The Best Laid Plans Page 14

  “Well, maybe he could teach you,” Hannah says, shrugging. She crumples up her empty sandwich wrapper and throws it into the trash, then pulls out a bottle of iced tea. The lid twists off with a satisfying pop.

  “Yeah, I’ll just have him tutor me,” I say, laughing. I flutter my eyelashes in imitation of Abby Feliciano. “He’s such a good tutor.”

  “That’s seriously not a bad idea,” Hannah says, offering me a sip of the tea. I take it from her, still laughing.

  “What?”

  “He could tutor you. If you’re worried about what you said to James Dean, Andrew could give you a few pointers. He obviously knows what he’s doing.”

  “I guess I could ask him for some advice,” I say, feeling my ears get hot. I take a sip of tea and hand it back to her. Now that Andrew and I have started talking about my sex life, maybe it isn’t so weird anymore. We got through that conversation in the diner in one piece. Hannah has a point: Andrew could probably tell me some pretty helpful things if I’m brave enough to ask him.

  “You could ask him for some advice, sure,” she says, shrugging. “Or you could just have sex with him.” Her tone is casual, like she’s suggesting something completely normal. I snort, hitting her on the arm.

  “Yeah, totally,” I say. “Brilliant idea. Inspired!”

  “Keely, I’m not kidding,” she says, and I feel the color drain from my face.

  “Hannah, no.” I lower my voice to a whisper and look around, worried someone might have heard. Nobody’s paying us any attention. I laugh awkwardly, making a strangled sound as the laugh catches in my throat.

  “Think about it,” she continues. “Obviously he cares about you and respects you. And he clearly knows what he’s doing if the junior girls are any indication, so he could get you ready for James Dean. It could be like . . . warm-up sex. A practice round before it really matters.” She leans toward me, getting more excited as the idea takes form. Her eyes are practically sparkling. “Would you show up to the major leagues having never once played the game? Having never even touched a bat? No, you’d get a coach and you’d practice, and you’d suck at first, but then you’d get better. Practice makes perfect.” She claps her hands together, squealing in a way that rivals Ava. “Besides,” she adds. “Then your lie won’t matter. You won’t be a virgin anymore.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I say. “We’ve been friends for too long. Friends don’t just . . . have sex with each other.” Even saying the words out loud makes me uncomfortable. Despite the breezy spring air, I feel hot and clammy, my mouth dry.

  “Friends totally have sex with each other,” she says, as if I’m being ridiculous. “What about Ron and Hermione?”

  “Ron and Hermione didn’t sleep together,” I say.

  “They definitely slept together! They had kids, remember? You know they got it on down in her Chamber of Secrets.”

  I laugh. “Okay, sure. But they liked each other. Which Andrew and I do not.”

  “Good point!” she says. “But friends with benefits is a thing, isn’t it? People definitely do that. And it’s not like there’s any risk of you guys liking each other, because you like James Dean and Andrew likes the entire junior class.”

  “I can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” I say.

  “It can’t be that outlandish that you guys would sleep together. Your parents thought you had, remember? If parents aren’t even shocked by something, then you know it’s pretty tame.”

  “Even if I did think this was a good idea, which I don’t, because it makes no sense, there’s no way I could possibly ask him. What would I say? It would completely freak him out.” She’s making me nervous; the idea is making me nervous.

  “He’s a guy. Straight guys don’t turn down opportunities to sleep with hot girls.”

  “Now you’re just trying to butter me up with compliments,” I say, and she smiles.

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “You’re a horrible person.”

  The bell rings to signal the end of lunch.

  “I know, but I’m your horrible person, remember?” She pats my knee. “Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

  “Wait, nothing is settled.” My heart is in my throat.

  She stands and picks up her backpack. “Aren’t you glad you have me here to solve all your problems?”

  Later that night, I can’t sleep. Every time I feel like I’m starting to drift off, Hannah’s words slam into me, jerking me back to miserable consciousness. When I close my eyes, images of Andrew float in front of me—memories of the times I’ve seen him with girls, seen him pressing them into the walls at parties, lips fused together, hands tangled in hair. I try to imagine him kissing me instead, just testing out the idea, and my eyes shoot open, an embarrassed feeling washing over me like somehow, in his own bed a few blocks away, he can tell what I’m thinking. I hate that Hannah has planted the seed there, but her words are like a wriggling worm in my brain.

  The suggestion seems so typical Hannah—like all those comments she’s made about Andrew and me since middle school.

  But he’s cute! she said, in eighth grade, the first time I’d gone over to her house.

  I pretended to barf. He’s cute in the way you’re cute. It was hard to explain. Like, I know you’re pretty, but I’m not into girls.

  But you are into boys.

  But I’m not into Andrews, I said, rolling my eyes. If you think he’s so cute, why don’t you date him?

  Because he’s yours, she said, like it was obvious.

  I’ve gotten used to these conversations, her pointed jokes about his bed or his stupid job at the fire station. But something about this idea feels different. This isn’t just Hannah trying to get me with Andrew. This is Hannah trying to help me with Dean.

