My feet crunched on the driveway, the air heavy with dew and the lush smell of moss, fungi, and damp earth. Sam had taken up running in the spring, and he was determined to convert me to his cause. He mapped out an entire beginner’s program to start today, my first morning at the cottage. I was instructed to eat a light breakfast no later than seven a.m. and meet him at the end of my driveway at eight a.m.
I stopped when I saw him.
He was stretching, his back turned to me with headphones in his ears, pulling one arm over his head and leaning to the side. At fifteen, his body was almost foreign to me. Somehow, he’d grown at least another six inches since I’d last seen him over the Christmas break. I’d noticed it yesterday, when he and Charlie came to help us unload. (“It’s officially an annual tradition,” I heard Charlie tell Dad.) But I didn’t have time to properly inspect Sam before both he and Charlie had to leave to get ready for their shifts at the Tavern. Sam was working in the kitchen three nights a week this summer, and I was already dreading the time apart. Now, his black running shirt lifted to expose a slice of tanned skin. I watched, mesmerized, a flush creeping up my neck.
His hair was the same thick tangle and he still wore the friendship bracelet around his left wrist, but he must have been well over six feet tall now, his legs stretched almost endlessly past the hem of his shorts. Almost as improbable as his height was that he was somehow thicker, too. His shoulders, arms, and legs all carried more bulk, and his butt was . . . well, it could no longer be mistaken for a Frisbee.
I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Jesus, Percy,” he said, spinning around and taking off his headphones.
“Good morning to you, too, stranger.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Six months is too long,” I said into his chest. He squeezed me tightly.
“You smell like summer,” he said, then put his hands on my arms and stepped back. His gaze traveled over my spandex-clad form. “You look like a runner.”
That was his doing. I had a drawer full of exercise gear based on the list of items he’d suggested. I had put on shorts and a tank top as well as a sports bra, which Sam had embarrassingly included on his list, and one of the cotton thongs Delilah gave me before she left for her mother-daughter European vacation, which he had not included. My hair, now well past my shoulders, was gathered into a thick ponytail high on my head.
“Fake it till you make it, right?”
He hummed and then turned serious and took me through a series of stretches. During my first squat, he stood behind me and put his hands on my hips. I almost tumbled backward with the shock of his grip.
When I was suitably limber, he ran his hand through his hair and went over the plan: “Okay, let’s start with the basics. The most important part of learning to run is . . .” He drifted off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Good shoes?” I guessed, looking down at my new Nikes. He shook his head, disappointed.
“Didn’t you read the couch to 5K article I mailed you?” He’d clipped it from a running magazine, complete with some kind of complicated time and distance chart. I read it . . . once . . . ish.
“The most important part of learning to run is walking,” he said with his hands on his hips. I smothered a giggle. This bossy thing was entirely new and sort of adorable and definitely funny. “So we’ll spend the first week doing a 3K out and back, increasing the distance you spend running each day until you’re running the whole 3K by the end of the week. You’ll take two rest days a week, and by the end of week two, you should be running a full 5K.”
I barely understood a word he’d said, but five kilometers sounded pretty far. “How far do you usually go?”
“To town and back. It’s about 12K.” My jaw dropped. “I worked my way up to it. You will, too.”
“Nope. No way!” I cried. “There are too many hills!”
“Calm down. We’ll take it day by day.” He gestured down the road and started walking. “C’mon. We’ll walk for the first five minutes.” I looked at him dubiously, but picked up my pace to match his.
If my elementary school’s annual track-and-field day of hell hadn’t already made it obvious years ago, it was now: I was not a natural runner. Ten minutes in, I was brushing sweat off my face and trying to ignore the fire in my lungs and thighs.
“Three updates?” Sam asked without a hint of breathlessness.
I scowled. “No talking.”
He slowed his stride after that. At the halfway point, I took my top off, wiped my face with it, and tucked it into the back of my shorts. We walked the last leg of the route, my legs as shaky as a baby deer’s.
“I never knew you were such a sweater,” Sam said when I toweled off with my top again.
“I never knew you were such a masochist.” This running thing was not adorable anymore.
“That writers’ workshop really improved your vocabulary.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. I hit him across the chest.
