Sticky Fingers (3 page)

But somehow, movie-like setting and all, it just doesn’t feel right. Well, not right for
that.

“Aren’t you having fun?” he teases, easing his fingers just low enough to make me squirm. Man, he’s good at knowing just where to put them.

“You know I am. But let’s not, not here.” Does he not realize it’s a Tuesday? And late? And that we’re in a freaking Jetta in a snowy parking lot where the Framingham cops can come up at any second and start knocking on the windows with their flashlights? (And they will if they see the car parked here, where a car really has no business being.)

Okay, maybe he does know all this, and that’s the attraction, which I do understand.

Hoooo boy, do I understand.

But somewhere, deep in the back of my brain, a little alarm is going off, telling me that I’ll regret it if I don’t tell him to stop.
Now.
No matter how incredible it feels.

“I don’t think it’s going to get better than here,” he mumbles, but he stops unbuttoning my jeans and pushes up on his elbows anyway.

We have the passenger seat reclined all the way back, and he’s lying on top of me. We can manage this as long as we both have our coats off, so they’re
stuffed in the backseat with my sweater tossed on top. I have his favorite black henley pushed up to his shoulders, so I can feel his flat, firm stomach against my not-so-firm one. It’s completely wonderful, lying here with him, letting my fingers run all over his warm body and breathing in the smell of him. But the semi-pissed-off look on his face is making me hate myself for sounding like some prude housewife with a headache.

Especially because I really do love Scott, and I love our clandestine little make-out spot. And as uptight as I can be about school and grades and stuff, I’m not all that uptight about the whole sex thing. “Look, Scott—”

“You don’t want your first time to be in a car.”

“Exactly.”

I hate having to say no, especially because this isn’t the first time I’ve said it. And I hate it even worse because on the five or six occasions when we’ve discussed whether we want to take that next step—and danced around the whole virginity thing—he’s never once said a word about not wanting
his
first time to be in a car.

I did ask him straight out once. He just grinned and gave me this little
well, you know
kind of shrug. And then he changed the subject. That alone gave me a pretty good answer.

I’ll bet fifty bucks he slept with Ashley Hayden. She took him to her junior prom when he was a sophomore, and since I had a blinding crush on him at the time, I know for a fact they stayed out all night. I was paying attention.

And if not Ashley, then Bridget McConley. He went out with her all of sophomore year (when I was first noticing him, and—unfortunately—the fact that he was already taken). He completely and totally adored her. But then she cheated on him with some gorgeous guy from Holliston during a track meet. That’s when Scott decided to dump Bridget—despite her dramatic, crying apologies, and despite how loopy lovey he was over her—and hook up with Ashley when she needed a prom date to make
her
ex jealous. It was a total revenge thing, he told me once, on both their parts, and probably a stupid thing to do.

Okay, he definitely slept with Ashley. Bridget
might’ve had a quickie make-out session with the Holliston Hottie behind the bleachers, but she was way more conservative about the sex stuff than Ashley. Plus, Ashley was a year older than Bridget, and everyone already knew Ashley’d slept with her last boyfriend. Well, her last three boyfriends. (Which I think is icky, but I suppose to each her own.)

Still, I don’t want to be the ex he someday describes to his buddies as the girl he screwed in his Jetta, saying something like, “I told you about Jetta Jenna. Remember, the girlfriend I had after the girl I screwed as a revenge thing when Bridget hooked up with the Holliston Hottie?”

Ick.

I don’t
think
Scott would ever do that, but still. It has to be special. For both of us. No matter what happens in the future.

“I can get a hotel room,” he says. “I’ve got my credit card with me, and there are a couple places back on Route 9. I think there’s—”

“We both need to be home in an hour or so.” Wow. Usually he backs right off. We’ve tried to
take things slowly since we started going out last year. But if he’s been thinking about getting a hotel room …

“I don’t want to pressure you, but I think your parents will understand if you’re a little late tonight. You know, since you’re celebrating getting into Harvard.” He runs his hand up under my white T-shirt, then gives me one of his wicked little Scott smiles I know is intended to make me cave in. It worked a few weeks ago, when he convinced me to bail on seventh period (there was a substitute) and go out to a movie to celebrate our one-year anniversary, even though I’d never skipped class before. But this is an entirely different situation.

