“Talk to you soon?” I say.
“For sure,” she says, and it leaves a warm little spark inside me that doesn’t go out for days.
CHAPTERFOUR
SADIE
Finally hearingMax’s voice does not make the guilt any better. It doesn’t make it better the first time we talk, when he’s in a car and pulls over to the side of the road to jerk off—oh, God, what is my life, we’re both going to get arrested for sex crimes—and it doesn’t make it better any of the times after that, because I wind up thinking that he sounds a lot like James and now I’m thinking a little about James when I’m talking to Max and a lot about Max when I’m talking to James and it’s a whole damn mess.
James and I aren’tdoinganything besides flirting a lot. Like, a whole lot, and there have been at least five times that I was this close to asking him to dinner or something. But then I didn’t, because I have an internet sex friend.
Would that even be cheating? For all I know Max is up in Cleveland or wherever he lives—I have no idea, I’ve never asked—banging other people left and right and I’m down here, in Virginia, being lame and feeling like a jerk every time a cute coworker smiles at me. It’s not like we’ve ever defined our relationship.
And James is cute and funny and very good at wrangling impossible teenagers. Half the time he’s the only one who laughs at my jokes in faculty meetings, and he keeps casually offering me stuff like the extra Oreos he brought in his lunch “by accident.”
But more than that, James ishere. He exists in the real world: a real person with a corporeal existence and a face. Who I could kiss and also do other things with, though I can’t quite imagine it being anywhere as …intense… as it is with Max. James has a pretty voice, but he’s so nice and sopolitethat I can’t quite imagine him sayingfuck yourself and let me watch.
Not that I’ve imagined it. Okay, I tried. It was weird.
* * *
The week before a break,teens basically become feral. I’m surprised I haven’t found any ripping each others’ throats out or pissing on the lockers to mark their territory yet, but it’s probably just a matter of time.
When the final bell rings the Friday before Thanksgiving, I am a broken woman. I can’t believe we’re dragging them back here for two more days next week. Honestly, what’s the point? Half the teachers are going to show them movies, and no one will be paying any attention.
Also: I could use the week off. For the first time in a while I’ve got disposable income, the time, and… I could go visit Max. I’d have to ask him to see his face and also find out where he lives andalsopay through the nose for an airplane ticket, probably, but Icould. I doubt my parents would even notice if I skipped Thanksgiving this year.
“You look serious,” says a voice that sounds like honey dripping over a velvet painting of Elvis, but in a hot way. “Big algebra thoughts?”
“I was just thinking,” I say, still staring down the hall after the horde passed through it. “What if weneverfind x?”
When I look at James, he’s just blinking skeptically at me.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” he asks. “How long have you had to come up with good lines about math andthat’sthe one you go with?”
“Did you walk all the way over here to ask me dumb questions and then harass me about my answers?” I say, but I’m smiling. I usually am, around James.
“No,” he says, and he’s smiling too, the corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “I just came over to say hi.”
My heart skips a beat. I fight the urge to giggle.
“Oh. Hi,” I say. “Thanksgiving plans?”
“Parents,” he says, and shrugs. “They live around here. You?”
“Same. I think most of my siblings will be there, so it’ll be a zoo.”
“No kidding,” he says. We’ve shared enough about our lives for me to know that James has one older brother, and for him to know I’m the eighth of twelve children.
“I’m used to it,” I say, shrugging.
“Yeah, you must—” James stops, mid-sentence. Staring at something on my chest. Confused, I put my hand to my chest and find the necklace I wore today.
“Be,” he finishes, about ten seconds later. Still staring. “I like your necklace,” he says, but he sounds kind of shellshocked.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m thoroughly weirded out right now. “It’s made of butterfly wings? It’s vintage?”
He drags his eyes to my face. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide as he shoves a hand through his hair, looking like he’s seen a ghost or ten.
