romantics get burned.
Whoa. Where’s the fire?
Jen P was right. You can fall in love with a guy you don’t know.
That summer when I was thirteen, Maggie and I used to hang out at Castlebury Falls. There was a rock cliff where the boys would dive into a deep pool, and sometimes Sebastian was there, showing off, while Maggie and I sat on the other side of the river.
“Go on,” Maggie would urge. “You’re a better diver than those boys.” I’d shake my head, my arms wrapped protectively around my knees. I was too shy. The thought of being seen was terrifying.
I didn’t mind watching, though. I couldn’t take my eyes off Sebastian as he scrambled up the side of the rock, sleek and sure-footed. At the top, there was horseplay between the boys, as they jostled one another and hooted dares, demanding increasing feats of skill. Sebastian was always the bravest, climbing higher than the other boys and launching himself into the water with a fearlessness that told me he had never thought about death.
He was free.
He’s the one. The Big Love.
And then I forgot about him.
Until now.
I find the soiled rejection letter from The New School and put it in the drawer with the story about the girl who gave away her kidney. I rest my chin in my hands and stare at the typewriter.
Something good has to happen to me this year. It just does.
“Maggie, get out of the car.”
“I can’t.”
“Please—”
“What’s wrong now?”Walt asks.
“I need a cigarette.”
Maggie, Walt, and I are sitting in Maggie’s car, which is parked in the cul-de-sac at the end of Tommy’s street. We’ve been in the car for at least fifteen minutes, because Maggie is paranoid about crowds and refuses to get out of the car when we go to parties. On the other hand, she does have the best car. It’s a gigantic gas-guzzling Cadillac that fits about nine people and has a quadraphonic stereo and a glove compartment filled with her mother’s cigarettes.
“You’ve smoked three cigarettes already.”
“I don’t feel good,” Maggie moans.
“Maybe you’d feel better if you hadn’t smoked all those cigarettes at once,” I say, wondering if Maggie’s mother notices that every time Maggie gives the car back, about a hundred cigarettes are missing. I did ask Maggie about it once, but she only rolled her eyes and said her mother was so clueless, she wouldn’t notice if a bomb blew up in their house. “Come on,” I coax her. “You know you’re just scared.”
She frowns. “We’re not even invited to this party.”
“We’re not not invited. So that means we’re invited.”
“I can’t stand Tommy Brewster,” she mutters, and crosses her arms.
“Since when do you have to like someone to go to their party?”Walt points out.
Maggie glares and Walt throws up his hands. “I’ve had enough,” he says. “I’m going in.”
“Me too,” I say suddenly. We slide out of the car. Maggie looks at us through the windshield and lights up another cigarette. Then she pointedly locks all four doors.
I make a face. “Do you want me to stay with her?”
“Do you want to sit in the car all night?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither,” Walt says. “And I don’t plan to indulge in this ridiculousness for the rest of senior year.”
I’m surprised by Walt’s vehemence. He usually tolerates Maggie’s neuroses without complaint.
“I mean, what’s going to happen to her?” he adds. “She’s going to back into a tree?”
“You’re right.” I look around. “There aren’t any trees.”
We start walking up the street to Tommy’s house. The one good thing about Castlebury is that even if it’s boring, it’s beautiful in its own way. Even here, in this brand-new development with hardly any trees, the grass on the lawns is bright green and the street is like a crisp black ribbon. The air is warm and there’s a full moon. The light illuminates the houses and the fields beyond; in October, they’ll be full of pumpkins.
“Are you and Maggie having problems?”
“I don’t know,” Walt says. “She’s being a huge pain in the ass. I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. We used to be fun.”
“Maybe she’s going through a phase.”
“She’s been going through a phase all summer. And it’s not like I don’t have my own problems to worry about.”
“Like what?”
“Like everything?” he says.
“Are you guys having sex too?” I ask suddenly. If you want to get information out of someone, ask them unexpectedly. They’re usually so shocked by the question, they’ll tell you the truth.
“Third base,”Walt admits.
“That’s it?”
“I’m not sure I want to go any further.”
I hoot, not believing him. “Isn’t that all guys think about? Going further?”
“Depends on what kind of guy you are,” he says.
Loud music—Jethro Tull—is threatening to shake Tommy’s house down. We’re about to go in, when a fast yellow car roars up the street, spins around in the cul-de-sac, and comes to rest at the curb behind us.
“Who the hell is that?” Walt asks, annoyed.
“I have no idea. But yellow is a much cooler color than red.”
“Do we know anyone who drives a yellow Corvette?”
“Nope,” I say in wonder.
I love Corvettes. Partly because my father thinks they’re trashy, but mostly because in my conservative town, they’re glamorous and a sign that the person who drives one just doesn’t care what other people think. There’s a Corvette body shop in my town, and every time I pass it, I pick out which Corvette I’d drive if I had the choice. But then one day my father
