Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust by Leanne Lieberman Page B

don’t have to pee ,” but I get up and join them. Chantal leads us into the basement and down a grotty hallway to a bathroom reeking of cologne. She leans against the sink. “I can’t believe he didn’t show,” she moans.
    I try to look sympathetic while Brooke hugs her. “Maybe he’ll be here on the weekend,” I say. “It is a school night.” Could I sound any more like my mother?
    Chantal ignores me and leans toward the mirror to apply more of her cherry-red lipstick. “But I’m horny tonight!”
    Brooke sighs. “Me too.”
    I catch Brooke’s eye in the mirror. We’ve never talked that way before. Brooke turns away from my questioning glance.
    We walk back to the party and sit down. I blink twice when Brooke lights up a cigarette and inhales like she smokes regularly. The party continues around me, but I’m no longer in the mood to attempt conversation with random guys.
    An hour later, after more smoking and beer, Brooke and I say goodbye and get on our bikes. “Thanks for coming with me,” she says. We ride side by side down the quiet, leafy streets.
    I shrug.
    â€œSo what did you think?”
    â€œIt was okay.”
    â€œJust okay?”
    â€œWell, sure, you know, it was a party.” It wasn’t any different from the parties we’d gone to before—just people sitting around and drinking.
    â€œIt was much cooler than other parties,” Brooke announces.
    I’m saved from having to answer, because a car comes up behind us, and I fall back to let it pass. Was the party cooler because the guys at our parties usually play silly drinking games, or was it because the girls at our parties don’t announce they’re horny?
    Brooke drops me off and I go inside, say hi to Mom and Dad, who are holding hands on the couch—talk about gross—and then head up to my room.
    I lie in bed, looking at the streetlights creeping in around the edges of my blinds. My hair smells like smoke, and even after brushing my teeth, I still taste the cooler. Also, I can’t get the sound of Chantal saying she’s horny out of my mind.
    The Perfects don’t talk about their…I don’t know. I’m not even sure what to call it—their desire? Lust? The Perfects talk about how cute boys are, or how in love they are. And they always fall in love with someone safely out of range. Em will say she’s “maddeningly” in love with someone from her Bible class or drama troupe who is too old or dating someone else. Chloe shows no interest in any of the boys at school who salivate when she flounces down the hall. She only talks about her sister’s older friends. Even Brooke’s comments about liking men, not boys, put her safely in the same category as the rest of us. Since we only obsess over guys who will never acknowledge us, we’ll never have to freak out about how far to go.
    And me? Well, having a crush on Jesse is perfect. He is entirely in the realm of the impossible, not the actual. I can safely fantasize about him for the rest of high school and nothing will ever come of it.
    And what if it did? What would that be like? What if we walked home from school together and then came down the lane behind our houses instead of down the sidewalk? We could talk simile and metaphor some more. I could come up with my own: your cheekbones are like ski slopes, your eyes are burning coals. You make me feel like a melting candle. What if he leaned me up against the back of the garage and bent down to kiss me? Shivers crawl down my spine as I imagine what his lips would feel like on mine, how his long arms would wrap around me and squeeze my back. I jolt up in bed. It’ll never happen, not with Jesse. I can’t even talk to him. I sigh, turn over in bed and pull the covers tight around me.

F ive
    T he leaves turn red and yellow, then fade to orange and begin falling off the trees. I endure a long day