“You first.”
I blink. The ceiling fan spins lazily above us, the glare of its lights hurting my eyes. “Life goals . . .” I shrug, and my shoulders protest. “Dismantle white supremacy and the patriarchy. Save the planet from environmental destruction. Maybe . . .” I almost bite my sentence in half out of habit, but what do I have to hide right now? Chances are I’ll never talk to Andrew again, right? “Maybe become a lawyer.”
Dad used to tell everyone we met that I was so stubborn I was bound to follow in his footsteps. By the time I was eight or so, I was dead set on growing up to be anything but a lawyer—which I would scream, loudly, at every opportunity. So Dad dropped it, and we’ve never talked about it again, even though I’m not eight anymore. He thinks Melissa would be a great lawyer, though.
“Lawyer?” Andrew asks, smiling. I brace myself for an insulting joke, but he just says, “Not a politician? It seems more in line with the other goals.”
Huh. “Honestly, I’ve never thought about it. Most politicians are horrible.”
Andrew’s smile tilts. “I did a year as a poli-sci major,” he says, and then laughs when I wince. “But don’t worry; I’m history/philosophy now, and I’m becoming vaguely anarchist, so no offense taken.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, or like some socialist-anarchist hybrid. You know, capitalism is violence and all that.” He shrugs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head like he’s joking, which is how I know that he’s telling me something close to his heart. “My parents just love the new leftist ideals, of course. Make for great dinner conversations over the breaks.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.” We grin; Andrew shrugs again. Our legs press together.
“You know,” he says, “I never know if I’m an introvert or an extrovert until I go to a party, and then it becomes very obvious.”
I laugh because I, too, am immensely relieved to be away from the blare and the crowd, and also because our skin is touching and his dark eyes glint above the submerged treasure of a weird, smiley, introverted semi-anarchist brain. I want to get to know this brain, and maybe also the body it inhabits.
“And here I thought you were enjoying my company,” I say, almost stumbling over the bordering-on-flirty words. “But it turns out it’s just the lack of company you like, huh? I see how it—”
“That.” Andrew holds up a finger to interrupt me. “Is not.” He points the finger at my face and leans forward. “What I said.”
He moves his outstretched hand closer, like he’s going to tap my nose, but before he can reach, I snap my teeth (gently) and catch his finger between them.
Which, for the record, I’ve done to Dad, Yasmín, Melissa, and probably lots of other people lots of other times. And it’s always been silly.
It is not silly right now. Abort, abort, this is way beyond the flirting border. I jerk my head back, but I can’t avoid Andrew’s finger brushing against my lips.
Which, yikes.
Good yikes. Quivery, melty yikes. Andrew’s smile turns catlike, and I watch him blink in slow motion high-def while my torso tilts forward like it’s run by wires and magnets totally independent of my brain, and then—
Andrew turns his body away, laughs nervously, and wrings his hands.
“Aren’t you, like, in high school?”
“No!” I yelp, sparking with two very different kinds of frustration. One is the old kneejerk annoyance from years of living with a baby face and the constant exclamation that “You can’t possibly be in fifth grade/a middle schooler/an upperclassman.” The second frustration is new and immediate, and I don’t enjoy it any more than the first. “I just graduated,” I admit. “I’m not in high school.” And why haven’t you kissed me yet? I don’t add.
“Right, yeah.” Andrew shifts and smiles, running his hands through his hair, and I stifle a growl because I want to do that! “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just . . . we’re not really supposed to hit on freshmen when they’re young and vulnerable, you know?”
I could punch him in his stupid thoughtful face.
“I’m sure that is a great rule to keep freshmen safe from creepers and focused on their studies,” I huff, “but are you insinuating that I am vulnerable? Because as a kickass beater, I find that very annoying.”
I am absurdly into Andrew’s smiles. I want to decode every muscle twitch and eyebrow tilt until I know exactly which thoughts he’s broadcasting. I want to know what he’s thinking now, but I’m too impatient to ask.
“And anyway,” I continue, “if a freshman or pre-freshman were hitting on you, and if you, I don’t know, were at all interested in her—or him, or them—and if y’all had, you know, at least talked about some salient life philosophies so you knew you didn’t hate each other and in fact might actually get along super well, especially if you’re as open to learning about environmental issues as I am about anarchist ones—uh, I mean, as they are, about, umm . . .”
Oh, stop my mouth. Seriously. Please.
“Besides,” I rant like the runaway train I am, “you’re not, like, a senior, are you?”
“Sophomore,” he says. “I’ll be starting sophomore year.”
“Right, so a one-year difference? That’s nothing. Totally socially appropriate. And very legal. But I guess that isn’t as strong of an argument for you, is it?”
“Lawful is no guarantee of moral,” he says, but I think his smile means that he’s listening.
“So . . . in conclusion . . .” I laugh at my own ridiculousness and am relieved that Andrew laughs with me. “Those are, like, at least two or three reasons why we can totally make out now. Um, if you want to, I mean. Do . . . do you want to?”
Andrew doesn’t need to move much to put our faces inches apart. I guess I moved closer while ranting, or he did, or something.
“Yes,” he whispers, sucking me into his dark eyes. “Yes, please.”
Fucking finally.
25
My first kiss: dry and scratchy and exciting.
John kisses: warm and sticky and fun.
This kiss: cool water pouring down my throat, and also a lot of giggling.
“I haven’t showered,” I warn Andrew as his lips brush my neck. “I probably smell.”
We’re in the middle of the couch, upright, but my body melts into his and my hips and legs whine to move from their twisted position. Which would put me either in his lap or horizontal, so I leave them where they are.