takes a breath. “I knew you thought I was lying that night, about Missy. That I was just saying what I said to hook up with you. But I wasn’t.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m focused on his eyes. I once read that you can tell if someone’s lying by how much they blink, or if they glance to the side, but he’s not doing either. His eyes are locked on mine.
“The thing with Missy and me was . . . complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I say.
“It was like this arranged marriage thing. We’ve known each other forever. Our parents are best friends, and they always wanted us to, you know, get together, and Missy was really into it, but I was never exactly . . .” He hesitates. “Before she left for college I finally told her I was into . . . you know . . . someone else.”
He’s squeezing both my hands, and it takes me a second to realize—he means me! Then I remember where we are, and I have to ask: “How drunk are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You smell like beer.”
“ Half a beer. Just to get my courage up.”
“For what?”
“This,” he says. He leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, and it’s as if our mouths were made just to come together, and now his hands are on my back, pressing me closer, and I can’t believe everything that’s flying through my head in this one moment. New Year’s and porch swings and dreams and mud and fire-works and St. Elmo’s and prom and cheesy song lyrics and . . . and I’m pushing him away . . . why am I pushing him away?
Matt reaches for my arm to pull me back. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just . . . I can’t do this if you’re going to mess with my head.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s searching for the right words. Then he says them: “I’m not. I won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I’ve wanted this since tenth grade. Ever since I saw you do that peer-ed skit in assembly. The one about cigarettes.”
“Yeah, right.” I’m rolling my eyes like I don’t believe him. But I’m kind of tingling, too.
“You were wearing a fuzzy blue sweater. And your hair was all twisty. Kind of like . . .” He reaches out and gathers my hair into a pile on top of my head. “With a pencil sticking out of it.”
“You remember that?”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up three fingers. “Your skit was very convincing. I haven’t smoked since.”
I try to suppress the urge to call him a big dork, but as usual my mouth has other plans. “You’re such a dork,” I say. Then I touch my hand to his arm, to show him I mean it in the best possible way.
“ I’m a dork?” he says, smiling. “ Me ?” He takes a step back, and then, out of nowhere, he starts singing. “Come on, Vogue! Let your body groove to the music! Hey, hey, hey!”
It takes about two seconds for all the guys who were playing soccer to gather around us on the deck, clapping and cheering as Matt Rigby’s hands form geometric shapes in the air around his head. And despite the fact that he’s mocking my dance moves, I have to laugh. Because he looks so ridiculous, and because his eyes haven’t left mine, and because now he’s reaching out his hand for me to join him, and I am actually doing it.
Here we are: voguing side by side in the cool September air, sober, to absolutely no music. I can just see the word “dork-out” hanging in the air above us.
Also the word “us.”
“Get a room!” someone from the peanut gallery yells, and instead of being embarrassed, Matt Rigby pulls me in and kisses me. Right there, in front of everyone. How this is happening is beyond me. I only wish Liv were here to see it.
Eleven thirty-two p.m., the backseat of Dodd’s car. Two things are going on: the parental inquisition and stealth texting.
Pops: “How was the party?”
Us: “Great.”
Me: Whr wr u?
Liv: Lng stry. GR8 guy.
Me: Wht??? Who???
Dodd: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Us:
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m focused on his eyes. I once read that you can tell if someone’s lying by how much they blink, or if they glance to the side, but he’s not doing either. His eyes are locked on mine.
“The thing with Missy and me was . . . complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I say.
“It was like this arranged marriage thing. We’ve known each other forever. Our parents are best friends, and they always wanted us to, you know, get together, and Missy was really into it, but I was never exactly . . .” He hesitates. “Before she left for college I finally told her I was into . . . you know . . . someone else.”
He’s squeezing both my hands, and it takes me a second to realize—he means me! Then I remember where we are, and I have to ask: “How drunk are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You smell like beer.”
“ Half a beer. Just to get my courage up.”
“For what?”
“This,” he says. He leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, and it’s as if our mouths were made just to come together, and now his hands are on my back, pressing me closer, and I can’t believe everything that’s flying through my head in this one moment. New Year’s and porch swings and dreams and mud and fire-works and St. Elmo’s and prom and cheesy song lyrics and . . . and I’m pushing him away . . . why am I pushing him away?
Matt reaches for my arm to pull me back. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just . . . I can’t do this if you’re going to mess with my head.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s searching for the right words. Then he says them: “I’m not. I won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I’ve wanted this since tenth grade. Ever since I saw you do that peer-ed skit in assembly. The one about cigarettes.”
“Yeah, right.” I’m rolling my eyes like I don’t believe him. But I’m kind of tingling, too.
“You were wearing a fuzzy blue sweater. And your hair was all twisty. Kind of like . . .” He reaches out and gathers my hair into a pile on top of my head. “With a pencil sticking out of it.”
“You remember that?”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up three fingers. “Your skit was very convincing. I haven’t smoked since.”
I try to suppress the urge to call him a big dork, but as usual my mouth has other plans. “You’re such a dork,” I say. Then I touch my hand to his arm, to show him I mean it in the best possible way.
“ I’m a dork?” he says, smiling. “ Me ?” He takes a step back, and then, out of nowhere, he starts singing. “Come on, Vogue! Let your body groove to the music! Hey, hey, hey!”
It takes about two seconds for all the guys who were playing soccer to gather around us on the deck, clapping and cheering as Matt Rigby’s hands form geometric shapes in the air around his head. And despite the fact that he’s mocking my dance moves, I have to laugh. Because he looks so ridiculous, and because his eyes haven’t left mine, and because now he’s reaching out his hand for me to join him, and I am actually doing it.
Here we are: voguing side by side in the cool September air, sober, to absolutely no music. I can just see the word “dork-out” hanging in the air above us.
Also the word “us.”
“Get a room!” someone from the peanut gallery yells, and instead of being embarrassed, Matt Rigby pulls me in and kisses me. Right there, in front of everyone. How this is happening is beyond me. I only wish Liv were here to see it.
Eleven thirty-two p.m., the backseat of Dodd’s car. Two things are going on: the parental inquisition and stealth texting.
Pops: “How was the party?”
Us: “Great.”
Me: Whr wr u?
Liv: Lng stry. GR8 guy.
Me: Wht??? Who???
Dodd: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Us:
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