The Opposite of Innocent

“Besides,” he adds, “we’ll be much more

  comfy on the couch than in my tiny bed.”

  Then he scoops me into his arms

  and carries me over the threshold

  like I’m his bride.

  As We Cross the Room

  Heading

  toward

  the couch,

  I realize

  that I’m holding

  my breath.

  Mom and Dad’s eyes

  are following me

  from every picture frame,

  their

  smiles

  fading . . .

  And with each step Luke takes,

  the distance between the doorway

  and the destination seems to

  widen—

  like this is all

  just a strange dream . . .

  Then Somehow—We’re There

  And he’s lowering me

  onto the cushions.

  So gently,

  as if I’m made of glass.

  And now he’s darting

  from window to window,

  closing

  the curtains.

  The room’s getting darker,

  but there’s still enough light

  for me to see

  those family photos.

  For me to see

  my parents staring at me.

  Luke sits down next to me,

  and murmurs,

  “Alone at last.”

  He Looks into My Eyes

  He tells me

  how beautiful I am.

  How perfect.

  He starts

  kissing my neck,

  then kissing my shoulder,

  then kissing

  his way down

  my arm,

  kissing

  and kissing and kissing

  till he reaches my hand.

  Then he spreads open my palm,

  pressing his lips into the center of it.

  It’s so romantic, I can hardly stand it.

  And now,

  it’s not just my throat

  that’s on fire.

  But All of a Sudden

  Luke stops kissing my palm

  and presses my hand down onto his knee.

  He sucks in

  a sharp breath.

  Then he takes hold of my wrist

  and begins guiding my fingers,

  guiding them

  up along his thigh,

  guiding them

  so slowly . . .

  up . . . and up . . .

  and up . . .

  toward . . .

  toward . . .

  His Crotch!

  Wait . . .

  What?

  This isn’t

  what was supposed to happen.

  He hasn’t even

  touched my breasts yet.

  Not even

  the outside of my T-shirt.

  I’ve listened to enough

  of Rose’s descriptions

  of what she did (and didn’t do)

  with the guys she’s dated

  to know

  that some major steps

  are being skipped right over.

  And That’s When I Remember

  I remember what Taylor

  told Rose and me about Evan.

  How he knew it was right because

  his body and his mind and his heart

  were all saying

  just one word.

  And I realize that my body

  is saying, “I’m not ready for this.”

  My mind is saying, “Not here,

  with my parents watching.”

  And my heart?

  My heart doesn’t know what to say.

  I Try to Pull Away

  But Luke just tightens his grip

  on my wrist

  and starts murmuring

  about how long he’s waited,

  how long he’s waited

  for me to touch him like this,

  and about how the kissing’s been lovely,

  the kissing’s been brilliant,

  but a man needs more,

  more than kissing,

  and he’ll go mad,

  stark raving mad

  if we don’t take things

  to the next level.

  Then suddenly—

  he reaches down with his free hand

  and with

  one smooth motion,

  he unzips his fly.

  But

  Just as he’s about

  to press my hand down

  onto his boxers,

  I hear

  myself saying, “Stop!”

  in this weird strangled voice.

  And that’s when

  I finally manage to wrench

  my wrist free.

  Luke lets out this awful groan.

  I shrink away from him,

  pulling my knees up to my chest.

  He rakes his fingers through his hair.

  “I don’t get it,” he says.

  “I thought you cared about me.

  I thought you wanted to make me feel good.

  I thought you were a woman.

  But maybe you’re still

  just a kid.”

  His Words Burn

  Like a slap across the face.

  “I’m not a kid, Luke. I’m not.”

  “Then please, Lily. Touch me.

  Touch me like a woman touches a man.”

  I look into his dark eyes

  and realize there’s tears in them.

  Tears.

  I can’t stand it.

  I can’t stand

  making Luke this unhappy.

  I squeeze my eyes closed,

  so I can’t see my parents watching.

  Then I grit my teeth

  and let him ease my hand onto him,

  fighting back tears

  of my own.

  He Moans

  And whispers the words I’ve waited

  all my life to hear him say:

  “I love you, Lily.

  I love you . . . I love you . . .”

  My heart feels like

  it’s going to burst.

  “I love you too, Luke.

  I love you so much.”

