I say, “Yes.”
I eat pizza, but not too much.
I drink Bacardi, but not too much.
I kiss Ben for a while on the couch in the rec room, but not too much, because after a little while, he pulls me close, wraps his legs through mine, and lays his head against my chest.
He tells me he means it when he says, “I love you.” He tells me he’s loved me ever since the day I kicked him in the head.
I run a hand through his hair, messing it up a little. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. I tell him that I want a future beyond the county line, too. Someplace where I don’t “know” anyone, but where I know him.
“Think we can make it through college together?” he asks.
I don’t know if it’s the rum or Ben’s body pressed into mine, but I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I pull his face toward mine and have time for a single word before our lips touch:
“Yes.”
What does it mean to say yes? To consent to a kiss? To a touch? To more than that? When we finally move to his bedroom, he takes my hand, and I know exactly where we are going. I follow him because I want to. I haven’t said the words yes, I would like to have sex with you, but I can feel myself telling him in so many other ways that this is okay, that I want this.
I pull off his shirt as we climb onto his bed. I can feel the power coiled in his shoulders and arms, the strength beneath his skin, but I’m not afraid. He is listening to every word I haven’t said. We are communicating, but in a quiet give-and-take that doesn’t use our voices.
He’s so tall, and yet somehow, wound up in the sheets on his bed, our bodies are a perfect fit. One shirt and one sock at a time, our clothing falls away, and when there is nothing more between us, he speaks:
“Kate, is this okay?”
One more time, I say, “Yes.”
And if this were a movie, there would be no more words. There would only be a magical fade-to-black moment where our simultaneous first times were the stuff of legend. There would be no discussion that Ben has done this once before with someone else. Or that he is worried about hurting me. Or that I am a little worried about that, too. There would be no ten-minute break while he digs through his mom’s nightstands (yes, both of them) until he finds the condoms. There would be no giggling about how, after the Great Condom Hunt, I have to pee and abscond to the bathroom momentarily.
But this is not a big-screen car chase.
This is driving in real life.
So, we talk to each other. We go under the speed limit. We keep it cautious and safe, buckled in by all of the trust between us.
At first there is laughter. Then there is fumbling.
But finally . . .
An ocean of yes.
thirty
“DO YOU REALLY think there’s a video?”
Rachel has been quiet all afternoon, both of us sprawled across my bedroom carpet with our laptops. She came over after church so we could write our poet papers for AP English. Mine is on Robert Browning, and hers is on his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I almost told her that I needed to study alone today. Sometimes our Sunday study sessions become an excuse to stream Netflix or for her to talk about the guy she flirted with at the coffee-and-doughnuts table after services.
But today, I had news to report. I gave her the whole story about last night—stopping just short of the sex part. I want to keep that to myself for now. I don’t know if she’ll be weird about it.
I feel great about it.
There’s this little bubble of happiness floating around in my chest. I sense that telling anybody else about having sex with Ben would be letting some of the air out of this beautiful thing that happened—like somehow I’d be leaking away a part of my own joy. I’d probably tell Rachel if I didn’t have to risk her judgment. I don’t want to have to deal with anyone else’s feelings about it for now. I only want to enjoy my own.
If I think about it too much, a goofy grin appears on my face. I’m glad I have a paper to write and a friend to distract me. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to text Ben every twelve seconds and I think, technically, that is the opposite of playing it cool.
We work on our laptops, mainly in silence, for about an hour. Rachel asks about the video, and I’m not sure what to say. I see the fear on her face again, and she sees my hesitation, so she keeps talking.
“I mean, if there was a video, we’d know, right? There’s no way a bunch of feminist hackers would have it and we wouldn’t.”
She says the word feminist like Will did last night—with scorn and derision—as if she’s spitting something out.
“Why does everybody say ‘feminist’ that way?”
“What way?”
“The way Dooney kept saying ‘herpes’ after health class last year. Like it’s this terrible, unspeakable thing.”
Rachel blinks at me, blankly. “Feminists are women who believe in evolution and just don’t want anybody to tell them what to do. They want to be able to abort their unborn babies.”
She says this as if everyone else on the planet knows these facts to be true, and I have clearly missed the memo. I frown and search “feminism” on my laptop, turning it around so Rachel can see the screen when the definition pops up. I read it aloud: “The advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of political, social, and economic equality to men.”
Rachel sighs. “All I know is that you can’t be a feminist and believe the Bible.”
“The Bible talks about feminism?”
“It talks about families,” Rachel clarifies. She sounds more and more like her mom now. “God created women to be good helpers for men. It’s just better for families that way.”
“Not for Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
“Huh?”
“Her dad disinherited her for marrying the man she was in love with. They were broke for years because back then a father could just decide who his daughter married and take away her money if she did otherwise.”
Rachel shakes her head. “It was a different time then. It doesn’t really affect us now.”
I want to tell her that this issue affects everything. Even our friendship. I want to be able to tell my best friend about my first time having sex with the guy I love, but I can’t risk it because I don’t want her to get all snooty about me losing my virginity—as if somehow she and her mom and the youth pastor at her church should have a say about that. I want to tell her that I don’t think a book from the Bronze Age is a good enough reason to relegate women to the role of “helpers” for all time.
