“God, of course you did; go on.”
“And there’s actually not a standardized definition of bases. It’s actually a really inefficient nonunified language of sexual activity. Like, some people think first base is holding hands, and some people think first-base is kissing, and some people think it’s tongue kissing—”
“See also: the chase, cut to.”
“I mean, he, like, you know.”
She makes a brisk series of hand gestures that culminate in one large TMI. (I’m sparing you.) “Okay. I see. Wow. Visuals. Got it.”
“It was good, though. I was really scared at first. But he was really nice. I think he’s done it before!” she says gleefully, then looks a little bit annoyed, then looks gleeful again.
“Probably not, like, five minutes before,” I reassure her. “So, like . . . how do you feel?”
“I think . . . different, sort of. Not in any specific way. Just overall,” she sighs, then she gives me this look. It’s new and I don’t like it. Sort of, Two roads diverged in a wood, mine is normal, but I hope you can be happy for me even though you are Miss Havisham.
“Anyway, what’s going on with me is,” I say, like she just asked me, “Gideon and I were talking last night about comics.”
“Cool.”
I can tell that she thinks I’m still playing in the minor leagues. Which I guess I am, but I’m still pretty psyched about it. To be honest, thinking about the mechanics of actually hooking up with somebody, even Gideon, makes me next-level anxious.
“So . . . what else?”
“What else? He’s gonna lend me some comics.”
She nods and waits like there’s more. I shrug.
“And then he’s going to make passionate love to me on Mr. Radford’s desk. What do you want?”
“I just think you should do something.”
“I am doing things!”
“Not really. You’re, like, being receptive to the things he’s doing. I think Lycanthrope High brainwashed you.”
I laugh in disbelief. “What?”
“One, like . . . cryptic, brooding look, or ambiguous sentence, and you’re set for, like, six months. You’re like a squirrel, and tiny little signals are the nut, and you go store it away forever.”
“As opposed to . . .?”
“Eating the nut!” she yells just a little too loud.
“I didn’t want to have to go here, but I really don’t need to play Six Degrees of Gideon’s Bacon with your sister.” I slam my locker shut for emphasis. She holds her hands up in surrender.
“Dude. Scar, I swear, I don’t know what’s even happening with them.”
“Really? ’Cause you take more than enough notes in health, so I think you do.”
“The thing is, you just”—she stops, then rolls her eyes—“you always just assume the worst.”
“Well, usually I’m right. So.”
I start off down the hall, then turn around and yell: “Mazel on becoming a woman, sort of!”
I see her stop, freeze in embarrassment, and then continue walking like she didn’t hear me.
I can’t concentrate on classes, which is pretty standard for me, but for a different and more butterfly-stomach-inducing reason than usual. AP English is only every other day, so the first time I’ll see Gideon this afternoon is in the cafeteria.
He’s sitting with Ashley, Natalia, and a bunch of the large guys who usually buzz around their hive, including Jason Tous and the other ones who wrecked Ruth’s garden. After I put my tray down at the Girl Genius table, I walk over there and tap him on the shoulder. He half turns.
“Hey! Did you bring the comics for me?”
Ashley glances up at me, smiles, and puts her hand on Gideon’s arm.
“Hey, Divider!” she chirps.
“What comics?” asks Gideon.
“Like . . . you know, from when we were talking last night?”
“Oh. Yeah, I forgot, I guess.”
“I like your shirt!” She absently rubs Gideon’s arm. “I had one like that last year. I gave it to Goodwill.”
Jason Tous, meanwhile, seems to be bypassing the passive-aggressive remarks and going straight to the glare.
“You narc on anybody lately?” Jason asks me.
I feel the blood drain out of my face. “No,” I say stupidly.
“Really?” asks Dylan. “You seem like you like it. The same way you like running around acting like a big butch lesbian.”
I look at Gideon. He says nothing—just stares down at his Tater Tots like they’re an ancient rune to decode.
“You’re right, Dylan. I’m a big butch lesbian narc. Gosh, it feels great to stop living a lie. You should try it,” I say, then turn to Jason. “Don’t you see how he looks at you?”
“What the—nah, dude,” Jason sputters.