Page 28 of The Way I Used to Be
Since we are now on a phone number basis, I decide it’s time to lay down some ground rules when he calls me to invite me over later that night.
“Before I come over again, I just want to make sure you really understand that this isn’t going to be like a boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”
“Yeah, you made that pretty clear before.”
“I mean, we’re not going to go out on dates or anything like that. I don’t want to be introduced to your friends. I don’t want to go parading down the halls holding hands or having you wait for me by my locker. I’m definitely not going to be the girl cheering you on from the sidelines at your basketball games.”
“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel real special, don’t you?” he says, a trace of a laugh behind his voice.
“It’s not about you,” I tell him, and I can’t believe how utterly selfish I sound—how utterly selfish Iam.
“Ooh-kaay. Anything else?”
“And I never, ever, ever want to meet your parents.”
“Well, that’s one thing we can agree on.”
“Oh.” Wow, that stings. I guess that’s a taste of how I must be making him feel.
“It’s not about you,” he mimics, pointedly.
“Okay.”
There’s a pause.
“Eden, how are old are you?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, just wondering. It’s hard to tell. You seem—” He stops himself from finishing.
“I seem what?”
“You seem... I don’t know. This all feels either really mature or completely the opposite.”
“Do you really think calling me immature is going to help you in any way?” I laugh. “I’m almost amused. Or completely offended—it’s hard to tell.”
“No, no, no, that’s not what I’m saying!” He backpedals. “I’m actually saying you seem mature.”
“Or the complete opposite,” I remind him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he laughs. “Really, what are you, though? Like sixteen?”
“Sure,” I lie. Fourteen. But my birthday is coming soon, and then I’ll be fifteen. Which islike sixteen. “Okay, you answer me now. Yes or no, what do you think?” I ask him.
After considering my list of commandments for several seconds, he breathes in and exhales, “I think you’re really weird.” He pauses. “But I still want you to come over again.”
I feel my mouth curve into a smile.
SO THAT NIGHT HEsmuggles me past his parents and up the stairs to his bedroom. And the next night. And practically every night for the past week. And each day things seem to go just a little further, his hands wandering over my body with just a little more freedom, like he’s testing the limits.
But this is it—the night. I decided before I even got to his house. He told me earlier his parents are out of town at his cousin’s wedding. Perfect. Because I can’t stand the anticipation of it anymore. It needs to just happen already. So I can stop being scared every second we’re together. Worrying about what it will be like, what he’ll do, how he’ll act, if he’ll hurt me. And me—what I’ll do, how I’ll feel.
Except tonight, with my mind all made up, I’m more than scared. I’m so terrified I’m almost unable to breathe. I think I feel a rash working up my fingers to my hand to my wrist to my forearm to my whole body to my brain, and, oh God, I have this bullet stuck inside of me and I might throw up.
We stand next to his bed. He moves in to kiss me.
Be normal. Be normal, Edy,I tell myself.Be normal, I repeat in my head. Now. I take a breath and pull away from his kiss. I start unbuttoning my shirt—one, two, three, four, five, six buttons. My hands are shaking. They barely work. God, why did I pick a button shirt, anyway? I look up. He’s staring at my new bra. It’s lacy and purple and matches my underwear. I let the shirt fall off my shoulders. I try, inconspicuously, to glance at my arm. It looks fine, no rash. I’m fine. I’m fine and this is fine—I exhale—everything is fine, fine, fine. I coax the heels of my sneakers off with my toes and nudge them to the side. I unbutton my jeans, unzip them, slide them down over my hips, my butt, my thighs.
