When We Were Animals(46)

“Hey,” I said. “Don’t open that. Put it back.”

He held in his hands a composition notebook he’d plucked from my shelves.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just notes.”

“What kind of notes? School notes?”

“No. Other kinds of notes. Lists and things.”

He gave me a teasing smile.

“Like what? What kinds of lists? Give me one example, and I’ll put it back.”

“I don’t know. Like a list of my favorite authors.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

But he put the notebook back, as he had promised.

For ten minutes he helped me sort note cards into thematic categories. Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed me. He pushed his chest against mine, and I liked how our breathing became one breathing. With my eyes closed, I could almost forget about everything.

I still held fans of note cards in my hands, and I didn’t know what to do with them. When he finally stopped kissing me, I tried to remember where the cards belonged—but my mind was no longer functioning by the logic of categories.

“Is your father at home?” he asked.

“No.”

“When will he be home?”

“Six, usually.”

Peter looked at his wristwatch.

“That’s two hours,” he said. He kissed me again, and I dropped the note cards to the floor and wound my arms around his neck. But when he moved against me, we jostled the desk and my purple pencil cup tipped over with a loud clatter that startled me.

“I think we should stop,” I said.

“How come?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big deal.”

He backed up and eyed me with a playful smile.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair enough. But we’re at an impasse, because I think we should keep going.”

“You do? How come?”

“The usual reasons, I guess.”

“Like what?” I liked this game. “I’m prepared to listen to logic.”

He posed himself thoughtfully on the edge of my bed, a prosecutor prepared to make a complex case.

I laughed.

“You know,” I said. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Acknowledged. And is it your plan never to do it at all, or do you have an intention to one day make love?”

“It’s not my plan never to do it.” I went over to him where he sat on the bed and stood before him. He looked up at me, and I leaned down to kiss him. He put his hands on my waist. Then he backed away for a moment, again with that sly, strategic smile.

“I see,” he said. “So it’s a matter of situation. Timing, choice of partner, and the like?”

“I guess.”

“So in terms of timing—you just started breaching, I understand?”

“Kind of.”

“And you know the types of activities breachers participate in?”

“Yes.”

“And in terms of choice of partner—would you say that you have a mostly complete sense of the potential romantic partners available to you here in town?”

“Yes.”

He grinned—and I grinned, too.

“I don’t think I’m being immodest when I say that this is a case that makes itself.”

“Maybe,” I said. I kissed him again. I wanted badly to be with him, but I didn’t know how to say yes to such things. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t?”

I shook my head.

“Okay,” he said, undeterred. “How about a little competition? How about if I can guess the authors on your favorite authors list? How many do you have on the list?”

“Ten.”

“Let’s say if I can guess three, we’ll call it fate. And when fate tells you to do something, you know you better do it.”

“What, with unlimited guesses? That bet’s stacked in your favor.”

“Well, I’d say it’s in both of our favors, but okay. How about ten guesses?”

“Three correct out of ten guesses from my list of ten favorite authors?”

“Right.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, and he narrowed his at me.

“Okay,” I said.

I went to the shelf and took down the composition notebook and flipped to the page that had my list of favorite authors. I inscribe it here for the record:

CHARLES DICKENS

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

JUDY BLUME

JACK KEROUAC

EMILY BRONT?

C. S. Lewis URSULA K. LE GUIN

TRUMAN CAPOTE

RUMER GODDEN

James Thurber V. C. ANDREWS

P. G. WODEHOUSE



“Okay,” Peter said, leaning eagerly forward. “Let’s see. How about Shakespeare?”

“No fair,” I said. “That was an easy one.”

“Your predictability is not my problem. How about Mark Twain?”

“Huh-uh.”

“F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

I shook my head.

“Really?” he said.

“He’s probably number eleven.”

“So a good guess.”