noblemen told Richard.
David scooted himself closer to me. A thin mustache of ice cream shadowed his upper lip. “It’s okay to be sad,” he said, sounding like he’d been practicing the line for a while.
I started laughing, which I felt almost bad about when I saw his mouth pucker in surprise. But this type of heartfelt earnestness, especially from David Nelson, had a tendency to make me itchy and restless, as if the last flimsy barricade protecting my life from a completely maudlin wasteland were giving way.
“I’m trying to read,” I said.
“You’re so tough.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it as an insult or a compliment. He sat funny, balanced strangely on his knees, hunching forward, his mug in one hand, the other grasping my comforter. He looked right at me. “Can you imagine how some other girls would be handling this? I mean, remember Gina LeShawn?”
Gina LeShawn had been a passenger in a drunk-drivingaccident our freshman year. The driver, a junior from another school, wrapped the car around a tree and ended up with a broken collarbone and a jail sentence. Gina broke her ankle and ended up a local celebrity, regularly gathering swarms of people around her in the hallways to retell the story of the accident and the emergency room and, months later, the sentencing hearing for the driver. For a good portion of the year she could be found sobbing in the cafeteria, as girls in ponytails and polo shirts squeezed her shoulders in concern.
“Well, I’m not Gina LeShawn,” I said.
“And thank god for that.” He looked at me like Chuck looked at me, straight on and steady. His zit was huge.
“Come on,” I said.
“Come on, what?”
“Go away. Go back to your chair.”
He didn’t go back to his chair. He kept staring, as if I had something on my face. “What?” I said to him. “What?” And then he sprang forward, far more agile and quick than I knew David Nelson to be, crushing my book, spilling some of his float into my lap, jamming his mouth to mine. His lips were sticky and sweet, his teeth clicking loudly against mine.
There was one long, slow moment (really, it must have been just a nanosecond) during which I felt nothing at all, a weightless, limbless remove. And then, in a dizzying rush, I was back—in my room, in my bed, with the full weight of David Nelson upon me, a weight far more substantial than I would have guessed. He had me pinned, his nose buried in my cheek, a knee digging painfully into my thigh, an elbow poking my hip.
He was a jack-in-the-box newly sprung, breathing hard, trying to shove his tongue in my mouth. His breath was sugary but sour.“Cut it out,” I managed to say, but he kept at it, lapping me with his tongue, one hand pawing at my hair, but hard, so it was more like hitting me in the head. For a few more seconds I just sat there and took it, stunned, a bug speared to the corkboard, wings splayed. The faces of all the boys I’d ever thought of kissing—Barry from World History Club, whose hair was the almost outlandish gold of fairytale princes’; bookish Mr. Jarris, who sometimes subbed for Hollingham and nervously twiddled his hands in his pockets as he talked of the Byzantine Empire; Joey Jeremiah, from that silly high school show that used to run on PBS—flashed through my head. David Nelson’s ceramic mug pressed coldly against my rib cage, giving me a feeling like I might cry.
Finally I dislodged my arms from the tangle of him and shoved my palms against his chest. He bounced backward on the mattress almost comically, losing hold of his float entirely, the mug bouncing on the bed, pop spilling darkly along my comforter. He lay sprawled at the foot of the bed, panting, staring at me wide-eyed, like a cornered animal.
“What. The. Hell?” I said, and his cheeks turned a bright, car-toonish red.
“I’m sorry,” David said in the voice of a little girl. He wiped me off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m really sorry.”
“You
David scooted himself closer to me. A thin mustache of ice cream shadowed his upper lip. “It’s okay to be sad,” he said, sounding like he’d been practicing the line for a while.
I started laughing, which I felt almost bad about when I saw his mouth pucker in surprise. But this type of heartfelt earnestness, especially from David Nelson, had a tendency to make me itchy and restless, as if the last flimsy barricade protecting my life from a completely maudlin wasteland were giving way.
“I’m trying to read,” I said.
“You’re so tough.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it as an insult or a compliment. He sat funny, balanced strangely on his knees, hunching forward, his mug in one hand, the other grasping my comforter. He looked right at me. “Can you imagine how some other girls would be handling this? I mean, remember Gina LeShawn?”
Gina LeShawn had been a passenger in a drunk-drivingaccident our freshman year. The driver, a junior from another school, wrapped the car around a tree and ended up with a broken collarbone and a jail sentence. Gina broke her ankle and ended up a local celebrity, regularly gathering swarms of people around her in the hallways to retell the story of the accident and the emergency room and, months later, the sentencing hearing for the driver. For a good portion of the year she could be found sobbing in the cafeteria, as girls in ponytails and polo shirts squeezed her shoulders in concern.
“Well, I’m not Gina LeShawn,” I said.
“And thank god for that.” He looked at me like Chuck looked at me, straight on and steady. His zit was huge.
“Come on,” I said.
“Come on, what?”
“Go away. Go back to your chair.”
He didn’t go back to his chair. He kept staring, as if I had something on my face. “What?” I said to him. “What?” And then he sprang forward, far more agile and quick than I knew David Nelson to be, crushing my book, spilling some of his float into my lap, jamming his mouth to mine. His lips were sticky and sweet, his teeth clicking loudly against mine.
There was one long, slow moment (really, it must have been just a nanosecond) during which I felt nothing at all, a weightless, limbless remove. And then, in a dizzying rush, I was back—in my room, in my bed, with the full weight of David Nelson upon me, a weight far more substantial than I would have guessed. He had me pinned, his nose buried in my cheek, a knee digging painfully into my thigh, an elbow poking my hip.
He was a jack-in-the-box newly sprung, breathing hard, trying to shove his tongue in my mouth. His breath was sugary but sour.“Cut it out,” I managed to say, but he kept at it, lapping me with his tongue, one hand pawing at my hair, but hard, so it was more like hitting me in the head. For a few more seconds I just sat there and took it, stunned, a bug speared to the corkboard, wings splayed. The faces of all the boys I’d ever thought of kissing—Barry from World History Club, whose hair was the almost outlandish gold of fairytale princes’; bookish Mr. Jarris, who sometimes subbed for Hollingham and nervously twiddled his hands in his pockets as he talked of the Byzantine Empire; Joey Jeremiah, from that silly high school show that used to run on PBS—flashed through my head. David Nelson’s ceramic mug pressed coldly against my rib cage, giving me a feeling like I might cry.
Finally I dislodged my arms from the tangle of him and shoved my palms against his chest. He bounced backward on the mattress almost comically, losing hold of his float entirely, the mug bouncing on the bed, pop spilling darkly along my comforter. He lay sprawled at the foot of the bed, panting, staring at me wide-eyed, like a cornered animal.
“What. The. Hell?” I said, and his cheeks turned a bright, car-toonish red.
“I’m sorry,” David said in the voice of a little girl. He wiped me off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m really sorry.”
“You
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