The Floreks’ drive came before ours, and I turned down it. “I need to jump in the lake, like, right now,” I said, cutting around the house and heading down the hill to the water with Sam beside me, a lopsided grin on his face.
“I don’t know what you find so funny,” I huffed.
“I’m not laughing.” He raised his hands.
I took off my shoes and socks as soon as we reached the dock, then peeled my shorts down and tossed them aside.
“Geez!” Sam cried from behind me. I spun around.
“What?” I snapped just as I realized I was wearing a pink thong and that Sam was staring at my extremely bare ass. I was too hot and pissy to care.
“Problem?” I asked, and his eyes flashed to mine, then down to my bum, and then up to my face again. He muttered a fuck under his breath and looked skyward. He was holding both hands over his crotch. My eyebrows shot up. Not knowing what to do, I ran down the dock and cannonballed into the water, swimming under the surface for as long as I could.
“You coming in?” I hollered back to him when I came up for air, a cocky grin plastered on my face. “The water might cool you off.”
“I’m going to need you to face the other direction before I do that,” he called back, still shielding himself.
“And if I don’t?” I swam closer.
“C’mon, Percy. Do me a favor.” He looked truly pained, which served him right for subjecting me to his workout routine. But inside I was ecstatic. I paddled out to give him space while he jumped in. We were about six feet apart, treading water, and staring at each other.
“I’m sorry,” he said, moving a bit closer. “It’s just my body’s reaction.”
Body’s reaction?
“Got it,” I said, more than a little deflated. “Half-naked chick equals erection. Basic biology.”
After our swim, Sam turned away when I climbed onto the dock. I lay on my back, letting the sun dry me off, my hands forming a cushion behind my head. Sam spread out beside me in the same position, his shorts sopping wet.
I slanted my head toward him, and said, “I think I should keep a bathing suit here for next time.”
I LEFT ONE of my bikinis at the Floreks’, along with an extra towel, so I could jump into the lake as soon as we returned from the torture Sam called running. He swore I would grow to love it, but by the end of our second week, the only thing I had grown was a sprinkling of freckles across my nose and chest.
We had just got back from a sluggish 5K, and I had grabbed my suit off the line, waved to Sue, who was weeding the garden, and popped inside to the bathroom to change while Sam did the same in his room. I tugged off my sweaty gear and tied on the string bikini Mom had finally okayed, yellow with white daisies, then headed to the kitchen to wait for Sam. I was gulping down a glass of water at the sink when someone cleared their throat behind me.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Charlie was leaning against the doorway wearing sweatpants and no shirt, his standard uniform. Not that I minded. Charlie was ripped for a seventeen-year-old.
“It’s not even nine a.m.,” I panted, still out of breath. “What are you doing up?”
“Good question,” Sam said, coming into the kitchen. He took the glass from my hands and refilled it. While Sam drank, Charlie looked me up and down without shame, lingering on my chest. When his gaze reached my face again, his brows drew together over his green eyes.
“You look like a tomato, Pers,” he said, then turned to Sam. “Why do you keep forcing your cardio on her? Bad hearts run in our family, not hers.” Sam pushed his hair back.
“I’m not forcing her. Am I, Percy?” He looked at me for backup, and I cringed.
“No . . . technically, you’re not forcing me . . .” I drifted off when Sam’s expression crumpled.
“But you don’t like it,” Charlie finished, eyes narrowed at me.
“I like how it feels afterward, when it’s over,” I said, trying to find something positive to say. Charlie grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the kitchen table and took a big bite.
“You should try swimming, Pers,” he said, his mouth full.
“We swim every day,” Sam said in the monotone he reserved for when his brother annoyed him.
“No, like real distance swimming. Across the lake,” Charlie clarified. Sam looked over at me, and I tried not to look too excited. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d stared at the far shore and wondered whether I could ever make it across. It sounded awesome.
“That sounds interesting,” I said.
“I can help you train if you want,” Charlie offered. But before I could respond, Sam cut in: “No, we’re good.”
Charlie looked me over again, slowly. “You’ll need a different bathing suit.”
