His breathing is jagged after. His mouth is different when he kisses me, softer, wetter. I just don’t think I was ready. I wasn’t ready. And even though I really care about him, part of me suddenly feels a little sleazy—and very delicate. Like maybe I’d cry if he said the wrong thing. But he doesn’t. He does all the right things, drying my hand with a bath towel and being extra sweet to me. He touches my face and kisses the freckles, which are mostly across my nose, but some do stray up to my forehead. Eventually we make it out of the room.
“Morning, Cami,” his mother says from the kitchen.
“Morning.” Luke’s mom knows I stay the night, but usually I’m gone before she wakes up. Running into her like this is embarrassing, particularly after what her son and I have been up to this morning. But Luke doesn’t seem to notice or mind his mom being there. He’s holding my hand. The other hand.
“I’m taking Cami home, Mom,” he says, and ushers me to his truck.
I stare out the window.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I’m better than fine,” he says with a smile, and kisses me goodbye. I climb through my window, change my clothes and crawl into bed. I was the one who unbuttoned my jeans in the first place. I asked for it. Plus, it’s no problem. It was just my hand. We’ve been dating a long time. Sneaking out to see each other at night. Is it selfish of me to have liked the part where he was caressing and touching me more than the part where I was touching him? I guess he has a right to have what he wants, too. I mean, what was he supposed to do, stop and have a discussion with me about it? Hey baby, I’m going to have you give me a hand job now. You okay with that? Hmm...maybe. But there’s no stopping him from wanting it now. Which is fine. Yeah, of course it’s fine. I want to please and satisfy him. It was nice—kind of tender, in an intimate, erotic way.
* * *
As it turns out, third is a place Luke and I can both manage to be at for the rest of the summer. He’s happy because he’s more satisfied, and so am I—once I get more comfortable with everything. It works. At least for us it does.
Meanwhile, too soon the first day of school appears, sprouting up like a zit just after Labor Day. The only good thing I can see about my senior year is that because of a cleverly-arranged work-study program, I’ll be able to leave each day at 12:05. I guess I’ll also be glad to see all my friends. Although I work constantly in a place where almost no one’s my age, I do have friends. They’re all just linked to my best friend, Taryn. And because she’s flying in from L.A. at the very last moment possible, I don’t get to see her until twenty minutes before first period.
I wait for her big return into my life at the same place I always wait—the lunch table near our lockers in front of C Building.
“CAMI!” she cries, rushing up to me. She looks fantastic, even thinner than usual. Taryn always reminds me a tiny bit of the Mademoiselle doll I had as a kid. She has the same long black hair, pretty round face and thin legs. She even has the same wardrobe—cool hats, vests and shoes.
“Hey! Welcome home! You look fantastic.”
“Thanks,” she says, blinking her eyes and posing for invisible cameras. “I’d say it’s great to be here. But it really sucks.” She grins and her eyes shift to my left. “Derek! You grew facial hair!”
“Sure did.” He strokes his upper lip, clearly pleased. “Hey, Camster.”
Derek, like all of Taryn’s friends except me, is a theater geek. “Hey. Nice mustache.”
“TARYN!” more theater friends cry. Taryn’s the prettiest, best-dressed and most talented actor we have at school by far, and now she’s a senior, so this should be her year. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.
“Look, I have to run,” I say. “I’m in A Building.”
“Okay, see you babe!”
I don’t understand why teachers feel they must first hand you a printed syllabus and then go over the thing in detail out loud as well. Do they think we, as seniors, don’t know how to read? Anyway, I spend the next four hours listening to what’s right in front of me, secretly texting Taryn how much it sucks to be back, and wishing I was someplace—just about anyplace—else. Then at noon, a miracle—I’m done for the day.
LUNCH? SAME TABLE? Taryn texts.
Unlike me, Taryn does have fifth and sixth-period classes, so she has to stick around. I could hang out awhile with her anyway even though I don’t have to, but really I just want to leave campus and she has all that catching up to do with her theater friends. Our lunch table will be swamped for the next few weeks at least. Can’t. I’m meeting Luke, I text back. I head to my locker to stash my books. No homework yet, thank God.
FOR A QUICKIE?
I roll my eyes. NO!! I text her.
NO QUICKIE?? TELL ME IT’S NOT JUST FOR FOOD ;)
Are you done yet? Come over! Luke texts me.
On my way, I text back and head to his house.
Luke transferred to my high school as a senior last year—he was the hot transfer student in need of a job, preferably as a chef, and I’m the daughter of the guy who owns Étoile. When Taryn heard Luke needed work, and then caught him staring at me at lunch one day, she arranged for us to run into each other—literally. I helped him get the job, he took me out for ice cream to thank me, and we’ve been together ever since.
“Hey, how was school?” he asks. Tight T-shirt. I approve.
“Just like last year, only I’m done at noon and you weren’t there.”
He smiles. “Are you hungry? I made yogurt.”
“From scratch?”
“Yep.”
Luke’s new to professional cooking, but not new to the kitchen. He’s always loved to cook, wants to be a career chef, and loves to come up with little surprises like this for me. “What flavor is it?” I ask.
“Strawberry.”
He takes a container from the fridge and hands it to me with a spoon. “Mmm...” I say. “This is great. Thanks.”
“Sure.” He turns me around so I’m facing the kitchen counter and my back is to him.
“What are we doing?”
“Nothing. Eat your yogurt.”
“I don’t mind if I do. How was your morning?”
“Dull.” Suddenly, Luke comes up behind me and reaches up my skirt. Just like that. No kissing and caressing first. He just goes for it. And maybe because it was so unexpected, because it’s in the kitchen in the middle of the day and while I’m eating lunch, it doesn’t work for me. I start wondering if maybe something’s wrong with me. And the worry only makes it worse. Now I’m not eating the yogurt, I’m leaning against him and hoping he’ll either get better at doing this in a hurry, or else leave me alone and let me finish my food. “You’re awfully quiet,” he says. “You want me to stop?”
“Um...” He pulls his hand away and presses