early days, when everything remained for the time being delectable and hidden.
Willa sat with him and tried to figure out how she was supposed to be, how she was meant to talk, and whether she was supposed to laugh a lot, or just listen with a grave expression when he spoke. She knew nothing about what you were meant to do with a boy. Marissa Clayborn, of course, knew everything; Marissa was experienced, having lost her virginity at age fifteen to a boy named Ralph Devereux, the son of family friends from another town. Though quite a few girls in the tenth grade at Elro were no longer virgins either—soccer-playing girls; girls who hung around the art room; members of the pep squad—Marissa was the only one among their circle of girls who had really had significant experience. Both Lucys and Carrie Petito had all “done things,” as they put it, but the things they had done had involved hands roaming among body parts, even southern body parts, though it had gone no further than that. Mouths did not come into the picture, except to kiss and be kissed; condoms were not required. Marissa had been so calm and sophisticated about her significant sexual experiences: catlike, sphinxlike, impressively mature. Willa knew that she herself would never be able to simply accept sex as her birthright the way Marissa had done. For a long time Willa Lang hadn’t even been able to imagine wanting to sleep with someone someday—but now, since she had met Eli, she imagined it all the time.
He wasn’t good-looking, but she still often pictured his hand accidentally bumping against the side of her breast. “Whoops,” he’d say, pulling away, but the hand would leave a thousand reverberations. Once, thinking about it in her bedroom, Willa Lang let out an actual, tiny scream. She wanted to text her friends to say: “guess what? i understand finally.” Willa was a slow study, but she was, apparently, a study. The fact that Eli, too, had had no experience was part of his appeal.
“I never had a girlfriend,” he said now as they sat together. “Back at Cobalt, anyone who wasn’t a jock might as well commit seppuku. The girls were jocks too. Soccer was the big thing. I just kept to myself a lot, and I assumed I’d keep doing that when we moved here too, but as you can see, it hasn’t turned out that way.”
Did this mean he thought she was his girlfriend? Willa really couldn’t say.
“It’s sort of interesting, the way you get to know someone,” Eli went on. “The way, at first, you think they’re one thing, but they turn out to be another. Want to know when you started to change, in my mind?”
“Okay,” Willa said, and she waited.
“It was when you put on The Lungs that night in your room, and we sat there.” She recalled sitting with him, the aching music between them. He’d closed his eyes when he listened, and she’d noticed the length of his eyelashes, and briefly imagined taking a tape measure to them. The song had gone on and on, while distantly, from downstairs, came the sound of their three parents, laughing. “And then I wondered about you,” Eli said. “And later on, your dad said I could come over and talk about books. And whenever I came to your house to see him, there you would be. Just walking around in your flip-flops. I’d hear this thup-thup-thup in the background. Your dad’s great, by the way. Everyone at school says so.”
“Thanks. He is a good guy,” Willa agreed. They sat in quiet celebration of her father and his decency.
“And your mom too,” he added.
“And yours,” she said politely.
“Oh, my mom’s sort of tough,” Eli said. “But she’s passionate about things. She loses it sometimes, but my dad is always amused by her. It’s pretty funny to see them in action.”
“Is it weird not living with him?”
“I’ll live with him in Michigan this summer. I always do.” Eli shrugged. “It’s the peculiar Heller way of doing things, I guess. I got used to it a long
Willa sat with him and tried to figure out how she was supposed to be, how she was meant to talk, and whether she was supposed to laugh a lot, or just listen with a grave expression when he spoke. She knew nothing about what you were meant to do with a boy. Marissa Clayborn, of course, knew everything; Marissa was experienced, having lost her virginity at age fifteen to a boy named Ralph Devereux, the son of family friends from another town. Though quite a few girls in the tenth grade at Elro were no longer virgins either—soccer-playing girls; girls who hung around the art room; members of the pep squad—Marissa was the only one among their circle of girls who had really had significant experience. Both Lucys and Carrie Petito had all “done things,” as they put it, but the things they had done had involved hands roaming among body parts, even southern body parts, though it had gone no further than that. Mouths did not come into the picture, except to kiss and be kissed; condoms were not required. Marissa had been so calm and sophisticated about her significant sexual experiences: catlike, sphinxlike, impressively mature. Willa knew that she herself would never be able to simply accept sex as her birthright the way Marissa had done. For a long time Willa Lang hadn’t even been able to imagine wanting to sleep with someone someday—but now, since she had met Eli, she imagined it all the time.
He wasn’t good-looking, but she still often pictured his hand accidentally bumping against the side of her breast. “Whoops,” he’d say, pulling away, but the hand would leave a thousand reverberations. Once, thinking about it in her bedroom, Willa Lang let out an actual, tiny scream. She wanted to text her friends to say: “guess what? i understand finally.” Willa was a slow study, but she was, apparently, a study. The fact that Eli, too, had had no experience was part of his appeal.
“I never had a girlfriend,” he said now as they sat together. “Back at Cobalt, anyone who wasn’t a jock might as well commit seppuku. The girls were jocks too. Soccer was the big thing. I just kept to myself a lot, and I assumed I’d keep doing that when we moved here too, but as you can see, it hasn’t turned out that way.”
Did this mean he thought she was his girlfriend? Willa really couldn’t say.
“It’s sort of interesting, the way you get to know someone,” Eli went on. “The way, at first, you think they’re one thing, but they turn out to be another. Want to know when you started to change, in my mind?”
“Okay,” Willa said, and she waited.
“It was when you put on The Lungs that night in your room, and we sat there.” She recalled sitting with him, the aching music between them. He’d closed his eyes when he listened, and she’d noticed the length of his eyelashes, and briefly imagined taking a tape measure to them. The song had gone on and on, while distantly, from downstairs, came the sound of their three parents, laughing. “And then I wondered about you,” Eli said. “And later on, your dad said I could come over and talk about books. And whenever I came to your house to see him, there you would be. Just walking around in your flip-flops. I’d hear this thup-thup-thup in the background. Your dad’s great, by the way. Everyone at school says so.”
“Thanks. He is a good guy,” Willa agreed. They sat in quiet celebration of her father and his decency.
“And your mom too,” he added.
“And yours,” she said politely.
“Oh, my mom’s sort of tough,” Eli said. “But she’s passionate about things. She loses it sometimes, but my dad is always amused by her. It’s pretty funny to see them in action.”
“Is it weird not living with him?”
“I’ll live with him in Michigan this summer. I always do.” Eli shrugged. “It’s the peculiar Heller way of doing things, I guess. I got used to it a long
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