TRAINING FOR SWIMMING was way more fun than running. It was also a lot harder than I thought it would be. Sam collected me from the cottage every morning after his run, and we’d walk back to his place together so he could change into his suit. We devised a warm-up routine, involving a series of stretches on the dock and laps to and from the raft. Sometimes Sam swam beside me, giving pointers on my form, but usually he bobbed on a pool noodle.
Charlie had been right about the bathing suit, too. During my first warm-up, I had to keep adjusting the top to keep everything from falling out. That afternoon, Sam drove us in the little boat to the town dock and we walked to Stedmans. It was half general store, half dollar store, and it had a little bit of everything, but there was no guarantee they’d have what you were looking for.
As luck would have it, there was a rack of women’s suits right at the front. Some had those old-lady skirts attached to them, but there was also a handful of plain one-pieces in cherry red. Practical, cheap, and cute enough: the perfect Stedmans find. Sam found a pair of swim goggles in the sporting section, and I paid for both with one of Dad’s fifties. We spent the change on ice creams at the Dairy Bar—Moose Tracks for Sam and cotton candy for me—and walked back to the dock, taking a seat on a bench by the water to finish the cones. We were looking over the lake quietly when Sam leaned over and circled his tongue around the top of my cone where it was melting in rivulets of pink and blue.
“I don’t get why you like this so much—it tastes like sugar,” Sam said, before he noticed the shock on my face.
“What was that?” I asked. My voice came out an octave higher than usual.
“I tried your ice cream,” he said. Which, okay, I know was obvious, but the way a current buzzed across my skin, he might as well have licked my earlobe.
AS MY DISTANCES increased, Sam rowed beside me in case I ran into trouble and as protection from other boaters. When I suggested he turn on the motor so he could relax, he brushed me off, saying I didn’t need gasoline in my lungs while I swam. I practiced daily, dead set on making it to the other side of the lake by the end of August.
The week before my big swim, I waited in the Floreks’ kitchen for Sam to change into his bathing suit, helping Sue unload the dishwasher.
“Did he tell you he’s lifting his dad’s old weights every morning before his run?” Sue asked me as she put a pair of glasses into the cupboard. I shook my head.
“He’s really into the whole fitness thing, huh?”
Sue hummed. “I think he wants to make sure he can pull you out if he needs to,” she said, squeezing my shoulder.
On the morning of the swim, I made my way down to the water, Mom and Dad following with mugs of coffee and an old-school camera. When Sam came down to the dock, I walked over in my bare feet, holding my towel and goggles.
“Today’s the day. How are you feeling?” Sam asked from the boat when I padded onto the dock.
“Good, actually. I can do this.” I beamed and threw my towel in with him.
“Good, good,” he muttered, checking around the boat for something. He seemed . . . nervous.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. He looked up at me and scrunched his nose.
“I know you’ll do great, but I gotta admit I’m a little worried if something goes wrong.” I hadn’t heard Sam sound panicked before. But today he was panicked. I stepped down into the boat.
“The water’s calm, you know CPR, you have an extra life jacket as well as a life preserver, there’s a whistle in the boat to call for help, not that you’ll need it since we have an audience.” I pointed up to where my parents had joined Charlie and Sue on the deck, and waved at them.
“We’re rooting for you, Percy,” Sue called down.
“And,” I continued, “I’m an excellent swimmer. There’s nothing to worry about.” Sam took a deep breath. He looked a bit pale. I wrapped my finger around his bracelet. “I swear, okay?”
“You’re right,” he sighed. “Just remember to take a break if you need to—you can always float for a bit.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “So, should we do this thing?”
“Let’s,” Sam said. “I’d wish you luck, but you don’t need it.”
Once I was in the water, I pulled my goggles on, gave Sam a thumbs-up, and then turned my attention to the far shore—a small, rocky beach was my target destination. I took three deep breaths, then pushed off from the lake bottom with my feet and set off in a steady front crawl, my arms and feet working in tandem to propel me forward. I didn’t rush my strokes, and soon the rhythm became almost automatic, my body taking over from my mind. I could see the side of the boat when I tilted my head for air, but I didn’t pay it much attention. I was doing it! I was swimming across the lake. My lake. With Sam beside me. A rush of pride ran through me, powering me on and distracting me from the burning in my legs and the ache in my neck. I kept going, slowing down when I needed to catch my breath.
