Sticky Fingers (2 page)

“Jen, that’s terrific!” He
sounds
happy for me. Genuinely happy. I know that’s good … but somehow, his happiness makes me feel even worse.

“Thanks. I’m kind of shocked. Actually, there’s no ‘kind of—I’m completely shocked. When I saw I got in, I was positive you had too. Your grades are as good as mine, and your SAT scores were way better—”

“It’s more than scores, and you know it. Your essays rocked, and our extracurriculars are different. Mine are all sports, but you’ve got sports and student council. And that brainiac literary magazine you did freshman and sophomore year.”

True. But hearing him rationalize it doesn’t make me feel any better. I flop backward on my bed, sinking into the pillows, then pull the acceptance letter out of the envelope.

“But it’s still wrong. You deserve to be there. And I want you there with
me.”
I finger the expensive stationery and mentally curse the admissions gurus for not giving Scott’s application a better look. Because if they had, he’d be in.

“I’ll be there, Jenna. Really. It’s just not official yet.”

“Even if you get in somewhere else? What if you get a scholarship to Cornell or something?” Everything I’ve envisioned about next year includes Scott.

Maybe I should send out a few more applications. I don’t have to commit to Harvard until May 1, so there’s nothing that says I can’t—

I close my eyes, dropping the letter and grinding my fist against my forehead.

How stupid is this making me? I don’t want to go anywhere else. Never have. This has always been my dream, and now it’s getting all screwed up.

“Harvard’s still my first choice, and now I have even more reason to want to go there,” Scott says.
“We’re going to be together.” He hesitates, then asks, “So what are you doing right now?”

“Theoretically? Studying for next week’s advanced biology midterm.” Even though I don’t have to. I’ve already studied a ton.

“In reality?”

“Wigging out over the letter. Both letters.”

“Me too,” he admits. “I have calc homework to do, but I can’t focus. So do you want to go out?”

I glance at the bright red digital numbers on my clock radio. Nearly eight p.m. “On a Tuesday?”

“How often do you have something like this to celebrate? I think it’d be wrong not to go out. Neither of us is getting much done, anyway.”

I probably would be productive, eventually. I’m one of those insane people who could lose an arm in the middle of an exam and still finish it if it meant the difference between getting an A-minus and an A.

“It’s freezing out,” I argue. And I tell him I think it’s supposed to snow again later.

“So what? The roads were fine when I was coming home from work. And I bought something for you, anyway.”

“You did? What?”

“We knew the letters were coming either today or tomorrow. No matter what they said, I figured you deserved flowers.”

It’s official. I have the best boyfriend in the world. “Scott, you know you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to. And I want to celebrate now. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to argue some more. It’s the 1950s throwback fuddy-duddy in me. Which is, coincidentally, the part of me that’s also responsible for my totally bent studying habits. But instead, I fold the paper, slide it into my nightstand drawer, and say, “Perfect.”

Just for this one night.

I close my eyes and lean back against the soft headrest of Scott’s passenger seat, then extend my hands toward the dash so they’ll be close to the heat vents.

Most guys’ cars smell stale. Discarded french fries and mysterious sticky spills meet your fingers whenever you go to buckle your seat belt, and if someone
sitting in the backseat claims that there are mushrooms growing in the dark areas beneath the seats, no one looks surprised. But not in Scott’s car. He keeps his bright red Jetta pristine.

It’s been a year and a half since his dad and his stepmother, Amber, surprised him with it on his sixteenth, and I still can’t get over it. (Of course, neither can Scott’s mom, who wasn’t consulted until it was already parked in her driveway with a big white bow on top.) It sure beats my old Corolla—a puke-green car my parents bought when I was in preschool—any day of the week. But if I get to ride in Scott’s Jetta anytime I want, with the most gorgeous male in all of Massachusetts sitting beside me, of course, then who am I to have car envy?

“Where to? Bennigan’s?” he asks. Or there’s the John Harvard’s at Shoppers World. Might be more appropriate, given our day.”

