“Wait till you hear what Conner Lee did in glassblowing,” she sang. Gracie scrunched up her nose. “Why do they do this to us? Sloppy joes are an assault on our digestive systems.”
She tugged me toward the buffet line, where a hot wave of mixed meat made my stomach turn even more. I looked back, seeing Asher’s lanky frame lingering in the doorway. He glanced around the dining hall quickly, and then curved his body outside, disappearing behind the closing door. I felt it for the first time: a pang of romantic heartache. A puzzling uneasiness settled inside my gut.
Ten minutes later, I sat squished toward the edge of a long wooden table, anxiously force-feeding myself crinkle fries. I had just divulged Asher’s bizarre behavior to my bunkmates, and I was waiting for them to tell me something hopeful, anything to make the growing knot in my chest disappear.
Gracie stuck a bobby pin in her wild magenta hair and leaned back with a booming laugh. “He wants to have sex with you tonight,” she said, biting her pierced lip for juicy effect. No one loved the idea of a good story more than Gracie. She was here working on her playwriting—and we were all subject to her wild theories. I shook my head and rolled my eyes.
“No he doesn’t. He—” My throat closed up with the memory of my hand tugging at the elastic of Asher’s shorts, just moments ago. His fingers under my shirt. His body hard against me.
“Oooh my God. Does he?” I searched around the table for confirmation, scanning all the shit-eating grins. My eyes stopped when they got to our cabin sexpert, Pria, who had lost her virginity two weeks before camp. “Pria?”
Pria set her chin on her hand and leaned forward. There was oil paint on her cheek and under her nails. “A hundred percent,” she said. “You better shave your vag tonight. I can help you prep if you want. Want me to give you an artsy vag? I can do a heart or something, depending on what canvas I’m working with.”
I hesitated, picturing Pria using my pubic hair as her latest art project. “I’m good, thanks,” I said.
But I was not good. The fries inside my stomach were bubbling to the surface. I showed up to camp Prepared with a capital P. I had spent all nine months fantasizing about Doing It with Asher. I had a journal full of weird sex tips I’d torn out of Cosmopolitan. I had a runway and I was ready for landing! So why was there suddenly a wave of terror spreading across my limbs? I set my arms across my chest and inhaled deeply, trying to push my shoulders back, but it didn’t help. While I had confidently found my voice, a new kind of stage fright had hopped aboard.
17
FIFTEEN
I GRABBED MY FLASHLIGHT AND quietly edged myself down off the top bunk. Most nights, I tiptoed out of our cabin like a spy, and then sprinted past the rows of cherry-red bunks, through the fields to get to the dock at the lake, giddy to run into Asher’s arms. But as I made my way toward the lake, my feet moved slower, each step making my heart pound faster against my rib cage and louder in my ear.
I took in the full moon hanging over the small lake, with miles of dense trees behind the water’s edge. Fireflies danced overhead, and it was the perfect night to seal the deal with the perfect guy under a sky full of stars, except for the fact that I felt like I might be dying.
My throat was closing up with panic. I set my hand under my shirt, pressing my fingers onto my belly button and drawing in a deep inhale. I exhaled slowly through my mouth—a “sing with your diaphragm” exercise that my vocal coach had taught me. I’m not sure what kind of result I expected from a basic singing drill, but as thick muggy air swirled in my lungs, I wasn’t ready to sing or get naked.
Asher’s silhouette on the dock’s edge turned to life as I stepped closer to his body. He came into crisp view—kicking a hacky sack on his ankle, while muttering his monologue to himself.
“Hey,” I cracked, as my flip-flops slapped the dock.
He turned, catching the hacky sack in midair. His shoulders dropped at my presence, a relieved grin splashed on his face.
“You made it,” he said.
I painted on a smile and walked toward him, clenching my fists to try and get my fingers to stop shaking as he wrapped his arms around me. His body was cool against my sweltering skin, and the feeling of his chest rising and falling against mine only made my heart pound faster. I inhaled the scent of wildflowers and musky citrus on his damp hair, arching back and twisting my curls up into a bun, curiously avoiding eye contact with the one person whose eyes felt like home.
“Circus camp?” he said, raising his brows suggestively and taking my hand in his.
The circus camp was the ideal makeout spot, once you got past the terror of oversized clown paintings on the wall. Soft gymnastic floor mats were stretched over two-thirds of the room. It was the most likely place I would lose my virginity, and I came to camp this summer prepared to do just that. So why wasn’t I tugging his body there? Why was I dropping his hand? Why was I inching away from his outstretched palms? Why was I stepping out of my sandals? Why were my toes curled around the edge of this dock? I felt a rush of blood to my head—heat blinding my vision with white spots as my throat closed. I had none of the answers. All that I knew: the only way to breathe was to jump.
The cool lake water hit my body like a fever breaking—splintering against my summer skin. I came up for air, cutting past the surface with a desperate inhale—taking in the familiar scent of a muddy rainstorm.
Asher stood on the dock, looming over me with his head bent in confusion.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Solid question.
“Swimming?”
“It’s pitch black down there.”
“It’s a man-made lake. It’s not like there are monsters in here.”
He stared at me, waiting for a better answer. “You just…jumped in,” he said in disbelief.
“What can I say? I’m an enigma.”
I wasn’t. I was an open book begging to be read. Asher was the mysterious one. But I guess tonight he was unaware that I had jumped into dark waters because it felt like a less-scary alternative than getting naked in front of him.
He tugged his shirt off and sat at the edge of the dock, lowering his perfect abs into the water on the side ladder. He was always so cautious, testing the waters before he dove in. I rolled my eyes as his torso delicately met the lake. He waded toward me, and on instinct, I splashed my hand against the moonlit water—as if acting like a toddler could delay becoming a woman.
He blinked the water back from his thick lashes, glaring at me with liquid dripping down his striking jawline.
“Come here,” he demanded, tugging the hem of my T-shirt, bringing me against his body.
His fingers went into my drenched curls, pulling my face toward his. Our lips were cold, our tongues were white hot, and I lost myself in his kiss, until I felt his mouth leave mine. The heat of his breath was now on my neck, his hand grazing up my torso.
“Wait,” I said.
I sucked on my lower lip and pulled back from him, leaving his mouth parted in front of me.
“I’m—I’m not ready.”
My mouth hung open as I felt every joint in my body exhale with the truth: I wasn’t ready to have sex. The air around me shifted, straightening my spine to the moon. I was not ready for something I thought I wanted, and I felt no shame. This was not stage fright.