by Amy Giles
The lights slowly go from dark to dim. It’s our cue that we have to leave, that our date is over.
I bite my lip and smile, more than a little embarrassed by this new public-display-of-affection side of me. “Well, that was fun. I should probably—”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and points with his shoulder behind him. The words pour out of him in a rush. “I live right around the corner. Do you want to come over?”
I’m not ready to say good-bye. “Okay,” I say, without even weighing the options, the many obstacles and potential hazards I’m completely ignoring.
We walk hand in hand through town. A few short blocks from the movie theater, Charlie stops outside Sal’s Pizza, right across from the library where I’m supposed to be. The overpowering smell of oregano and marinara is as appetizing as a loaded diaper. I’m about to tell him I’m not hungry, but he pulls out his keys, opening a metal door to the side of the restaurant entrance. Up the warped, creaky stairs is another door. He takes a second key and pushes in.
I don’t want to see Charlie’s apartment through my family’s distorted lens, but I can’t help it. Everything looks like a yard sale find. The ratty brown couch with an orange-and-yellow afghan tucked over it. To the right of the couch is a small round table for eating. The kitchen is right off the living room, surrounded by three closed doors. The apartment reeks of Italian food and mothballs.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask, glancing around.
“At work.” He tosses his keys and wallet in a chipped ceramic bowl on the table. “She won’t be back till late.”
“Oh.” We’re alone. “Can I use the bathroom?” I stall until I sort out how I feel about this.
He shows me through the kitchen, past an ancient oven too tiny to fit a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Here you go.” He opens the last door and flicks the light on.
I bump the door closed with my shoulder when the old wood sticks on the frame. Once inside, I sweep the shower curtain aside with a finger. A tub that, while not dirty, is permanently stained algae green and muddy orange from years of drips. The white tile bathroom floor, old and chipped, sparkles.
Charlie sits on the couch watching a football game when I get back. The kind of boxy television set you find out on the curb on garbage day. I cringe inwardly that I notice this, that I think this. His arm reaches out for me, and I join him on the couch. He puts his hand to my cheek and pulls me toward him, kissing me, harder, more urgently than at the theater. He starts to lean forward, pushing me down on the couch.
I come to my senses and push him way back. “Whoa. Slow down.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
We stare ahead in awkward silence, our eyes glued to the game. It could be C-SPAN for all I notice; my thoughts are a tangled mess. I glance down at my lap, wringing my fingers, the tight atmosphere of his apartment pressing down on me.
“Command Z?” he teases. When I don’t smile back, he sighs. “I really am sorry. I don’t want to blow this. I kinda . . . I’ve just liked you for a while.” He plucks at a tear in the cushion between us where the afghan inched up to expose the worn couch underneath. “I tried to talk to you so many times, but you have this amazing talent of looking away just as I’m about to open my mouth. I had some great opening lines too.” He laughs awkwardly. “Like, ‘Hey, how’d you do on the Spanish test?’”
He tips his head back and scans the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a nervous swallow, exposing a vulnerable, less confident side of him than the boy I fantasized about all this time. Relief starts to undo the knots in my stomach.
“I’ve liked you for a while too,” I say, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks just by admitting that out loud for the first time.
He cautiously reaches his arm around my shoulders, testing the waters. I lean back and let his arm curl around me, nestling in, as if we’ve been doing this for years. But we haven’t. Last night was the first time we actually ever really talked. And here I am, making out with him, first in public, and now back in his apartment.
Charlie, the hookup king. Is that all this is?
How many Monday morning conversations did I listen in on in the girls’ bathroom, where the weekend gossip would be rehashed and Charlie’s name would come up? “I heard ______ hooked up with Charlie.” Maybe that’s all I am, someone whose name will fill in the blank next to Charlie’s on Monday morning in the bathroom.
“Charlie?” I ask hesitantly. “So . . . what are we doing?”
He gestures to the TV with the remote. “Want me to put something else on?”