“Doesn’t matter to me.” Anywhere in Framingham would suit me fine. I just need to clear my brain. And to make sure Scott’s really okay with everything. “Frankly, I like just being in the car right now. It’s peaceful.”

“Trade it straight across for your car and your letter,” he says, not even missing a beat.

Oh, crap. I crack an eyelid and look sideways at him to see if he’s serious. Thankfully, he’s smiling. “You know you should have gotten in before me,” I tell him again. I have that walking-on-eggshells sensation, which I’ve never had with him before. And probably shouldn’t have now, but I do. I hate feeling so happy and so guilty at the same time.

“So make it up to me after dinner.”

I reach past the emergency brake and rest my hand—now that the warm air has jump-started my circulation—on his thigh as he turns the car onto Route 9, heading toward Shoppers World. He puts his hand over mine, sliding my fingers a few inches higher. Not into terribly dangerous territory, but enough to make my insides do a little dance. And enough for me to know he doesn’t want me to spend tonight moping about his letter.

We pull up to a stoplight, and he leans over and gives me the most delicious kiss.

I absolutely cannot go without him all year next year. No way.

“You know what else your letter means, right?” he asks between kisses. “That you can relax now. Stop worrying so much about how your future might hinge on spending an extra ten minutes getting a calc problem right, or on kissing up to teachers for good recommendation letters. You can start going out more, living it up. Seeing more of me.”

“Mmm. Light’s green.” I straighten up in the seat but leave my hand exactly where he positioned it. I love how guys’ legs are just rock hard, how you can feel their muscles right through their jeans.

“I mean it, Jen. Your grades won’t go into the toilet if you let yourself have a little fun.” He puts his foot on the gas as the station wagon in front of us starts to move. “If you’re ever going to get out and party, now’s the time. Take advantage.”

I smile at him but don’t say anything. It isn’t that simple. I’m probably going to be class salutatorian, since Scott has the valedictorian slot totally locked up—well, if I nail advanced bio—and if not, then I’ll graduate ranked third or fourth. If I kick back, though, if I go out and party and spend all my free time with Scott, will that class rank I’ve killed
myself to maintain go right out the window?

Then again, maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, now that I’m not trying to impress a board of (presumably) old white guys sitting around an admissions table in a red brick building in Cambridge.

As if he can read my mind, Scott says, “You just can’t let go, can you?”

“I can.” Maybe. “I mean, I’m out tonight, and you know how neurotic I am about weeknights.”

“Really?” His tone is sarcastic, but he’s grinning at me.

“It’s easier for you,” I say. “You cram for fifteen minutes in the hallway before a class, then go in and ace the exam. Every single time. I’ve never been that way.” This shouldn’t be a news flash to him. He knows I have to work way harder to get good grades than he does.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t loosen up a little now, though.” His voice is flirty as he adds, “Otherwise, when will you?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not sure I know how to loosen up at this point. I mean, what if I can’t get
un
—laid back again?”

And how far is too far, anyway? If I go nuts at a party once? Or once a week? At what point do my grades start to slide, or worse, my attitude? It’s all about inertia. And I really do want to make salutatorian. And do well in the spring science fair. And kick ass at Harvard next year. And, and, and.

I would never admit it aloud, even to Scott, but I like me the way I am. Driven. Busting my ass to do everything just the right way makes me feel good about myself. Bulletproof.

He raises an eyebrow at me and gives me this totally sexy look that’s full of promise. “But?”

“But … you do make it damned tempting.” Okay, it’s not exactly what I was thinking, but it isn’t a total lie, either. The guy has brains—which is definitely my top boyfriend requirement—and he also has, in Courtney-speak, a yum factor that’s off the scale. Which is probably why I still freak out just a little bit every time he kisses me, or whenever he gives me one of his
I know what you’re thinking
looks from across the room in Economics, even though we’ve been together for a year now. Deep in my gut, I still feel like Scott’s too good for me. Not because
he’s more popular, necessarily—I’m in that social strata that’s below superpopular, but I’m not a nobody, either. It’s more that he’s smarter, better looking, more athletic, more everything than I am. He has that wavy brown hair you always see on actors and male models, and his eyes are a misty green, the kind everyone comments on. But best of all is his face. It’s flat-out perfect. Everything’s in the right proportion, and his skin is smooth and clear and just dark enough to look slightly tan and outdoorsy year-round.

