“Can we get back on track?” Camila’s glare silences the room.
“Okay,” I say. “Charlotte and I were the only two kids who took the van from school to our day care. We’d sit in the very back row where the driver couldn’t see us, and play this game where basically you could ask to see any body part you wanted. I’d ask to see her vagina. She’d ask to see my feet.”
Everyone bursts out laughing, so I have to explain that this was an actual problem. I wasn’t great at tying my shoelaces—I used to have coordination issues—so getting my shoes and socks on and off was freakin exhausting. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if seeing her vagina was worth all the trouble.
“Oh my god.” Charlie cackles. “I bet she’s totally still into feet. She’s probably one of those girls who likes to suck toes.”
“That doesn’t count,” Camila says, and I’d say she’s pouting, only I don’t usually find pouty faces intimidating.
“There was the time I got a massage,” I say. Charlie shoots me a dark look that means shut up, and then pretty much everyone says that definitely doesn’t count. “Well, that’s all I’ve got.” There’s a moment of silence after I’ve basically announced my virginity to the entire room.
“But what about Kelly?” Emerald asks, blue eyes really intense all of a sudden.
Kelly’s another girl who left town shortly after being intimate with me. “It never got that far.”
“But she took off her purity ring.”
During sophomore year Kelly and I got as far as no shirts, but me touching her bra-covered boob filled her with so much shame that she tore off her ring and said she wasn’t fit to wear it. Guilt-fueled nausea is not the expression you want to see on a girl after you inquisitively squeeze her nipple.
“I’ve answered the question,” I say, because it’s not really my secret to tell. “Now my turn.” I aim a devious smile at Charlie, and he cringes.
“Oh God.”
It’s two in the morning when I head out to my van. “Can I get a ride?” Camila calls out. I turn around. Her eyes are gleaming in the dark like a panther’s.
“Where’s Matt?”
Her four-inch heels clack down the long driveway. Everything’s curvy and bouncing.
“He left me behind.” She makes another one of those scary pouts, and I feel sorry for her brother.
“Okay, sure.” We hop in the van, then I glance in the rearview mirror. “Damn, we’re blocked in. Let me see if Sean can move his car.”
“Wait.” She grabs my arm.
“What’s wrong?” Suddenly her lips are smashing against mine, while she tangles her hand into my hair and tugs. “Ow.”
For some reason she takes this as a sign to pull my hair again and kiss me even harder. It’s not exactly surprising that she kisses with as much aggression as she does everything else, but it’s more painful than hot—at first, anyway. After a few minutes of fingernails and biting mouths, we’re both panting.
“Adam?” She lowers her sharp fingernails to my zipper. “I don’t want to look at your feet.”
AT SCHOOL ON Monday, the girls are acting weird. Even sweet, motherly Allison, who normally stays out of conflicts, is on edge. Camila and Emerald won’t look at me, and the other girls keep glaring at me like I’m evil. What the hell?
“So how long’s this fight gonna go on, ladies?” I ask, and the entire lunch table goes silent. “It’d be better if we just got it out in the open. Full transparency. Right?”
Camila is studying the same sharp nails that left scratches down my neck.
Emerald flushes, pink blotches high on her cheekbones. “Camila knows what she did,” she finally says, and the look she gives the other girl is chilling.
“Oh my God,” Camila hisses. “I’ve apologized like a thousand times. I was drunk! And besides, he’s not your property.”
Everyone holds their breath, waiting for Emerald’s response like she’s the star witness who’s finally taken the stand.
At least I get it now. “So this is about Brett.” I sigh. “You can’t let some guy come between your friendship. Girl power, right?” That must’ve come off more insulting than encouraging, because now everyone’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“That’s not…” Emerald starts, and everyone leans forward in tense anticipation. “It’s nothing.” With perfect poise, she gathers her things and leaves the table.
“Julian, let me explain something to you,” I say as we head up the stairs on our convoluted route to Dr. Whitlock’s. “Girls are crazy.”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“It’s true. I was raised by a woman, okay? I was raised to be a feminist. But then I realized this fact: they’re insane.”
“Did something happen?”