Whitney looks around and sees the kids I'm talking about, who are still smiling at us for a minute before they go back to their playing. We make our way out of the wading pool, and I gather up our shoes off the grass. There's a picnic table nearby, and I follow Whitney over there, where she sits down on top of the table, which is nice and warm from the sun.
Whitney looks at me innocently. "I mean, I know what the word is supposed to mean—pussy whipped—but the way you guys use it and the ways the other girls use it . . . it's just weird."
"It is," I say, and suddenly, I feel like the mature one again. It's weird and wonderful with Whitney that way. She sometimes makes me feel like I'm the one learning from her, like when we talk at lunch, but then there are conversations like this, where I feel like I'm the one who knows everything. "I think it comes down to the fact that guys want to feel in charge, and it looks bad for us to be running around all the time like a puppy dog on a leash."
"But you don't do that," Whitney says, and I look at her. "I mean, you came over to try and help last night, but it wasn't like I asked for it."
"No, but some girls, well, they get to expect it. I think that's what Andrea was talking about, saying you'd tamed me. That’s not exactly my thing.”
"Like I don't know that?" Whitney says with a smirk. "Remember, Dani's best friend? Troy, I may not know all the intimate details, but I do know the general gist of your social life. You're not a manwhore like your buddy, Cory, but you're no saint either.”
I laugh at the term. "Manwhore? I’m certainly no manwhore. I guess you could call me a man-slut maybe—I don't charge for my services, after all.”
Whitney laughs, then grows serious. "I'm not going to say who said what to whom, but I heard about your little blow up at Russ Thursday night. That sort of stuff gets around."
"I've lived the past three years in a kind of social microscope, and only my home life has been exempt, although I bet there are jackasses who talk about that, too."
Whitney's quiet for a moment, then she touches my shoulder. I hiss and pull back, and Whitney's face goes into immediate concern mode. "What did I do?"
"Nothing." I hiss, rolling my left shoulder. "Just . . . bumped my shoulder."
"Show me," Whitney says, her hand hovering over my arm. "Come on, please?"
I feel ashamed as I roll up my left sleeve, showing her the now dark purple bar that crosses my arm. "Is that from last night's game? I thought shoulder pads were supposed to, you know, pad your shoulder?"
"That didn't come from the game," I say, not wanting to explain. "I . . . I ran into a door."
Whitney studies me for a bit, then she shakes her head. "I should be angry about that. So far, you haven't lied to me until just now. But I'm not angry. I bet you say that sort of lie so often that it's second nature by now."
I don't know what to say, so I decide to change the subject. “How about we just go back to talking about my being whipped?"
Whitney studies me intently for another moment, then grins. “What are we going to do? Because I'll be honest, Troy. I kinda like this sort of setup."
"I was thinking . . . homecoming's not far off. And as a senior, and team captain, and overall man about campus, I've got the very important job of nominating a girl to be homecoming queen. Whoever I choose, well, she's going to have some heavy social expectations."
"Such as?" Whitney asks, a smile growing on her face. "I mean, these must be very heavy social expectations."
"They are. She's going to be expected to do a video for the homecoming committee, she's going to be expected to participate in the halftime ceremony, and if she wins, she and I are expected to dance together at the homecoming dance that Saturday night. That's a lot to expect."
Whitney hums and taps her lips with her index finger, like she's thinking hard. "Well you know, Dani would make a great homecoming queen. But she'll probably be asked by someone else, and pairing the school's top man and top girl . . . that's just not fair for anyone else."
"Besides the fact that until last week, I wasn't really thinking of asking anyone," I say, causing Whitney to arch an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to just nominate some girl just because. I told myself last year, if I nominate anyone, it's going to be someone special."
"You mean someone with special talents, or someone special to you?" Whitney asks, playfully intense. "Because such a girl, if she existed, would have to be your girlfriend. And most of the girls I know are jealous and possessive. They don't share very well. They'd want you all to themselves."
"You mean, they'd want me tamed, or dare I say it, whipped?"
Whitney grins and nods. "I could hear that said about you."
"So what do you think? Think you'd like to be my homecoming queen?” I ask. "More importantly, though, Whitney, I guess I'm asking if you'd like to be my girlfriend."
"On one condition," she says, and I roll my eyes. Her and her conditions. "Do you mind if we are public about it? I mean, I don't want to be some girl you keep on the down low because she's not popular enough for your crowd."
I grab Whitney in a hug and laugh, kissing her forehead. "I'm proud to have a girl so beautiful and cool as my girlfriend."