Shuffle, Repeat(27)

“Horses like sugar lumps.” I purse my lips. “Go on.”

“There’s this scientific thing about how cows can go up stairs but not down them. So all we have to do is get the cow up to the third floor. It’s way better than feeding it laxatives. It’ll just be stuck up there, mooing around. I bet they’ll cancel classes. At least in the morning.”

“Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you think cows won’t go down stairs?”

Oliver’s forehead scrunches up. “Evolution?”

I whap him across the biceps (God, that’s hard!) and make a snort that sounds a lot like Itch. “It’s because they’re scared.”

“We shouldn’t scare the cow?”

“It’s mean to scare cows,” I tell him. “Even for tradition. Even for a legacy.”

“It’s mean to crush my hopes and dreams.” Oliver slumps in an overdramatic way that makes me laugh.

We’re both quiet for a while as the Violent Femmes (my one song, of course) play from the behemoth’s speakers. “This music sucks,” Oliver says mildly.

“You’ve mentioned.”

I watch as the trees flashing by are replaced by storefronts. I would prefer to engage in our now traditional sport of song bashing, or even to continue discussion of the senior prank, but my mind keeps going back to my conversation with Itch. Or rather, my lack of conversation with Itch. “I have a question,” I tell Oliver.

“Shoot.”

“Hypothetically speaking, let’s say that a person and her boyfriend made a decision to be free to date other people over a specific period of time. Say, a summer, for example.”

“For example,” says Oliver.

“Let’s say that this hypothetical person didn’t date anyone, exactly, but instead may have—one time only and with one person only—done some…” I pause, trying to figure out how to continue. “Done some things.”

“Things that are physical? Like the things commonly done between two people who are dating?”

“Correct.” I nod and then hasten to add, “But not all the things. Not even most of the things.”

“How many things, exactly?”

“Like one thing. Maybe one and a half.”

“Which particular things?” Oliver asks. “Be specific. Give details.”

“You’re heading toward Theo Land,” I warn him. If Darbs or Lily or Shaun was the one asking, I would probably give more information. That would be normal. But the idea of telling those same things to Oliver doesn’t seem fine or normal at all. It seems…

I can’t figure out how it seems. Mostly, it just seems like I don’t want to tell him.

“I’m an emotional detective,” Oliver says. “A therapist. I’m basically like a priest….Are you going to do that eye-rolling seizure thing again?”

“Probably.” I stare at his handsome profile and decide just to go for it. I want a straight-male take on the Itch Sitch, and at the moment, the only qualified person in my life appears to be Oliver. “It was one time, one guy, and it was no big deal. A little making out, that’s all.”

“You did say maybe one and a half things.”

“Fine, some over-the-shirt action. That’s all you get.”

“I can work with that,” says Oliver. “Go on.”

“I keep thinking about it,” I admit. “Not about the guy, but about what I did. Even though it was technically within my rights, I feel…”

“Guilty.” The word comes out of Oliver’s mouth fast. And with authority.

He’s right.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it. I feel totally guilty. And I never told Itch, but now I’m wondering if I should have when it happened. Or if I still should. What would you do if Ainsley kissed another guy?”

Oliver’s lips press together. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Because I can’t imagine okaying that in the first place. What’s the point?”

Again, he’s right—which silences me.

Oliver gives me a gentle tap on the knee. “You should tell him.”

“I guess. Maybe. Probably.”

“You’re supposed to be honest with the person you’re with. Y’know?”

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t know anything anymore.

When we reach school, I pause before opening my door. “Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime, Rafferty.”

“And for the talk.”

Oliver smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”

We’re out of the car and almost to the front lobby doors when Oliver nudges me. “Oh, by the way…”

“By the way what?”

“By the way, studies show that high school popularity is a determining factor in later-life financial security. Look it up.”

“What?” All that friendly conversation. Just Oliver lulling me into a false sense of complacency.

“Suck it, screamo,” he says. But then he grins and nudges me again. “Have a good day.”

He disappears into the crowd and—even though I’m mad about the song—I’m kind of bummed to see him go.