The Truth About You & Me (9 page)

“Lucky you,” I said.

“Yep. Anyway, I'm gonna go play ball. See ya!”

And then, like that, he was gone.

And now that I'd cleaned my room, I was going to focus on another transformation. One I was hoping would catch your notice.

On my way
to class on Tues
day, the radio hummed
though I was hardly listening. I'd get to see in you in a few hours—for the first time since I'd added bright blond streaks to my hair—and I couldn't wait, couldn't stop the butterflies from racing in circles in my stomach. I wanted you to notice me in a new way, wanted your eyes to sweep over me. I'd never been particularly fond of the ugly dishwater color of my hair, and yet I had never changed it.

Until now. Because you changed me on the inside, and now I couldn't help but want everything else to reflect that. We were something. We had something. And I couldn't wait to see you again so we could figure out just what that something was.

As I clicked on my blinker and turned into the big lot—the western lot surrounded by all those soaring old cedar trees—three words from the radio echoed in my ears:

“Age of consent.”

I had no idea what they were talking about … or why, in that moment, I reached out and turned the volume up.

A woman's voice blared across the speakers. “I don't care what you say, a sixteen-year-old and a forty-year-old is gross.”

“But again,” a guy responded, “the age of consent in that state is sixteen. It might be gross, but it's not illegal.”

“Yeah … but … ew,” she said. There was a pause, and I frowned as the woman continued. “Anyway, moving on,” she said, “today's big story out of Atlanta: a college volleyball player has become infected with a rare flesh eating—”

I furrowed my brow as I clicked the radio off, pulling into a parking space and putting the car into park.

Age of consent.

Those three words rattled around in my head for a minute, feeling like a muffled, distant noise, until a moment of clarity—and hope, like a balloon lifting me from fear, from worry—sprung forth.

What if it wasn't about being a legal adult … what if there was another age that mattered? What if the “age of consent” wasn't eighteen after all, but something else?

If that girl could be sixteen and be with a forty-year-old and it wasn't illegal …

I jerked my seat belt, yanking it so hard it snapped upward and the buckle slapped against the window with a big clang. I grabbed my backpack from the back seat and slung it over my shoulder as I slammed the car door behind me and scurried across the parking lot, my feet lighter than they'd been for days.

Why hadn't I thought to research it? Why hadn't I checked to see if it was legal for you and me to be together? I'd just assumed, somehow, that I had to be a legal adult—eighteen years old—or anything we'd do would be illegal.

But maybe your line of thinking was right. Maybe once you weren't my professor, and that non-fraternization policy didn't stand between us … maybe it would all be okay, maybe I could tell you the truth.

It was a ten-minute walk from the far flung edges of the parking lot to the library, but I don't remember any of it—not the winding concrete pathways and certainly not the dew-covered shrubs I must have brushed into, given that my sleeves and jeans were tinged with water by the time I slipped through the glass doors of the library, walked across the wide expanse of floor, and made my way up the curving staircase to where the computers were.

I was supposed be in English class in three and a half minutes, but I couldn't bring myself to care. It was like I was staring at my dream as it dangled low on the branch … and I was about to find out if I was allowed to grab it.

I walked past the first several bays of computers and around the corner, to where things were quieter and only three students were at the dozen or more terminals.

I chose the computer farthest from the other students and plunked down in the chair, dropping my backpack on the floor and wiggling the mouse to bring up the login screen. My fingers trembled a bit as I typed, and I had to backspace and put in my correct password. After three attempts, I logged in and the computer booted up.

Glancing around again, I popped open the web browser, typing in
Washington State Age of Consent.
I scanned the results, clicking on the third link. My eyes roved the page, looking for the answer I so desperately sought, feeling my face flush as everything in me strained with hope and fear.

Sixteen.

That was the number that leapt from the screen. A one and a six sitting there, blaring back at me as if they were glittering in neon lights. In that moment, I think I could have floated, flown, across the room. Or at least exhibited superhuman strength, like lifting a car or something. We could be together. On December 13th, we could be together and you wouldn't be in trouble.

But then it all crashed down as I read the next few lines:
Except when the older person is in a position of power (teacher, coach, etc).

Teacher.

Surely they meant a high school teacher, right? You were a college professor.

But no matter how many times I read it—over and over and over—it still came back the same. I was sixteen, the age of consent, but you were in a position of power. Of influence.

For a moment I felt my heart being pulled into a dark blender, realizing that the possibilities that had danced before me had disappeared. But then I sat upright.

You didn't want to kiss me until December 13th anyway. When the quarter was over. When you'd no longer
be
my professor.

Then you wouldn't be in trouble professionally or legally, because you would no longer be in a position of power in relation to me, and I was old enough to consent to our relationship.

We really could be together. Soon. In December. I wouldn't have to wait two years for it to all be okay.

And suddenly those two years—those almost-
ten
years—they didn't matter anymore, not in the strictest way.

