he were one of their own kids. Layla found it mildly embarrassing, but she couldn’t exactly blame them. There was a lot to brag about. Logan was president of the senior class, which meant he was also president of the entire student body. He had gotten in early decision to his first-choice college, the University of Pennsylvania. And in his spare time Logan was organizing a school-wide fund-raiser to help fight pediatric cancer.
He was also a phenomenal kisser.
Layla was obviously the only one who bragged about that last part, but it really was the best.
As soon as they made their way outside—and out of her mom’s sight line—Logan pulled Layla in close, kissing her hard, like she knew he’d been wanting to since the first moment he saw her at the top of the stairs. Logan’s kisses were fast at first, and then slow, and then somehow both at the very same time. He slid his hands up Layla’s back, and then to her neck, pulling her in even closer . . . he pressed his lips even harder against her lips—and then pushed his hips up against hers even harder than that.
“Come here,” she said when they finally came up for air, grabbing Logan’s hand and pulling him across the grass and up onto the trampoline in the corner of her yard so they could continue the make-out session.
Layla’s parents had what they called an “open door” policy. Logan was pretty much always invited to come over to the house, but all the doors to any room he and Layla were in had to stay open at all times, which meant that the backyard was actually their most private hangout spot.
After a few more minutes of kissing—all fast and slow and hard and soft—Layla pulled back to ask, “Do you remember what you asked me the night before you left for Florida?”
“Is that a trick question?”
Of course Layla knew he would remember.
They had been making out on this very trampoline, except he was the one who’d stopped their kisses to ask her a question. He’d asked if she wanted to have sex. His voice had cracked as the words came out of his mouth, which made Layla laugh. She really was laughing at the crack in his voice and not the actual question, but Logan assumed that her laughter simply meant no, so he backed off the question as quickly as he’d brought it up in the first place.
They hadn’t talked or texted about it since . . . until now.
“My answer is yes.”
“Yes?” Logan’s voice cracked, even more than it had the time before. “As in yes, you want to have sex with me?”
Layla nodded.
“Now?”
“Not now.” She smiled.
“Okay. But . . . soon?” Logan asked excitedly, flashing that perfect dimple again. As always, it drove Layla absolutely crazy. “I know you’ve probably got a whole plan worked out already,” he added, “but, um . . . you should know that I have a condom in my glove compartment.”
“Oh. Okay. For emergencies?” Layla teased.
“For realistic situations,” Logan teased right back. “At least I know better than to keep it in my wallet.”
“Thanks for that.”
“You sure you don’t just wanna go upstairs?”
“I’m super sure that my parents aren’t going to let us into my bedroom without the open door policy in full effect, so unless you want to do it for the first time with the door wide open . . .”
“How about my car?”
“Your car is at the very top of my list of places where we are not going to have sex.”
“You would have a list like that.” Logan laughed.
“I don’t actually have anything written down, but I can tell you right now there is no possible way I am going to lose my virginity in your car.”
“Right. Right. Okay. Your car would be a much better option—”
“Logan,” Layla said, loving him even more than she did a moment before.
“What? Your backseat is far more spacious, and you have leather seats, so . . .”
“I can’t with you.” Layla grinned before rolling up on top of him and pressing her lips back onto his.
“I can’t with you!” Logan teased through kisses. “You can’t just stick your tongue into my mouth and expect this conversation to be over . . .”
Layla knew that their conversation was far from over, in fact, it was just getting started, but as far as tonight was concerned, there wasn’t going to be any more talking, only kissing . . . and maybe a few other things. Layla reached for Logan’s hand and slipped it up under her shirt. He unhooked the clasp on her bra and then pulled it down, sliding his hands onto her boobs. Her nipples were already hard, mostly because it was cold outside, but also because Logan’s lips were warm and his fingertips were everywhere and his hips were pushing against hers along with the rise and fall of the trampoline.
* * *
ZOE’s chest had grown an entire cup size since the beginning of winter break.
She hadn’t measured them exactly or anything, but now, basically without any proper warning, her boobs were popping out of all of her bras. Zoe also considered the alternate possibility that maybe every single one of her bras had simultaneously shrunk in the laundry at the exact same time, but she had to admit that seemed rather unlikely.
Zoe stood in her bathroom, wrapped in a towel, having just gotten out of the shower. Normally, she didn’t spend much time staring in the mirror—that was really more of a Layla or Alex thing to do—but she couldn’t stop admiring her new braceless teeth. Maybe it was the fact that Alex had said her lack of braces increased her sex appeal exponentially, but even Zoe had to admit that her smile looked good. Honestly, she knew her newly upgraded boobs looked good too, but that felt weird to even think about. Then she felt weird for feeling weird about thinking about it, and then all of the weirdness quickly amplified in her head until there was nothing left to do but unwrap her towel and force herself to take a look. . . .
When Zoe saw her topless reflection, the first word that came to mind was “pale.” The second word was “red,” for her hair. The third word was “freckles,” because they were basically everywhere. But then the next word was “nipple,” followed closely by the word “boob,” and then, undeniably, “big.” It had become simply impossible to deny the fact that her boobs were decidedly larger than they’d been even just a few weeks before. Still, Zoe could only look at them for so long before achieving a maximum level of weirdness and had to reach for her towel again. As she rewrapped herself, one of the bathroom doors began to swing open, which caused Zoe to shriek and her older brother to slam the door shut again as quickly as possible.
Zoe’s brother, Joey—or J, as Zoe called him so as not to acknowledge the embarrassing fact that their first names rhymed—was two years older than Zoe. He was a sophomore at UC Berkeley and still home from school on winter break. Zoe’s and Joey’s bedrooms were connected by a Jack and Jill–style bathroom. The layout wasn’t such a big deal when they were younger, but now it was clearly causing some growing pains.
“I’m sorry!” Joey yelled through the closed door.
“What happened to knocking?” Zo
e yelled back.
Joey knocked softly, making a joke out of it.
“Great, thanks . . . ,” Zoe scoffed, pulling her towel more firmly around her.
“Zoe Reed,” Joey teased with a loud, booming voice. “It’s your brother. I am moments away from attempting to open the door to the bathroom again. Brace yourself.”
“Yeah, okay. Got it,” Zoe said as Joey reopened the door. “I know you’re all used to coed showers at the dorms or whatever, but come on.”
“Come on, yourself.” Joey laughed. “You could also try locking the door. Or, you know, maybe don’t just stand naked in front of the mirror forever.”
“J,” Zoe said sternly, not even sort of ready to laugh about such a close call. “Tell me right now you didn’t see anything. If you did, I think I will die.”
“Zo, please don’t die. I saw nothing.”
“Thank God. But also, I wasn’t just, like, standing naked. I took a shower.”
“All right, all right,” Joey said, backing off. “I am sorry for cramping your style. I’ll be back at school soon enough, and then I promise you’ll miss me and these awkward encounters.” As anxious as Zoe was, Joey was just the opposite: calm and collected, always unfazed. Zoe envied that about him. He turned his attention toward the mirror, running his fingers through his hair, spiking it up on top. Although Joey’s reddish highlights clearly identified him as a member of the Reed family, he didn’t have the same bright red color that Zoe did. Not even close. Zoe and Joey both had the same deep brown eyes, but beyond that they barely looked related. Zoe joked that Joey had taken all the attractive qualities out of the Reed family gene pool and left her with nothing but frizz and freckles.
“Going somewhere?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah. Shawn is having a party. Track people.” Joey had been on the track team in high school. He was a pole-vaulter, and he wasn’t half bad, but Zoe knew he had mostly joined the team just to hang out with his friends. “You wanna come?”
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