while she hoisted herself out of the pool and ran naked and laughing across the lawn to the blanket.
“Oh, put that thing away, Bill,” she said, collapsing beside him.
Bill ran his fingertips up and down her thighs. She lay back and shivered in the night air.
“No,” he said. “Sit up.”
“Oh, Bill,” she sighed. “You’ve really gotten kind of obsessed, you know.”
Bill knelt on the grass, about three feet away from her. She sat up on her elbows. Her hair was wet, and she leaned back and pointed her toes. Suddenly a star streaked across the sky. Then another, and another. Bill took a picture.
“It’s too dark, you know,” she told him.
Bill scrambled to a new angle. Suddenly Megan felt very tired. She imagined herself on a beach by a turquoise sea, and lifted her head to the warm tropical sun. Then she lay back down, and stretched her hands above her head, and turned her head to one side. Someone would bring her a piña colada. Wild parrots would squawk. Dark men would walk the beach, offering rainbow hammocks.
She was sailing across the equator when Bill lay down beside her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
She heard herself murmur something about the pictures.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
Or so she would later recall.
—————
During junior year things were on again, off again with Bill. He had a jealous streak that both irritated and flattered her, but in the end he would come around with flowers and tears and maybe a hit of ecstasy or two, and they would reconcile. By the fall of her senior year, though, Megan was looking for change. Harshly critical of herself for devoting so much time and energy to a boy, she threw herself into college applications. Her dream was to get as far away from town as possible—Princeton, to begin with, and then points east: France, Italy, Budapest, Moscow. The only thing wrong with this plan was that her parents approved of it.
That fall she served as editor in chief of the school newspaper, under the tutelage of a young language arts teacher named Michael Malone. Often they worked late together in the small room on the third floor, subsisting on PowerBars and Cokes. One evening he suggested that they get a latte.
It was a warm evening in late October, and they sat at an outside table at a nearby espresso vendor. Mr. Malone rolled up his sleeves and leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He was contemplating something important, Megan assumed, but then, out of the blue, he said her name.
Startled, Megan said, “What?”
Mr. Malone smiled. “Megan Thompson,” he said again. “What do you plan to do with your life, Megan Thompson?”
The question caught Megan off guard. She knew where she wanted to go, but not what she wanted to do.
“Medicine, law?” he asked. “Journalism, business?”
“Well,” Megan began. “Well, I don’t know.”
Mr. Malone chuckled at this. Although still in his twenties, his face had craggy lines when he smiled. A tuft of dark hair sprouted from the collar of his denim shirt.
Megan didn’t like it when people chuckled at her. “How about you?” she asked. “What do you plan to do with
your
life?”
He tipped his head back and laughed loudly. “Touché,” he said.
Megan relaxed. She was about to tell him she wasn’t looking much further than acceptance letters at the moment, when Bill happened to walk by with a group of friends. He almost didn’t notice them, but when he did, he executed an exaggerated about-face.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Student and teacher having coffee together? Just kidding!” he laughed. “Like it matters these days. Hey,” he said to Megan, “I’ll see you tonight?”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “We’re under deadline.”
“Sounds sexy,” said Bill. “Come over afterward. In case you’re wondering,” he told Mr. Malone, “we’ve been going out for two years, you know.”
Michael Malone held up his
“Oh, put that thing away, Bill,” she said, collapsing beside him.
Bill ran his fingertips up and down her thighs. She lay back and shivered in the night air.
“No,” he said. “Sit up.”
“Oh, Bill,” she sighed. “You’ve really gotten kind of obsessed, you know.”
Bill knelt on the grass, about three feet away from her. She sat up on her elbows. Her hair was wet, and she leaned back and pointed her toes. Suddenly a star streaked across the sky. Then another, and another. Bill took a picture.
“It’s too dark, you know,” she told him.
Bill scrambled to a new angle. Suddenly Megan felt very tired. She imagined herself on a beach by a turquoise sea, and lifted her head to the warm tropical sun. Then she lay back down, and stretched her hands above her head, and turned her head to one side. Someone would bring her a piña colada. Wild parrots would squawk. Dark men would walk the beach, offering rainbow hammocks.
She was sailing across the equator when Bill lay down beside her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
She heard herself murmur something about the pictures.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
Or so she would later recall.
—————
During junior year things were on again, off again with Bill. He had a jealous streak that both irritated and flattered her, but in the end he would come around with flowers and tears and maybe a hit of ecstasy or two, and they would reconcile. By the fall of her senior year, though, Megan was looking for change. Harshly critical of herself for devoting so much time and energy to a boy, she threw herself into college applications. Her dream was to get as far away from town as possible—Princeton, to begin with, and then points east: France, Italy, Budapest, Moscow. The only thing wrong with this plan was that her parents approved of it.
That fall she served as editor in chief of the school newspaper, under the tutelage of a young language arts teacher named Michael Malone. Often they worked late together in the small room on the third floor, subsisting on PowerBars and Cokes. One evening he suggested that they get a latte.
It was a warm evening in late October, and they sat at an outside table at a nearby espresso vendor. Mr. Malone rolled up his sleeves and leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He was contemplating something important, Megan assumed, but then, out of the blue, he said her name.
Startled, Megan said, “What?”
Mr. Malone smiled. “Megan Thompson,” he said again. “What do you plan to do with your life, Megan Thompson?”
The question caught Megan off guard. She knew where she wanted to go, but not what she wanted to do.
“Medicine, law?” he asked. “Journalism, business?”
“Well,” Megan began. “Well, I don’t know.”
Mr. Malone chuckled at this. Although still in his twenties, his face had craggy lines when he smiled. A tuft of dark hair sprouted from the collar of his denim shirt.
Megan didn’t like it when people chuckled at her. “How about you?” she asked. “What do you plan to do with
your
life?”
He tipped his head back and laughed loudly. “Touché,” he said.
Megan relaxed. She was about to tell him she wasn’t looking much further than acceptance letters at the moment, when Bill happened to walk by with a group of friends. He almost didn’t notice them, but when he did, he executed an exaggerated about-face.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Student and teacher having coffee together? Just kidding!” he laughed. “Like it matters these days. Hey,” he said to Megan, “I’ll see you tonight?”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “We’re under deadline.”
“Sounds sexy,” said Bill. “Come over afterward. In case you’re wondering,” he told Mr. Malone, “we’ve been going out for two years, you know.”
Michael Malone held up his
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