“No . . . I mean this.” My hands flutter by my sides, trying to define this space, this moment. His mouth twists, still not tracking. “Are we just hanging out?”
He gets a dopey, earnest look on his face, but his lips twitch with a barely suppressed smile.
“Muscles McCauley.” He takes my hand. “Will you be my steady girl?” A tiny snort scrapes at the back of his throat, which makes me crack up.
“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?” I push him away with a laugh.
He wrestles me back into the crook of his arm, and we watch the game.
After a few minutes, he squeezes my shoulder. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says, more serious this time.
I bite my lip and glance up at him. “Yeah, sure.”
“Yeah?” he repeats, like he can’t quite believe it either.
A small flame ignites inside my belly, one I thought was extinguished a long time ago. A tiny torch of hope.
now
I lean my forehead up against the hospital window to watch the snowflakes fall from low clouds, the cold glass bracing against my skin. The barren trees are coated in a layer of fresh snow, their branches raised toward the heavens in prayer. Or maybe surrender.
The grounds go on forever. I can’t even see the road from my room. I think that’s the point. My window doesn’t open either. I know it’s all to keep me safe. But they can’t keep me here forever.
Janet comes in, her white orthopedic shoes squeaking across the linoleum. Her chubby face is cheery.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” she says, bringing me breakfast. “How are you feeling today?”
Loopy, I want to say. But I don’t. Mostly because the meds I’m on make me not want to do or feel anything. Without anger, guilt, grief, even happiness, I have nothing. I want to go to sleep and never have to wake up again.
She walks over and lifts my right hand, examining the dressing, then gently lifts my left.
It should have been over by now. But no, I had to pass out at the sight of all that blood and fall into the curtain and out to the hallway. Dr. Garfield got to me just in time to stitch me back together again.
“After you eat, I’ll change those for you, okay?”
Sitting on the radiator, I stare out the window. She waits to see more of a reaction from me.
“I think we need to look into adjusting your meds.”
I shrug and gaze out the window.
“Do you need help eating?” she asks.
I glance down at my broken arm. They took the sling off yesterday and gave me a cast, with a window cut out where they sewed me back up. The cast should have names and funny pictures scribbled in Sharpie across it, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be seeing my friends anytime soon.
Charlie drew funny pictures, I think, and my stomach clenches with a fist of regret.
I shake my head.
“Come on, Hadley. You need to eat something.”
“What’s the point?” I ask through dry, gummy lips. I try to lick them, but even my tongue is lethargic.
“The point,” she says with dire seriousness, “is to live.”
Her eyes are wide and blue, like a baby doll’s. Like Lila’s.
“My sister . . .” But I don’t say anything more.
I turn my right wrist over to look at the bandage.
then
“Hold still!” Charlie says, trying not to lau
gh, but he can never completely erase the smile from his eyes. He squints them now in concentration, the blue pen working across my bicep. “There!” He lifts the pen away. I pull my arm forward, struggling to see his artwork.
“What is it?” I ask. Meaghan leans around Charlie to look.
Everyone in Spanish class knew we were dating that first Monday back after Mike’s party. Charlie met me at my locker between second and third period and walked me to class for the first time, taking the desk next to mine. Meaghan’s jaw dropped when she walked in and saw him sitting in her seat; I patted the desk to my left for her to flank my other side.
“That’s April’s seat,” she said tightly. Then she put on a brave smile and took a seat to Charlie’s right.
Now she says, “Nice,” nodding her head in approval at Charlie’s artwork.
“Flex your bicep,” Charlie says.
So I do, which makes them both laugh really hard.
“It’s a rabbit!” Meaghan squeals. “His ears wiggle when you flex! Charlie, that’s hysterical!” She high-fives him.
“I can’t see!”
Meaghan pulls a compact out of her purse and leans across Charlie’s desk to show me. I stare at the reflection, flexing and laughing. I look up at Charlie.