I switched to breaststrokes for several minutes to relieve the tension building in my shoulders, then resumed the crawl. At times, I could hear Sam cheering me on, but I had no idea what he was saying. Every so often I’d raise a thumbs-up in his direction to let him know I was okay.
The closer I got, the stiffer my limbs began to feel. The ache in my neck and shoulders grew intensely, and I struggled to keep my focus on my breathing. I clenched my jaw against the pain, but I didn’t stop. I knew I wouldn’t. I was going to make it. And when I did, I pulled my body up on the sandy shore, flung my goggles aside, and lay with my head on my hands, my legs still in the water, breathing fire through my lungs. I didn’t even hear Sam pull the boat up on the beach—didn’t notice him until he was crouched beside me with his hand on my back.
“Percy, are you okay?” He shook me gently, but I couldn’t move. It was like my body was covered by the lead blanket they make you wear for an X-ray. Sam’s voice was suddenly right in my ear. “Percy? Percy? Let me know if you’re okay.” I turned my head to him and opened one eye. He was inches away, his face lined with worry.
“Mmmm,” I groaned. “Need to lie here.”
Sam let out an enormous breath, and his expression transformed to glee. “Percy, you did it! You actually did it! You were amazing!” Words kept tumbling from his mouth, but I struggled to comprehend them. I felt delirious. “I can’t believe how you just kept going and going, with no breaks. You were like some kind of machine!” He was wearing the most gigantic smile. Sam only seemed to get better and better looking, like he was growing into himself, and when he smiled like that, it was completely disarming. He is pretty. I found myself smiling at the realization.
“Did you just say that I’m pretty?” Sam asked, laughing.
Oh god, I must have said that bit out loud.
“You must really be out of it.” He took off his shirt and lay down beside me with his lower half in the water, his hand on my back. He smelled like sun and sweat. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
“I like how you smell, too,” I whispered, but this time he didn’t respond.
After about five minutes or five hours, Sam announced that we should probably head back so no one worried. I slowly crawled to my hands and knees and, with Sam’s help, made it into the boat on legs that wobbled as though they were filled with lake water Jell-O. “Drink this,” he ordered, passing me a blue Gatorade and wrapping a towel around me. Once I’d had a few gulps, a smile burst across his face again. “I’m so proud of you,” he said.
“Told you she was a swimmer,” Charlie said to Sam as he pulled me out of the boat, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
“She really is,” Sam replied. The smile seemed permanently attached to his face, so much bigger and more open than the lopsided half grin he usually wore. There was an assembly line of hugs when I got out of the boat. First Mom (“You looked great out there, honey”), then Dad (“Didn’t know you had it in you, kiddo”), and finally Sue, who squeezed me tightest of all. I was an inch or so taller than her now, and she felt soft and small. She held on to my hands when we pulled away.
“You’re an awesome kid, you know that?” Her pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Let’s get some food in you. I’m making breakfast.”
To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten as much bacon as I did that morning. My parents had gone back to the cottage, but Sue made enough food to feed ten people. She cooked Canadian and regular bacon, and the boys watched with fascinated stares as I dug into piece after piece, along with scrambled eggs, toast, and fried tomato.
At the end of the meal, Sue looked each of us in the eye, and said, “I’m so impressed by each of you this summer. You’re really growing up. Charlie, you’ve been such a help in the kitchen, and, Sam, I’m grateful that you’re working with me now, too. I don’t know what I’d do without my boys.” She said this with total conviction, her voice steady despite the sentiment.
“You’d probably chain some other poor teenager to the dishwasher,” Charlie replied.
Sue laughed. “Absolutely. Hard work is good for the soul. And, Percy,” she continued, “it takes a lot of dedication to do what you did today—not to mention winning that writing prize of yours. I’m as proud as if you were my own daughter.” She patted my hand, then went back to eating her breakfast, as though she hadn’t just given me the greatest compliment I’d ever received from a grown-up. When I looked over at Sam, he was beaming.
It was the perfect end to summer.
Hi Percy,
I know Thanksgiving was just this weekend (still pretty grossed out by how Delilah drooled over Charlie, by the way), but guess what? Mom is going to let me take New Year’s Eve off, so we can spend it hanging out.