It’s just wrong for someone who looks the way he does to also be at the top of our class, and to
also
be superathletic.

And someday I’m afraid he’s going to figure out that he’s a perfect male who can get anyone he wants, and he’ll tell me buh-bye.

It’s not paranoia. Just enough of a gut feeling to make me grateful for what I’ve got and to keep me on my toes. It’s not low self-esteem, either. (Total pet peeve: I hate when counselors and teachers blame everything on low self-esteem in teens. Some of us actually have self-esteem, believe it or not. And when
we make mistakes, it’s not because of a defect in our psyche. We screw up just because.)

The whole thing with Scott is just knowing myself and who I am. I don’t blow tons of money on the latest clothes, like Courtney does, just so I can look fantastic every hour of every day. All my studying has given me an ass that’s a size or so bigger than what I’d have in an ideal world, and even though tennis and volleyball help, I know I’m going to get the rumored freshman fifteen next year if I don’t, well, watch my ass.

And there’s my obsession with grades. Most people don’t get it. Well, Scott sorta does and sorta doesn’t. He expects good grades, whereas I’m simply terrified of getting a bad one.

But that’s all okay. It’s all about knowing what I want, what my limitations are, and then being happy with who I am. Which is why I wonder where my limitations are in the way of letting loose and partying.

Scott takes one hand off the wheel and laces his fingers through mine. He keeps his eyes on the road as he slows down in the John Harvard’s lot, looking
for a spot. “Seriously, Jenna. Try to relax and be happy. Just for tonight?”

“Okay, I think I can handle one night.” I give him a lopsided grin that’s meant to make him feel better, even though I want to scream,
I’d be more relaxed if everyone would stop friggin’ telling me to relax!
Even my parents didn’t think I did a sufficient happy dance over the letter—and I actually went out to the garage to show them when they came home from work because I couldn’t wait until they got inside. They both thought I should have called them at work.

Scott sees a spot a row over and lets go of my hand. Once he’s nabbed it, I start to unbuckle my seat belt, but realize he hasn’t pulled his keys out of the ignition. “What?”

“How hungry are you?”

I shrug, wondering where this is going, even though I suspect from the glimmer in his eyes. “Not very. I ate dinner at six. I just figured we’d sit and have sodas and dessert or something. Maybe dis the idiots at Harvard for sending you the wrong letter.”

“I have a better idea.”

He shifts the car into reverse, looks at me for confirmation that I’m truly not about to die of starvation, then drives out of the lot.

I don’t even have to ask where he’s going. “Our” nursery is only a mile or two down Speen Street. In the summer, flowering trees and plants on wooden pallets cram the huge parking lot behind the greenhouses, waiting for suburbanites to spend exorbitant amounts of money to take them home (and probably kill them, anyway). But now, in the dead of winter, only skater kids show up to use the lot—and then only if there’s not a thick layer of ice and snow on the ground, like there is tonight.

Even though it’s not glamorous, it’s the one place we know we can always have total privacy. And one of these nights, it just might become the place where I lose my virginity. Not
tonight,
but someday. For now, though, it’s the perfect escape from reality for both of us.

“Scott, let’s slow down, okay?” I whisper to him for the second time in as many minutes.

Thanks to the cold outside and the heater blasting inside, steam has built up on the Jetta windows so thick that I can reach over and write my name on the glass if I want. Just like in a movie. And Scott is kissing me but good—enough to make me want to yank my jeans off and finally, um,
relax,
right here and now. It’s completely and totally romantic.