“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say. “If Chelsea doesn’t get to come, she’ll rat me out to my parents.”
Shane makes a face. “She’s your best friend. You really think she would do that?”
Oh, she absolutely would. Chelsea might be my best friend, but she is always looking out for number one. But for once, I’m sort of glad. Shane and I have been together for three months, and I’m nervous about being all alone with him. I don’t think he even knows I’m still a virgin. He isn’t one—he hasn’t said so, but I’m sure of it. It’s not possible.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’ll be fun to hang out with Chelsea and Brandon.”
Shane doesn’t protest because Brandon is one of his good friends. But he’s not nervous about being alone with me. He seems excited about any time he gets to spend with me. It’s flattering how much he seems to like me. I dated a few guys before, but Shane is my first real boyfriend. He doesn’t even seem to mind that we have to sneak around because my parents don’t approve of him.
I glance at my watch—I told my mother I would be home by five. “I better go.”
“Just another five minutes?”
“Better not.”
I don’t want to give my parents any excuse to tell me I can’t go out tonight. It’s only recently that they have eased up on the restrictions from this summer, when a teenage girl named Tracy Gifford from a neighboring town was found murdered in the woods. For a good month after that, everyone was absolutely terrified. But now it’s four months later, and it’s almost like it never happened. Tracy Gifford was such a big deal, and now it’s like she never existed.
“Okay, fine.” He grabs my shoulder and pulls me close to him. I kiss him, deep and hungry, like we’re in a competition to see who will swallow the other one first. We can’t seem to get enough of each other. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Seeya.”
I start to open the car door, and then I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Brooke?”
I turn to look back at him. “Yes?”
“Brooke, I lope you.”
I can’t help but grin at him. That’s a private joke between the two of us. I was texting him once that I love ice cream, but I mistyped it and I wrote “I lope ice cream.” You would think my phone would auto correct that, but it didn’t. And then it became a joke. I lope french fries. I lope foot rubs. And then a couple of weeks ago, he blurted out:
I lope you, Brooke.
He doesn’t love me. Obviously not. I mean, we’re only seventeen and we’ve only been dating three months. But he lopes me. And that’s almost better than love.
“I lope you too,” I say.
Shane laughs, and he releases my shoulder to let me leave the car. As I slam the door to the Chevy, the whole car shakes. Shane’s car is a piece of junk. He literally got it at the junkyard and used his skills from auto mechanics class to rebuild the engine and get the damn thing running. He painted it, and it looks halfway decent now, but I’m always a little worried it’s just going to die in the middle of the road and I’ll have to walk back to civilization in what will almost certainly be incredibly uncomfortable shoes because that’s just my luck.
But Shane can’t afford a new car. Or even a used car. Even though he works every weekend at the pizza parlor, the only car he can afford is one that he bought from the junkyard.
And now you know why my parents will never approve of him. Because according to them, much like his car, Shane is “trash.”
Shane rolls down the passenger side window of the car. “See you tonight, Brooke! Seven-thirty!”