“Muscles like those should flaunt some ink.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Whereas Meaghan (and apparently the entire student body) calls me Muscles jokingly, Charlie says it in a way that makes my knees weak. At my locker this morning before the first bell, he whispered in my ear, “Morning, Muscles,” as his hand traveled down my arm, down my back, inching down . . . and then our principal, Mr. Johnson, stepped in.
He hooked two fingers in the air. “You two, come with me.”
Shutting his door behind us, we took our in-trouble seats, something as completely foreign to me as the in-school detention room, which, rumor has it, is somewhere in the west wing. He took a piece of paper out of his drawer and highlighted it in yellow with a dramatic flourish then passed it across the desk to us.
PUBLIC DISPLAY OF AFFECTION
Melville High School is an educational institution. It is inappropriate to display any form of affection (e.g., hugging or kissing, whether friendly or romantic) while in attendance at school. PDA may be written up as a Behavior Report if excessive or reoccurring.
Charlie and I read it together. I must have looked as terrified as I felt because Charlie’s hand found mine under the desk and squeezed.
“Are we clear?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Crystal,” Charlie answered for both of us.
“Okay, then. Get to class,” he dismissed us. We both stood up. “I don’t want to have to call your parents about this.” I sensed that warning was for my benefit. Icy dread trickled down my spine. When we were far enough from Mr. Johnson’s office, I turned to Charlie.
“Seriously, he cannot call my parents. We have to chill a little.”
“No, I know.” Charlie nodded, but his face was confused. He glanced over. “Have you told your parents we’re going out?”
I bit my lip. “Not yet. But I will when the time is right.” That was a lie. I know there’ll never be a right time. I just don’t know how to explain it to Charlie.
Señora Moore sweeps in.
“Hola!” She wiggles her fingers at the class.
“Hola, Señora Moore,” we say.
My shirt sleeve is still pushed up to my shoulder, my lacrosse hoodie on the back of my chair. Señora Moore glances my way, a quizzical smile on her face. She steps over to look at Charlie’s artwork.
“Ah!” she gushes. “Muy buen trabajo, Carlito!” She turns to the classroom and enunciates very loudly, “Un conejo.” She puts her fingers over her head like rabbit ears.
The students turn in their seats and laugh at my Bic pen bunny tattoo, which sets off my hair-trigger internal thermostat. Charlie reaches over to squeeze my hand as my cheeks flare. His hand, so solid and sure, both buoys and anchors me.
Even though it’s only been three weeks since Mike’s party, it feels like Charlie and I have been together for much longer. I’ve canceled flying lessons two weeks in a row, telling Phil, my flight instructor, that I had a big paper coming up I needed to work on. I’ve also been spending a lot of time at the “library” whenever I can squeeze it in around lacrosse practice and Charlie’s work schedule. It shaves a few hours off my studying. But for the first time in my life, I’m putting something on my schedule for myself, something that puts a smile on my face when I wake up, even at the ungodly hour of four thirty.
“Hey, Muscles.” Meaghan pulls me aside in the hallway on our way to lunch. “Just so you know, the whole school is abuzz about you and Charlie.”
It hits a nerve. I frown. “Why does anyone care?”
She shrugs and lifts her hands up. Then she looks away. “It’s just weird, Had. No one gets that tight that fast,” she says as if she’s just relaying a message. But it doesn’t sound like that; it sounds like it’s coming from her.
I stare her down. “I have been your wingman for way too long for you to have a problem with me and Charlie now,” I snap.
“No, you’re right.” She glances away. Her eyes bounce back up. “I think I’m kind of jealous,” she confesses, her nose wrinkling up.
That makes me laugh. “You? You can have any guy in this school!” Then I lean forward. “Unless you already have.”
She shoves me playfully, then her eyes dim. “But I’ve never had what you guys have.”
