Afterparty(53)

“Okay.” I give him the extremely expurgated version of my life, which covers moving a lot, but not much else.

He says, “Siobhan said something about your mom?”

“Jesus! Is there anything about me that she didn’t tell you?”

He says, “I asked. I wanted to know.”

He holds my hand. It would be a sweet, romantic moment if Lulu weren’t pooping over as wide an expanse of front yard as the leash will allow, and also howling, apparently for fun.

Lulu is now wriggling in the dirt on her back, squealing and barking. I say, “We have English bulls next door that play dead when you pretend to shoot them.”

“Cool. Do they have an agent?” He sounds pissed off and not as if he’s kidding. Then he slaps his cheek. “That was surly, right? Shit. I probably shouldn’t maul you if you criticize my dog.”

“Who says you’re surly?”

Dylan shakes his head. “My father and I have a limited set of repeating conversations.”

“That sucks.”

He has nothing more to say on this subject. I retreat.

He says, “We have radically different family lives. I can go for days without seeing my parents, let alone being told what I can’t do.”

“Literally for days?”

“No. But I probably could if I tried.”

“That’s sad.”

He says, “You wouldn’t think so if you knew them. Emma, did I do something to scare you before?”

We are leaning against palm trees along the curb while Lulu eats grass that’s growing through cracks in the sidewalk. All this time of wanting to hold him, wanting to grab him when I couldn’t, and now here we are, on this quiet street with the occasional decorous dog jogging by with a power-walking human, and I actually could, but I can’t.

I hear Siobhan’s voice going, You know you want to. Your turn: Make a move.

I know I want to.

I walk from my palm tree to his palm tree; he is discernibly pleased. I reach for him, and he pulls me in, and we disgrace the Latimer uniform some more by engaging in more public kissing until, when my hands are in the small of his back, under the untucked tail of his shirt, Lulu’s howling gets so loud we have to take her home.

He leans back against the blue French doors, the doorknob in his hand.

He says, “Coming in?” Very carefully. There’s a chance that he’s figured it out.

I say, “I have to be home for dinner. On time.”

He says, “Saved by the bell.”

? ? ?

I spend the weekend in a state of crazed longing.

I don’t go out the window to Malibu on Saturday with Siobhan. In a flat voice, she says, “You wouldn’t. Have fun taking sample SATs and reverting to type.”

I don’t say “What’s that supposed to mean?” because I already know.

Restocking the shelves at the food bank on Sunday, Megan says, “Are you sure being with this guy is good for you? You’re acting kind of bizarre.”

“Like you didn’t act bizarre when Joe first showed up here?”

“That’s not a fair comparison. You have lunch with a table full of football players dripping testosterone on their burgers. I have lunch with Sister Mary Eunice. It isn’t the same.”

At the food bank, I am actually dropping things, even though, apart from being consigned to PE (as opposed to actual) ballet, I’m not generally known for klutziness. After I land a twelve-pound bag of rice on his foot, Joe tactfully suggests that I go log things in, or put food into grocery bags, or get a drink of water.

Megan leads me out into the parking lot. She says, “Well?”

“Well, nothing. We’re walking around Latimer staring at each other and nothing. We kiss all the time.”

“That counts.”

Except I want to jump him all the time.

Megan leans against the hood of Rabbi Pam’s car. She says, “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready to do.”

Oh God, I’m getting romantic advice from Megan. “Is this where you tell me where babies come from?”

She says, “You’re tripping over things.”

“Tell me something new. Now I have to start working on getting to his house so I can trip over things there. Like at night. I thought Siobhan would cover, but she’s acting weird.”

“Siobhan acting weird is something new? You are way too forgiving.” Megan sighs. “Have you considered telling your dad that you like like this guy and seeing where it goes?”

“Really?”

“All right, I realize that I’m living in a similarly tangled web, but what a tangled web we weave—”

“It’s getting so I can’t keep it all straight.”

“At least you’re done with Jean-Luc.”

“I wish! Dylan is obsessed with him, and half the people at school are pissed off that I broke his heart. People are looking at me funny.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re dropping things.”

Or maybe it’s because they’ve never seen me acting like such a love slob, faux French boyfriend notwithstanding.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


IN A SHAMELESS ATTEMPT TO make up for all my weirdness and confusion, I bring Dylan a slab of Sunday night’s dense flourless chocolate cake on Monday morning. He says, “You might not be that bad a seed.”