“A card laid is a card played.”

Right. We’re forgetting the rules of card players, of “real men”, of hypocrites. Cheating is only cheating in the perception of the cheater. I watch him as he pulls a card from his hand with a wet, muted slide.

His move is successful. The game continues, the sky darkens to a deep, sensuous blue, a blue darker than his denim. An easy feat; his pants are the color of a gregarious sky.

MaryBeth knows. Even if I hadn’t told her it would be obvious. I’m sure Sam knows, too. He’ll probably be upset; he didn’t want anyone to know. His mystique is alluring. I want to touch his hair. It looks soft, softer than these sheets. I wish I could go to bed and wrap myself in these familiar sheets. Sleep will be an illusion tonight. I won’t stop thinking about him even in the unconscious. I’ll think more about his hair, and his deft fingers as they scramble for cards, and the sheets and how I want him to be entangled in those sheets next to me.

“It’s your turn.”

Sam is yawning. I will her to stop yawning. If one of us turns in, we’ll all turn in.

“Sorry. What are we on?”

“You’re supposed to pay attention,” he snaps, cranky, in the early hours of morning. We’re all cranky, all except me. I’m shaky. I keep thinking about his hair, and the sheets, and his arms as the milky skin on the underbelly of his quivering muscle caught the brilliance of the soda machine. I think about the arch of his back as he leaned over me, smiling, and I know sleep will be a luxury. I catch his eye. His lips don’t smile, but the green does. He’s lying. He’s not cranky. He’s just as nervous as I am. I wonder if he’s thinking about my hair. I push it away from my ears and put down a card. A mistake. I don’t care if I lose. A card laid is a card played.

I glance at the floor. There’s a glob of cake frosting on the carpet. Pink butter cream-not my favorite. The cake was a stupid idea. Today is his birthday but he doesn’t care and he most certainly did not like the cake. I wonder if he could have predicted my scheme-a scheme that produced immeasurable awkwardness and schoolgirl giggling in bubblegum euphoria.

I hadn’t really planned on taking myself so far-I figured I had enough self-control not to corner him by the soda machine. But let’s face it. A girl can only wait so long before pouncing upon circumstance, and Lord knows I waited long enough. Practically an entire fucking year, actually. I sweated out his affections for a year and I’d decided that if he wouldn’t do anything I would. I’m a woman of action.

Sam wins the card game with a self-defeating yawn, pushing a mop of lethargic hair from her eyes and mumbling a farewell. She stumbles to her room, not quite asleep but not quite fully grasping the idea that she’s in Boston anymore. We’ll check on her in the morning, but for now, there are bigger fish to fry. I’ve just noticed the strap of my bra peeking out from under the bed next to a plastic fork and that glob of frosting. That must be attended to. So must the boy sitting on my bed.

I walk him to the door.

“So I have to pack and stuff.”

“Yeah, me too. I still have clothes under my bed.”

“Yeah,” he puts his hands in his pockets. MaryBeth locks herself in the bathroom. “I still have Oreos under mine.”

“Cool.”

“I know.” He takes his hands out. I want him to touch me. Badly. “So. Are we going to tell people?”

“I don’t know. We don’t really need to yet. But I think that in a while it will be pretty obvious.”

“You’re right,” he pauses. “So, good night, then.”

He opens the door. He’s going to leave. I know it. “’Night. Thanks.”

“For what?”

I wink. “You know.”
He smiles. “I’ve wanted to ask you out, anyway.”

He leaves without another word, without kissing me. I watch him leave, following his hips. That’s all right. I’m only sixteen. I wouldn’t know how to kiss any better than I play cards.