Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,53

it’s all about, you know? It’s really just body parts touching, though, and feeling good. What’s wrong with feeling good?”

“You’re right,” Nicole said, and looked at her like Jennifer was daring, and adult, and mature. Jennifer felt off-balance and giddy and confused, and every time she lied to her mom, to her grandpa, she felt horrible, but Danny told her he needed her, that this was the only good part of his life right now. That she was helping.

And that he loved her.

And then there was the night when he didn’t show up. Jennifer sat on the picnic table by the lake as dusk turned slowly to dark, getting colder by the minute, and finally walked home, thinking of all the things that could have happened to him. About an accident in the mill. A car wreck. He could be lying in the hospital right now, and she wouldn’t even know. When she tried calling him, though, his mom answered and said he wasn’t home, and she didn’t sound worried at all. And when Jennifer left a message, he didn’t call back. She called three more times, and finally, his mom said, “Hon. I’ve told him. You need to stop calling now.” And she ran to the bathroom, the embarrassed heat overwhelming her, and threw up.

What had happened? She couldn’t find out, and she couldn’t concentrate on school. She wanted to tell her mom, but how could she ever do that?

The next Saturday, Danny was at the lake with Eileen Gerrity, who was a senior, and he didn’t look at Jennifer once, even when she tried to catch his eye. The next day, he didn’t come to the lake at all, and neither did Eileen. She hung around all afternoon, then walked home, her throat dry and her eyes burning, and wondered what she’d done wrong, what immature thing she’d said. She didn’t call Nicole, because she didn’t wanted to admit that it was true. But it was. He was gone.

She never told Nicole, not exactly. She was too embarrassed. Too ashamed. They lay on Nicole’s rug, the last couple weeks of summer, listening to music and looking at magazines and painting their nails, and Jennifer indulged in long daydreams of a future meeting, when she’d have moved away to do … something that made her famous. Writing for TV had been her favorite one. She’d come back to town for a visit, or maybe to give a talk, since she was so successful and all, and run into Danny at Yoke’s market, and he’d come up to her and say, “Jennifer, right? I can’t believe it.”

Her hair would be perfect, and she’d be wearing a pretty, floaty dress. She’d look at him, laugh, and say, “Danny? Oh, my gosh, that seems like so long ago.”

Even in her daydreams, she hadn’t managed to dismiss and humiliate him. It had never even occurred to her to try. She’d clung to the fantasy that the whole thing had been romantic, but that she somehow hadn’t measured up. She wasn’t pretty enough. Wasn’t sexy enough. Wasn’t special enough.

When her jeans wouldn’t button that winter, she safety-pinned them closed and went on a diet. She didn’t wear tight shirts anyway, not since her breasts had started developing, so nobody could see that she was getting chubby. That was what it was. She didn’t even let herself think about being pregnant. She wasn’t sick, and everybody knew that you threw up if you were pregnant. She didn’t feel different at all, except that she was more tired than usual, but that was because she was hungry. The diet, that was why.

It was PE that gave her away, a couple weeks before Christmas. They were doing gymnastics. Tumbling, that day. Somebody must have seen something during an upside-down moment, because Ms. Guthrie, the nicer of the two teachers, pulled her aside after class and asked, “Jennifer. Is everything all right?”

“What?” she asked, turning red right on cue. “I know I’m not very good at cartwheels, but that’s just because I’m not coordinated. I mean, I’m trying. I’ve been practicing headstands at home, and I’ve almost got it.”

Ms. Guthrie searched her face, and Jennifer couldn’t meet her eyes. “Have you been sexually active?” she asked.

“What? No. Of course not. I wouldn’t.” Jennifer’s fingers pleated the ugly yellow PE shirt, and she stared at the school logo on Ms. Guthrie’s polo shirt. Then she thought Ms. Guthrie would think she was staring at her breasts, so she looked