The Creeping

Sam’s whole face bursts into a grin. He presses his lips to mine. “That was the most incredible night of my life. I love you,” he says close to my ear. I shudder and bury my face in his chest. A few tears squeeze out, and I wipe them away hastily.

We lie in bed kissing and giggling like little lovesick idiots for the next hour. A quiet knock on the bedroom door breaks the trance.

“Stella, Pumpkin? Could I see you for a moment?” Dad calls softly from the hall. I jump from the bed like I’m on fire. Sam’s legs get tangled in the sheets, and he falls from the mattress, banging his head against the bedside table and landing with a thud on the carpet. I wildly pat my clothes smooth. I wave for Sam to hide in my bathroom, and he scurries across the room and slams the door behind him. There is no way Dad didn’t hear all that commotion. I take the sort of deep breath you’d take going in front of a firing squad, smooth my hair over my head one last time, and open the door a crack.

“Could I have a word with you downstairs?” Dad asks, eyes glued to my toes. I nod and follow, closing the door behind me, hands trembling as I head down the stairs. Dad’s in a freshly pressed suit, with his briefcase in one hand and a muffin in the other. He stops at the front door and faces me. Again he speaks directly to the tops of my feet, like I’ve sprouted eyeballs there.

“Pumpkin, if your mother were here, she’d be the one talking to you right now. This is extremely uncomfortable for us both.” His finger hooks and tugs on the inside of his collar like it’s slowly strangling him. “I realize that we haven’t had a frank discussion about male and female . . . relationships. You know if you have questions regarding intercourse”—he coughs out the word—“you can always ask me. Or maybe there’s a school counselor you could speak to?” His tone trails up hopefully. I’m struck completely silent and find myself staring at his shiny brown shoes as if they’re the most fascinating things ever.

“If I hadn’t recognized the Worth boy’s station wagon in our driveway when I arrived home last night, I might not have been so discreet.” He waits for a response. I try not to look as guilty as a kid with her mouth stuffed with candy right before dinner or a girl hiding hickeys under a turtleneck. How could I have forgotten Sam’s car in the driveway?

“Dad, I’m—I didn’t want to be alone with everything going on, and . . .” I move my lips soundlessly.

He tips his head forward and holds up his hand for me to stop. “Sam is welcome to our couch in the future. Just . . . be safe, Pumpkin. Again, if you need to talk with someone about methods of—”

“Dad,” I cut him off. “I got it.”

He pats me on the shoulder and nods, satisfied. “Well, okay. Glad we talked.” He stops just over the threshold. “Please don’t leave home today, Pumpkin. It’s safer for you here.” I stand dumbstruck for a minute more after he leaves. That was literally the most awkward conversation I have ever had. Obviously, I’ll be too embarrassed to look Dad in the eyes ever again.

I bound up the stairs, and by the time I reach Sam, my mood’s brightened and I’m jouncing with giggles.

“You aren’t grounded, are you?” Sam says, perched at the foot of my bed. “I can talk to him. I’ll tell him it was my fault I stayed.”

I leap onto the bed and hug him from behind. “My dad doesn’t know what grounding is, and no, I’m not in trouble. He says you’re welcome to the couch in the future.”

Sam covers his face. “There goes my making a good impression on your dad.”

“Dad sort of already knows you, Sam.”

“Yeah, but it’s been years, and now I’m your boyfriend.”

The roller-coaster stomach is back, and I get the sense that I’m free-falling as I hug him tighter.

“I picked up a shift today, so I have to work in an hour.” He twists in my arms and turns to look at me. “Is that okay? I shouldn’t have, huh? Now I won’t get to see you the whole day.”

I brush the hair from his eyes. “It’s fine, really. I should see the girls today anyway. Zoey was pretty messed up yesterday. And I miss Michaela and Cole.”

“Tonight then? Do you think your dad will mind if I come to actually watch a movie?” he asks, the tip of his nose brushing mine.

“Don’t forget that we’re digging up graves in Mrs. Griever’s yard tonight. Will you text Daniel the plan?” I’m undeterred by his reluctant grunt.

Sam leans in for a kiss, and I get this perfect toe-tingling closed-eye moment where I realize I want a bazillion more kisses just like that from this one boy. “Thank you, Sam,” I whisper.

He tilts his head quizzically at me, face still only an inch from mine. “For what?”

“For the corsage.” I hop up from the bed and run to the bookcase. Between my Wildwood junior and sophomore yearbooks there’s a small leather-bound journal. I pluck it from its shelf and hand it to Sam. The book falls open. Pressed between its pages is a flattened gardenia corsage, wrapped in a blue satin ribbon, its stem impaled by a long pearl-capped pin.