The Best Laid Plans(24)

Simon’s face is red and blotchy. It occurs to me he’s probably a virgin too. This awkward label is something we share. I bite into my taco and chew, trying to distract myself.

“I’m a one taco kind of guy,” Edwin says. He and Molly Moye have been inseparable ever since my birthday. “Molly or nothing.”

“Seriously?” Ryder asks. He raises his hand up to imitate cracking a whip, making sounds with his tongue pressed against his front teeth. “Someone’s whipped.”

“Not whipped,” Edwin says. “Smart. I’ll never do better than Molly. She’s amazing.”

“When you have a girlfriend you can get it whenever you want,” Chase says. “One girl who knows what she’s doing.”

“How about ten girls who know what they’re doing?” Ryder breaks into a wide smile. He turns to Andrew. “Right, Reed?”

Andrew rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, not at once, but variety is nice.”

Andrew talking about girls as if we’re some sampler platter he’d like to try is so gross that I pick up a handful of shredded cheese and throw it at him. The shreds flutter down into his lap and he brushes them off, unbothered. “Whatever, Drewchebag,” I say. “You don’t even like variety. You like blonds.”

He stops brushing the cheese out of his lap and looks up at me. “What?”

“You seriously need me to point this out? Cecilia and Sophie and Susie Palmer all look pretty much the same. You definitely have a type.”

“I’ve never noticed,” he says. “It’s not on purpose.” The tips of his ears are bright pink.

“Susie Palm-job,” Ryder says. “Worst handy of my life.”

“Worst handy,” Chase says. “Kinda redundant. I mean, any hand job is pointless, isn’t it? Like, I’ve been touching my junk for eighteen years. I know what I’m doing. Any chick that tries is set up for failure.”

Sometimes hearing the guys talk like this makes my anxiety spike. It’s like they think a girl is expected to be a pro the first time she ever sees a penis. I hate that I’m not brave enough to tell them they’re being idiots.

“But this was worse,” Ryder says. “Like she was squeezing out a washcloth. She has sandpaper hands.”

“A sand job,” Edwin adds.

“Aren’t we past the age of hand jobs anyway?” Chase says. “Hand jobs were cool in middle school. Like, in eighth grade, I was super stoked if a girl went anywhere near there. But at this point, I’m over it. I’d rather just do it myself.”

“Mouth or nothing,” Simon says, like he has any right to decide.

“I’d use my own mouth if I could reach,” Chase says. “DIY.”

“All right, David Blowie,” Andrew says. “Keep the details to yourself.”

“Would you rather,” Edwin says, “get a sand job or blow yourself?”

“Depends who the sand job is from.” Chase grins. “I’d take a sand job from Danielle.”

“Agreed,” Andrew says, and I look at him, surprised. I didn’t know he saw Danielle that way.

“I’d cut off an arm for a sand job from Danielle,” Ryder says.

“Forget that,” Simon counters. “I’d cut off an arm to see Ava’s tits.”

“Seen ’em,” Ryder says. “Worth it.”

“Can you guys stop?” I interrupt. “You’re talking about my friends. You don’t think I’ll tell them all of this?”

“So?” Ryder shrugs. “We’re complimenting them.”

I’m about to throw the giant tub of guacamole at Ryder’s face, but luckily for him, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone stops talking.

“Who else is coming?” I get up to answer it, like it’s my house. It basically is.

“Oh, it’s probably Cecilia.” Andrew gets up too.

I stop walking. “Cecilia?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s normal for her to be showing up here.

“No girls at taco night!” Ryder calls out to us, and I whirl around to face him.

“What the hell do you think I am?”

“You don’t count.” He crunches into his taco and smiles, his teeth full of beans. I think again that this is why—this is why—I’m still a virgin. Why would I ever be attracted to any of them when I’ve heard these conversations? This is why James Dean matters so much; he’s a chance at a fresh start.

Andrew beats me to the door and opens it, and there she is: Cecilia Brooks. She’s as lovely as ever, wisps of blond hair curling around her face, apple cheeks pink and glowing. When she takes off her coat, she’s wearing a V-neck sweater, soft baby pink and tight around her chest, low-cut so that both our pairs of eyes—mine and Andrew’s—are drawn there, trying not to stare.

“Hi, Drew.” She gives him a quick hug, then turns to me and waves, keeping one arm securely on his shoulder as if he might float away if she lets him go. “Hey, Keely.”

“Hey,” I say, walking back into the kitchen. They follow behind me, and when I turn to glance back, her hand has slid down from his shoulder and is now wrapped around his waist.