Last Stand (6 page)

The hand on the oversize clock hanging from the ceiling jumps from 7:25 to 7:26 as I head toward my own locker.

Who am I kidding?

Amber’s always been a drama queen. Independent, smart, and a hell of a clarinet player, but a drama queen. Never about me—not before this—but judging by all the drama she had with Connor, and the way she revels in telling me all the details about what’s going on with each of her friends, well, there’s no telling if it’ll blow over.

For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe it’s okay if it
doesn’t
blow over. I love her like mad, but the way we were last year. When we were going through the day-to-day routine at school. Cuddling at football games, hanging out and playing Trivial Pursuit with our friends like the dorks that we are. Before Sophomore Blast. Before Friendly’s, before our anniversary.

When I get to my locker, Ginger’s standing at hers, hanging up her coat. I smile hello, empty the contents of my backpack into the locker, then grab my books for second period Spanish so I can go straight there after band.

“Work things out?”

I pause and frown around my locker door at Ginger. I almost didn’t hear her over the clanging locker doors and the knot of girls standing nearby gushing over someone’s new purse.

She shuts her locker and takes a step closer to me. Her hair’s clipped back over both ears today. Cute. “With Amber,” she clarifies. “I assume everything’s okay?”

“Griff’s voice carries, huh?”

One side of her mouth quirks into a grin. “Yep. No one else heard, though. The stacks were empty other than the three of us.”

“That’s a relief.” I play with the strap on my backpack, but stop when I realize it probably makes me look like I’m not-so-relieved about what’s going on with Amber. “Doesn’t matter though. Everything’s fine.”

“Good. Didn’t mean to butt into your business by asking, but you’re a nice guy. Don’t want to see you hurt or anything.”

I smile and thank her, but have to wonder: When girls say this, do they realize it’s
not
a compliment? No guy wants to be told he’s “nice” because it translates to, “You’re worthy of my friendship, but not hot enough to be going-out material.” It’s doubly bad when it comes from someone who’s pretty average herself, like Ginger Grass, because if she thinks I’m a “nice guy” it means I’m pretty much invisible to girls who occupy the higher social strata.

She starts to walk past me, to join the current of people navigating the hallway, but pauses to say, “Don’t forget that you promised me some Skittles. Doesn’t matter how nice you are, I still want ‘em.”

“No problem.” I never did open the bag yesterday when we were having lunch in the library. I lean down and snag them from the side pocket of my backpack to toss them to her, but when I look up, she’s gone.

During band, I keep my focus on my sheet music, making sure to avoid direct eye contact with Amber. I have no idea what to say to her later, no idea what to expect, and I don’t want to telegraph anything she’ll take the wrong way.

It pisses me off that I’m spending an entire hour feeling like I have to
not
look at her.

• • •

It occurs to me when Griff and I are midway through the lunch line that if I meet Amber, I’m going to be late to cross country. I must’ve been in a complete brain fog this morning not to realize it.

“Stromboli,” Griff groans. Just the thing to top off my day. It’s actually called “Special Italian Stromboli” on the school lunch menu. Sadly, it is neither special nor Italian (the land of Julius Caesar, Michelangelo and Enrico Fermi would never claim those lumps of bad pastry and mystery meat.) Since I’ve never tried stromboli anywhere but the West Rollins High School cafeteria, I question whether it’s even stromboli. But I take one anyway, add a salad, then scan the room as Griff and I walk to an open table.

I don’t see Amber anywhere in the caf, so I assume she went somewhere with Meghan and Christy, her usual partners in crime. In between bites of salad, I text her asking if we can meet up later, either at my house or hers. Coach Jessup doesn’t accept absences unless you’re so sick you missed school, you’re hurt and running will aggravate the injury, or you have a death in the family. Unless your name is Griff Osterman, of course. In that case, as long as you drag your sorry carcass to practice more often than not and make it to the meets to earn points for the team, you’re golden. If I miss cross country, I’m screwed.

But when the last bell rings and I check my cell, there’s still no reply from Amber.

• • •

By the time I spot Amber in the parking lot, I’ve worked my way from mild annoyance to flat-out pissed-offedness. I don’t care if pissed-offedness isn’t a word, I’m so pissed. She’s standing next to the open rear door of Meghan’s red Dodge, flipping through a pile of papers. As I make my way across the asphalt, she stuffs a few of the papers in her backpack, grabs a file off the backseat, then closes the door and starts to walk away from me, toward the front entrance of the school.

I jog and catch up with her a few cars past Meghan’s, at the edge of the lot.

“Hey, where were you?” I ask. “I was waiting by the senior hall doors.”

She stops walking and frowns. “I said I would be at Meghan’s car.”

“How am I supposed to know where Meghan parked her car?”

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Why didn’t you ask?”

“Because you said to meet by the doors to senior hall!”

“Toby, geez. So there was some miscommunication. Why are your boxers in such a twist?”

I am sorely tempted to walk away. Cross country starts in less than ten minutes, which means if I go now, I might still be able to change and get there on time. Does she not have the ability to say she’s sorry? Could she truly have forgotten she told me to meet her in senior hall?

And does she not realize there are still people in the lot, so that when she raises her voice on the phrase
boxers in a twist
, everyone looks in our direction?

I study her face, trying to figure her out. But as I take in her confused expression, the familiar pattern of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the way her hair is tucked behind one ear the way I love, I figure that maybe after a year together, I owe it to her to cut her some slack.

I take a deep, slow breath, and start again.

“I sent you a text at lunch asking if we could meet later, at home, so I don’t miss cross-country,” I explain, sounding remarkably composed given how I feel. “You never answered it. And then I couldn’t find you in senior hall and I got frustrated. But at this point, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just talk, all right?”