“Scott, I want our first time to be … extraordinary.” I reach up to touch his cheek, to make sure he can see my eyes and how serious I am. “Something that’s going to blow our minds. We don’t want to rush just so we can get home and deal with calculus or advanced bio, you know?”

I want it to be a night where we can just hold each other and talk and do it again and again if we want. Like it’s supposed to be.

And I definitely don’t want to be doing the deed while my head’s screwed up with guilt because I got into Harvard and he’s stuck waiting months to find out. Even if he does seem like he’s okay with the whole thing.

“You’re killing me, Jen. I want you so bad, and we’ve waited forever.” His hand starts doing some very interesting things under my shirt, and he lets more of his weight rest on me as he kisses the spot just in front of my ear and whispers, “And you know I can make it special. You know how I feel about you.”

“I know,” I whisper back. But I wish he’d stop freaking
pushing.
Why don’t guys get that pressure takes the special right out of it, no matter how much fun you’re having? No matter how much you like them?

His hand slows down. “You said you didn’t have a problem with the whole sex-before-marriage thing. It’s not me, then, is it?”

I can feel his hipbone rubbing against mine, and he knows I hate that. It hurts. But he doesn’t do anything about it, even when I wiggle a little, which kind of pisses me off.

He looks up just enough to catch my eye, and his voice has a teasing tone as he adds, “I bet it’s because you got into Harvard and I’m a reject. You’re way too good for me now, and you don’t know how to tell me.”

“Oh, please! One, you’re going to get into Harvard, and you know it. And two, as much as I really like your car, this isn’t ideal. And neither is a quickie at the Motel 6. That’s all there is to it.”

He shifts so his hipbone isn’t grinding into mine anymore. “Promise?”

He looks so sincere, so
into
me, that I want to say yes—knowing exactly what he’s asking me to promise. But how can I promise that, especially when he’s being so damned aggressive tonight? Does he expect me to pull out a date book and swear to him that at 4 p.m. next Friday, I’ll gladly give him my virginity, provided he supplies us with a great location and no interruptions?

Plus, deep down inside, part of me wonders if he’s still trying to prove to himself that he’s better than the Holliston Hottie because of the whole Bridget thing. I mean, I don’t think that’s the case, but I
want to be absolutely sure. He did have it pretty bad for her.

“Scott, a ‘no’ tonight isn’t because of you, and it’s definitely not because I have a problem with sex.”

Well, I don’t think I do.

I pull him back down against me, then hook one leg around his waist as best I can in the cramped seat. “And nothing says we can’t still have a fabulous time tonight.”

That’s as good a promise as I can make. At least for now.

“Hey, wait up, Miss Smarty Pants Harvard Girl!”

I spin around at the sound of Courtney’s voice. “Shh!” I warn her as she sails out of the library and grabs me on my way to my locker. “Everyone’s going to think I’m a total snob if you talk that way.”

“You’re not a snob. You’re just better than the rest of us.” She’s grinning as she says it, but I’m not. “Oh, come on, Jen, you know I’m kidding. So … you notice anything different about me?”

I instantly notice the skirt. Actually, it should be capitalized: The Skirt. It’s low-slung denim and cut
perfectly for Courtney’s figure. It totally shows off her long waist, flat stomach, and (depending on what shirt she wears) her silver belly button ring, but without baring enough skin to break the school dress code. She’s been eyeing it over at Natick Mall for weeks. Even made pilgramages to visit it to make sure they hadn’t sold out of her size.

“Um, lemme guess,” I say, pretending to look down the hall like I’m expecting someone, instead of studying her for whatever’s changed. “You forget to put on your eyeliner this morning?”