Sam
Sam,
Delilah thinks Charlie is cute, but don’t worry, she has a crush on her cousin’s best friend. She’s even forcing me to go on a double date with them, so she’ll probably forget all about Charlie. Jealous?
Mom found an old fondue set at a yard sale, and is doing a ’70s-themed New Year’s dinner. I hope you like melted cheese.
Percy
Percy,
What kind of terrible person doesn’t like melted cheese?
I don’t like Delilah like that if that’s what you mean. Have you met her cousin before?
Sam
Sam,
I haven’t met Delilah’s cousin yet. He’s in 12th grade like Charlie, but he goes to a different school. His name is Buckley!!! But everyone calls him Mason because that’s his last name, and I guess he doesn’t like Buckley. Who would?
Countdown to NYE is on!
Percy
AS PROMISED, MOM went all in for her ’70s New Year’s Eve. She made fondue and Caesar salad, and the four of us sat on the floor near the fire dipping hunks of crusty bread into the yellow goo, listening to Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac albums on the old record player of Dad’s that Mom had repaired as a Christmas gift.
“This is actually a little gross, all of us putting our forks back into the cheese,” I said, and Mom gave me a look.
“But it’s so delicious,” said Sam, waving a piece of drippy bread in my face.
“Couldn’t agree with you more, Sam,” Dad said, and plucked the bread from Sam’s fork and then popped it into his mouth.
Mom served carrot cake for dessert, and then we played poker with wooden matchsticks until Sam bankrupted us all.
“I’m not sure whether to be disturbed or impressed that a fifteen-year-old can keep such a straight face,” my dad commented when he handed over the last of his matches to Sam.
At midnight, Mom let Sam and me have a glass of champagne each, and the bubbles made my hands and face warm. Not long after, my parents made up the couch for Sam with sheets tucked around the cushions, poured the remaining champagne into our glasses, then went to bed.
Sam and I sat facing each other on opposite ends of the couch, the quilt spread over our legs. I was bummed about going back to the city in two days’ time and wanted to stay up all night talking. He tapped my leg with his foot under the blanket.
“Are you going to tell me about how your date with Buckley went?” We hadn’t discussed Delilah’s cousin Mason since I first mentioned him in an email, hoping it would prompt Sam to confess his love. It didn’t quite work out according to plan, and I figured Sam had forgotten all about it.
The truth was that Delilah and I had been on a couple of double dates with Mason and his friend, Patel. Last names as first names seemed to be a thing in their circle—they both went to a boys’ private school not far from where I lived, and played on the same hockey team.
I was surprised that Delilah would date someone as quiet and soft-spoken as Patel, but he had these huge brown eyes and an even bigger smile.
“I can tell he’s deep,” she explained when I asked her about it. “Goalies are sexy, and I bet he’s an amazing kisser.”
Mason was obsessed with hockey and building muscle for hockey and growing out his dark hair so it would curl just right from under his hockey helmet. He had blue eyes like Delilah and was gorgeous like Delilah, and I think he probably knew it like Delilah did, too, but he was actually a pretty nice guy. I just didn’t think of him constantly like I did Sam.
“It’s Mason,” I corrected Sam. “And there’s not much to tell.”
“Let’s start with the basics: Do you like Buckley?” He smirked.
I kicked him. Then shrugged. “He’s okay.”
“Just okay, huh? Sounds serious.” After a moment, he asked, “Don’t you think he’s a bit too old for you?”
“He’s turning eighteen in a few weeks, and I’ll be sixteen in February. Besides, we’ve only been on two dates.”
“You didn’t tell me about the second one.”
Was I supposed to tell him about other boys? He didn’t talk to me about girls.
“I didn’t think you would care, and it’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything,” I said defensively.
“But he wants to be.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think boys think of me like that.”
“Like what, Percy?” Was he teasing me? Or did he not know what I meant? My head was fuzzy with confusion and champagne.
“They’re not interested in kissing me,” I said, looking down at our legs.
He tapped me with his foot again. “That’s not true. And for the record, I do care.”