But I don’t know how.
We go back to our papers, but something between us is strained. I can feel us slipping away from each other. After a minute, I can’t stand it any longer, and put down my computer. I reach over, and pull Rachel into a hug.
“Get off me,” she huffs.
I hug her harder, and she squirms. I squeeze her until we’re basically wrestling on the floor. She tries to get away, and I try to hold her closer until both of us start laughing so hard we can’t struggle anymore.
We lie on my carpet for a minute, staring up at the ceiling fan.
“Whatever you think of UltraFEM,” I tell her, “there must be a video of something.”
“I know,” she says. Her voice sounds tiny and far away. “But I wish I didn’t.”
When I wake up on Monday morning, it’s still dark outside, and there’s a single thought on repeat in my brain:
Will something be different when I see Ben at school today?
I can’t seem to lower the volume on this idea, which makes catching another hour of sleep impossible. I can hear Dad downstairs making coffee. I get up and take my laptop to the little desk in the corner of the kitchen to print out my report.
“Mornin’, early bird.” Dad smiles, pouring coffee into his big travel mug and thermos. “Fresh outta worms today, but I can offer you a cuppa joe.”
“Sure.” I smile and cover my yawn as I wait for the print
er to spit out my pages. Dad pours coffee into a mug that reads WORLD’S GREATEST DAD and places it in front of me on the counter. He points at the words and I laugh as he goes back to spreading peanut butter on bread. When Mom went back to work after the factory flood, her only stipulation was that everyone was on their own for lunch.
As the printer delivers page number five, Dad pauses behind me and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “First practice today?”
I nod, impressed he still keeps track of little things like this.
“Bring me home some Happy Joe’s.”
It’s a tradition we started in junior high. After the first practice of the season, Rachel, Christy, Lindsey, and I go get pizza. Our parents used to come along, but last year, we started driving ourselves.
I tell Dad I will as he latches his thermos into his gray lunch box. As he passes me on the way to the garage, he slides a crisp twenty-dollar bill onto the desk next to my computer. When I turn to tell him thank you, he just nods and closes the door behind him. I hear the automatic door open and his year-old Dodge Ram purrs to life.
I take the twenty back upstairs with my laptop and paper.
Not a bad start for a Monday.
My fear about things being different with Ben ends when I park behind the gym and see him waiting for me. He is leaning against his truck, his backpack slung casually across one shoulder, early man armed with provisions.
He bumps fists with Will, who struts off to class like he’s Captain America. As he goes, Ben turns to me.
“There you are.”
“Waiting for the T-Birds?” I ask.
“Nah. You’re the one that I want.”
I laugh, and he kisses me. We skirt the news vans, walking in the side doors at the end of the hallway hand-in-hand.
Dooney, Deacon, Randy, and Greg aren’t coming back to classes yet. The school board doesn’t want any more media attention, and the guys are all studying at home this week. Stacey isn’t back either, and I’m secretly relieved. I don’t want to have to explain to Ben what happened Saturday afternoon.
Dooney is absent and everywhere at once. His presence looms large even though his seat is empty. A bunch of guys from the basketball team have started wearing his jersey number, 12, emblazoned on armbands with Sharpies. Some of the cheerleaders have made buttons—royal blue with a yellow twelve—and are handing them out before school. I see them everywhere on the way to class, pinned to hoodies, T-shirts, and backpacks.
By the time Mr. Johnston dismisses first period on Monday morning, there is more to the story that surges through the hallways:
Phoebe broke up with Dooney yesterday.
Ben hasn’t heard from Dooney to confirm, but Christy swears up and down that it’s true. As Lindsey, Christy, Rachel, and I wade through the halls toward history, I see Phoebe close her locker with an armload of books as the Tracies approach.
Tracy bumps into Phoebe. Hard. Her books explode in all directions.
Tracie scowls and rolls her eyes, stepping over a binder. The rings have popped open, and its insides spill across the linoleum. Neither one of them stop.
Tracie doesn’t say sorry.
Tracy just yells, “Whoops!”
Then they both laugh and keep walking.
Phoebe is scrambling on her hands and knees to gather her notes and books, but no one is stopping to help her. In fact, no one is stopping at all.
I grab Rachel’s arm. “What the hell?”
Christy shrugs. “That’s what happens.”
I am about to ask her what she means when I see LeRon bump into Phoebe, still squatting to pick up her things. He knocks her sideways onto her hip as Kyle slides his size fourteen high-tops across the papers from her notebook, tearing them into pieces.
“Stop it, you asshole!” Phoebe is crying in frustration.
“You hear something?” LeRon asks Kyle.
“Nah, man. Don’t hear nothing.”
Reggie cocks his head to one side like he’s listening. “Wait!—oh—no, me neither.”
Phoebe pummels her fist against Kyle’s leg, trying to pull a spiral notebook out from under his shoe. “God. You’re such dicks.”
“We’re dicks?” Reggie says. “You’re the one who dumped Dooney.”