  But I don’t understand

  how a person

  can feel so awesome

  and so awful

  at the exact same time.

  He Sighs

  Like he’s never

  felt anything so good in his life.

  Then suddenly he gasps,

  and scrunches up his face,

  almost like he’s in agony

  or something.

  A second later,

  his head drops back against the couch,

  and I realize

  he’s finished.

  As he sits there with his eyes closed,

  catching his breath,

  I get this weird feeling—

  like he’s forgotten I’m even here.

  And a couple of minutes after that,

  his mouth falls open, and he starts snoring.

  I turn away from him and curl up

  into a ball on the cushion beside him.

  The Next Morning in Photography

  Mr. Lewis wanders around the room,

  snapping photos of our hands.

  “Our hands are full of stories,” he says.

  “Stories about what they’ve made,

  what they’ve held, what they’ve touched . . .”

  My cheeks blaze as I flash on what mine

  were touching just yesterday.

  “Our hands are our autobiographies,”

  he says. “Show me a man’s hands

  and I’ll show you his passions.”

  “Oooo . . . ,” some loser behind me snickers.

  “I’d rather see a woman’s passions.”

  Mr. Lewis whirls around to face him.

  Th
en he gives the kid the finger!

  The class sits here in stunned silence.

  “You see?” Mr. L says. “My hand told him

  the whole story with one simple gesture.”

  And we all crack up.

  Then he asks us to study the hands of the person

  sitting next to us, to see what we can learn.

  Presley and I exchange a glance.

  I have to fight the urge to sit on mine,

  to keep him from seeing them.

  Because I mean, what if, you know,

  it shows?

  But Then

  I tell myself

  to stop being ridiculous.

  And when

  Presley says, “You first,”

  I put one thumb in each of my ears

  and waggle my fingers at him.

  “Hmmm,” he says, stroking his chin.

  “I see you’ve had a very . . . a very silly life.”

  I cross my eyes and he laughs.

  So I laugh too.

  And

  I’m not sure why,

  but joking around with Presley,

  with a boy my own age—

  makes me feel like a bird

  that’s been freed from its cage.

  At Lunch with the Triatomics

  Taylor says he and Evan are brainstorming

  ways to use chemistry to stop global warming.

  He says they still can’t believe Trump

  pulled out of the Paris Climate Accord.

  He says Trump’s sure got a lot of nerve.

  Then Rose points out

  that “nerve” rhymes with “perv.”

  And Taylor asks if I’m still seeing mine.

  This sort of thing

  happens all the time lately.

  They always manage to work

  the conversation around to Luke.

  They won’t stop grilling me,

  and giving me these penetrating looks,

  like they’re trying to see into

  the very depths of my being.

  Though I’ve gotten

  so good at rolling my eyes,

  so good at laughing off

  their endless questions,

  so good

  at convincing them

  their imaginations are working overtime,

  that sometimes I even believe me.

  Luke Isn’t Able to Get Me Alone Again

  Till Wednesday, when Mom goes to the dentist.

  He picks Alice and me up from school,

  then drops her off at ballet.

  “We better hurry,” he says,

  giving my knee a quick squeeze.

  “Her class will be over in forty-five minutes.”

  He steps on the gas, pushing every red light,

  till we’re back at the deserted

  rooftop parking lot at the mall.

  He ushers me into the backseat with him,

  kisses me for a while, then unzips his pants

  and asks me to do the same thing I did last time.

  When I reach for him, he moans,

  then locks his hands behind his head

  and starts telling me he loves me.

  But I can’t figure out

  why I feel so . . . so . . . Oh, I don’t know.

  Sort of lonely, I guess.

  I mean, he’s saying he loves me.

  But does he love me?

  Or what I’m doing to him?

  Love Is Strange

  Stranger

  than it is

  in books.

  Not anything

  like it is

  in books.

  Not to Mention Confusing

  I mean,

  I should feel happy

  that Luke wants to be alone with me so often.

  Shouldn’t I?

  So how come when he picked me up

  after school today and told me we could

  sneak off to the parking lot for an hour,

  I felt the opposite of happy?

  When we got there,

  he tugged me into the backseat,

  unzipped his fly, and asked me to do

  the same thing as the last two times.

  But even though he said he loved me,

  being with him didn’t seem

  as romantic as it used to be—

  back when all we were doing was kissing.