  I sigh, flipping over onto my stomach. I can’t believe I’m even considering it. In the most likely scenario, Andrew would say no and then things between us would be awkward and weird. And would it be any better if he said yes?

  Still, as much as I don’t want to admit it, Hannah has a point. It’s the perfect solution to my problem. I want to lose my virginity to someone I can trust unconditionally, to someone I know won’t stop talking to me after, won’t judge me for being nervous, or clumsy, or scared. If I bleed too much and ruin Andrew’s sheets—it’s okay. I’ve already peed my pants in front of him. Multiple times. He’s seen me at my weakest, my grossest, my sweatiest, and he’s stuck by me.

  If I have sex with Andrew, I can get the uncomfortable, painful, awkward first time out of the way. I can learn the basics—can practice until I feel comfortable, until I know what to do and how to do it. And then sleeping with Dean will be easy. I won’t have to worry about my lie.

  But it’s too strange. Despite all the good puberty has done him—and the confidence and the girls it brought with it—he’s still my gangly childhood friend with the freckles and the messy hair. He’s still the boy who used to burp the alphabet in my face, who once pretended to be a dinosaur for a week straight, answering all of my questions with a toothy roar. I can’t reconcile those memories with the boy he is now, can’t see him the way Hannah sees him.

  My phone beeps and I roll over to reach for it. There’s a text from Dean. A rush of adrenaline spreads through me, thoughts of Andrew temporarily and mercifully pushed away.

  What are you doing?

  I squint at the time on the screen. It’s 2:00 a.m. on a school night. What does he think I’m doing? I wonder if I’m supposed to be out somewhere. Is he out somewhere?

  Can’t sleep

  A few minutes later, he texts back.

  Want to not sleep at my place?

  My heart is thudding wildly in my chest. What am I supposed to say? It’s a lot harder without Danielle here to instruct me.

 
I can’t. It’s Tuesday

  There’s no way I can sneak out of the house and be back in the morning before my parents find out. Besides, I’m already wearing my retainer. My phone beeps.

  That’s cute

  I type back.

  What’s cute?

  He takes a few minutes to respond, and I stare agonizingly at my phone screen. Finally, it beeps.

  You are. Sure you won’t come over?

  And somehow that’s all it takes. Somehow I find myself crawling out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt, and heading over to the bathroom to wash my face and get ready. There’s an excited flutter in my chest at the thought of sneaking out—not just breaking the rules, but breaking the rules for a boy. When someone like James Dean calls you cute, that’s worth any consequence.

  Just for a minute, ok? You’ll have to come pick me up

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  I climb into Dean’s car down the end of the block, far enough away so the running motor won’t wake my parents. He’s looking sleepy in a maroon EVmU sweatshirt, his hair sticking up to one side. I’m reminded of when I woke up next to him in bed, how cute he looked all rumpled and asleep, and I feel myself getting flustered all over again at the memory.

  I’m nervous—not just about getting caught, but about seeing him again outside of work. There are so many ways this night could go. Suddenly the whole Andrew debate seems meaningless. I feel electric.

  “Were you in bed?” I ask as I get in, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible. Our neighbors have a pair of loud dogs that will bark at the smallest sounds.

  “No, Cody and I had some people over but they all went home.”

  “On a Tuesday?” I ask, and he grins at me.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about college.”

  I blush, thankful it’s dark and he can’t see it.

  “I thought you drove a motorcycle.” I motion at the patched interior of the Honda. It smells a little bit like old French fries.

  “This is Cody’s car. I thought the bike might be too loud.” He leans toward me, bringing a hand behind my head and threading his fingers through my hair. Then he pulls me toward him and kisses me, his tongue teasing my lips, entering my mouth in a way that feels practiced now, and natural. His tongue slides against mine and the sensation of it raises goose bumps on my whole body.

  He pulls away from me slightly so our faces are a few inches apart. “Plus,” he says, his whisper laced with a smile, “it’s kinda hard to do this on a bike.” He clicks off his seat belt and moves closer to me, lifting his body so he’s almost on top of me in the passenger seat.

  I pull away from him. “Do what, exactly?”

  “You know what I mean.” He laughs and tries to kiss me again.

  “Dean.” I move my head to the side so he’s forced to kiss the soft skin of my neck. I shiver at the contact and turn my head, giving in for just a second. But then I force myself to pull away. “Dean, we’re in a car.”

  I don’t know what to say or what to do. How can I explain to him that I don’t want my first time to be here in this car without admitting it’s my first time?

  “That’s okay,” he says. “No one will see us.”

  “That’s not the point. I want to be with you,” I say, wishing I didn’t sound so much like I was begging. “I do, just not here. Not tonight. It’s Tuesday, it’s not . . .”

  “I want to be with you too,” he says. “When is it going to be the right time?”

  “At prom!” The words tumble out of me before I’ve had time to process them.