“Such a bitch move.” Kyle spits the words at her, kicking the spiral under his foot a little farther out of her reach.
“Right?” Reggie tosses an arm around Kyle as they start down the hall with LeRon.
I’ve had enough. I thrust my book at Rachel, who grabs it and hisses my name in an attempt to stop me. I storm across the hall.
“Leave her alone,” I tell Reggie, stooping down and sweeping a pile of Phoebe’s stuff toward her.
Kyle turns around, zeroing in on me. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
“She won’t do a thing.” I look up and see Ben towering over us. “But if you say one more word to her I’ll rearrange your face.”
Kyle wilts. “Bro—I didn’t—”
“See me? Know?” Ben offers him options. “Well, now you have. And now you do.”
The three stooges stutter apologies and it’s cool it’s cool, extricating themselves from the razor wire of Ben’s steady gaze as quickly as they can. I hand Phoebe the last of her ruined papers. She scoops up the whole tangled pile and scrambles away without a word. Ben holds out his hand to help me up. I take it.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask.
He holds up his history text. “Grabbed the wrong book.”
“What is going on?” I ask him.
“People choosing sides,” he says. He checks his watch as Rachel hands me my book. We have to hurry.
Ben pecks me on the lips and winks. “Try not to get caught in the middle.”
Coach Lewis is a drill sergeant with a stopwatch and a clipboard.
Christy is dragging by the end of the third line drill, but she doesn’t stop. When she finally taps the last goal line, Coach clicks the button and nods. “Not bad, Miller.” She pitches Christy a water bottle. Christy raises it in my direction and nods.
“We can do another couple of those, or we can scrimmage now.” Coach tosses her clipboard onto the grass while half the team shouts scrimmage.
“Fine. We’ll scrimmage until I see somebody walk. If you’re standing still, you’re running a drill.”
Rachel and I are usually pitted against each other during practice. She’s got speed and no fear. I’ve got fast feet and good instincts. Together we’re unstoppable. Head to head, we push each other hard. Even in practice, Rachel plays for keeps. It’s one more thing I love about her.
We face off at center field.
“Gonna smoke you, Weston.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I warn her.
She grins. “Just telling the truth.”
As soon as Coach drops the ball, Rachel lunges, but in a flash I snag it sideways, crossing it behind me for a pass to Risby, a junior with a slight overbite and a leg that might as well be the Hammer of Thor. She’s still working on accuracy and speed, but on a wide-open field, she’s the fastest way to get the ball deep toward the other side’s goal in one swift kick.
Rachel and I are neck and neck as we watch the ball sail toward the penalty box. Lindsey comes charging at it with a wild yell and launches the ball to the midfield.
It’s great to be back, all of us in action and united as a team again—even if we’re practicing against each other. I’ve missed the feeling that Christy, Rachel, Lindsey, and I are on the same team. Ben’s words from earlier have been ringing in my ears all day.
People choosing sides . . .
As I try to work the ball down the field, the tension slips away. Since the arrests last Tuesday, I’ve been white-knuckling things with my friends. Holding on tight, as we all lean toward different opinions of the truth.
And what is the truth?
Stacey’s allegation? Did something happen to her that she didn’t agree to? She says she can’t even remember. Does that mean s
he was really passed out in that Instagram picture?
Risby tries to aim a cross-field kick in my direction. It is a rocket slightly off course. Houston, we have a negative on that trajectory. As I race toward the loose ball, the image of Stacey in her blue towel pops into my head. Were there any marks on her arms or legs? Cuts? Bruises?
I didn’t see any, but does that really mean anything?
The ball bounces once, and I leap in for the header. Coach Lewis yells across the field, but her words are lost. Rachel has materialized from the opposite direction and jumped into a Hail Mary bicycle kick. Her cleat is a brick wall.
I’m flat on my back in the grass before I feel the pain. When it hits, I reach up and touch the bump that’s already formed above my right ear. It’s wet, and I know that I’m bleeding.
I don’t cry, but Rachel does. The cut is small, easily stanched with a Band-Aid, the pain already subsiding. Coach makes sure I don’t need professional medical attention, while Rachel apologizes over and over.
“I’m so sorry! Did you not hear me call it?” she asks. “I said, ‘heads up’!”
That’s the typical courtesy yell, but my brain was occupied elsewhere while my body was running around on the field.
Coach tells all of us to keep our heads in the game. “There’s a lot of crap floating around this week. Eyes on the ball, ladies. Don’t lose focus.” She points to the sideline and says I should sit out for a bit, then she gets practice going again.
A cosmic rage wells up inside me as I watch. Not at Rachel or at Coach. I’m angry with myself. Why do you keep asking questions you don’t want to know the answers to? Why can’t you let this go? Whatever happened or didn’t happen to Stacey, I wasn’t there. Ben wasn’t there. My friends weren’t there.
I finally have a boyfriend, and if I work hard this year, I might be able to get nationally ranked. Maybe even be in the running for a scholarship. My best friends in the world are on this team with me.
So why can’t I just let myself be on their side?
Coach is right. It’s time to get my head back in the game.
thirty-one
What We Saw Page 16