that mean you give one of the graduation speeches?”
“A shorter one, but yeah.” Jasmine Ramundo gets to speak for ten minutes, but I only get to speak for five.
“Can’t wait to hear it.” He grins and then does this thing that always makes my stomach flip—contemplates the ground like there’s something profound and important there. He looks up at me. “Are you here for the summer?”
“I am.”
“Me too.”
We are staring at each other, my face getting hotter and hotter, and all I can think is, I want you to be my first, Wyatt Jones. If you ask me to go into that barn right now, I will race you there and be naked by the time I reach the door.
He coughs. Looks away. Glances up. Smiles. “See you around, then.”
“See you.”
He sails past, and it’s just an ordinary party filled with ordinary people, and I am one of them.
“We can stay.”
I turn and blink at Saz. Where did you come from? But even though I want to stay, I see her face. “No way.” Friends first. Always. I sing the rest of the way to the car.
* * *
—
An hour or so later, I lie in my bed and think of Wyatt Jones. Of every dirty thing I want him to do to me. My room is heavy with night, except for the moon, which is making everything glow.
I close my eyes, and I am still me, lying here in these yellow daisy sheets and the navy blue pajama shorts and top I got for my last birthday, books everywhere because ever since I was six years old I’ve liked to bury myself in a pile of them.
So I am me, but right now I am me with Wyatt on top of me. Wyatt Jones, with his soccer legs and swimmer’s shoulders and hair that smells like chlorine and the sun. Wyatt Jones, with eyes that burn when they look at you. He is above me. Under me. His skin on mine. My mouth on his.
My body is warm against the sheet, and my hand is where I’d like his to be. I kick the books away and they go crashing to the floor. My nose starts to itch and I scratch it. A hair tickles my forehead and I blow it away. Holy hell.
Breathe.
Concentrate.
Wyatt.
Wyatt.
And there he is again in all his naked glory.
Wyatt.
After a minute, a thousand little needles start prickling my skin.
He says, Are you sure?
For all his beauty, Wyatt Jones is famously shy. When he does speak, it’s in this soft, scratchy voice that implies great thoughtfulness. I’ve built an entire inner life for him in my head, one where he is kind and empathetic and sensitive, yet strong enough to pick up a girl—me, specifically—and throw her onto a bed.
Yes, I say. YES.
It’s you, Claude. It’s always been you.
Stop talking, Wyatt. Stop talking right now.
The needle pricks are spreading throughout my body, and Wyatt morphs into the boy I saw on a plane once, the one who stared right at me as he walked down the aisle. Now I am on that plane, dressed as a flight attendant—a stylish one, the kind on overseas flights. Red lipstick, red uniform. Or maybe navy because it goes better with my clown hair. I follow him to the bathroom and he pulls me in after him and locks the door, and picks me up in his big, strong hands and sets me on that little counter, the one with the sink, and I wrap my legs around him.
Just as he kisses me, hands in my hair, he fades into Mean Jake, the delivery boy. We’re in his vintage Trans Am, and it smells like pizza and cigarettes, but I don’t care because we’re tearing off each other’s clothes, and suddenly he blurs into Mr. Darcy.
No. Mr. Rochester. Only I’m not Jane Eyre, I’m me in some sort of riding costume, and he’s kissing me by candlelight. We’re in front of the fireplace, and suddenly there’s a bear rug, only I’m not sure why there’s a bear rug. Is there one in the book? I’m staring at the bear, and the bear is staring back like, You murderer, and it’s just so depressing, so I get rid of the rug, and now we’re lying on the floor, Rochester and me, but it’s freezing because Thornfield Hall is, after all, a castle in the English countryside. Rochester produces a blanket, but it’s too late; I send him away.