“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.”
“That’s terrible that she made you feel that way.” I got up and walked toward her.
“She didn’t make feel that way. I just didn’t want that life. I always felt like my dad resented her. I don’t know, Matt, I guess I’ve been focused on school so I can stay on track. That’s why I don’t really date. I like what we have, though. There’s no pressure.”
“I get it.”
She might say these words, but I knew she was feeling the increasing tension between us as much as I was. Half the time, I was trying to hide a raging hard-on while she tried to avoid staring at my arms. Who were we kidding?
“Thanks for understanding,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” I bent and kissed her cheek. “You’re a good girl.” I felt her shiver, and then I whispered, “Maybe too good.”
She pushed me back and rolled her eyes. “Night, Matt.”
I watched her saunter down the hall and then I called out to her, “You’re smiling! I know you are, Gracie.”
Without turning around, she held up a peace sign.
7. You Were My Muse
Matt
In lab the next day, Professor Nelson scanned my proof sheet with a huge smile. “Matt, you have such a natural eye. Your composition is perfect and original, like nothing I’m seeing from your peers. I love the graininess and how much you’re willing to push the film. What speed is this and what did you shoot it at?”
“It’s four hundred. I pushed it to thirty-two hundred.”
“Nice. Lots of agitation when you developed the negative, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“This one is fantastic. Is this you?”
I had set up the timer and taken a picture of Grace standing in front of me as I sat on the floor. The only thing in the frame was her legs, just below the bottom of her wool sweater dress. My arms were wrapped around her calves. You can’t see it in the picture, but I’m kissing her knee.
“Have you thought about doing more color, more landscapes—documentary-style stuff?”
“Yeah, I actually shot a roll of color the other day but I haven’t developed it yet. I just really like this subject.” I pointed to Grace.