Almost. But I don’t. Instead, I grab his face, feel the stubble on the palms of my hands, and thrill at the way he pulls back a little as I keep pulling his face to mine. His mouth to mine.
And then there it is. The lips, the berry taste, the heat inside, and even his rough cheeks burning up under my hands. He kisses back. Like he can’t help it, and only with his mouth, at first. His hands don’t reach under my shirt or through my hair. He doesn’t slam himself against me. Until he does. Until the kiss takes over for both of us and we are lost in something warm and crazed and close.
BITTY: Assignment completed.
Secret:
I ran into the woman who almost married my father. I followed her through the mall for forty-five minutes. She bought a really ugly black dress. She called someone on the phone “baby.” She dropped a receipt on the ground and I kept it.
—Brenda
Ten.
I walk back from the gym alone and keep rubbing my index finger back and forth over my lips. They’re swollen from the last twenty minutes in the gym, and the boat-neck top of my dress is stretched out from where Joe tried to pull it down over my shoulders to get at the skinny, freckled blades.
I’m dizzy and my face hurts from where his stubble rubbed too hard against my chin. I thought I could only feel this way about someone who was actually mine.
I feel closer to Star, to her supersize romance and bravery. It’s almost like she’s watching me and smiling on. It’s like we did it together, me and her and the rest of LBC and the worn and well-loved copy of The Secret Garden with all the answers to everything inside.
I start planning the epic poem I will write about the way his lips felt on mine and the beautiful danger of doing the wrong thing that may turn out to be right.
I get back to the main schoolhouse not too late for my meeting with Mrs. Drake. She lets me into her office and motions for me to sit down on the corduroy love seat while she crosses her legs and makes herself comfortable in her pleather armchair.
“I’m so glad you made it by, Tabitha,” she starts. She’s Cate’s age, early thirties, and was definitely a gawky teenager in her day. She’s got a long floral skirt and wire-framed glasses and curly brown hair. She looks like a preschool teacher. She looks exactly the way Jemma and Alison will look fifteen years from now.
“I can’t stay for long—”
“I’m sure you have a little time to chat.” She cocks her head and smiles, like I’m supposed to already know what we’re going to talk about. “So,” she says at last, “I want to start by saying I think you’re very lucky to have so many people who care about you.”
“Oh yes?” I say. Paul and I share a disdain for authority, and Cate says when I’m talking to teachers or policemen or librarians, I take on his subtly dismissive attitude. I guess I’m proving her right.
“Some of the girls are concerned about your reputation. Now I know you are a great kid who makes her parents very proud.” She says this to remind me that she’s cool. It’s crap. She sniffs like her nose is stuffed up or something, but I don’t buy that either. “But that said, your current . . . exploration . . . of your . . . adulthood . . . is making some students uncomfortable. And more importantly, worried about you.” Mrs. Drake looks proud of herself. She is convinced that she has found a way to call me a slut without actually saying anything substantial.
“Exploration of my adulthood?” I tuck my hair behind my ears. I’m not even pretending not to understand or anything. But I want her to hear how insanely vague and strange that phrase is. “Like . . . I’m growing up too fast?”
“The way you’re dressing, Tabitha,” Mrs. Drake says, uncrossing her legs and leaning in closer to me. “The way you’re carrying yourself. Now, we’re not stodgy old fuddy-duddies here. We’re not conservatives, of course. And you have the freedom to dress how you want.”
“But?” I say.
“But I’m concerned about your relationships with other girls and maybe that you are being . . . naive.”
“Naive,” I say. No question mark. No need for her to answer. My legs itch all of a sudden, and I try to scratch with just one finger, but it’s not enough. I start scratching my thigh kinda vigorously.
“Do you feel comfortable with the way you’ve been dressing?” Mrs. Drake says. Her eyes go to my thighs. It doesn’t seem to matter that they are covered in tights.
“It’s from the Gap,” I say, echoing Cate.
“What kind of message do you think your clothes are projecting? I know things at your home can sometimes be rather . . . adult . . . and I want to encourage you to stay in childhood as long as you can.”
My mouth goes dry and our eyes meet. She is daring me to counter this statement, to remind her that she’s one of the people who’ve been known to keep things “adult” at my home. She raises her eyebrows so high they meet her widow’s peak.
Usually Mrs. Drake deals with hot, popular girls bullying nice, smart ones. As a guidance counselor, that’s, like, her primary role.