  He tilts his head to the side, a grin spreading across his face. “At prom?”

  “Yeah. My school is having a prom, June twelfth. It’s kind of stupid but it might be really nice, you know, for us to go.” My voice is shaking. I’m kind of horrified that I’ve asked him, but also kind of thrilled. Going to prom with Dean might actually make prom exciting. An image flashes into my mind suddenly—Dean and me on the dance floor, his arms around my waist in front of everyone—and it sends a rush of adrenaline through me.

  “So you want me to be your prom date.” He’s smiling openly now. “You’re one of those girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “You’re a romantic.” He reaches his pointer finger up to tap me gently on the nose. “You’re a Bridget Jones girl. You’re an Affair to Remember. You’re an Audrey, not a Marilyn.”

  “What does that mean?” I’ve seen the movies he’s referencing, but I’ve never particularly liked any of them. There’s not enough blood. Dean is the one who quotes Casablanca.

  “You want the top of the Empire State Building, crying into your ice cream because you can’t face your feelings, love can cure cancer kind of thing,” he says. “I had you all wrong.”

  “I don’t want to cry into anything.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand. His fingers are rough and warm. “I think it’s adorable. Let’s go to prom.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling an excited fluttering of nerves in my chest, the deadline of June twelfth looming only two months away. Because I know what this really means; what he’s really asking me, what I’m really agreeing to. Prom like promise.

  “I should get inside,” I say. “It’s late.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dean says, and I’m pleased by the sincerity in his tone. “I wasn’t trying to push you earlier into anything. Everything’s cool, right? We’re groovy?”

  I’m laughing, rolling my eyes at his use of the word groovy, like he’s trying to be some cool dude from the ’70s. He sounds like my dad.

  “Everything’s groovy,” I say, and I lean in to kiss him one more time before opening the car door and stepping quietly out into the street.

  “Bye, Prom Date,” he says, reaching an arm up to wave.

  “Bye, Prom Date,” I echo, the words sending an anticipatory thrill through me.

  He starts the car and pulls away, and I watch as he disappears around the corner.

  That’s what I don’t want to risk: the feel of his fingers in mine, the twinkle in his eye when he makes a stupid joke just for me, the fact that I’m allowed to lean in and kiss him whenever I want. The two months before prom suddenly feel like freedom—now I can kiss him without any added pressure. My decision has been made for me, the date set. And a prom night with James Dean is as close to perfect as I’ll ever get.

  But then the reality of the situation crashes down on me—the excitement churning to anxiety in my stomach. I have a quick vision of the two of us in bed—the moment I’ve finally agreed to give him. Why would I risk messing things up when there’s a guaranteed way to make that moment perfect?

  Before I know what I’m really doing, before I have a chance to change my mind, before my brain has time to process what my fingers are typing, I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Andrew.

  Are you free tomorrow after school? There’s something really important I need to ask you

  SEVENTEEN

  I WAKE UP in a panic. I scramble for my phone, wishing I could erase what I sent. What the hell have I done?

  There’s a response from Andrew that must have come through after I fell asleep.

  Are you ok?

  And then, marked a few minutes later:

  Collins? Jan’s before school tomorrow? Picking you up at 6:30

  I glance at the time. 6:15. I have fifteen minutes to come up with a lie, to make up something reasonable, an excuse for what I texted. I scroll up on the message thread and reread what I sent.

  Are you free tomorrow after school? There’s something really important I need to
ask you

  Okay. It’s not so bad. It’s not as if I sent him: I want to have sex with you. Plz respond. I can come back from this. But what important thing can I make up? Andrew has an uncanny sensor to my bullshit. He’s known me for too long—has seen me try to weasel my way out of situations since childhood.

  I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. There’s no time to shower. The bathroom clock ticking away the minutes has a grip on my thoughts, the pressure wiping my mind completely blank.

  I groan and throw my phone down on my bedspread. There’s a poster over my bed of a baby polar bear—something I outgrew years ago but never bothered to take down. Andrew once drew round glasses and a lightning bolt scar on the bear’s face in Sharpie, the words “Beary Potter” scrawled in messy letters over the white fur. Now the poster seems to be mocking me, the memory of that moment reminding me of everything I’m set to lose.

  There’s a honk outside—Andrew’s truck—and I jump. I grab a pair of jeans off the floor, sniffing them to check if they’re wearable, and pull them on. Then I yank open my dresser drawers and pull on the first shirt I see, something I tie-dyed at camp however many summers ago. My phone beeps at the same time I hear my mom’s voice call up the stairs.

  “Keely, honey, Andrew’s outside. Are you awake?”

  Her footsteps make their way toward my room.

  “Yeah, Mom!” I call back, clicking open the screen on my phone. There are three texts from Andrew.

  Wake up!

  You better order your own bacon today

  oink oink

  I throw open my bedroom door and barrel out, almost colliding with my mom, who’s standing on the other side, a steaming mug in her hands. She jumps back, somehow managing not to spill anything.