She visibly relaxes. “Okay.”

“You said you needed to figure things out?”

“Yeah.”

I wait. Nothing. “And…?”

She shrugs. “I guess, well, I just don’t
get
you, Toby. You say you love me, and you sure seem to like being with me. I don’t think you’ve got hangups about your body or anything. So I’m trying to guess why you don’t feel ready.” She makes quotes in the air with her fingers as she says the last word. “If you’re not ready now, and it’s not a matter of religion or worrying about getting pregnant…I mean, come on! It’s the next logical step in our relationship, and if we’re not moving forward, then… “ She waves a hand in exasperation. “Are you afraid that if we sleep together, then we break up at some point, you’ll regret having done it with me?”

Since the odds are that, yes, at some point we will break up, I want to say
what do you think?
Instead, I ask, “Well, how do you think you’d feel about it now if you’d slept with Connor?”

She starts to answer, to say our relationship’s not like hers with Connor, but her words catch.

In that instant, I know. And she knows I know it, too.

I let my backpack slide to the ground, then lean against the light post behind me. I can’t even begin to respond. Even though it must’ve happened a long time ago—presumably when Amber was a freshman, or else the summer between freshman and sophomore year—I feel like my gut’s being ripped out with a dirty fork. I feel like it happened today.

Amber had sex with Connor Ralston.

“Okay, so maybe you
don’t
have regrets,” I say. “Though you obviously felt awkward enough about it that you didn’t tell me.” God knows she told me everything else about their relationship, in minute detail. I’ve heard more word-for-word accounts of random conversations between Amber and Connor than I ever care to remember.

“I don’t regret it,” Amber says. “And the only thing that’s awkward, the only thing that upsets me, is that I’ve done it with him and not with you. And you’re the one I care about more.”

She takes a step forward and grabs my hand, pulling it into hers. Other students are still hanging around the lot talking, or rummaging around in the trunks of their cars for forgotten cleats, running shoes, or socks before heading to the athletic fields for practice. As I watch them, I know I should go. Just put this whole thing with Amber out of my mind for now and haul ass to cross-country. Talk to her again when no one’s around. But my feet won’t move; I’m numb.

She slept with him, he dumped her for someone else, and she has no regrets?

Funny. Now
I’m
the one who has to figure things out.

“I’ve been wondering,” Amber says quietly, “if it’s just that you’re worried I’ll get pregnant like Keira? I won’t.”

“You know, Amber, my brain wasn’t even at that point yet.”

If she was sleeping with Connor, does that mean she’s on the pill? Would she still be on it now, or is it the kind of thing you start and stop?

Has she been mentally preparing to have sex with me the whole time we’ve been going out? She
has
always been the one to instigate things, at least after that first kiss. It was Amber who first took our relationship public by telling friends. Amber who started the makeout sessions in her parents’ basement. Amber who grabbed my hand and directed it up her shirt the first time.

“I don’t know how you
wouldn’t
be thinking about it.” Amber’s voice is placating, soft. “I’ve seen how you take care of Stewart and how you worry about Keira. I think it’s sweet. And I like that you’d worry about me getting in the same situation. But
I’m
not worried.”

If we actually had sex, I sure would be. Nothing’s a hundred percent effective. But that’s not the point, and I tell her so.

All it does it annoy her.

“Then what’s your problem?” she asks. “Because one thing I did learn from Connor, if a guy is into you, it’s at least crossing his mind now and then. And more likely, he’s thinking about it all the time.”

“It’s not that it hasn’t
crossed
my mind. It just hasn’t crossed my mind in the sense of actually doing it. More of a late-at-night, nice-thing-to-fantasize-about-as-I’m-falling-asleep thing. Does that make any sense to you?” I feel like I’m pleading with her to understand what I’m saying. But I’ve finally put my finger on why I’m uneasy about going any further with her—why I felt so wrong about what happened at Sophomore Blast, and why I bolted night before last. “The truth is, if we sleep together, it really has to mean something.”

“It will—”

“No, it has to be something I know I’d never, ever regret.”

She’s smiling like she’s scored a victory. “Toby, you won’t! And neither will I. Your sister told me once she would do it all over again with Pete, and it’s not something she was saying because she loves Stewie. And even though Connor drove me crazy, if I knew then what I know now, I don’t think my choices would’ve changed. Neither of those relationships worked out, but neither of those relationships were
us
. With us, it’ll be different.
We’re
different.”

“You’re right,” I shoot back. “We are different.”

I let go of her hand, because I have a feeling she’ll break my fingers in a sec if I don’t. “Remember the other night when I said we couldn’t use other people’s relationships as a yardstick for ours? It’s because every relationship’s different. We can’t compare ourselves to anyone else and decide, hey, they did it, and it worked out all right, so we’ll definitely be okay because we’re a better couple.”

“The thing is, I’m not wired the way you are.” I point back and forth between the two of us. “I’m not wired the way Keira is, either. If the two of us are ever together that way, it won’t just mean
something
to me. What I should’ve said is that it’ll mean
everything
to me. I can’t do what Keira did without regrets. And I can’t do what
you
did, either.”

Amber’s face turns bright red and she clutches her Model U.N. papers tighter to her chest.

I step back, my jaw locking as I prepare for an onslaught. If I’d been smart, I’d have just moved my frickin’ feet and gone to cross country. Insisted on talking about this tonight, at home. But nope.

And now that I’ve gone too far, but I can’t help firing off a final shot. “And I wish you’d stop pressuring me.”