hands. “Wasn’t wondering,” he said.
Bill excused himself—he backed away, coyly leveling his index fingers at Megan, like pistols—and Megan and Michael Malone returned to the high school, where they did, in fact, work through the dinner hour. The room was cramped, with two desks pushed together, and because he had grown suddenly quiet, Megan wondered if he was angry with her for something. The tension continued to mount until Michael Malone finally stood up to get something from the file cabinet (just behind Megan’s chair); softly he traced a line across the nape of her neck before opening the file drawer.
“You’re making me nervous, Megan,” he said quietly.
Megan didn’t need much more than that. The impetus was not her parents, as it was when she first slept with Bill; it was Bill himself, who needed to be told, if not in words, that he could stake no claim on her. As Mr. Malone closed the drawer, she set her pencil down and lifted her hand, and one thing led to another and they didn’t bother turning out the light or locking the door or even making their way out from between the desk and the file cabinet onto a cleaner part of the carpet.
“I want to feel your knees shake,” he whispered, just before entering her.
It was a one-time thing; what would later amaze Megan was the ease with which they continued on in their assigned roles: Michael Malone as adviser, Megan as editor. This must be how grown-ups manage it, she thought, reflecting on television shows where everyone slept with everyone else. It’s not at all difficult. And the situation pleased her; it proved something to her, although just what, she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She knew it had a lot to do with Bill, though. She never told him about Mr. Malone, but she made a point of letting him grow suspicious, which made her feel at once very powerful and very, very Machiavellian in her young ways.
—————
But by the year’s end she forced herself to admit that things with her high school boyfriend were, in fact, over. Just after midnight on New Year’s, Megan officially broke things off. Seated cross-legged on her bed, she explained that with college on the horizon, she didn’t want to be tied down anymore. (Bill had applied to Princeton as well, though he had no chance, as far as she could tell.) Regardless of what happened with Princeton, she said, they’d be better off making independent decisions. She did not expect him to take the news well; still, she was surprised by his response, which was silence.
“Say something,” she finally said.
Bill, sitting in the swivel chair by her desk, just looked at her blankly.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she went on. “I really care about you, but I think it’s time we went our separate ways. What do you think?” She hated herself for asking that—she didn’t care what he thought, frankly, but he was being so quiet and she just wanted to
get him to talk.
Finally he began swiveling back and forth. “What do I think? What do you
think
I think? You’re the only person I’ve ever loved, Megan.”
“There will be others,” she offered.
“Oh, that’s helpful.”
“We can still be friends.”
Lame.
Bill stood up. “If you think we can still be friends, then you, my dear, are seriously out of touch with reality. In fact, you are stupid in a way I never could have imagined.”
The words, pretentious as they were, stung. “I’m just trying to make things easy,” she said.
“Well, guess what, Megan,” he said, pronouncing it
Megg-Ann.
“You’re failing big time. Tell me something, though. Did you fuck that guy Malone?”
She told him no, she did not fuck that guy Malone.
“And I should believe you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t lie.”
Bill regarded her with what seemed to be liquid hate. “Well, good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t want to think that I spent the last twenty-four months of my life fucking a
Bill excused himself—he backed away, coyly leveling his index fingers at Megan, like pistols—and Megan and Michael Malone returned to the high school, where they did, in fact, work through the dinner hour. The room was cramped, with two desks pushed together, and because he had grown suddenly quiet, Megan wondered if he was angry with her for something. The tension continued to mount until Michael Malone finally stood up to get something from the file cabinet (just behind Megan’s chair); softly he traced a line across the nape of her neck before opening the file drawer.
“You’re making me nervous, Megan,” he said quietly.
Megan didn’t need much more than that. The impetus was not her parents, as it was when she first slept with Bill; it was Bill himself, who needed to be told, if not in words, that he could stake no claim on her. As Mr. Malone closed the drawer, she set her pencil down and lifted her hand, and one thing led to another and they didn’t bother turning out the light or locking the door or even making their way out from between the desk and the file cabinet onto a cleaner part of the carpet.
“I want to feel your knees shake,” he whispered, just before entering her.
It was a one-time thing; what would later amaze Megan was the ease with which they continued on in their assigned roles: Michael Malone as adviser, Megan as editor. This must be how grown-ups manage it, she thought, reflecting on television shows where everyone slept with everyone else. It’s not at all difficult. And the situation pleased her; it proved something to her, although just what, she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She knew it had a lot to do with Bill, though. She never told him about Mr. Malone, but she made a point of letting him grow suspicious, which made her feel at once very powerful and very, very Machiavellian in her young ways.
—————
But by the year’s end she forced herself to admit that things with her high school boyfriend were, in fact, over. Just after midnight on New Year’s, Megan officially broke things off. Seated cross-legged on her bed, she explained that with college on the horizon, she didn’t want to be tied down anymore. (Bill had applied to Princeton as well, though he had no chance, as far as she could tell.) Regardless of what happened with Princeton, she said, they’d be better off making independent decisions. She did not expect him to take the news well; still, she was surprised by his response, which was silence.
“Say something,” she finally said.
Bill, sitting in the swivel chair by her desk, just looked at her blankly.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she went on. “I really care about you, but I think it’s time we went our separate ways. What do you think?” She hated herself for asking that—she didn’t care what he thought, frankly, but he was being so quiet and she just wanted to
get him to talk.
Finally he began swiveling back and forth. “What do I think? What do you
think
I think? You’re the only person I’ve ever loved, Megan.”
“There will be others,” she offered.
“Oh, that’s helpful.”
“We can still be friends.”
Lame.
Bill stood up. “If you think we can still be friends, then you, my dear, are seriously out of touch with reality. In fact, you are stupid in a way I never could have imagined.”
The words, pretentious as they were, stung. “I’m just trying to make things easy,” she said.
“Well, guess what, Megan,” he said, pronouncing it
Megg-Ann.
“You’re failing big time. Tell me something, though. Did you fuck that guy Malone?”
She told him no, she did not fuck that guy Malone.
“And I should believe you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t lie.”
Bill regarded her with what seemed to be liquid hate. “Well, good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t want to think that I spent the last twenty-four months of my life fucking a
Similar Books
