Part 12 (2/2)

Taylor slides a rubber band off the map he brought and spreads the map out across the s.p.a.ce between us.

”Okay,” he says. ”So this is Nice, where Jacques DeSoir grew up. We should put the first thumbtack here. Where was the next place he went? I'll look it up.”

He opens the book and flips through the pages. I don't want to talk about geography; I just want to be close to someone. I know that I'm only a couple feet away from him. I know that my parents are only a staircase away.

But still, I feel alone.

Silently, I pull my s.h.i.+rt over my head.

My heart is beating in my throat.

Still staring at the book, he says, ”Okay, so it looks like he went to these Greek Islands.” No boy has seen me in just a bra before. I wait for him to look up.

Then he does.

His face flushes and he swallows slowly. I ease forward, across a thousand pastel-colored countries and into his lap, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss him.

His mouth feels cold and my tongue grazes his mint gum. He touches my back with warm hands and I wonder if he's fantasized about something like this, if he's ever thought of me like this before. I hope he has, because I'm not really this brave. We kiss and kiss. I wait for him to start fumbling with my bra strap like boys in movies do, but he doesn't. His hands move across my back gently and I still feel far away. I still feel alone. I start hearing these words in my head. i want you to touch me. i want you to take my clothes off. i want you to touch me. i want you to take my clothes off. I hear them over and over, like the chorus of a song, before I realize that they're Ingrid's words, that I'm feeling what Ingrid felt, and it's then I start to panic. I don't stop kissing Taylor. I don't stop anything. I don't know what I'll do when this moment is over and I'll actually have to see him look at me. I hear them over and over, like the chorus of a song, before I realize that they're Ingrid's words, that I'm feeling what Ingrid felt, and it's then I start to panic. I don't stop kissing Taylor. I don't stop anything. I don't know what I'll do when this moment is over and I'll actually have to see him look at me.

But then it happens.

Taylor's body gets tense. He stops kissing me. I climb off of him. I sit. I cover my chest with my arm. I look at his sneakers, at the frays on the bottom of his jeans, anywhere but at his face. I look at his hand as it moves to where my tank top lies on the carpet and as he lifts it up for me to take. I put it back on.

We sit in silence.

Then Taylor says, ”I should go.”

I close my eyes. I'm waiting for the world to end.

I nod, whisper, ”Okay.”

There's the sound of him putting his books back into his backpack, of him rolling up the map. The sound of a zipper zipping. The sound of him standing up. The silence of his not moving.

”I'll see you tomorrow,” he says.

I open my eyes and scan the ceiling. ”Okay.”

He walks softly out of my room. I watch the back of him as he eases the door closed. Once it's shut, I lean forward and put my head in my hands. Then the door swings open again, and Taylor comes back. He leans against my wall and says, ”Just so you know, I do like you. That just felt weird.”

I guess I should say something, but I don't. At this moment I am so far from thinking clearly, so far from making sense.

”Caitlin?” he asks.

I look into his face for the first time in minutes.

”I just want to make sure you know. It's not like I didn't want it or anything.”

He waits for me to say something. When I don't, he walks in from the doorway and kneels on the carpet next to me. I get this terrible feeling that he's going to kiss my cheek out of pity. I put my hand over my face so he can't get to it.

”You know,” he says, ”I had this huge crush on you in third grade.”

”Third grade?” I don't even remember knowing him in third grade.

”Yeah, Mrs. Capelli's cla.s.s. Remember?”

I move my hand away from my face. I do remember. Mrs. Capelli wore colorful sweaters that smelled like mothb.a.l.l.s and kept a hamster as the cla.s.s pet.

”Your desk was one row ahead of mine and one row over, which was like the best setup imaginable because I could stare at you all day long without you seeing me.”

I glance at him and try to remember what he looked like as a little kid. I can remember him from middle school, practicing skating tricks in the front circle after the bell rang, but I can't visualize him as an eight-year-old.

I open my mouth to ask him a question, then think better of it.

”What?” he asks.

So I say it anyway. ”What did you like about me?”

”Lots of things.” He s.h.i.+fts his weight and ends up a little closer to me-still not touching, but closer. ”But what I remember the most is this thing you used to do whenever we did art projects.”

”What was it?”

”Okay, well, you know how we had those boxes at our desks with our names on them? You kept a plastic bag in one-not a grocery bag, it was more like a sandwich bag. So, I'd glance over at you a lot during art projects and watch you gluing things. You always worked really slowly and carefully, and you hardly ever finished anything.”

I nod. It's true-the art hour was always too short.

”So when Mrs. Capelli would tell us that our time was up, most of the kids just dumped the colored-paper sc.r.a.ps and glitter and cotton b.a.l.l.s and stuff into the trash, but you would get out your plastic bag and put everything you didn't use inside it.”

I haven't thought about that for years, but as he says it, I remember. I can see myself, my little-kid fingers putting everything into that bag, saving it for later.

”Popsicle sticks and those pipe-cleaner things . . . I mean, it was junk, junk, but you'd put it in your bag with glitter and suddenly it would look special. It used to drive me crazy.” but you'd put it in your bag with glitter and suddenly it would look special. It used to drive me crazy.”

He grins, and even though my heart is lodged permanently in my throat, I smile back.

”I mean crazy in a good way,” he adds. He stands up. ”Okay, I'm really going now. See you tomorrow.”

Once I hear him descend the stairs and shut the front door, I get up and look in my closet for my third-grade yearbook. It only takes a minute to find. I stick it in my backpack.

”I'll be outside,” I yell, so my parents won't panic if they can't find me later.

In the garage, I find my dad's huge flashlight that he uses on his search-and-rescue trips. I turn it on and head down the hill, out to my oak tree. So far, I've built a ladder ten feet up and secured six spokes to the trunk, one for each wall of the treehouse. I balance the flashlight on a branch above my head, stuff some bolts in my pocket, grab my hammer, and haul up a plank of wood. Once I'm up, I straddle a branch and prop one end of the plank onto a step, and attach the other end to the end of a spoke so that they form a forty-five-degree angle. This new plank will be the first brace, and I need to attach six of them to support the six spokes. I keep my mind clear, focus on the sound of my hammer and the weight of the planks.

Once I've secured half of them, my arms feel weak. I'm determined to get all six up tonight, though, so I'll just give myself a short break.

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