The Best Laid Plans(12)

“But did you really have to do it in our bed when there are so many other places available?” Andrew’s mom adds. “You know our room is off-limits.” She pauses. “Is that why you went in there? Was it some sort of kink?”

“God, Mom, stop!” Andrew jumps up, banging his knee on the edge of the couch. “That wasn’t our condom, okay?”

The room suddenly feels hot and cramped. Hearing Andrew use the words our condom makes my stomach flop uncomfortably. It’s just messed up.

“Well, who else’s could it be?” his mom asks, and I swear she sounds a little disappointed.

“Are you saying you two aren’t using protection?” my mom jumps in. “Because if that’s the case, we have a lot more to worry about than—”

“We’re not having sex!” I shout, jerking suddenly and spilling my plate of bruschetta. The toasts scatter all over the carpet. I bend down and scoop the tomatoes up with my fingers, trying to clean, trying to hide my face, to keep busy, to focus on anything other than the conversation around me. I can’t look at my parents, can’t make eye contact with anyone—especially Andrew.

He bends down to help me, grabbing some bruschetta into his napkin, and I stare intently at the floor. His shoulder is an inch from mine, and I can feel the energy radiating off him, can feel the heat of our parents’ gazes as they read too much into the situation.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

“It’s okay, I can help.”

“No, seriously. Stop.” I pull the napkin from his hands. He stands up, arms raised in surrender. Everyone is staring at me. I place the trashed plate back onto the coffee table while everybody watches. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my life.

“So if it’s not yours, how did a condom wrapper end up on our bedside table?” his dad asks. “Did it fly in through the window?”

“We had some people over for Keely’s birthday, okay?” Andrew says, sitting back down on the coffee table.

“Some people? Like a party?” his mom asks.

“No, like a casual get-together with some friends. What did you guys expect, leaving us alone on her birthday weekend?”

“A casual get-together with some sexually active friends, it seems,” his dad adds.

“This isn’t a big deal,” Andrew says. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion.”

“Oh, am I?” his mom asks. “I haven’t even gotten started.”



* * *



? ? ? ? ? ?

“We probably should have just let them believe it,” Andrew says later. We’re slumped in the hammock in his backyard, cocooned in a pile of coats to keep warm. It’s still a little too cold to be outside, but the thought of being in the same house with our parents after everything that’s just happened is too unpleasant. “They didn’t even seem mad when they thought it was ours.” He pushes his leg against the ground so that the hammock begins to swing. “If I knew they were gonna flip about the party, I would have just gone with it, you know?”

So our parents are making us get part-time jobs through the rest of the year. They’re disappointed we’re not being, in their words, trustworthy or dependable, and they think getting jobs will help teach us discipline. Which is messed up. It’s not like I’ve never worked. I spent my last two miserable summers bagging groceries at the local market, making awkward chitchat with all my parents’ friends when they came by the register. Andrew is the one who’s reckless, who acts impulsively, who jumps off cliffs with his eyes closed. I’m the one who’s always waiting at the bottom with the safety net.

This is the last semester of senior year. Last year when I was stressed about homework and the SATs, freaking out about getting into college, I was always so envious of the seniors who got to goof off, joking with teachers and skipping class like it didn’t matter. But I was just waiting for my turn. I knew one day I’d be able to float through the hallways too like I’d already finished. Now our parents are taking that away.

Not to mention these are my last few months with Andrew and Hannah.

“I can’t believe I’m in trouble too when it wasn’t even my party.” I pull a coat tighter around me to stay warm.

“Your birthday, your party,” he answers. “Besides, you’re an accessory to the crime. When you see a crime being committed and say nothing, that makes you responsible.”

“I’m not responsible, remember? I’m untrustworthy and undisciplined.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty terrible,” he agrees.

The sky is a bright gray, giving the illusion that we’re in a cloud. The bare branches of the trees above us stretch out like fingers. Inside the house, the windows are lit up by warm light. I can see Andrew’s mom emptying the dishwasher in the kitchen.

“That was weird earlier,” I say. “I can’t believe they thought we were . . . we . . .” I can’t say it, can’t get my mouth to wrap around the words. Instead, I laugh, shoving him slightly with my shoulder under the pile of coats. “Your mom clearly hasn’t met Party Andrew.”

“Let’s hope my mom never meets Party Andrew,” he says, shoving me back.

“Party Andrew eats bacon,” I say. “She’d be horrified.”