“Come on, tell me. I won’t judge you.”
“I stole forty dollars from my neighbor,” she mumbled into the blankets.
“For what? Come on, tell me. It’s part of the game.”
“I don’t like this game anymore.”
I rolled her over to face me. “What was it?”
She looked up into my eyes. “I stole it to buy my senior yearbook, okay? I feel like a total asshole and I have every intention of paying her back.”
My heart ached for her. I had no idea what it was like not to be able to ask my parents for forty dollars. She had stolen money to buy herself a yearbook, of all things—something most kids take for granted. How sad. “Let’s play something else,” I said. “How about Fuck, Marry, Kill?”
She perked up. “Okay. Yours are... let me think, um... Courtney Love, Pamela Anderson, and Jennifer Aniston.”
“Ugh, kill, kill, kill.”
“Seriously, you psychopath, you have to answer.” She bonked me on the head with her palm.
“All right, kill Courtney—that’s a given—fuck Pamela, and marry Jennifer. There! Your turn. Bill Clinton, Spike Lee, and me.”
“Ha! That’s easy. Fuck Bill, marry Spike, and kill you.”
“You’re a terrible, mean girl.”
“You love me.” She sat up to leave.
“Grace?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing.” I wanted to ask her what was going on with us. I wanted to know if we could be more than friends. I turned back and looked out the window.
She plopped down onto my bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “I guess I’d marry you.”
“Really? I was hoping it would go more like, kill Bill, marry Spike...”
“Ha!” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re a good guy.”
I wanted an award for the insane amount of restraint I had shown so far. My lips flattened. “That’s it?”
“What are you fishing for, Shore?”
“I’m not fishing for anything, Grace. I feel like sometimes this”—I waved my hand between us—“it’s unnatural.”
“This what? Us being friends?”
I laughed. “Yeah, kind of.” I worked very hard to avoid the sex question but I would often catch Grace staring when I changed my shirt or when I put a belt on. It was hard for me not to think she wanted me as much as I wanted her. And I was becoming secretly possessive of her. I could see how men looked at her without her even knowing it, and I was terrified that she was going to give herself to some dickhead with no heart.
She stood and headed for the door. Just before she reached for the knob, she turned and leaned against it. Her eyes fell to her feet. “Don’t pressure me.” She looked up and met my gaze. “Okay?” She wasn’t irritated. Her expression was sincere, almost like she was begging.
“I haven’t.”
“I know.” She smiled. “That’s why I like you so much.”
“Did something happen to you? Is that why...”
“No, nothing like that. My mom had me when she was eighteen. I don’t know, I guess in some ways I felt like I ruined her life.”
