Read Online The Lucky Kind by Alyssa B. Sheinmel - Free Book Online Page A

we’ll stay together at least through Christmas. Even though the latter is a totally girly thing of me to think. Maybe the former, too, come to think of it. When I told Stevie, he said, “Dude, you are so gay.”
    “That’s a slur,” I said.
    “You’re a slur.”
    “Stellar comeback.”
    “No, actually, you’re right, that is a slur. I would never want to imply that the homosexual community could possibly be as lame as you are.”
    “Well, I’m sure the homosexual community thanks you.”
    But I’m not ashamed of my rather lame thoughts and moments; my girlfriend deserves each one. My girlfriend knows all kinds of big words, and in addition to the novels we read for school, she likes to read all kinds of nonfiction in her free time, biographies of American presidents and books about the history of the food we eat and the clothes we wear. She’s a much faster (or maybe slightly more careless) worker than I am, so in the afternoons at her house, when I’m still doing homework, she’s usually reading books like that. She goes through at least one a week.
    We always go to her house after school. I tell my parents I’m going to a friend’s house, and maybe they think I’m at Stevie’s, or maybe someone else’s entirely, but I don’t think they know I’ve got a girlfriend. On the nights I stay at Eden’s for dinner, her mother eats with us, and her father never gets there before the table has long since been cleared. Dinner is always delivery; Eden rolls her eyes when her mother mentions cooking because she knows it’ll never happen.
    Eden’s parents mostly leave us alone. Her mother doesn’t say anything when we close the door to Eden’s room, and her father doesn’t seem to register that his daughter has been spending all that much time with the same boy. Eden doesn’t talk about it, and so I don’t, either. I think we’re both secretly pleased that they’re too self-absorbed to notice us, because it gives us privacy. I guess I shouldn’t be keeping track, but behind Eden’s closed bedroom door I’ve gotten my hand down her pants at least seventeen times. I stopped counting after ten, so I’m guessing at the number here. And I can’t even remember how many times I’ve touched her breasts, heard the sharp intake of breath when her nipples get hard. But she always makes sure we finish our homework, too.

    Next week is Thanksgiving and on Wednesday, Eden says we should study at my house instead.
    “Why?” I ask, standing beside her open locker and lacing my fingers through hers.
    She unhooks her fingers in order to reach into her locker for some books.
    “We always go to my house.”
    “Your house is better.”
    “Why on earth is my house better?”
    “Who on earth says things like ‘why on earth’?”
    “The type of people who date people who don’t want the people they’re dating to come to their houses, apparently.”
    “That’s some pretty serious sentence structure you’ve got going on.”
    “And this is a pretty serious conversation I’m trying to have.”
    “You are?” I ask; I honestly hadn’t realized we were being all that serious.
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Oh,” I say, standing up straight now.
    Then neither of us says anything.
    “Okay, I want to be a good boyfriend and everything but I really don’t know what the serious conversation you want to have is about.”
    “It’s about us doing homework at your house today, you moron.”
    “See, you’re trying really hard to be pissy with me, but you’re failing miserably.”
    “I am pissy,” she says, reaching into her locker for another book.
    I shake my head. “Nope, sorry—pissy people are able to stop grinning when they call someone a moron.”
    Eden puffs out her bottom lip, pretending to pout; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her actually pout, and come to think of it, I can’t imagine her doing it. I focus on the fullness of her lip. She never needs to wear lipstick since her lips are naturally a dark,