Seeing how gloomy it makes her confirms what I already know in my heart about Charlie: what we have is real. People see it, are talking about it. Even Meaghan. If that’s the case, then my fears that we’re moving too fast are really just excuses, because the thought of having sex terrifies me.
My mind drifts back to last night, like it’s been doing all day.
Our dates have fallen into a predictable pattern. We start off making out on his couch. After a few minutes, we make our way to his bedroom, our lips barely parting during the short walk across the apartment. Collapsing on his springy twin bed, pushed up against the wall of his sliver of a bedroom, his touches are confident. Mine are still hesitant, inching along nervously. I’m afraid to explore too much, but his soft groans and deepening kisses encourage me to keep going.
Last night we went further than ever before.
Then came the inevitable moment when my fear of what was about to happen next if we kept going became a thunderous drumbeat that drowned out everything else.
“Charlie, wait.” His tightly coiled body slumped against me in defeat.
“Okay,” he groaned into my hair. We curled against each other, both of us afraid to move.
Finally, he propped up on his elbow and reached an arm out to twirl a strand of my hair around his finger.
I took a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I mean . . . I do. I just . . .”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I can wait.”
“I want to, Charlie. I really do. I just want to be ready.” I held his eyes, trying to find courage in those amber pools. The last person I need to be afraid of is Charlie.
“Hellooo?” Meaghan waves a hand back and forth in front of my face, dragging me back to the clamoring school hallway.
My eyes dart around to see if anyone’s listening.
“I have to ask you something . . . serious,” I whisper. Meaghan leans closer. “I think . . . I’m ready . . . I want to go on some kind of birth control,” I finish with false bravado.
Meaghan leans back and squeals with delight. People stop and stare.
I pinch her arm. “Stop that! Don’t make me regret telling you!”
Meaghan rubs her bicep. “Ow, all right. What kind?”
I run a hand through my hair. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure which one is right . . . for me. I mean . . . a vaginal ring? I freak out when I can’t find the tampon string!”
Meaghan roars. I once called her in a panic convinc
ed I had lost the tampon somewhere deep inside the cavernous depths of my uterus. After several failed attempts to find the string with Meaghan staying on the line with me, I remembered I had taken the tampon out in the middle of the night and forgot to put a new one in.
“Just go on the Pill,” she says with an aloof lift of her shoulder, like this isn’t the biggest decision I’ve ever made.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I hedge.
Meaghan’s lips twist to the side as she weighs other options. “Well, there are condoms. If you’re with a player, which you are.” I groan. “Well, I’m not saying he is anymore,” she assures me. “But Charlie has history. In good news, it helps when at least one person knows what he’s doing your first time. But unless he gets tested, I’d say go with condoms.”
I grimace.
She reaches over and puts a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Look, this is you we’re talking about. Condoms aren’t always the safest, you know. Accidents have been known to happen.”
Just the thought of getting pregnant almost sends me into full-body hives. “Oh, I absolutely, positively have to have the safest—”
“I know, I know,” Meaghan cuts me off. “Which is why, for you, I’d say go on the Pill. It’s 99.9 percent effective. But make Charlie get tested.”
“Maybe we should use both. Condoms and the Pill. Just to be certain.”
Meaghan giggles. “Had, this isn’t like extra credit. You don’t get more points for doing more. If he gets tested and you take the Pill, you’re covering all your bases. Don’t overthink it.”
It’s the most logical plan.
“Makes sense,” I agree.
Meaghan laughs and pats my shoulder. “Yes, Muscles, sex makes sense.”
Mike DiNardi walks by with his crew. I sense Meaghan tensing up next to me. Her hand raises up by her waist, ready to wave. Mike glances over at Meaghan and quickly looks away. Farther down the hallway, Billy squeals in a falsetto voice, “Can I cooome?” The guys crack up, too hard, too obviously at Meaghan’s expense. Mike shoves Billy into a locker. “Don’t be a dick,” Mike warns. He glances back at Meaghan with an apologetic wince.