Christa wrapped her arms around her chest and swiveled her head from side to side. Checking to see if anyone was listening, probably. I tried to think back to see if I’d said anything incriminating.
Wait, though—incriminating? Not wanting your family to know was one thing, but Christa was acting as though there was something wrong with just talking to me. Even though the night we’d met, she’d been the one acting all flirty.
“This isn’t about him,” Christa whispered. “We’re taking a break, remember? I’m only saying that it’s really convenient when I don’t have to worry about my parents finding out I’m, you know, not completely straight.”
“Would it be so terrible if they did? I mean, they’re going to have to know eventually, right?”
I realized as I said it, though, that her parents didn’t have to find out, not ever. That was the thing about being bi. If Christa only ever told them about going out with guys, she really could keep it a secret forever.
I guess that was true for me, too. I’d been thinking of coming out to my parents as inevitable, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I could stay hidden, too, if I wanted to.
Did I want to?
“You don’t understand.” Christa turned to look me right in the eyes. “My parents aren’t cool the way your dad is. After I first got my period, my mom sat me down and gave me a speech about how I had to make absolutely sure I never had sex, because if I got pregnant, they wouldn’t support me. That’s literally what she said. ‘We won’t support you.’”
Wow. I couldn’t imagine my parents saying anything that awful. Not that they’d love me getting pregnant or anything, but they’d help me if it happened, I was sure of that much. “Have they said specific stuff about what would happen if you were gay?”
“No, but I can guess. They won’t let my brother and me watch any shows with gay characters, even stupid sitcoms. They say shows like that ‘promote an amoral agenda.’ Once when I posted a photo I took of a crowd on the Fourth of July that had two men holding hands in the background, they confiscated my phone and took down my whole Instagram account until I promised to delete the picture.”
“Wow. I’m sorry. That’s really awful.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m so obsessive about this stuff. If they found out I liked girls, they might—I don’t even want to guess. Ground me forever? Refuse to pay for college? Honestly, I don’t know, and I really want to make sure I don’t find out.”
Now I felt bad for being annoyed at her.
We were almost at the entrance of the church. Only a few people were still outside, and they were all way too engrossed in their own conversations to listen to us.
“Look.” My heart was pounding so hard it was embarrassing. “I—Look, you know... I like you, okay? And it’s okay if you don’t actually like me that much. I mean, I know you already have a boyfriend and everything—it’s only that last night I thought maybe you kind of did, you know, like me. So...”
Christa stopped walking. I stopped, too. She stared at me.
Then she looked around. Almost everyone had disappeared into the darkness of the church.
Christa grabbed my hand and ran, pulling me behind her.
I stumbled after her, trying to figure out what she was doing, trying to figure out how to ask. Then she pulled me behind the dark church wall and kissed me, hard.
It was totally different from our kisses the night before. Those had been slow and warm and sweet.
This one was fierce. Visceral.
It took me a second to start kissing her back, but once I did, I couldn’t stop. She was delicious. She was incredible. And for that moment, she was all mine.
She pushed me against the cement wall. It was hard and cold against my back. Somehow that felt incredible, too.
We were crushed together, her hand tight on the back of my neck, my hand on her hip holding her in place. I’d never kissed anyone like this before. As if I was kissing her with my whole body.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew that anyone could walk out and see us at any moment. That idea only made me wrap my arm around her waist and hold her even closer.
She slid down so she was kissing my neck, moving back to my ear. The sudden shock of air on my lips was so intense that I had to do something. Say something. I murmured, low, unintelligible words. I wasn’t even sure what they were. Oh, my God, maybe.
That tiny murmur must’ve been what snapped her out of it. Christa pulled back a few inches, her eyes blinking into consciousness.
I gazed back at her. I don’t know how my face looked—I felt lost, dazed, unfocused—but hers was beautiful.
Her eyes tore away from mine, darting left, then right. There was no one around.
“We should go someplace else,” Christa whispered.
I nodded. “There are hills around here, too.”
So we walked out into the dark hills that rimmed the town. I reached for her hand, the muscles in my fingers twitching, afraid she’d pull away.
She didn’t. She jumped as I slipped my hand into hers, but then she intertwined her fingers with mine and squeezed.
And somehow, it was everything, that single squeeze.
That squeeze meant I hadn’t made this up in my head. This weird thing that I felt—I didn’t know what it was exactly, but now I knew she felt it, too.
We climbed the hill into the little valley. Our little valley. I slipped my arms around her neck and she kissed me, again, slower and lighter than before.
We didn’t need to hurry. We had all the time there was.
Maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t only an experiment. Maybe this was something else altogether.
Maybe it was even something real.
“¡Oye, mira por aquí!”
“¡Volver!”
Two boys, maybe nine years old, were shouting to each other across a dusty street, kicking a soccer ball back and forth between them. A third boy joined in and they took off down the block. My friends and I ducked out of the way just in time to avoid getting slammed by either a ball or a kid.
“Ahh-ki!” someone shouted. At first I thought it was one of the girls from our group—half of them still pronounced my name wrong—but it was Juana Suarez from our jewelry-making class. We’d started having lunch at the Suarezes’ house every afternoon, and Juana’s mom was an amazing cook (that was according to Christa—I was still mostly sticking with my toast). Her dad played the guitar for us at vespers, and he was teaching Juana to play, too. She’d explained that to Lori and me one afternoon by singing
