“I’m having some trouble concentrating on this quiz,” he admits, smiling against my neck.
“Whatever you do, don’t you dare give me another hickey.”
He pretends to bite me, and then he shows me other things besides moon muffins and posole that I didn’t know I was missing, things two people locked in a museum overnight can do with their hands and ngers and a whole lot of ingenuity. ?e boy has every right to be wearing that HOT STUFF cartoon devil patch on his jacket.
Unlike our previous roll in the grass, this touching de nitely is not rated PG, and when Porter offers to do the thing to me that I normally do for myself, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s possibly the most amazing thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. I even return the favor—still pretty amazing, though much more so for him, for obvious reasons.
But wow.
All of that touching wears me out, and it’s two in the morning, which is too late for my blood. I’m wound up in him, arms and legs, and he’s the big spoon to my little spoon, and as I’m dozing off, in and out of consciousness, lights icker. I hear voices. Not alarming voices. No one’s in the museum; we’re still alone. But he’s reached over me and wedged his laptop out of his backpack, and it’s sitting on the velvet cushion above our heads. ?ere’s something playing on the screen.
“What’s going on?” I say, my voice sounding thick to my own ears as I tilt my head upward. I can’t quite open my eyes all the way, but I can make out shapes and moving light through my eyelids.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says in a bone-weary voice. “Is it bothering you? I can’t get to sleep without a movie or TV on.”
“S’ ne,” I slur, snuggling back against him. A few seconds later, I say. “Is that Roman Holiday?”
His deep voice vibrates through my back. “It’s an indie lm. ?ey’re quoting it. Wait, you know Roman Holiday?”
“Pfft,” I say sloppily, too tired to explain my love of lm. “Question is, how do you know Roman Holiday?”
“My grandma—my mom’s mother—lived with us before she died. She’d stay up late watching movies in the den, and when I was a kid, I’d fall asleep in her lap on the couch.”
How funny. ?at’s how he knew about Breakfast at Tiffany’s, too. “Maybe you and I have more in common than you think,” I say before I drift into dreams.
“Life does not stop and start at your convenience.”
—John Goodman, ?e Big Lebowski (1998)
21
Porter was right. I get out of the museum in plenty of time to beat dad home from his trip. I’m so tired, I even go back to sleep for a few more hours. When I wake a second time, it’s almost time for me to get ready for another shift at the Cave, which is crazy. I might as well just move in there. But it’s hard to be too sour about it, because I spent the night with a boy.
SPENT.
NIGHT.
BOY.
?at’s right. I did that. I did some other things too, and they were all excellent. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I don’t even care that I have to spend four hours in the Hotbox. At least I don’t have to work a full shift today.
I shower and dress before bounding downstairs just in time to run into Dad and Wanda returning from San Francisco. Talk about two exhausted people. ?ey look happy, though. I don’t really want to know what they did all night, so I don’t pry. But they dig around in the trunk of my dad’s muscle car until they
nd the gifts they bought for me: a leopard-print scarf and a pair
of matching sunglasses.
“To go with Baby,” my dad says, looking hopeful but unsure.
“?e scarf is to cover up any future hickeys,” Wanda adds, one side of her mouth tilting up.
Oh, God. Her, too? Does everyone know? My dad tries to repress a smile. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s sort of funny, you have to admit.”
Wanda crosses her arms over her chest. “Own it, I say. If your dad gave me a hickey and anyone at the station gave me grief, I’d tell them where they could go. I picked out the sunglasses, by the way.”
I sigh deeply and slide them on. ?e lenses are dark and huge, brand-new, but very Italian retro cool. “?ey’re fantastic, thank you. And I hate both of you for the scarf, but it’s still awesome. Stop looking at my neck, Dad. ?ere are no new hickeys.” I checked just to be sure.
After they give me a brie ng of their day in the Bay Area, I race out the door and drive back to the Cave. I know Porter’s working, and I’m zipping and oating, high as a kite, eager to see him again. I want to know if he feels as good as I feel after last night. I also want to see Grace and tell her how crazy things were. ?ough this time, I don’t think I’ll be sharing so many details. Some things are meant to be private. What happens in Room 1001 stays in Room 1001.