SAM WAS RIGHT: Mason was interested. Delilah and I went to two of his and Patel’s hockey games in January. We sat in the stands clutching foam cups of bad hot chocolate to keep our hands warm in the frigid arena. At each game, Mason waved to me from the ice before taking his position at right wing for the puck drop.
I could see why he loved hockey: He was the best player on the team by far. Each time he scored, he’d look up to me in the stands with a big smile on his face. After the second game, Delilah and I waited for the guys outside the locker room so we could all go for a pizza. Mason came out, hair damp and smelling of shampoo, with a huge gym bag slung over his shoulder. He wore jeans and a tight long-sleeved crewneck that stretched over his chest and arms. He was even more muscular than Charlie, and I had to admit that he looked pretty hot. When Patel and Delilah walked ahead, Mason pulled me into a doorway, told me he thought I was pretty, and gave me a soft peck on the lips. I said, “Thank you,” and smiled at him a little dazed, unsure of what came next or what he expected of me.
“I like how fresh you are,” he laughed.
Both Delilah and I were invited to Mason’s eighteenth birthday party, which was being held at a swanky hotel in Yorkville at the end of the month, complete with a DJ, sushi bar, and a 120-person-long guest list. Delilah had made sure that practically all the girls in our grade knew we were going, and we had been given the appropriate level of awed respect.
The night of the party, we got ready at Delilah’s—curling our hair with hot rollers and dabbing on mascara and lip gloss—but when I put on my dress, a slinky red floor-length gown Delilah said showed off my “killer body,” she let out a horrified, “No way! You cannot wear those!”
“What are you talking about?” I looked down at my gold ballet flats, confused.
“Those granny panties! Have I taught you nothing? Don’t you have a thong?”
I looked at her incredulously. “Not on me!”
“You’re hopeless,” she sighed, and flung the skimpiest pair of red underwear I had ever seen at me.
“I don’t think my mom would be happy about these,” I said, holding them up.
“Well, she wouldn’t be happy about that panty line, either, believe me,” said Delilah.
I shimmied out of my underwear and slipped on the thong.
“Much better!” Delilah said and gave my butt a squeeze. “Mason won’t be able to keep his hands off this.” The thought made me jittery.
Delilah’s parents drove us to the hotel, slipped Delilah a fifty for a cab ride home, and left us at the coat check to mingle.
“I didn’t think there’d be so many grown-ups here,” I whispered to Delilah, looking around the ballroom—more than half the guests were middle-aged or older.
“My uncle is kind of a big deal on Bay Street. Something to do with the stock market,” she hissed back.
We danced together with some of the older girls while the boys watched from slipcovered chairs. At eight p.m., Mason’s dad, a tall, soft-looking white-haired man, who Delilah said was “almost done with wife number two,” gave a toast to his son, and then, to gasps from the crowd, threw him a set of keys. We all shuffled outside, huddling against the cold, where Mason’s new Audi was parked at the entrance. “I’ll take it home for you tonight,” his dad told him with a wink and slipped him a flask. In less than twenty minutes, the remaining adults had all snuck away.
When the telltale pan flute of a Celine Dion ballad warbled over the speakers, Mason pointed at me, then himself with a smile. I walked over and he put his hands around my waist while I rested mine on the shoulders of his black suit jacket. We swayed back and forth, shuffling around in a circle, and Mason leaned down, pressing his mouth up to my ear.
“You look beautiful tonight, Percy.” I looked up at his eyes, which were blue but a darker, muddier blue than Sam’s, and he pulled me flush against his body so that my cheek rested at the top of his chest. “I can’t stop thinking of you,” he whispered.
After the song finished, he pulled me out to the hallway, where Delilah, Patel, three other boys, and an older girl joined us. One of the guys, who introduced himself as Daniels, flashed us a bottle of what he said was vodka from under his suit jacket.
“Shall we relocate the festivities?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and putting his arm around the girl, who was called Ashleigh.
The boys all had rooms upstairs, and we congregated in the living area of Mason and Patel’s suite. Daniels sat in an armchair with Ashleigh on his lap, Delilah and Patel took the sofa, and the two guys sat on the floor, leaving a chair for Mason and me. I perched on the side, but Mason pulled me onto his lap and put an arm around me, resting it on my hip. Daniels passed each of us a glass of vodka and ice. It smelled like nail polish remover and burned my lips even before I took a tiny sip.
