The Best Laid Plans(51)

By the time the Plan is done, I’m going to be a bona fide sexpert, and James Dean won’t know what hit him. So I know I’m doing the right thing. I have to be.





NINETEEN





FRIDAY NIGHT IS here way too fast and I haven’t had enough time to research. I haven’t even started Wings of Passion, and suddenly I’m in Andrew’s kitchen and the Plan is about to actually happen. I might throw up.

There’s a plate of crackers and hummus in front of us on the counter, but I can barely touch it.

“Are you sure you guys don’t want to come?” his mom asks, fastening an earring. They’re about to leave for the symphony, which is about an hour away in Burlington, so they’ll be gone for most of the night. “We could probably get some extra tickets. Rob is friends with the first violinist.”

“No, you guys go.” Andrew pops a cracker into his mouth.

This is the least I’ve ever felt like eating in my life.

I’ve brought my backpack with me, and inside are the educational sex books and a bunch of condoms I grabbed from the nurse’s office in school when no one was looking. I had to fake a stomachache to get close enough to the counter. Now I can feel the weight of the books against my back.

“We’ll just stay here,” I say, my voice coming out squeaky. Andrew gives me a look. I know I’m acting suspicious, and we need our parents to leave. I clear my throat and eat a cracker to keep from speaking further. It tastes dry and salty in my mouth. “Probably just gonna watch a movie,” I say, forgetting I’m trying not to speak and choking a little on the cracker. “You know, just normal stuff. Man, this cracker is dry.”

He kicks me and narrows his eyes.

“Okay, well, we’ll be home late,” my mom says, coming over to us. She kisses the top of my head loudly, and then moves over to kiss the top of his.

“But don’t have anyone over,” his mom says, pulling on her coat. “We won’t be home that late.”

“Have fun. Be good,” my dad says, waving. Then finally they’re all out the door.

And we’re alone.

Andrew and I linger by the hummus and crackers for a few minutes, neither of us speaking. I can hear the tick . . . tick . . . tick of the clock in the living room and the quiet buzz of the refrigerator. I reach for another cracker, eager for something to do, and bite into it. The crunch echoes loudly in the room, practically ricocheting off the walls.

And then I begin to giggle, quietly at first because I’m trying to hold it in.

“Really?” Andrew asks. “I thought we were done with this.” But he begins to laugh too, and before I can help it, I snort, spraying bits of cracker out of my mouth and across the countertop. “Gross!” He’s laughing harder now.

I open my mouth and stick my tongue out, showing him the rest of the chewed cracker.

“You look like a baby bird,” he says.

“Oh, should I feed some to you?” I drop my head down so the mushy cracker in my mouth is dangerously close to falling out and onto him.

“No!” He jumps up and away from me, putting his arms up in a cross to ward me off, as if I’m a vampire.

“Fine,” I say, swallowing the cracker.

He grins at me. “Really admirable seduction technique though. I can hardly resist you.”

My smile drops as I remember why we’re here. We stare at each other for a minute and I don’t know what to do. I clear my throat. “Should we . . . get started?”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly jumpy. He runs a hand through his hair, and it calms me down a bit. It makes me feel better that he’s nervous too, even though he’s the one who’s done this a million times.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got it all set up.”

“What did you set up?” I ask, surprised. I follow him up the stairs, and when we get to his room, I’m comforted by its familiarity. There’s his old navy blue carpet, frayed at the edges. There’s the pillow I sewed for him in home economics back in sixth grade, misshapen and bright pink because I knew it would embarrass him. The smell of his room is just the same as always, like cut grass and pine and something earthier, the musky smell of boy, and it calms my nerves. He’s just Andrew.

The only thing that’s different now is his bed. The usually rumpled sheets have been straightened—maybe even washed—and the blankets that always form a messy pile on the floor have been folded neatly and put away. And on top of the bed he’s sprinkled a bunch of flowers.

“They’re just from one of the vases downstairs,” he says, scratching his nose. “No big deal.”

“No, it’s really nice,” I say, feeling warm and cozy inside.

He claps his hands together and turns toward the dresser by his bedside. “First things first.” He opens the top drawer and pulls out two bottles of watermelon Breezer, handing me one. “Sorry it’s not cold, but I had to keep them hidden up here. Mom’s been snooping a lot since the party.”

“Thanks,” I say, twisting off the top. “I thought you hated my stupid watermelon drinks.”

“They’re not so bad. I just like giving you a hard time.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and I join him. We clink our bottles together. I feel slightly light-headed. I’ve been on his bed so many times, but this doesn’t feel like sitting on Andrew’s bed. This feels like sitting on the bed of a boy, and it’s terrifying. I take a long sip of my drink and swallow it too quickly, sputtering a bit. Andrew pats me on the back.