“Very funny. So whaddya think? Is it not as incredible as I told you it’d be?”

I admit that the skirt looks great—probably the best thing Courtney owns, and that’s saying a lot. “I can’t believe you blew such a wad of cash, though. You’d better wear it for the next decade.”

Courtney’s smile goes a little off-kilter, so I quickly add, “When Mat sees it, he’s not going to be able to keep his hands off you.”

“He already can’t.” We get to our lockers, and Courtney’s smile is back full force. She has her lock open in an instant, then takes a quick glance in the
magnetic mirror on the inside of the door so she can inspect her hair. She does this between every single class. It’s just her thing. And of course every blond strand is perfectly in place.

“Hey, before I tell you the latest, I have something for you.” She pulls a shopping bag out of her locker, then takes out a long black box tied with a white ribbon. As she hands it to me, she says, “For you. For working your tail off so you can follow your dreams. I really admire you for it.”

“I can’t believe you got me something.” I stare at the box, then at Courtney. In most ways, we’re total opposites. But ever since she stuck up for me in sixth grade when a bunch of other girls were picking on me, I’ve respected her for being so incredibly smart about people. And when I repaid her by teaching her how to hold a tennis racket the right way just so she could whack balls against her garage and impress the tennis-playing seventh grader (yes, male) who lived next door to her, it made us inseparable.

We complement each other, I suppose.

“Open it,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m going to start belting out ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ right
here, right now, so everyone in the senior class will know that you’re my hero.”

“You wouldn’t.” Although I know she would. I carefully pull the ribbon loose, then set it on my locker shelf so I can save it. Inside the box, there’s a thin gold wire necklace with the Chinese symbol for harmony resting on a bed of white tissue paper. My throat instantly gets that tight feeling that makes me hope I’m not going to cry. I mean, this cost her a lot of hours at the Stop & Shop deli counter. Hours she should’ve been using to pay for her skirt.

“Oh wow, Courtney. How’d you know I wanted this?”

“I saw you hanging out at the jewelry counter while I was drooling over the skirt, so when you weren’t looking, I went over and asked the saleslady what you’d been staring at.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I decided to get them both. And don’t say a word about the money or I’ll kill you. You deserve it.”

I give Courtney a quick hug. “You know you’re the absolute best friend I could ever have. Thank you.”

“Put it on.”

I set my backpack between my feet, then hook
the necklace under my hair and take a look in Courtney’s mirror. “This is beyond beautiful.”

“It’s perfect on you.” Courtney reaches over and adjusts it so the harmony symbol rests flat against my sweater. “But before you gush, I have to tell you what happened yesterday. It’s huge.”

I frown as I reach into my locker to put my books away from third period. “What?”

“You know how Mat was at my house yesterday when you called with your fantastico news?” Courtney closes her locker, twirls the lock, then leans against the door while she waits for me to finish loading up for my next class.

“Yeah?”

“And my parents weren’t?” Her voice is much quieter now, presumably so people at nearby lockers can’t hear. Her whole expression is dripping with drama, but since Courtney does this anytime she wants to shock me, I just shove the books into my backpack, then turn and stare at her.

“So?”

“That
so. We made the most of the opportunity.”

I feel my jaw go totally slack. “You didn’t.”

But it’s clear from Courtney’s face—her big smile, the fact I can tell she took extra time on her lip gloss and clothes today, and the whole
I’m having a great day and I want everyone to know it
way she’s leaning against her locker, with one hand on her hip—that they did.

“He called in sick to work,” she explains, still keeping her tone hush-hush. “Told them he had a bad cough and probably shouldn’t be behind the counter, but that he’d be happy to come in if they were short.”

“And of course they weren’t.” Hardly any customers hit Mat’s Dunkin’ Donuts after five. Just cops and firefighters getting ready to work graveyards, or college kids who can’t get tables in Starbucks to hang out and do their homework. So being short one employee on a Tuesday night probably isn’t a tragedy.