I didn't know what you'd think, how you'd handle it, once you knew I was sixteen. That's what terrified me most. I could wait weeks to be with you, could wait until December 13th. And then it would only be a few months until my seventeenth birthday anyway, and seventeen sounded so much older.

But I'd have to tell you, that day in December—before we became something more, something tangible—because it had to be both of us making that leap.

Making the decision.

But if you didn't turn away that day, December 13th … we could be together with nothing to stop us.

I hung out
in the library for another forty minutes, until my English class was over and it was time for Biology, because I was too hyped up to concentrate on anything but seeing you. I left for the classroom a little early, wanting a moment to catch you alone.

But when I stepped through the door, you weren't alone. Another staff member was standing beside you. A pretty brunette with thick, curly hair and a sophisticated pencil skirt paired with vibrant heels. As I made my way to my desk, my eyes still trained on you and the back of her head, you glanced up.

But when your eyes met mine you promptly turned away, like you weren't willing to be caught looking at me. I ignored that little needling feeling. I knew why you had to pretend not to see me, but some part of me wanted to march right over and stake my claim somehow, talk about that fantastic view we'd seen at High Rock. Something, anything, to prove to her that I was something to you.

Instead I sat and watched you nod, and as she turned her body slightly I got a better view of her pretty, pastel-pink lipstick as she spoke. She was so elegant, so pulled together, so mature.

I don't know what you were talking about, but moments later she jokingly punched your arm and you laughed, and then she was leaving. You finally glanced at me again and I raised an eyebrow, as if to say
what was that?
Before I realized I was acting stupid.

She was your colleague, and I was acting like some weirdly jealous girlfriend.

And then other students were arriving, filling the room with shuffling and talking, and there was no room for another moment between us. After the last student plunked into the last empty chair, you stood and walked to the front of the room.

“Right, then. Before we start on today's test, let's do a quick review session.”

Test.

The word rang in my ears, over and over, as panic rose.

I'd spent all weekend thinking about today, about class, about seeing you. And not a single ounce of the weekend studying.
Not a single moment.
There were three tests in the quarter—two midterms and a final. Cumulatively, they were worth half our grade, with the other half being the labs.

“Who can tell me which part of the cell is known as the ‘powerhouse'?” you asked, using air quotes. You glanced over at a tall, lanky guy who sat at the farthest end of the horseshoe, the one who had two dozen football jerseys if his daily wardrobe was any indication. “Mr. Johnson?”

Mr. Johnson sat up, the desk creaking. “Uh, the mitochondria?”

“Right. And where are the chromosomes found?” you asked, turning to look around the room, waiting for someone to chime in.

“The nucleus,” someone called out.

You smiled then. In the glow of it, I forgot my panic. You liked teaching, enjoyed seeing the progress we made, like a proud dad or something. It wasn't about proving yourself or being competitive. It was a simple sort of joy in what you did, and I had to admire it. For my dad, mom, brother, it was all about being the best at something, about showing off. With you, it was a simple pleasure.

“Good. And the ribosomes?”

Your eyes roamed the room, waiting for someone to call it out, but there was only the rustling of paper, the scraping of chairs. And then your eyes landed on me and I smiled at you, remembering High Rock, remembering the feel of the sun on our cheeks even as the crisp air stole our heat away.

And then suddenly my cheeks warmed as I pushed the memory away, realizing the entire class was staring at me, including you.

“Uh, what?” I said, coughing to clear my throat. I had no idea what you'd asked me.

“The ribosomes. What are they for?”

My mouth went dry in an instant. I knew this. It was the basics. Stuff you'd talked about on the first day. So why couldn't I think of the answer? Why could I only picture the intense look in your eyes as our foreheads touched, moments after our almost-kiss? “Oh, um, is that the one that stores food and pigment?” I finally said.

Your lips curled up a little at the edges and I smiled back, knowing I wasn't quite right but unable to find the desire to panic. “Perhaps someone should have spent her weekend studying instead of sitting in a salon chair,” you said, turning away.

I don't know how a heart can be in two places at once, but in that instant mine was in my throat and my stomach. My cheeks flamed so hot I thought I might burst.

God did I hurt in that moment. I'd spent hours picturing your look when you saw my new hair. Hours imagining your sweet smile, imagining you tugging on a lock of it as you complimented me.

And instead, you slung it back at me like I was some kind of airhead. I couldn't believe you'd done that, Bennett. And I couldn't figure out why. Why you would humiliate me like that, why you had to call me out in such an unfair way. I would never do that to you.

You meant too much.

The review was over then anyway, so why did you make such a point with me? You returned to the front of the class and picked up the stack of tests. Since the desks were in a horseshoe, which I'd loved so much that first day, you either had to walk around or you had to split the stack in half and start it at each end.

That's what you did, and at first I was annoyed—so annoyed, because I wanted you to hand me that test yourself so I could glare at you, feeling more than a little bit juvenile but unable to control my emotions—until I realized I was essentially in the middle of the horseshoe and the extra stack of tests came to me from both sides.