“What’s wrong?”
Not answering, I shuffle across the room in my underwear, lock the door, and then rejoin him in my bed.
Things start getting even more intense, so intense we just know it’s going to happen, so I say, “Do you have something?”
“Yeah.”
He leans over the side of my bed, reaches down to the floor, and grabs a condom from his jeans pocket. I’m a bit scared, but this feels so right. He actual y likes me for me. And I just have to have him. Every bit of him. Now.
A little while later, we’re stil clinging to each other under the covers.
“Want to make this official?” he asks.
“What? Like be a couple?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
He brushes the hair out of my face with his pinky finger and cups my chin with his hand. I can’t believe we just did it. It! It did hurt some, but it wasn’t scary…it was…fun and sweet.
Now we’re staring at each other and he keeps giving me little kisses. “I’ve never felt like this before,” he says.
“Me either. So why me?”
“You’re strong and in control and different and mature. Why me?”
Al I can think about is how hot he is, but then I say,
“You’re smart and cute.”
“That’s it?” he replies, tickling my stomach. “That’s it? ”
“What more do you want?” I reply, laughing as I squirm.
“Well , Kristen Markum gave me a long handwritten note saying how much she wants me. Along with a picture.” He raises his eyebrows at me and laughs.
“Ugh. I hate that girl.”
“Why?”
I take a deep breath. “Wel , besides the fact that she cal ed me a dyke and a slut and accused me of sleeping with JJ and Henry…”
“What else?”
“Kristen and I were okay friends growing up…and then in seventh grade, we were real y excited about going to the Christmas Dance.”
I couldn’t wait—I had these cool, red New Balances I was going to wear, and Kristen and I bought these matching red cashmere sweaters. I thought I might get to dance with this eighth grader who was kinda cute. Maybe even get my first kiss.
I go on, “And then Carter asked Kristen to the dance, and she sort of laughed in his face.”
“Yikes.”
“I know. He felt awful, so I got al the guys on my footbal team to boycott the dance, and I threw this awesome party in my basement instead. We had, like, awesome party in my basement instead. We had, like, a slasher movie marathon, and Dad made chili dogs and gave us root beer and told al the guys these epic footbal stories from when he played with Emmitt Smith and Michael Irvin…and, wel , al the guys went back to school on Monday saying my party was better than any dance could ever be.”
Ty laughs. “You’re hilarious.”
“And al the girls at school were real y pissed at me
’cause I’d ruined the dance for them, and Kristen told everyone that I’d boycotted the dance because no guy would ever want to dance with me.”
Because I was taller than all the guys…and huge. Ugly.
“Ouch,” he says, turning to look at the ceiling.
“And I’ve stil never been to a dance.”
I don’t tel Ty about how after Kristen said that, I decided being a guy was better, because none of my teammates would ever say anything so horrible to me. And none of them ever have.
“Well , I would’ve gone to your slasher-movie chili-dog party, ’cause you’re beautiful,” Ty says, smiling. A knock sounds on the door, and I hear someone fiddling with the knob. Shit! I didn’t think my parents would be home for another half hour! Then I rol over and look at the clock—I total y lost track of time. I quickly start pul ing my clothes back on. Ty does the same and we’re laughing at each other as we struggle with shirts and jeans and underwear.
I hear Mom say, “Jordan, what are you doing in there?”
“Nothing…hanging out with Ty.”
I don’t hear her say anything else for a few seconds, but then she says, “Wel , come on down for dinner. Ty?
Can you stay? Mr. Woods wants to meet you.”
Crap. I bite my fist and shake my head furiously at Ty, which doesn’t deter him at al because he says, “I would love that, Mrs. Woods. Thanks for inviting me.”
He has this shit-eating grin on his face, so I punch him hard on the shoulder, and he fal s back onto my bed.
“Damn it, Woods. That hurt!”
I smile at him as he puts his jeans on. After pul ing my hair back into a knot, we head downstairs, and I pray that Mom doesn’t question why Ty and I were in my room with the door locked.
Sure enough, when she sees us come into the kitchen, she gives me a knowing look, but doesn’t say a thing. I’l be in for it later, though. She tel s me to carry the roast to the table and asks Ty to grab the gravy, which takes just about everything we’ve got because we’re giggling so hard.
But Ty stops giggling when we walk into the dining room, where Dad is already sitting with his signature bottle of Gatorade. Ty straightens up, seeming to grow by several inches, and wipes the smile off his face. After setting the gravy down on the table, Ty stretches out his hand to Dad and says, “I’m Tyler Green, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”
Dad smiles and returns the handshake. “Donovan Woods. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Dad gestures at the seat to his immediate right, then points at Ty to sit in it. I sit down to Ty’s right, poised to butcher the roast.
“So,” Dad says to Ty, “my son tel s me you’ve got a cannon for an arm.”