When I was in fifth grade, Rebekah Paulson sat in front of me. She had waist-length jet-black hair that moved like a beaded curtain concealing her face. I would have to sit on my hands just to stop myself from my running my fingers through her hair.
And that’s how I feel now, here with Freddie. I’ve never wanted to touch a boy in the way I want to touch him. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but I’m starting to think that maybe the gist of life is learning how to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.
“Ramona.” He says my name again, but this time it sounds like a plea. “I want to kiss you.”
I bite down hard on my lip. “I want that, too.”
If our first kiss was a polite introduction, this one is a shouting match.
With his head tilted upward and one hand cupped behind my neck, he uses his free hand to pull me flushagainst him. Our feet twist together until I’m pressed against the lockers with a handle digging into my back, but I don’t care.
My hands run across his upper body and over the top of his scalp, begging my fingerprints to leave their mark and to memorize every bit of him.
Kissing him is different, yes. But it’s not. Kissing Freddie doesn’t feel different because he’s a boy, it feels different because he’s Freddie. Kissing him varies in the same way that kissing Grace was different from kissing CarrieAnn or any other girl.
Freddie presses his hips tighter against mine, and then I feel the real difference. I gasp.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. He pulls himself back and almost falls over the bench behind him, but I catch him by his arm.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” I say without hesitation. “I wanted it on Thanksgiving, too.”
He inhales and exhales deeply as if to get his own body back under control.
“We better get going,” I tell him, because if we don’t, I feel like my clothes might not stay on much longer. Adrenaline pumps through my body, and I either have to move or touch him.
Freddie nods quickly, his eyes still wide. He takes my bag from where it sits on the bench and holds a hand out for me. Barefoot, I follow him as he uses his cell phone to guide us back out to the hallway.
The corridor is lit only with faint natural light, makingit easier on our eyes as we emerge from the dark locker room.
We hold hands for a moment longer until we reach the end of the empty, partially lit hallway.
In the car, Agnes is shaking her head. “Bet you got a little scare in there, huh?”
I settle into the front seat. “So dark I couldn’t see my own hand in front of me.”
She glances up at her rearview mirror. “Well, Freddie, what’d you think of your first venture into a women’s locker room?”
“Enlightening,” he says. “Very enlightening.”
TWENTY-THREE
Over the next few days, nothing and everything changes. We’re still Freddie and Ramona, but we’re versions of ourselves who share secret kisses and under-the-table hand holding. When we eat lunch with Ruth or Adam and see Hattie and Saul after school, I marvel at the fact that they don’t see the difference between us. That feeling I get when I’m riding my bike down the steep hill of Freddie’s street is the only way I know how to explain it. The world around me is a blur except for him.
I feel like every moment not spent alone is a race to find some bit of privacy. It’s not that we’re hiding anything, but it seems so odd to announce something to our friends that we can’t even name ourselves.
There is this unexpected guilt every time I kiss Freddie. Like I’m doing him some kind of disservice by not being straight or that I’m somehow betraying Saul and Ruth by kissing a member of the opposite sex. But it’s fleeting, because holding his hand and touching his lips feel like home.
On Thursday afternoon, before last period, I find a note in my locker. I unfold it with care and findMASHwritten across the top of the page in long, skinny penmanship I immediately recognize. I have to bite my lips to hide my smile as I slide the note into my binder and sit in the back row of last period.
After checking to make sure no one is paying attention, I close my eyes and draw a spiral with my pencil at the bottom of the page, counting each line so I know which options to circle.
I raise my hand for a bathroom pass so that I can drop my completed game of MASH in Freddie’s locker. After school, I duck out as quickly as I can. Not because I don’t want to see him, but because for once, it’s nice to be the one being chased.
TWENTY-FOUR
On Friday morning, Freddie and I have locked ourselves in the single-stall restroom at school reserved for handicapped students. No one really uses this bathroom much, though, except to hook up. I used to roll my eyes at couples stumbling out, but oh, how the tables have turned.
I’m sitting on the lip of the sink with my legs spread and Freddie kissing petals down my neck. “I’ve got our matching outfits under control, by the way,” he says, referring to our game of MASH.
