Дэвид Левитан - Boy Meets Boy

I stop here for his reaction. His face shows more hurt than anger. I don't know if he's going to simply walk away, or lash out at me.

"So you did kiss him?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"When?"

"This morning."

"Yeah."

"Okay," he says. "What I want to know is this. All along, I assumed you and Tony were just friends. So does this mean it's more than that?"

I double-take.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I mean, is this the first time you've kissed Tony?"

"Tony?" I want to laugh.

"Yeah, Tony."

Now I'm smiling despite myself. "I didn't kiss Tony. Is that what you heard? Oh, God! I was in the park with him yesterday and gave him a hug because he was bummed out. That's all."

I figure this will clear things up. But Noah looks more confused than ever.

"So who did you kiss this morning, then?" he asks.

Gulp.

"Uh. . .er. . ."

"Uh? Er?"

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"Kyle?" I say Noah's eyes widen. He's totally awake now.

"Your ex-boyfriendK yle?"

I nod.

Now it's Noah who's laughing.

"Man," he says, "I really have great taste in guys. I think I'd rather have you kissing Tony.

But Kyle—wow."

"I can explain," I interject, although I suppose I already have explained.

"Don't bother," Noah says. "Really. You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

"But I did tell you," I point out. I should at least have that in my favor.

Noah goes on. "When I was home over the weekend, I hung out with my three best girlfriends. I told them all about you. And you know what they said? They told me to watch out. Chloe, Angela, and Jen all said that I'm too easy on people. I think things are too good to be true, and it ends up that they are too good to be true. I liked you so muchP aul. You have no idea how hard that was for me. To come to this new town, to leave everything I love behind—and then suddenly to put all this hope and trust into a stranger. I did that with Pitt, and then—despite the fact that I sworeI wouldn't do it again — I started to do it with you.

Luckily, it didn't get that far. Luckily I'm finding this out now instead of two months from now."

I see where this is going. I want to stop it.

"Please don t do this, I say quietly.

He starts to back away. "I'm not doing it," he says. "You already did."

"It was just a kiss!"

Noah shakes his head. "It's never just a kiss. You know that. So just go home."

I am starting to cry. I have no control over it. I try to keep it in, just until he gets back inside and stops looking at me. Now he has the anger and I feel the hurt—hurt that is all the more painful because it's been self-inflicted. All he wanted was for me to be careful. And I was careless. So careless.

"Goodnight," I say as he ebbs away to his front porch.

"Goodnight," he says back—out of habit, out of kindness, who knows?

I walk home in the middle of the street, all alone with my thoughts and my frustration.

Perhaps craziest of all, I still feel a flicker of hope. I know there isn't anything I can say or do right now to change Noah's mind about me. But soon right now will be minutes ago and days ago and weeks ago. What I feel about Noah can't be extinguished with one shut-down conversation. The fact that I feel so awful is a perverse proof of his worth and meaning to me.

I got myself into this mess. I can get myself out.

Or so I think.

Dealing with the Club Kids

My mother finds me the next morning as I'm deciding whether or not to get out of bed. I don't see why I get to stay home when I have a fever (something that will pass in time) and yet have to brave the lonesome hallways when there isn't a single person I'm looking forward to seeing (something that may or may not pass). I quickly try to formulate an excuse, but before I can even open my mouth, she says, "Don't even try it. And be sure to hang the safety vest back up in the closet before you go. Don't leave it on the floor like that."

Snagged on two counts. Not a great way to start the day.

I become neurotic about what to wear. Because suddenly every piece of clothing has something to do with someone else. Shirts that Jess helped me pick out. The pants I wore the night I first met Noah. The clothes from yesterday thrown over the back of the chair—it's amazing to believe that I kissed Kyle and was dumped by Noah all in the span of a single pair of jeans.

In the end I dig into the back of my closet and find a sweater my aunt got me for my birthday last year. It's orange and green, and brings out the orange in my eyes even though my eyes are usually green. The neck is a little too tight and the arms are a little too long. I wear it anyway.

I figure this is my new beginning . . . or my last resort.

The first person I bump into when I get to school is Rip, the bookie. I can tell he's been waiting for me. He stares for a moment at my sweater but doesn't say anything about it.

"So is that it, then?" he asks me. "You got no one, right?"

Technically, I figure this is true. I've lost Noah. I don't want Kyle. Tony was never an option.

I don't have anybody.

But. . .

I think again of Noah.

"The betting .isn't over yet," I tell Rip.

"Seems pretty over to me," he says with a grin. I can see him counting the money in his head.

I surprise myself by clamping my hand down on his shoulder and thinking of a sports metaphor.

"Listen to me," I say. "You can't run a Super Bowl pool and then declare the winner midseason. As far as I'm concerned, we haven't even gotten to the playoffs yet. If you start collecting, I'm going to tell everyone that you're playing them for a fast one. They won't like that."

Rip thinks for a moment.

"I'll give you until the Dowager's Dance," he says finally. "That way, more people can place bets."

I nod and remove my hand from his shoulder.

As he skulks off, Infinite Darlene appears from behind me.

"Rip never dates anyone," she observes.

"Why?" I ask.

"He doesn't like the odds."

Infinite Darlene is staring at my sweater now.

"I know I should hate it," she says, "but I actually like it."

"Thanks, I think."

She is dressed immaculately in a vintage Charlie's AngelsT-shirt and white pleather miniskirt. (I have no idea how she pulls it off. In fact, I have no idea how she pulls it on.)

"How's it going?" she asks me.

"I can't even begin to tell you," I say, then blurt out the whole story.

"Oh, honey," she says when I'm done with my wallowing, "it's like my grandma used to say: Just when you think life's got you in a gutter, a tornado will come along and destroy your house."

"And then you rebuild?" I ask.

"Well, she never mentioned that part, but I suppose it could happen."

I am not cheered up.

Then, to make matters worse, Infinite Darlene coos, "So, sweetheart, are you ready for the committee meeting sixth period?"

The dance committee meeting. I've totally forgotten about it. And I'm in charge.

Infinite Darlene continues. "I know that wench"—that would be Trilby Pope—"will be there.

I know there was no way for you to stop her from signing up. So it's not like I hold you responsible. But please make sure she keeps her talking to a minimum. It gives me such a migraine."

"I'll be fair," I tell Infinite Darlene.

She sighs. "That's what I'm afraid of. Believe me, it does neither of us any favors."

With that, she swings and sashays away.

I don't see her again until sixth period, in the small room the library reserves for meetings like this. I am not at all prepared, but I'm ready to fake it.

There are ten people on the committee. The first I see are two best friends who join everything together; since their names are Amy and Emily, we call them the Indigo Girls, even though they're straight. Then there's Trilby Pope and Infinite Darlene, sitting at opposite ends of the room—Infinite Darlene is glaring at Trilby, and Trilby is simply gazing at the floor in response. I'm sure this drives Infinite Darlene crazy—she likes nothing better than a glaring match.