  And his kisses felt . . . different today.

  He pressed so hard it was like

  he was trying to pulverize my lips

  with his.

  So hard I wanted to pull away

  and say, “You’re hurting me!”

  But he might have thought

  I was acting like a kid if I did that.

  On Sunday

  Dad finally decides to take some time off.

  So the whole family, plus Luke,

  spends the morning together.

  We rake up the oak leaves in the front yard

  into an enormous pile.

  Then we all leap into it—even Dad.

  Luke throws a handful of leaves at me,

  and then everyone’s throwing leaves

  at everyone else,

  and we’re laughing and shouting

  and leaves are fluttering down all around us

  like pieces of golden confetti.

  And for once, Luke doesn’t even try

  to shoot me any secret glances.

  But I don’t miss them one bit.

  The truth is,

  it feels great to just

  be having fun with him—

  to just relax and not have to deal

  with that constant tightness in my chest,

  that constant pressure I feel

  whenever Luke and I are alone.

  Which Luke Thinks Isn’t Nearly Often Enough

  We’ve been

  meeting in secret

  for a couple of weeks now.

  Last week, he only managed

  to take me to the parking lot twice.

  Which was two times more than I wanted to go.

  But today when we went, there was

  caution tape stretched across the entrance.

  And a sign saying the mall is officially closed.

  Luke banged his hands

  on the steering wheel

  and cursed.

  I heaved a secret sigh of relief.

  “Guess we’ll have to improvise,” he said,

  more to himself than to me.

  Then he drove us down

  the dirt road that winds into the woods

  behind the 7-Eleven.

  And for some reason,

  doing it to him there made me feel

  even lonelier than usual.

  Now That the Mall Is Closed

  It seems like all week long

  when I’m at school and Luke’s

  supposedly out looking for apartments,

  or writing up his research

  for the foundation

  that sent him to Kenya,

  he’s really just driving around,

  scouring the city for places where we can

  “have our privacy,” as he refers to it.

  I refer to it

  as places where he can

  “get me to do it to him.”

  God.

  I can’t believe I just said that.

  I sound so cynical.

  I don’t think

  I like the person

  I’m becoming.

  In Photography

  Today Mr. Lewis says

  he wants us to take portraits of each other.

  Then he pops his camera into my hands.

  and asks me to study him through the lens.

  I swing it up to my eye and take a look.

  “What do you see?” he asks.

  “I mean, besides my beautiful brown skin?”

  The class laughs.

  “Well,” I say. “I see . . . I see the li
ght

  from the window reflected in your eyes.”

  “Excellent observation,” he says.

  “And today, while you’re shooting your portraits,

  I want all of you to focus on the eyes.

  The eyes aren’t just the windows to the soul.

  The eyes are the soul.”

  Then he begins pairing students up

  and sending them out the door with their cameras.

  “Don’t just look,” he calls after them. “See!

  Let your eyes see the secrets in theirs.”

  And then—

  Presley asks Mr. L if we can be partners.

  As Soon as We Get Outside

  He turns to me and says,

  “I promise not to let you see my secrets,

  if you promise not to let me see yours.”

  “Deal,” I say. And we both laugh.

  Then I admit that I hate

  having my picture taken.

  “My smile always feels so fake,” I say.

  “like it’s been taped onto my face.”

  And Presley says

  he feels the same way.

  And I’m not really sure whose idea it is

  to do what we do next.

  But we find

  an old People magazine on a bench,

  and start leafing through it

  for smiles.

  Then

  we tear them out,

  hold them up in front of our mouths,

  and snap portraits of each other.

  I wiggle my eyebrows and Presley starts laughing,

  letting his paper smile fall from his face.

  And that’s when I snap a picture of his real one.

  And I can’t help thinking how nice it is.

  And When the Bell Rings

  And Presley asks me for my number,

  so we can send each other

  our favorite shots later,

  I don’t think anything of it . . .

  Now, it’s almost midnight.

  And I’ve been lying on my bed,

  looking at the pictures we took

  of each other.

  We both look so . . .

  so relaxed . . .

  so happy . . .

  so young . . .

  And when my phone buzzes and it’s Presley,

  texting to ask if I want to check out the new

  photo exhibit at the museum on Saturday,

  I text back Yes! without even thinking.

  Because it’ll just be two friends,