“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it,” Mason whispered in my ear so no one could hear, and I smiled gratefully at him, then poured mine into his glass. “Works for me.” He smiled back. His thumb moved back and forth on my hip while the group talked about his new car and hockey season. It was pretty tame, considering we were a group of unsupervised teens with a bottle of alcohol, and I noticed that, other than Daniels, who was kneading Ashleigh’s butt like pizza dough, no one had a refill. By eleven, the others left for their rooms, and Delilah and I stood to get our coats on.
“Before you leave, Percy, there’s something I want to show you,” Mason said, running his hands through his hair and sounding a little nervous.
“Yeah, I bet,” Patel muttered, and Delilah whacked him in the arm.
Mason led me down a short hall to a sleek-looking bedroom, all taupes and browns, with a king-sized bed and suede headboard. He closed the door behind us and slid the closet open, knelt down, and punched a number into a small safe. When he stood, he was holding a little turquoise box.
“What’s this?” I asked. “It’s not my birthday.”
“I know,” he said, moving closer. “I was going to save it for your sixteenth, but I couldn’t wait. Open it.” His eyes moved expectantly over my face. I lifted off the lid to find a turquoise velvet pouch. Inside was a silver bracelet with a chunky, modern clasp.
“I was thinking you might want to be my girlfriend,” he said and smiled, “and that maybe you needed something a little more special than this.” He held up the arm that wore my friendship bracelet. I had not seen this coming.
“It’s gorgeous . . . um . . . wow! I’m not sure what to say!” I stammered. Mason fastened the bracelet around my wrist.
“You can think about it, but I want you to know that I really like you.” He put his hands on my hips and pulled me toward him, then brought his lips down onto mine. They were soft as he moved them gently over my mouth. He pulled back enough to look into my eyes and said, “You’re so smart and funny and so beautiful and you don’t even know it.” He kissed me again, harder this time, and I closed my eyes. Images of Sam flashed through my mind, and when Mason ran his tongue over the seam of my lips, my knees felt as though they might buckle, and I grasped his biceps. He placed a string of light kisses on the corner of my mouth, then my nose, and then back on my mouth, and ran his tongue over my lips again. This time I opened to him, and I imagined it was Sam’s tongue swirling with my own. Mason groaned and moved his hands down to my backside, pressing himself against my hip. I pulled away.
“I should go; we’ll be late back to Delilah’s.”
Mason didn’t protest, just ran his hands up my back and gave me another quick kiss, then took my hand in his.
Next to my embroidered bracelet, the silver one looked garish, and I took it off before Mom picked me up the next morning so she wouldn’t ask questions. Delilah was surprised by the gift, which she called “excessive,” but she didn’t think it meant that Mason wanted to make things more official.
“Of course he likes you, Percy. You’re a catch. And your tits have really come in this year,” she said in a stage whisper. “Keep things light with Mason. I can tell you don’t like him the way you like your Summer Boy, but maybe you can just think of it as practice if Sam ever comes around.”
I emailed Sam as soon I got home.
Hi Sam,
I’ve been thinking about my new story more. What do you think about a lake that’s haunted by a young girl who fell through the ice in the winter, leaving her twin sister behind? When the sister is a teenager, she comes back to the lake on a camping trip and she sees a strange figure in the woods, which will turn out to be her dead twin who’s trying to kill her so she won’t be alone. It could be scary and maybe a little sad. Thoughts?
Also: Delilah and I went to Mason’s birthday party last night, and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I know you won’t be surprised since you guessed that at New Year’s, but I was. What do you think I should do?
Percy
Percy,
I still think a lake full of zombie fish is the way to go. Just kidding. Creepy dead girl is definitely the best idea yet. Are you going to give the sisters obnoxious twin names, like Lilah and Layla, or Jessica and Bessica?
I asked you this before, but I think it’s time to ask again: Do you like Buckley?
Sam
Sam,
Why hadn’t I thought of Jessica and Bessica before? Genius!!!
Mason’s actually a nice guy, but I like someone else more.
Percy
Percy,
I think you have your answer.
Sam
